Chapter Sixty-Nine: Farewell to the City

“You’re fired. Please pack your things and go to the finance office to settle your salary.” The manager, arrogant as if owning the only banana tree in the entire monkey troop, offered the girl before him no retreat. After loudly declaring the penalty, he swept his gaze over the office, reiterating the words he’d repeated countless times: “Remember everything the company has done for you. If you can’t prove your worth, prepare yourself mentally.”

She said nothing. She had long anticipated this day. As a child, she imagined work meant doing what she loved and creating value for everyone. Those beautiful dreams of the future, along with the wind chimes that accompanied her entire childhood, remained in her small town. More tasks, more overtime, all exchanged for a meager string of numbers on her paycheck. She could find no joy in her work; more than once, she deliberately forgot the flaws of the company’s products to promote them. Equally, she’d asked herself time and again: even children know lying is wrong—so why must adults live in a world constructed from lies, both their own and others’?

This city was vast. Every day, countless people drove, or arrived by plane or bullet train. So many shared this city with her, yet none could give her answers.

She was tired of the cold life. Here, even milk tea took less than three minutes from ordering to mixing, sweet but always missing something. This morning, as she stood before the mirror, seeing her unremarkable face—so ordinary she might only play a passerby in a drama—she finally understood what she lacked. It wasn’t milk tea; it was herself.

She ignored her roommate, who had only come home from the bar near dawn and was still drunkenly sprawled in their shared room. Calmly, she took a plastic mop and a stainless steel dustpan from the kitchen, then tried to push open her roommate’s door. As expected, someone drunk enough to flirt with the toilet wouldn’t remember to lock the door.

“What are you doing? Get that mop and whatever off my bed!” Though the bed was hardly cleaner than a garbage bin, its owner defended her rights with a shriek.

Satomi Miyazawa took a deep breath, then spoke with a resolve she’d never had before: “Go clean up the floor you threw up on! I’m sick of having to clean up after you every morning before work, like picking up after a pet.”

Ignoring the curses, Miyazawa closed the door, calmly sidestepping the indescribable mess on the floor. Today’s weather was poor; fog enveloped every corner of the city.

The culture of bowing to seniors, restless relationships, habitual overtime, a hopeless career path—all of it pushed her to make her choice.

After a serious talk with the manager about wanting to be an honest adult who loved herself, she was, predictably, dismissed.

She booked her ticket home. The fog had not lifted. For the first time, she had a vast expanse of time with nowhere to place it. It felt strange, but soon she realized she could finally experience things she’d always lacked the time for.

Watching a movie alone, dining at a fancy restaurant—those thoughts were seeds buried in her heart, watered by years of loneliness and exhaustion, finally blooming in this foggy afternoon.

Her ticket was for 7:42 p.m. She had seven hours left to bid the city a proper farewell.

A commercial film with decent effects but an insulting plot roused her rationality. In the cinema restroom, she adjusted her makeup, looking at her attractive reflection, telling herself there was no need to spend her last afternoon in Tokyo ticking off some self-imagined “100 Things to Do Before Leaving Tokyo.”

She was still young, with a long life ahead to dream about. Why cling to a place she was about to abandon?

She returned to her rented apartment—one of those places defined by cramped space and annoying roommates. Luckily, her idle roommate was gone; unluckily, the puddle of vomit remained as a testament to her roommate’s attitude.

“Damn pig!” It was a historic moment worthy of being inscribed in the annals of Satomi Miyazawa’s life—everyone knows firsts should be remembered: first day alone at school, first kiss, and, in some sense, the first curse carries equal weight.

A rush of relief flooded her body, dopamine surging. She was surprised, so she repeated the phrase—one far more common in ordinary life than “I love you.”

The words seemed magical, filling her with deep regret.

She thought, she should have learned to use them sooner.

Like a flood blocked by a dam, a small gap opened and everything poured out, unstoppable.

She packed her belongings into her suitcase, dressed in her favorite clothes, and, as elegantly as the most dedicated maid in a medieval palace, cleaned up the vomit. She raised the dustpan high and threw it where it belonged. Then, facing her roommate’s disgusting bed, she said her final farewell: “Go to hell, filthy fool.”

