By morning, everyone had seen the blackout.
In some districts, it lasted less than two seconds.
In others, almost half an hour.
That did not matter.
The damage was already done.
Tokyo had blinked.
For the first time since the deaths began, people understood the city itself could fail too.
Ren woke inside a coin-operated internet cafe with his head resting against his school bag.
His body was folded awkwardly inside a narrow private booth.
He had paid for three hours and slept through most of them.
The thin blanket smelled faintly of detergent and other people.
A news broadcast played softly from the monitor in front of him.
He opened his eyes to the words temporary power instability scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
A government spokesperson stood behind a podium.
His face looked pale under the studio lights.
^^ GOVERNMENT ADVISORY Power supply remains stable across most regions.
Last night’s disruption was caused by increased demand, weather conditions, and minor technical complications at several substations.
Citizens are advised to conserve electricity where possible.
A reporter shouted from somewhere off screen.
“Are power stations still fully staffed?” The spokesperson paused.
Only for one second.
Ren noticed it.
“Critical infrastructure remains operational.” “That was not the question.” “We are working closely with all relevant agencies.” Another reporter shouted.
“Reports say workers have died at power plants and water treatment facilities.
Is that true?” The microphone feed cut.
The screen jumped back to the studio.
The anchor smiled too quickly.
“We appear to be experiencing audio difficulties.” Ren stared at the screen.
“Audio difficulties,” he muttered.
The words sounded empty.
His phone buzzed beside the keyboard.
~~ Hayato: You alive?
Then another.
~~ Shizuka: Let him answer properly.
~~ Hayato: That is my opening line now.
~~ Shizuka: It is a terrible opening line.
~~ Hayato: It gets results.
A private message followed.
~ Shizuka: Ren.
~ Shizuka: Did you sleep somewhere dry?
Ren stared at the message longer than he meant to.
It was easy to ignore Hayato.
Shizuka made silence feel worse.
He typed: ~ Ren: Dry enough.
Her reply came after a pause.
~ Shizuka: That means no.
~ Shizuka: Or barely.
Ren did not answer.
The phone buzzed again.
This time Hayato called.
Ren answered.
“You alive?” “That is becoming your greeting.” “It works because you keep making it necessary.
Where are you?” “Internet cafe.” Hayato went silent.
Ren heard movement on the other side.
Then a door slid open.
Shizuka’s voice came through clearly.
“You called him without me?” “You live next door,” Hayato said.
“I knew you would appear.” “I told you to wait.” “You were putting on shoes.” “I was preparing.” Hayato returned to the phone.
“She is here.” Ren closed his eyes.
“You two are impossible.” Shizuka’s voice moved closer.
“Kurono.
Are you injured?” “No.” “Do not lie.” “I’m tired.” “That is not an answer.” “That is the only answer I have.” Silence followed.
Not empty silence.
The kind where someone wanted to ask more but knew he would run from it.
Then Shizuka asked, “Did something happen after the blackout?” Ren looked at the monitor.
On screen, footage showed a dark street filled with people holding phone flashlights.
His phone screen reflected his face faintly.
Same brown eyes.
Same tired expression.
Nothing special.
Only the old man’s voice stayed with him.
It’s not a sickness.
It’s pulling me apart.
“I saw the numbers,” Ren said.
Hayato spoke again.
“What numbers?” “Death trackers.” Shizuka went quiet.
Hayato cursed under his breath.
“Ren, those trackers are messy.
Half the posts are duplicates.
Some are fake.” “I know.” “Then stop looking through them like they owe you an answer.” “I’m not.” “You do this thing where you stare at bad news until it becomes your fault.” Ren did not answer.
Shizuka’s voice softened.
“Ren.” He hated when she said his name like that.
Not angry.
Not teasing.
Like she had found another locked door and was standing outside it.
“I’ll call later,” Ren said.
Hayato groaned.
“That means you won’t.” “I might.” “That also means you won’t.” Ren ended the call before either of them continued.
A message appeared seconds later.
~ Shizuka: You sound tired.
~ Shizuka: Please eat something warm.
~ Shizuka: Coffee does not count.
~ Shizuka: Neither does bread if that is all you had.
Ren looked at the screen.
He should have ignored it.
Instead, he typed: ~ Ren: I’ll try.
It was a small lie.
But it was softer than no.
For a while, Ren sat inside the narrow booth and listened to the internet cafe around him.
A keyboard clicked in another cubicle.
Someone coughed twice, then tried to hide it.
The old air conditioner hummed.
Low voices came from the front counter.
The world had not ended.
Not yet.
It had only become worse at pretending.
By noon, the first centers were announced.
The government did not call them Refuge Centers.
Not at first.
They called them Temporary Community Support Centers.
Each one had a code for distribution, security, and reporting.
TC-03 Shinjuku.
TC-07 Suginami.
