Have you ever thought: was there a moment in your life that you would never, for anything in the world, want to experience again?
I don't mean the one where it's physically painful. Not the hits, fractures, or falls from a height. I mean the one where it's disgusting. The one after which you want to tear off your own skin, because it feels foreign and unpleasant.
Imagine: it's hot. Not just sunny, but unbearably, stuffily. The air stands thick, humid, like before a thunderstorm that just won't break. You are standing in a crowded subway car during rush hour. Sweat flows down your back, sticking to the cheap fabric of your shirt. From all sides, bodies. Someone's elbows are digging into your ribs, someone's bags are pressing on your shoulders. It smells of a mix of cheap cologne, unwashed skin, and hot plastic.
Someone nearby is laughing loudly at a stupid, flat joke. His companion agrees with a mouth full of food. Your brain begins to melt, like an old plastic bottle forgotten in the sun. Sounds lose their meaning, turning into a continuous white noise. The light in your eyes fades and blurs. Everything around swims, falls apart into pixels, into separate smears of dirty paint. You lose touch with reality.
But you continue to stand. You simply are. You are obliged. Why are you obliged? Because you were born. Because you breathe. Because someone, sometime, long before you, decided that you are a small, insignificant, but integral cog in a huge, rusty, and meaningless machine called "society."
No one ever bothered to explain the reason to you. No one said: "You are obliged because…" It's simple. You were born, therefore, endure. Period.
Exactly like this fictional subway passenger, policeman Akiyama felt.
He sat at his metal desk in the stuffy office of the central precinct. Time had frozen somewhere between three and four in the afternoon – a dead zone, when the sun is no longer at its zenith, but it's still far from the saving twilight. The light from the dirty window fell on the faded government linoleum in dull, yellowish rectangles.
In front of Akiyama stood an old mug. Once white, now the color of ivory with small cracks. Inside, cooled-down sludge of instant coffee, poured with boiling water an hour, or maybe two, ago. Akiyama brought the mug to his lips, took a sip, and winced. The taste was like gasoline – bitter, chemical, with a nasty aftertaste of palm oil. But he was thirsty. Thirst mixed with a dull, all-consuming fatigue.
The ventilation on the ceiling had long since died. The motor, buzzing strainedly, spun blades that no longer created even a semblance of a breeze, but merely stirred the stale, repeatedly chewed air from one corner of the office to another. Humidity was off the charts. Akiyama felt that he himself was gradually dissolving in this stuffiness, turning into a jelly-like substance without thoughts or desires.
On the windowsill, a fly beat against the glass. Dumbly, monotonously, with some fatal persistence. The buzzing mixed with the monotonous hum of voices from neighboring offices; someone was cursing on the phone, someone was discussing yesterday's football match, someone was interrogating some detainee who was repeating the same story for the fifth time, clearly reeking of lies.
Akiyama absently tapped his fingers on the table. In his head, sluggishly, like dead fish, fragments of thoughts stirred.
"Today I need to release someone…" he thought lazily, pushing the mug away. "Long overdue. The cells are so overloaded there's no room for an apple to fall. The judge signed the orders today… I should… Stop."
He froze. The fly stuck to the glass for a moment, then took off again.
"A call. Did someone call me? Or did I imagine it? And who the fuck should I release? They're all in there for a reason. Except… No. Fine. I'll figure it out later."
The thought crumbled, not having time to form. Like a sandcastle in the wind. Fatigue took over.
And at that very moment, the old rotary phone on the desk came alive. A rattling, nasty ring, mechanical, uncompromising, having nothing in common with the melodic signals of modern mobile phones. It sounded like a sentence, like a reminder that rest was cancelled, and reality was bursting into the office without knocking.
Akiyama slowly, too slowly for a policeman used to reacting instantly, but too fast for a man in his state, picked up the receiver. The leathery pads of his fingers slid across the damp plastic. He brought the receiver to his ear, heard a crackle and the distant echo of his own breathing.
· Hello, you are being contacted by the local precinct, policeman Akiyama… his voice was low, hoarse, as if he had just woken up after a long illness. - What happened?
