Somewhere in a dark room, Shimamura sleeps poorly, dragged under by a dream that refuses to loosen its grip. His counter landing clean, Yanagimoto folding, and then the white towel falling like a verdict he cannot swat away.
Then he wakes with a sharp inhale, sweat clings to his skin like a second canvas. His heart hammers violently against his ribs, not from fear, but from a lingering sense of being interrupted at the brink of something vital.
The pain in his body has dulled, but the absence feels worse. Staring into the dark, he realizes sleep will not come back so easily, not with that moment waiting for him every time he closes his eyes.
So he drags himself downstairs, bare feet heavy against the steps. By habit more than thought, he opens the cabinet, fingers closing around a half-finished bottle of whiskey.
He turns toward the sofa, already imagining the burn in his throat.
Then he stops, and gazes back to the bottle. In that stillness, voices crawl up from his memory.
