The flower without a face

I remained seated on the ground, my mind scattered. The images kept flashing through my head like a film reel.

I was sitting in an office, investigating something.

A photo of Kento stood out among the files—disturbingly clear.

But… what is this? Photos of other people? And a strange drawing?

An oil painting of a faceless man standing in front of a train.

The images began to fade gradually.

I got up, my body heavy, and walked down the street.

I called Koda to tell him what had happened, but his phone was off.

I thought about returning to the police station, but exhaustion overwhelmed me.

All I wanted at that moment was rest. My head ached severely.

I took the bus home.

Went straight to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror—my face was covered in bruises from all sides.

I cleaned the wounds, disinfected them with antiseptic, then wrapped my hand in a bandage.

After that, I turned to my computer, trying to find any new thread connecting Shinzo Hospital and Teika.

But nothing new.

All I found was what I already knew: Shinzo Hospital had been buying faulty equipment from Teika.

I was searching for other details—anything new… but the internet wasn't a good source for the truth.

After half an hour of searching, my phone rang.

It was Koda.

I told him what happened to me, that I had met Kento, and mentioned the memories that had started returning.

But as soon as he heard about the faceless man… he was shocked.

He said in a tense voice:

"This… this is connected to the terrorist incident that took the life of Kento's son."

I was stunned. I wanted to know more, but Koda quickly interrupted me, clearly anxious:

"I don't have time now… I need to inform the others, since Kento has finally resurfaced.

I can't explain the details right now.

Check some old articles, search through newspaper archives and the internet… maybe you'll find something useful."

Then he hung up.

I turned again to the computer, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and searched:

"Terrorist attacks – Japan – Year 2000"

The results appeared surprisingly fast.

Old reports covered in the dust of forgetfulness, articles buried in internet corners, decayed headlines and distant dates—it felt like they belonged to a world that no longer existed.

I began to scroll through them, my eyes devouring lines, desperately looking for something familiar… a thin thread connecting those distant incidents to what now clouded my mind.

And amidst the search, a strange pattern emerged.

They weren't just isolated incidents as I initially thought.

There had been four terrorist attacks, all in the same year.

Four different perpetrators, no apparent connection between them—no blood relation, no shared political affiliation, no unified organization… but something tied them together.

They all suffered from psychological disorders.

That alone was noteworthy—but it wasn't the most disturbing part.

What chilled my blood was what I read next: they had all been treated by the same psychiatrist.

> Name: Dr. Kazuya Shindō

Date of arrest: November 2000

Charge: Manipulating his patients and inciting them to commit acts of mass violence, under the pretext of a therapeutic method he called "trauma purge."

I paused for a few seconds, staring at the screen. A strange feeling crept over me. An inexplicable chill, as if the air in the room had grown heavier.

I continued reading, and the deeper I delved into the reports, the more intense the goosebumps on my skin and the more jumbled my thoughts became.

"Dr. Shindō used unconventional methods in his treatment. He didn't rely only on conversations or medication, but on drawing as a means of diving deep into the psyche. He asked his patients to draw their emotions, their fears, their nightmares…

And the results were shocking: numerous drawings, from different patients, contained the same recurring symbol… a faceless man.

Standing in public places, silent, saying nothing… but present, watching from a distance, never leaving them alone."

I kept reading, and the details grew more terrifying.

> "In one testimony, a patient said Shindō once told him: 'When you see the faceless man, you'll know the moment has come.'"

Then, during his trial, when asked to explain, to confess, to justify…

> "He neither denied nor confirmed… he simply said: 'I didn't incite anyone… I just opened the gate for them.'"

And right then…

My hands froze.

I remembered.

That image.

The faceless man.

I hadn't just seen him in the reports—I had seen him before. In the memory flashes that had recently returned to me, that disrupted my awareness and left me drowning in confusion and fear.

The threads began to intertwine.

Those images I saw in one of the flashes, and the office filled with papers—why was there a photo of Kento? Why that collection of faces I could no longer clearly distinguish?

What connected them all?

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall the image… to extract the complete memory.

Suddenly…

The flash returned.

I saw myself in that office.

Everything was dark, still, as if the air had frozen.

On the wall, a photo of me with my wife and son.

And I was there, sitting behind the desk, broken, extinguished.

My head in my hands, tears falling silently—as if I carried all of hell on my shoulders.

Loneliness dominated everything.

It was as if grief had settled into the walls, crept into the furniture, and embedded itself in my gaze.

The flash faded, but the pain remained.

I took a deep breath and began to recall everything I'd seen.

The first flash I saw today:

Kento lying on the ground.

His eyes meeting mine. There was something strange in his gaze.

It wasn't the look of an enemy, but it wasn't innocent either.

He was preparing to get up… as if we had been in a fight… or a decisive confrontation.

Then came another flash, clearer this time:

An office

Photos of Kento, and other people I still couldn't recognize

with a strange picture of a faceless man, followed by glimpses—

and me, alone again, crying.

Completely broken.

And the picture began to come into focus.

I started to understand…

Those images, the files, the paintings—they weren't a coincidence.

I had been looking for Kento.

I was tracking his steps, following his trail.

The photos were keys.

Every face, every scene, every drawing was a thread leading me toward him.

Toward Kento.

And when I found him… I wasn't looking for an explanation.

I didn't want a conversation.

I was angry.

I was shattered.

Maybe I wanted revenge.

A fight broke out between us…

There were words left unsaid, looks left unexplained…

But he fell, and I stood, breathing heavily, while everything around me seemed frozen.

And after that… nothing.

I think I was… kidnapped.

That's the only explanation that makes sense of my fragmented memory.

Now, after all of this, I'm beginning to see the full picture.

Every flash, every feeling, every neglected paper in that office… was pointing to one thing.

I was chasing Kento.