A short pause hung on the line. Then a voice came. Young. Tense. Trembling. In the background, the cawing of crows could be heard, sharp, alarming, like the screech of a spoon on glass.
Hello… My name is… well, never mind. I was running here. In the park, you know, behind the old market. I decided to go into an abandoned building. It's always quiet there. I thought I'd rest on the roof, sit, watch the sunset… And… he hesitated, swallowed. Notes of hysteria appeared in his voice. - I found a corpse. A girl's. One arm is cut off… his voice dropped to a whisper, - one arm is cut off. All in blood. The corpse… fresh. Completely fresh. The blood hasn't dried yet. Oh God… Jesus.
Akiyama yawned. Without even covering his mouth. Widely, animalistically, baring his teeth and gums. The yawn was so strong that his jaw cracked. He felt a sour wave pass down his throat, the remains of his morning coffee.
His brain, shrouded in cotton wool of fatigue, mechanically processed the information. "Corpse. Girl. Arm cut off. Abandoned building. Runner. Routine matter. Another one. In this city, something is always happening."
Understood, he said in an even, emotionless tone, the kind used to speak to children, explaining the obvious truths to them. - We'll dispatch a team now. Wait there. Don't touch anything. Don't even breathe near it. Got it? Wait. The police will be there soon.
· Okay… - the guy's voice sounded confused. - I'll wait.
· That's right.
Akiyama hung up, without saying goodbye.
He sat motionless for another minute, looking at the fly. The fly, exhausted, fell onto the windowsill and stopped moving. Akiyama felt something like envy towards it. Then slowly, as if reluctantly, he reached his hand towards the intercom button.
Dispatch a team for departure, he said into the microphone. - Abandoned warehouse behind the old market. Corpse. Fresh.
The radio answered with a short hiss.
Akiyama leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought that tonight was going to be a very long night. He was wrong. Tonight would turn out to be short. But very bloody.
The abandoned building greeted the police with silence.
A heavy, unnatural silence, the kind that exists only where someone has died very recently. Where death still hangs in the air like an invisible vapor, saturating the walls, floor, and every centimeter of space.
The building stood on the outskirts, behind the old market, which had been demolished many years ago, leaving behind only rust stains on the asphalt and the smell of rotting vegetables. The structure was once a warehouse, a massive, concrete box with crumbling walls and broken windows. Then, in the wild nineties, it was a den. Then, nothing. Just rotten walls, broken glass, and scraps of newspapers that the wind chased through the empty corridors.
Now they had arrived.
Blue flashing lights, but without the sound of sirens. The silence was not broken, the light simply rotated silently, painting the gray walls in ominous blue tones. Three police cars, an ambulance, and a gray Honda of the forensics team. People in white coveralls, looking like faceless insects, scurried inside, illuminating things with powerful flashlights.
The sun had almost set. The sky in the west was pouring with lead, and in the east, the first, timid stars had already appeared. There was less and less light, and the world was sinking into sticky, warm twilight.
The guy - that same runner - was found squatting by the nearest tree. He was shivering, hugging himself. His sweatpants were stained with dust, his sneakers with some brown liquid he refused to identify. His face was pale, his eyes wide. Next to him stood a young policeman, jotting something down in a notepad.
The forensics team worked silently, quickly, smoothly. They processed every centimeter: the floor, walls, windowsills, footprints, door handles. Magnifying glasses, brushes, special films. Everything that could hold evidence was carefully examined.
The result was disappointing.
· Empty, said the senior forensics expert, taking off his gloves. - No evidence. No fingerprints. No fibers. No signs of a struggle, except for the location itself. Blood only around the body. As if… she was brought here already dead.
Or the killer worked wearing gloves, added his colleague, a young woman with a tired face. - And treated everything afterwards. Professionally. Clean.
The shift supervisor, a man with gray temples and a heavy gaze, listened to them and just shook his head.
They could have wiped everything clean overnight, he said quietly. - They had time. If the corpse is fresh but cool on the outside… It lay here for several hours. Maybe since morning. And we only just arrived.
He sighed and stepped aside.
And at that moment, at the entrance, leaning on the doorframe, appeared Detective Itsuki.