Refreshed, Satomi Miyazawa pushed the door open; her silver suitcase rolled determinedly down the corridor. The fog still shrouded the city, but for the first time, it no longer seemed hazy to her; it was so clear it felt almost unfamiliar.

She stood on the bustling street. The fog had not dampened people’s yearning for life; office workers hurried to the subway, cyclists paused at traffic lights, catching their breath. Because of the fog, the lights in shop windows were already on; because of desire, the city’s flow never ceased.

Three hours remained. She looked around—everything was both familiar and strange.

Her family lived in a barren but peaceful town; her friends scattered by fate. Her colleagues had deleted her from their contacts four hours ago. As for lovers—what a joke. This was no longer the era of marriage before career. She’d dreamed of striving here, earning promotions and financial freedom to pursue romantic love. She’d never had the nerve to refuse overtime, even on Valentine’s Day. She was still single.

She decided to find a place to sit—a café, a bookstore, anywhere would do, as long as she could while away time in a corner.

Dragging her suitcase, she wandered aimlessly along the street. A restaurant caught her eye; she took a flyer from the attendant at the door and, reading it, walked inside—only to accidentally bump into another customer.

Flustered, she bowed in apology. In response, a hand picked up her dropped bag—a rough hand. She looked up and saw a man, ordinary in appearance but with a gentle expression, watching her. Sensing her gaze, he smiled slightly. “It’s fine.”

A faint, masculine scent lingered in her nose. She dared not meet those gentle eyes, lowering her gaze. Her sniffing betrayed the stirrings deep within her.

She took her bag. “Excuse me.” His second sentence. Satomi Miyazawa hurriedly moved her suitcase aside, yielding space. The man, fragrant like Masaki Matsushima perfume, walked past her.

“Miss, do you need help?” A polite waiter took her suitcase and led her to a window seat.

Satomi Miyazawa composed herself and ordered a soda water. She’d had enough bitter coffee; now unemployed, she no longer needed to force herself to stay alert.

She sipped the bubbling soda water and gazed out the window. As if the goddess of fate sensed her faint hope, the man who’d just brushed past her was waiting at the intersection for the light to change.

Sixty-seven seconds—the timer on the opposite traffic signal was clear.

She had sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds to watch this man.

She guessed at his profession: an old but clean black coat, indigo jeans stained with soil. She imagined he, like her, survived alone in the city night after night. Maybe he was a laborer who arrived after high school, perhaps he’d helped build this very building, or maybe he was a gardener—no harsh cologne but carrying a subtle masculine scent.

She gripped her glass, nervous. At the seventeenth second after seeing his back, a strange thought struck her: If she’d had the courage to invite him for afternoon tea as an apology, would he now be sitting across from her, chatting like new friends about anything—this inscrutable weather or her impending train? There were plenty of topics to fill the remaining three hours.

She was actually quite attractive after dressing up. Maybe they should have been sitting here, talking idly—about the weather, the train, whatever.

But she hadn’t done anything. She’d just apologized like a clumsy girl.

Forty-two seconds. The countdown hit forty-two. Bubbles in her soda disappeared one by one. Satomi Miyazawa wavered. Perhaps she should find him, tell him she didn’t mind, or that she wanted to talk—but the reserve ingrained in every woman made her hesitate.

For the last twenty-three seconds, Satomi Miyazawa suddenly felt a sense of release. When you linger over something, you already know your heart’s decision. She stopped hesitating. She felt she had missed too much; if possible, she didn’t want to be a spectator anymore. She wanted to take charge of her life.

Nara Dreamland.

“What did you do? You know we can only hunt without exposing ourselves.” The man in the trench coat was curious, because he knew Ryunosuke Kaga was no slave to base desires, so he wanted to know how Ryunosuke had lured his prey into the trap step by step. The thought made him smile; nothing pleased him more than hearing a hunting plan play out in the steel jungle.

“I did nothing,” Ryunosuke Kaga said, lighting a cigarette. The smoke drifted everywhere, like the city’s fog.