The Fall of the Nepenthe Petal

We stepped out of the director's office. The cold air welcomed us gently, as if the city itself bore witness to the shadows unfolding beneath its surface. The inspector looked at me, his voice low but steady.

"Takeshi, we're taking you to the station now. We need to find your family—any clue that might help us understand what happened."

I didn't answer. My heart was pounding—a strange feeling, somewhere between fear and curiosity.

We got into the car. The driver, a police officer, sat beside me. The inspector took the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The city loomed larger than before, more mysterious. Shining windows, the hum of traffic, the glow of streetlights—none of it pierced the silence that clung to me like a shadow.

At the same time, across the city in another building, a second police unit—led by the chief investigator—was en route to the media station in Shinzou. They knew the story surrounding the hospital and the journalists was tangled in the same web as the incident. Every thread, no matter how fine, had to be followed.

At the station, we were greeted by officers in a worn-out yet organized lobby. They led me into a small room with a computer and asked me to sit.

The inspector sat across from me and pulled out a recorder.

"Takeshi, we're going to search for your family records. Do you remember any names? Where you might've lived?"

The words stumbled on my tongue, but I replied softly, "No... I don't remember anything."

He exhaled slowly and began typing.

Beside us, another officer entered the room holding a file.

"We found something. His ex-wife's name was Yuko. She moved to another region two years ago."

I looked up, half-smiling, trying to feel something—but the emptiness inside only grew wider.

The inspector turned the screen toward me.

"We'll keep digging. Don't worry, we're here to help you."

Meanwhile, at the Shinzou media station, the team combed through old interviews and archived footage—analyzing reports related to incidents at the hospital. They were searching for any hint of manipulation, any thread tying the media coverage to the disappearances and killings.

Each discovery brought them closer to the dark truth that had remained buried beneath silence and corruption.

An hour later, the inspector returned to the room with a new set of documents in hand.

"We found some files indicating you had received threats in the past—possibly from individuals tied to the hospital or the media."

After hours of digging, he fell silent. Then, with a look that seemed to reveal something new, he said quietly:

"We found your record. Here's your marriage certificate… and your wife, Yuko. But more importantly… you had a son."

Time froze in that tiny room.

"Your son's name was Hiroya Moriama."

My hands trembled. My heartbeat screamed inside my ears.

Suddenly, the wall of forgetfulness shattered.

Images—blurry but piercing—rushed forward: Screaming voices, panicked crowds, a small boy trembling, his face contorted in pain. My hands holding him, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. My cries for help, unanswered.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I broke inside. The inspector's voice echoed distantly:

"Takeshi? Are you okay?"

But this wasn't just remembering. It was an explosion of grief. The truth I had buried deep inside had returned, raw and merciless.

I couldn't speak. I sat there, engulfed by memories.

The inspector slowly turned his screen toward me again, eyes fixed on a file labeled "Hiroya Moriama."

He looked at me, his voice softer now, but heavy with weight.

"Hiroya… passed away two years ago. He was murdered."

He stopped speaking, as if waiting for something deeper than words.

I was drowning in a storm of silence.

The inspector leaned in with calm compassion, flipping through the incident reports.

"It was a public place, Takeshi. You were out with your son that day."

A chill swept through me, but I kept my face still.

"Three bullets," he said softly. "Three bullets fired out of nowhere. There was nothing you could do."

He paused, then added, "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do this. But the pain… it's enough to break anyone."

I turned to the window. Broken memories flickered: a smiling child, gunshots, my face soaked in tears.

He placed his hand gently on my shoulder.

"This might be why you lost your memory. Trauma this deep… can bury the truth inside you."

I breathed slowly. His words felt like a fragile bridge across a ravine of grief.

I remained in that chair, surrounded by the smell of old paper, coffee, and exhaustion. The inspector sat across from me, watching in silence—as if time itself had to grant me something that couldn't be forced.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

The officers who had gone to Shinzou returned, their faces a mix of fatigue and shock.

They exchanged glances, then one of them spoke:

"We found a lot. Everything's starting to make sense now."

I looked up slowly, my senses alert. Something deep inside told me—what they were about to say would change everything.

One officer opened a thick brown file.

"Three years ago, there was a documented incident at the Shinzou station. Heavy media coverage. A child—the only survivor of a terrorist attack—underwent emergency surgery… but died afterward." I stared at him, my chest tightening.

"The report back then," he continued, "was biased. The surgeon was blamed for negligence. He was fired shortly after the event."

The inspector added quietly:

"That surgeon… was you, Takeshi."

I froze. I didn't answer. I just stared at the floor.

The officer continued, his voice cautious now:

"Several months after your dismissal… a murder occurred."

He opened another file—this time, with Hiroya Moriama written on the cover.

I stared at the name as if my heart had dropped out of my chest.

"Your son was shot three times in a public park. A shocking crime—but what's more shocking is that the suspect wasn't random."

He held up an old photo of a weary-looking man in his late thirties. His face was strangely familiar.

"This man… is the father of the child who died in the hospital. His name is Kento. He worked as a technician at a security firm and followed the case obsessively."

The inspector's tone turned tense.

"He started by threatening journalists. Then hospital administrators. And finally… it seems, you."

Something burned deep inside me. Was it rage? Fear? I didn't know.

"He believed the truth was abandoned," the officer said. "So he decided to take justice into his own hands. Everyone he blamed for his son's death… became a target."

I closed my eyes. I could feel the memory boiling beneath my skin.

I whispered, "So… it wasn't random?"

The officer shook his head.

"No, Takeshi. There's a chain of lies, betrayal, and grief. And you were caught in the middle—both a victim… and an accused."

I held my head in my hands. The memories weren't just fragments anymore. They were coming back—partially, unevenly. I saw Kento at the hospital. At the funeral. Staring at me with a gaze I hadn't understood—until

"But he… killed my son."

I finally said it, the words clawing their way out of my throat.

The inspector nodded slowly.

"Yes… it seems he started this cycle of death."

The room was silent again. Heavier than before.

But inside me, something had changed.

I no longer saw myself as a lost shadow.

There was an old fire reigniting—dim, but alive.

The faces were becoming clear. The truth, too.