He arrived last, as always, when the case is almost solved or hopeless. His appearance was unremarkable: average height, pale face, dark circles under his eyes, stubble. An ordinary man you wouldn't remember in a crowd. But his eyes, sharp, tenacious, used to noticing details, ran through the room, fixing every little thing.
Itsuki-san, the shift supervisor gave a short bow. - No evidence. The perpetrators worked carefully. The document sealing the building is already prepared.
Itsuki nodded silently. He slowly walked around the place where the body had lain. Now there was only a white outline – the silhouette of a girl with one arm, severed just above the elbow, and a huge bloodstain around it.
Exactly one arm cut off? Itsuki asked quietly, looking at no one.
Yes, the forensics expert came closer. - Neatly. One blow. Either a very sharp object, or… an industrial cutter. Professionally.
Or ritually, added the woman.
Itsuki didn't answer. He took out a pen – a cheap one with a wobbly cap - and, walking over to the folding table at the entrance with the documents, quickly signed the papers.
· That's it, he said in a level voice, in which there wasn't a drop of doubt. - The building is sealed. Private property. No one is allowed inside. Put up a barrier if necessary. There's nothing more here. Case to the archives. Until new evidence appears.
The shift supervisor wanted to object, but he looked into Itsuki's eyes and changed his mind.
· Yes sir, he answered shortly.
The police began to pack up. The flashlights went out. The people in white coveralls went outside, taking off their shoe covers and gloves. One by one, the cars drove away. Only the ambulance remained; the paramedics were waiting for the forensics team to finish to take the body. But now they too began to prepare.
Itsuki remained standing at the entrance, looking at the sunset.
The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, spreading a pink sunset across the sky. That same one, an unhealthy, sickly color. The color of an old wound that just won't heal. The color of inflamed flesh. The color of those very twilight hours when the light can no longer, but still tries to dominate.
Itsuki lit a cigarette. Cigarette smoke mixed with the evening cool and the smell of dampness coming from the abandoned building.
"The tenth corpse this month," he thought mechanically, blowing smoke into the pink sky. "The tenth. And not a single lead. As if ghosts are killing. Appearing from nowhere and disappearing into nowhere."
He remembered the cold gleam in Takayama's eye, that one who sat in the shadows but controlled everything. He remembered the girl watching the ant. He remembered Renji's face – the boy who was brutally beaten. "Who is that kid, and what school does he go to?" thought Detective Itsuki.
No one answered him. The sky darkened, the pink color giving way to a deep, velvety blue. In the west, at the very horizon, a thin, razor-like strip was still glowing red, the last cry of the dying day.
Itsuki finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on his boot sole, and, without looking back, walked towards his car.
At that very moment, in a completely different part of the city, by the massive gates of the prison, something entirely different was happening.
There was no pink sunset there. The sky was barely visible, obscured by high concrete walls with barbed wire, reinforced with nets and surveillance cameras that rotated with mechanical, indifferent persistence.
A dreary, hopeless gray color reigned there. The color of concrete, the color of metal, the color of despair.
Renji stood at the exit.
He had been waiting here for almost an hour. Standing motionless, leaning against the old, rusty fence that separated the prison territory from the outside world, so distant, so unattainable.
His father had been acquitted.
After a month of appeal court. After long months of silence, shame, and endless hearings, where lawyers argued, witnesses got confused in their testimonies, and the prosecutor continued to bend his line, despite the obvious weakness of the evidence.
This morning, the judge read the verdict.
"…due to lack of corpus delicti…" or "…due to insufficient evidence…" Renji wasn't listening. He was looking at the defendant's bench, where his father sat. Thinner, grayer, with a dimmed gaze but still his father.
The lawyer turned around and nodded. The mother, sitting nearby, burst into tears. And Renji simply stood up and left the courtroom. He needed to breathe. He needed to understand that this was all not a dream, not a mistake, not another cruel joke of fate.
And now he stood at the prison gates.
The door was heavy, clad in iron, with a small window at eye level. Behind it, footsteps, the clang of locks, the whispers of the guards could be heard. Time dragged slowly, each heartbeat echoed in his temples.
Finally, with a dull screech, the door began to open.
First, a hand in a uniform appeared, the guard checked if everything was clear outside. Then the door swung open wider, and he appeared on the threshold.
