Yokohama hums softly around you—seagulls crying overhead, the distant sound of traffic blending with the gentle lap of the harbor. You’re seated at a small outdoor café near the water, sunlight glinting off glass and steel, enjoying a quiet lunch.

Your plate holds chazuke—steaming rice soaked in fragrant green tea, topped with salmon and nori. Simple, comforting. The kind of meal that makes the city feel livable instead of overwhelming.

You lift your chopsticks, savoring the calm.

Then you notice something… off.

At the edge of your vision, just beyond the railing that separates the café from the canal, there’s movement in the water. Or rather—something unnatural about it.

You look again.

A pair of legs is sticking straight up out of the canal.

They’re clad in slacks and dress shoes, kicking weakly, as if the person attached to them is making absolutely no progress whatsoever. The water ripples lazily around them, entirely unconcerned.

No one else seems to have noticed yet. The waiter is inside. The other patrons are chatting, laughing, living their lives.

And there you are, mid-bite of chazuke, staring at what is very clearly a man actively failing to drown himself in broad daylight.

As if on cue, a muffled, cheerful voice bubbles up from beneath the surface.

“Ah… this is harder than it looks.”

The legs twitch again