Akira shudders before she even realizes she's awake. A dry shiver runs down her spine, the kind that never warns you but tells you that the night has once again played with a knife to your throat. She recognizes this silence, this metallic taste in her mouth.
She's still dreaming about that night.
And it always starts the same way.
The heavy heat falls from the ceiling, creeps up the walls, seeps under her ribs. In the dream, she shrinks. Eight years old. Not a day older.
Her breath becomes fragile, almost porcelain.
The living room of her childhood closes in around her. The walls rise up like a sick theater set. The carpet. The fireplace. The family portraits smiling a smile she now only sees in her nightmares. The fire crackles, that sharp, regular sound, stuck in her memory like a nail she has never been able to pull out.
Her mother is crouched in front of the fireplace. The silhouette, the posture. Between her fingers trembles the crumpled paper that Akira has never been able to read. She hesitates. Then, as she does every night, she reaches out her hand.
The paper catches fire, curling up. A wisp of bluish smoke rises. Akira's throat tightens.
She wants to speak, but her voice is gone.
The shadow appears.
Her father.
Tall. Motionless. Gray eyes, empty as a bottomless pit. In his hand, the burning poker still pulses with heat. Even in her dream, she knows that this is the moment when everything changes. Inevitable.
Her legs freeze. Always at this moment. Always this trap.
Her mother turns her head slightly toward her. Her smile is gentle, too gentle, tired... a smile that never lasts.
The blow falls.
The poker pierces her back with a sharp, violent sound. Her body collapses silently. The flames lick her silhouette on the ground, as if trying to hold her back. Akira steps back. Once. Twice. Her father's eyes slide toward her.
His voice falls, cold, precise, sharp.
— Come here, you dirty little bitch.
The poker is still dripping when he pulls the metal rod from the lifeless body. He moves forward. The room seems to contract. The walls close in. Akira's breath catches in her chest. She wants to scream, but nothing comes out. Not even a remnant of courage.
----------------------------
Akira sits up with a start, gasping for breath. Her throat burns as if she had inhaled smoke. Cold sweat sticks her hair to her temples. Her hands are shaking.
Around her, the room takes shape again, cold, at first blurry, then all too real. A stark contrast to the phantom smoke still clinging to her nose. A trickle of cool air enters through the half-open French window, a simple and brutal reminder that the world still exists, and that it has no intention of being gentle.
She blinks, takes a deep breath, and lets the cold sting her skin.
She checks the time.
Of course. Always that damn time. As if she needed a precise reminder of her daily misery.
She sits for a few seconds, her hands on her knees, her heart stuck somewhere in her chest. Then she gets up, digs her feet into her shoes, and opens the French window a little wider. At least the cold never lies. Unlike some people at the office.
The routine begins. A shower that's too hot. Breakfast swallowed mechanically, just out of discipline. A uniform adjusted with a gesture too automatic to be healthy. Everything is calculated to push the rest away. To avoid thinking. To stay upright. Or at least give the impression of doing so.
A few minutes later, she is on her balcony, a cigarette wedged between her lips. The neighborhood is half awake, drawing pale streaks of light between the gray buildings. Below, an old lady walks her Shiba with the insolent tranquility of those who have won the morning battle without raising their voices. Of course, the real victory is not being late for bingo.
Akira takes a drag. Slow. Bitter. Like most mornings.
For weeks, she's been carrying this feeling that sticks to her skin. A disconnect. As if the world were creaking in a place only she can hear. Heavy dreams. Silences at work. Glances between superiors that reveal nothing but betray everything. Very encouraging, indeed.
The phone vibrates on the coffee table. She reluctantly turns around, drops the ashes into an empty cup. She exhales one last time and crushes the cigarette butt like a full stop.
— I guess it's not to ask me if I slept well, she murmurs. No, that would have been too nice.
She picks up the phone.
— Lieutenant Tsukino? The voice on the other end of the line is quick, almost tense. The chief wants to see you immediately.— All right... I'm on my way,she replies calmly.
She hangs up, grabs her jacket, attaches her badge to her belt, and slams the door without even checking to see if it locks.
Honestly, who would want to break into her place? Except for thrill seekers.
She descends the stairs. The street greets her with its sharp sounds: the clatter of footsteps on the sidewalk, the roar of cars, the distant cry of a young man. Everything seems clearer, more acute, as if the city insists on reminding her that reality awaits her, and that her personal ghosts have no claim on her day.
And yet, despite the morning light and the familiar rhythm of Toyokura... something unexpected is already waiting for him at the police station.