Father.
Renji didn't recognize him. Or rather, he did, but with difficulty. He looked older. Much older than a month ago, when he was taken away in handcuffs. A gaunt, pale face with deep wrinkles that weren't there before. Gray hair at his temples - whole strands of white hair that he didn't remember. Bags under his eyes, not just bruises from insomnia, but something deeper, ingrained into the very flesh.
His father was dressed in simple, wrinkled clothes, the same ones he was taken in. A light shirt with stains, dark trousers, worn-out shoes. In his hand, a small plastic bag with personal belongings.
Their eyes met.
His father's eyes were empty. Not angry. Not sad. Like a man who had seen too much.
Hi, his father said quietly. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been silent for a long time and had forgotten how words sounded.
Renji didn't answer. He felt a lump rising in his throat. Not from happiness. From something else - from a sharp, piercing pity mixed with anger. Anger at the system that did this to his father. At the people who slandered him. At himself for not being able to protect him. Although what could a sixteen-year-old schoolboy do?
He stepped forward and, without saying a word, extended his hand. His father looked at it for a second, two. Then slowly, as if hesitating, shook it. The palm was dry, hot, and trembling.
Let's go, Renji finally forced out. His voice sounded firmer than he expected.
His father nodded silently.
They slowly walked away from the prison gates, without looking back. Renji walked slightly ahead, his father slightly behind, head down, looking at the asphalt. Their footsteps echoed dully on the gray concrete, rhythmically, heavily, like bell strikes.
The figures of the two men, son and father, became smaller and smaller, until they turned into two tiny dots, and then completely dissolved into the sticky, thick twilight.
The prison remained behind.
The door – that same heavy one, closed with a dull, final clang. The sound rolled down the deserted street and died out somewhere in the distance, lost among the roofs and antennas.
Night was falling over the city.
The abandoned building was sealed. The yellow tape "Crime scene. Do not enter!" blocked the entrance, fluttering in the light wind. Inside, it was dark and quiet. Only somewhere in the depths, in the cracks between the concrete slabs, the wind howled, creating a eerie, mournful melody.
The police had dispersed. The last cars, flashing red lights, disappeared around the corner. The ambulance had left even earlier, the paramedics took the body and drove it to the morgue, where a cold, metal table and an indifferent, tired pathologist awaited it.
Detective Itsuki, parked in the lot by his favorite night convenience store, sat in his car and drank coffee. That same instant, from the vending machine. The taste was disgusting, too sweet, with a hint of powder. But there was no other food nearby. He looked at the night city, at the neon signs, at the rare passersby hurrying about their business.
Too many places where the light doesn't reach. And too many people like Takayama, like Kaoru.
…
Renji and his father walked along a deserted night street. They had already walked several blocks in silence, exchanging neither words nor glances. Ahead, at the end of the street, a single streetlamp burned with yellow light. A bench stood under it.
Shall we sit down? the father asked. His voice was quiet, pleading.
Yes, Renji answered.
They sat down. The father placed the bag with his belongings next to him on the asphalt and looked at the stars. Hayato looked at his hands.
Forgive me, the father suddenly said. - For you going through all this. For me… not protecting our family.
Renji was silent. He wanted to say, "It's okay." Or, "It's not your fault." But the words got stuck in his throat.
It's fine, he finally forced out. - The main thing is, you're back.
His father nodded, but didn't smile. He looked again at the sky, where clouds slowly floated, covering the moon.
In prison… he began and stopped. In prison, there's plenty of time to think. About the past. About the future. About what to do and what not to do. And you know, I realized one thing.
What?
No one knows what's right. And searching for the meaning of life… that's a fool's errand.
Renji didn't answer. He just sat and listened to the dog barking in the distance, the noise of car tires on the next street, a child crying somewhere.
The night was warm, stuffy, full of smells and sounds. It pressed down on the shoulders like a heavy blanket that you want to throw off, but don't have the strength to.
Somewhere in the sewer, or in the basements of the old city, or in someone's black, sick soul, that same [blood] continued to flow. The one that holds this rotten, cruel, and beautiful world in a shaky, fragile balance.