At a certain office in central Tokyo, where the hum of computers mixed with the tapping of keyboards, the workday trudged along in its usual rhythm. "Mashida-san, can you hand me that file?"
"Here you go."
"Hey, did you finish the assignment I gave you?"
"Yeah, almost done."
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the tired faces of employees hunched over their desks. Paperwork stacked like miniature towers, each one a testament to the city's unrelenting pace. The faint scent of printer ink mingled with the stale aroma of reheated coffee, a signature fragrance of the office that Satoru had come to associate with both diligence and exhaustion.
"Looks like it'll be another busy night," someone sighed, their voice swallowed quickly by the soft clatter of keys.
From his corner of the room, Satoru Fujiyama rubbed his temple and massaged the back of his neck. His head throbbed, a slow pulse of pressure that had become an unwelcome companion over the past few weeks. He took a careful sip of lukewarm coffee, grimaced, and muttered under his breath, "Just a few more hours…"
Across the office, the section chief—a large man with a cheerful face—clapped his hands together, breaking through the monotony. "Don't worry! Once we're done, I'm treating everyone to yakiniku and drinks! And there'll be a bonus at the end of the month!"
"Yeah!!!" The office erupted in cheers, voices overlapping in a cacophony of relief and excitement. Employees stretched, whispered jokes to one another, and exchanged high-fives. But Satoru, raising his hands with the rest in a perfunctory gesture, quickly returned to his work. The celebration felt distant, like a television show playing faintly through a thick wall.
He kept typing, eyes slightly blurred as the words on the screen wavered. Fatigue pressed against him like a physical weight, dull and insistent. He'd gone to a clinic last week, hoping for answers, but the doctor had simply shrugged and said it was just stress and overwork. Yet something in Satoru's gut told him that this was more than ordinary exhaustion.
Four hours later, the last file was submitted. A wave of relief swept through the office like a warm breeze after a long winter. True to his word, the section chief ushered everyone into taxis and out into the bustling streets of Shibuya. Neon signs reflected off rain-slick sidewalks, illuminating faces with fleeting colors—greens, pinks, blues—painting the city in constant motion.
At a high-end restaurant near Shibuya Station, laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. Plates of grilled meat sizzled, sending up tendrils of smoke scented with garlic and miso. The employees leaned back in their chairs, drinking deeply, sharing stories of weekend plans and office gossip, their fatigue temporarily suspended by the warmth of camaraderie and food.
Satoru sat slightly apart from the group, a mug of beer balanced loosely in his hand. He took small sips, wincing occasionally as a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. The noise of celebration pressed against him uncomfortably, and he realized that, for the first time in a long while, he felt nothing—not joy, not relief, not connection. Just a hollow detachment, as though he were watching the world through a pane of glass.
Noticing his distance, the section chief leaned over. "Hey, Satoru! Why are you sitting alone? Come join us!"
Satoru hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Boss. I've been having these headaches lately. I just can't seem to enjoy things like before."
The man frowned, concern softening his usually boisterous face. "You should head home early, then. No point pushing yourself."
Satoru offered a faint smile, grateful despite himself. "That would help. Thank you."
The boss reached into his pocket and handed him an envelope. "There's two hundred dollars in there. Take a taxi home, buy some medicine, and rest for a few days. I'll mark it as sick leave."
Satoru blinked in surprise. "Boss… thank you. Really."
"Hey, we take care of our own here. Health comes first."
He turned to the others. "Listen up, everyone! Fujiyama's not feeling well, so he's heading out early. Wish him a quick recovery!"
"Get well soon!"
"Don't drink too much medicine, haha!"
"See you next week, man!"
Satoru laughed softly, waved, and stepped out into the cool night. Tokyo unfolded around him—bright, chaotic, alive. Neon lights glimmered off puddles, the voices of street vendors mingled with the laughter of couples strolling arm-in-arm, and the distant roar of trains reverberated beneath the elevated tracks. He caught a taxi, letting his head rest against the window as the city blurred past, a kaleidoscope of color and sound.
At his small apartment, the automatic lights flicked on, revealing an empty room. There was no one to greet him—just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the lingering aroma of old laundry. He shrugged off his coat, hung it carefully, and stepped into the shower. Warm water cascaded over him, relaxing tense muscles, but it could not wash away the deeper fatigue that had settled into his bones.
Hunger gnawed at him, and he moved to the kitchen. The fridge was nearly bare, but cooking had always been his refuge—a small ritual that brought order to the chaos of his mind. He boiled pasta, sautéed garlic and chili flakes in olive oil, and added crushed tomatoes and fresh basil. The aroma filled the tiny apartment, rich and comforting, bringing a rare sense of calm.
He plated the dish carefully, sprinkling parmesan over the top, and clasped his hands together. "Itadakimasu."
But as he lifted his fork, a strange dizziness swept over him. The room tilted, colors streaked into darkness, and his vision collapsed. The hum of the refrigerator, the gentle drip of water from the faucet, the faint smell of tomato and basil—all of it vanished.
Everything went black.