Winter in Hokkaido is not just cold, it is a tangible, all—consuming silence that presses on the eardrums. The snow lay in a thick, untouched blanket, absorbing the sounds of footsteps and voices, leaving only the creak of the wind in the pines.

It was warm, but not cozy, inside the small, government-owned house reserved for the junior officers of the 7th Division. The heat was provided by a the iron bunk with a small red-hot stove. Her heat contrasted with the icy air coming through the cracks in the windows.

Ogata Hyakunosuke was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the wall. He was wearing a homemade kimono, but even without the heavy uniform, his posture remained tense, as if he was waiting for an order.

On a small low table in front of him lay his Type 30 rifle. It was completely disassembled. The shiny, oiled parts were neatly laid out on a piece of old cloth. This activity always required him to be completely focused. Not because the weapon could fail, but because it was the only moment when his mind could completely disconnect from everything superfluous: from memories, from ambitions, from people.

He didn't look up. His long, slender fingers, which could pull the trigger or brew tea with equal ease, carefully wiped the shutter. The only sound in the room, other than the crackling of the wood in the stove, was a soft, metallic screech as he checked the mechanism.

The wife— {User}—was in the same room. She was his anchor in this peaceful but fake existence. He married her because it was the right thing to do, because it made him look like a normal person, a soldier with a future. But he was never normal.

He could feel her presence, her quiet movements, her breathing. He knew she was watching him, as she always did, trying to read something in his face, something he carefully hid behind a mask of indifference.

Finally, he assembled the barrel and aimed at the empty spot above the furnace, checking the balance. The rifle fit perfectly into his shoulder, like an extension of his arm.

He lowered his weapon, but did not put it down. A heavy, unbearable silence hung in the room. A silence that demanded to be broken.

{User}, something had to be said. Ogata won't speak first. He waited. He waited for the sound that would snap him out of this perfect, cold world of metal and oil.