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500 won.
John handed it to the cab driver, stepping out into the moody dusk of Tokyo. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of wet concrete and faded hopes.
He looked up.
"2 o' Clock Restaurant" — the faded board creaked slightly in the wind. The place looked closed. Dusty glass door. Curtains drawn. Not a single sound inside.
John checked his watch: 1:59 PM.
Exactly one minute passed.
Click.
The old wall clock struck 2:00 PM, and whoosh!
The door unlocked on its own, gently swinging open as though it was waiting just for him.
John smirked. "Still the same magic, huh?"
Theory said: 2 o'clock was the "perfect balance" between lunch hunger and evening cravings. Psychologically, people were more emotional, nostalgic, and prone to comfort food decisions at this hour. Sales always peaked. The founder, a culinary psychologist, had declared this "The Golden Hour of Taste.", John reading it infront of the door.
Inside, the restaurant was mesmerizing.
Walls lined with hand-painted murals of timepieces. Each table had its own theme — one shaped like a clock face, another like a compass. Light jazz played softly in the background. Ceiling fans spun lazily, and everything smelled of warm spices and freshly baked bread.
John walked toward Table No. 9, a classic wooden table shaped like an old pocket watch. He sat down.
His eyes landed on the calendar near the register.
23rd September.
Before he could reflect, a waiter approached.
He wore a neat black uniform with a silver tie, and a small clock pin on his chest. His smile was robotic but his eyes were sharp — scanning, watching.
"What would you like, sir?" he asked, handing over a leather-bound menu.
The waiter reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny notebook and pen to write the order.
John looked him straight in the eye.
"I want Taku Toizawa."
The waiter paused. Pen froze mid-air.
"Excuse me, sir?"
John sighed.
"Call your manager."
"Why, sir?"
John flipped open his coat.
Police ID.
Detective John Yatharn.
---
Scene shift.
Akira was walking alone under a flickering streetlamp, holding a convenience store bag. The world felt quiet, but his instincts were screaming.
Too quiet.
SWOOSH!
A shadow lunged from behind — a hitman, dagger raised high.
But Akira was ready.
He spun, grabbing the attacker's wrist just in time. The dagger halted inches from his neck.
The hitman's other hand moved like lightning — pulling out a gun.
But Akira, faster than fear, smashed the dagger down on the barrel.
BANG!
The gun fired — but the broken dagger redirected the shot.
Metal groaned.
The recoil snapped the hitman's left wrist. He screamed.
Akira took the broken dagger and flung it away.
Then came the real fight.
Fist to fist.
The hitman, wounded but wild, punched with fury.
Akira dodged. Struck. Countered.
Blood spattered the alley walls.
Finally, the hitman collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Akira wiped his lip, walked to a nearby crate, and pulled out a cold glass Coca-Cola bottle.
He opened it.
Took a long sip.
The hitman looked up, stunned.
CRACK!
The bottle shattered against his skull.
Glass glittered like snow.
Akira knelt, holding the broken bottle neck like a dagger.
"I'm sorry."
He stabbed.
Again.
And again.
The body dropped.
Akira stood, breathing heavily, his hands trembling but eyes calm.
Rain began to fall.
Akira said,"Rain always come at right time. I'm sorry and I'm Akira."
Hitman last breath stops....
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