Chapter 27

"Everyone, turn to page 64. Today we will..."

At Suimi High School, the teacher Ms. Marushige read aloud from the textbook with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this countless times.

Below her, the students were either daydreaming or openly playing on their phones. Only a handful were actually paying attention and taking notes. By now, everyone was used to it.

While Tokyo's average high school advancement rate stood at 69.6%, private schools boasted a 98% success rate, housing the children of Japan's elite. Public schools, being the 'averaged out' part of the statistic, spoke volumes for themselves.

It was like saying, "Kobe and I combined for 83 points."

While reading aloud, Ms. Marushige's gaze swept toward the back row by the window.

Souta Kiryuu, once a model student, had recently seemed lost in thought.

Well, it made sense. Parents gone, possible bullying, and being interviewed by the police... even an adult might crumble under such pressure. She could only hope he'd recover.

As the teacher lectured, that was the thought running through her mind.

But in reality—

Souta Kiryuu wasn't wallowing in depression; he was using his paper clone to practice ninjutsu.

———

"Hi Mom, it's me."

In Itabashi Ward, inside an old one-story house from the 1980s, a voice came through the landline resting atop an embroidered doily.

"Hmm? My voice sounds off? Maybe my throat's just a little sore."

The man's voice was hoarse and strained, tinged with guilt and urgency.

"I, uh... I embezzled some money from my company. The inspectors are coming tomorrow. If I can't repay it before then, I'll be fired."

"Not a lot, really... Could you help me with just 2 million yen?"

"Thank you, Mom. I promise I'll pay you back!"

"My colleague will come to collect it soon. Please give it to him."

Shortly after, there was a knock at the door.

"Sorry to bother you."

The old wooden door creaked open. A young man in a suit, with a neat side part and an aura of worn-out office life, smiled politely at the elderly woman inside.

"You're Mr. Inoue's mother, right? I'm here about... that matter."

Trembling, the elderly woman pulled out an envelope.

Two million yen—not a fortune, but certainly no small sum. Yet without hesitation, she handed it over. Her wrinkled face, framed by white hair, carried only concern.

"Is... is my son okay?"

The young man bowed and repeated his well-practiced lines.

"Yes. Don't worry, I'll make sure it gets to him."

The envelope passed from her shriveled hand to his youthful one.

"Goodbye."

As he shut the door for her, he grinned. Too easy.

AI-generated voices were lifelike now, and it was simple to find detailed personal info online. Just a few lines and some old folks would hand over cash willingly.

Easier than selling drugs!

"I'm just helping circulate the national pension fund," he joked.

Maybe soon, he'd be promoted within the organization. Maybe... he'd become someone important?

Chuckling, the young man stepped out through the gate—only to bump into an elderly man walking his dog.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The Shar-Pei barked furiously at him.

"Ah, sorry about that."

The old man tugged at the leash, apologizing.

"It's probably because you just came out of the Inoue residence. My dog must've thought you were a thief."

"No, of course not," the young man said quickly, waving his hands.

"I get it. You're a salesman, right?"

"But trying to sell things to the Inoue household is pointless."

"Why's that?"

Feeling generous after his recent gain, the young man indulged the conversation.

"Because Mrs. Inoue... already passed away alone."

"Passed away alone?!"

The man froze.

In Japan, this phenomenon is known as "muen-shi"—dying alone, without any ties. As the population ages and birthrates decline, more elderly people are dying unnoticed. Bodies are often discovered only when community workers check in, long after decomposition has begun.

"Her husband died long ago. Her only son moved out and never came back."

"She was a bit of a recluse. When they found her last month, her body was already... melting."

What?!

"Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The Shar-Pei barked again, interrupting the story.

"Looks like Arashi smelled something on you. Take care."

The old man and his dog walked off.

Left standing there, the young man's face turned pale.

"Crazy old man. I just got money from Mrs. Inoue—what's this about her dying last month?"

Still unsettled, he opened his briefcase to double-check.

There was no money in the envelope.

It was empty.

Dry and crumpled, like the old woman's hand.

A chill ran up his spine.

That's impossible... he'd just—

He spun around. On the wall, he saw a "For Rent" notice, and through the window, an empty, abandoned room.

———

He stumbled into a nearby park, ripped off his suit, and tossed his briefcase aside. Sweating profusely, he collapsed on a bench.

He pulled out his phone and reported the situation to his organization.

"Ah, yeah. She's dead, all right," his colleague replied, laughing like it was no big deal.

"Sorry, I must've messed up."

"But I really did get money!"

The young man tugged at his collar, drenched in sweat despite the bright sun.

"Though... when I checked later, the money and even the person were gone."

"Oooo, spooky," came the sarcastic reply. "Alright, if we have new jobs, I'll let you know."

The call ended.

"What the hell..."

As he lowered his phone, his face darkened further. Was he hallucinating?

Beep beep—

His phone rang. The caller ID read: "Inoue."

Wait... no one in the company had that name.

He answered.

"Hello?"

"Is my son... doing okay?"

The same trembling voice as before.

His knees buckled.

He slammed the call shut, drenched in cold sweat.

This... this world is governed by science!

Trying to regain composure, he grabbed his suit and briefcase and headed home.

At his apartment, he noticed a letter stuck in the door.

He picked it up, eyes landing on the sender's name.

Inoue.

Rip. Rip. Rip.

Terror surged. He shredded the envelope to bits, fumbled with his keys, and rushed inside.

Only in the familiar surroundings of his apartment did he feel slightly safer. He slumped against the door, panting.

Ghosts?

Evil spirits?

Or what—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell.

His whole body tensed. He glanced at the monitor.

A hunched silhouette. On loop, the same chilling question:

"Is my son... doing okay?"

Bang!

He dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a hammer, and smashed the doorbell monitor.

But the landline in the living room suddenly rang.

"Is my son... doing okay?"

He tore out the phone cord, but the voice outside the door didn't stop.

"Is my son... doing okay?"

"Ahhhh! Please! Let me go!!"

———

Edogawa Ward—among Tokyo's bottom three in income.

Like Itabashi and Adachi, it's considered the boonies by city folks.

Say you're from one of these places, and even the most polite Tokyoite will think: You dare call yourself a Tokyo resident?

Residents cling to vague praise like "clean air" and "nice views."

Inside another 1980s home, a graying middle-aged man was smoking and watching TV.

Ring ring ring—

The landline rang.

He picked it up.

"Son?"

"Why haven't you called? I was worried!"

He paused, sensing something off in his son's voice.

"You sound terrible. What's wrong?"

"I'm sick."

The response was weak.

"But there's something I need to tell you... I was fired long ago."

Life in Tokyo isn't easy. Countless youth dream of making it here. Even locals compete for spots in the six core wards.

But places like Minato, Chuo, and Chiyoda are out of reach for ordinary people.

"I was broke... so I turned to scamming."

The father stood up.

"Scamming?! You idiot! How much did they take from you?!"

"No, Dad. I wasn't scammed. I was the scammer."

The line fell silent.

Then an old voice crackled through.

"Is my son... doing okay?"

"Hello? Answer me, idiot! Are you alright?!"

But the young man could no longer reply.

He hung from the ceiling, the phone cord looped tightly around his neck.