TC-12 Kanda.
TC-19 Yokohama South.
TC-31 Coastal Intake.
The announcement sounded organized.
It was not.
Officially, the centers were for people who were no longer safe at home.
Families with dead relatives waiting for collection.
Elderly residents living alone.
Children whose guardians had not returned.
Workers stranded after train disruptions.
People displaced by riots, shortages, blackouts, or sudden district closures.
The real reason was simpler.
The government needed places to gather the living.
Places to count them.
Feed them.
Keep them off the roads.
Keep hospitals from being swallowed.
Stop panic from spreading through every street at once.
A support center sounded planned.
A Refuge Center sounded honest.
Online, people chose the honest name.
The first footage came from TC-07 Suginami.
It had been a middle school gymnasium.
Families sat on thin mats across the polished wooden floor.
Volunteers handed out bottled water from cardboard boxes.
Children cried against parents who looked too tired to comfort them.
Soldiers stood near the entrance with masks, helmets, and rifles held low.
The caption beneath the broadcast read: TEMPORARY COMMUNITY SUPPORT CENTER OPENS FOR DISPLACED RESIDENTS In the comments, no one used that name.
[COMMENT] TC-07 is already full.
[COMMENT] TC-03 still accepts walk-ins.
[COMMENT] Do not go to TC-19.
They stopped intake after sunset.
[COMMENT] My aunt says TC-12 only lets families with kids enter first.
[COMMENT] Different centers have different rules.
What is the government doing?
No one answered.
Because there was no single answer.
The national government sent instructions.
Local governments interpreted them.
The soldiers suffered the consequences.
TC-03 accepted anyone with an address in the ward.
TC-07 demanded proof of residence.
TC-12 prioritized families with children.
TC-19 stopped all intake after curfew.
TC-31 had no public access and was already under full military control.
Nobody knew which rule came from national policy, which came from a local official, and which came from a commander trying to stop the gate from breaking.
That confusion spread faster than the official announcement.
Ren left the internet cafe shortly after noon because his money was running low.
He washed his face in the restroom, changed into a dry shirt from his bag, and stepped out into a city that looked crowded and abandoned at the same time.
People were everywhere, but nobody lingered.
They carried bags, boxes, children, and pets in plastic carriers.
Lines had formed outside pharmacies before opening hours.
Convenience stores had signs taped to their windows limiting purchases.
Vending machines had been emptied of water and tea.
At the entrance of a supermarket, two employees tried to control the crowd.
“Please line up properly.” “We only have limited rice.” “One pack per household.” A man near the front shouted, “My household has six people.” The employee bowed again and again.
“I’m sorry.
One pack per household.” “That is not enough.” “I understand.” “No, you don’t.” A woman behind him yelled, “Stop arguing.
Some of us have children.” Someone pushed.
Someone pushed back.
A plastic basket hit the floor.
Half the crowd flinched.
Ren watched from across the street.
His delivery app showed high demand again.
Bonus pay active.
More riders were online now, not less.
Fear did not remove hunger.
People locked themselves indoors and ordered food from strangers they were afraid to touch.
Ren accepted the first order.
Then another.
He rode through streets filled with waiting.
People waited outside clinics.
Outside supermarkets.
At bus stops for buses that arrived late or not at all.
At station entrances.
At pharmacy shutters.
Everyone waited for an announcement that explained everything.
None came.
Near the station, a large digital billboard showed a public safety message on loop.
^^ PUBLIC SAFETY MESSAGE Remain calm.
Avoid non-essential travel.
Stay home if necessary.
Report sudden collapse cases to authorities.
The screen glitched every few minutes.
For half a second, the letters dragged across the display before snapping back into place.
Ren stopped looking at it.
At two in the afternoon, a man collapsed outside a pharmacy.
Ren was on the opposite side of the road when it happened.
The man was not elderly.
Maybe forty.
He had been arguing with a clerk about fever medicine.
Then his voice cut off.
His hand went to his throat.
His body folded forward against the glass door.
People screamed.
The crowd scattered so fast the street opened around him.
Ren froze with one foot on the pedal.
The man lay on his back with his mouth open.
His breath came in broken pulls.
Alive.
Still alive.
For now.
A woman shouted, “Call an ambulance!” Another person shouted, “Don’t go near him!” The pharmacy clerk locked the door from inside.
Ren heard the click across the road.
The sound hit him harder than it should have.
He thought of the old man at the bus stop.
It’s not a sickness.
It’s pulling me apart.
He thought of the student in the auditorium.
Hand clawing at his chest.
Mouth open with no sound.
Then Ren felt it again.
Not sight.
Not sound.
A pressure inside his chest.
Faint.
Wrong.
Like something had hooked behind his ribs and pulled once.
The man convulsed.
Ren stepped off the bicycle.
Someone shouted at him to stay away.
The pressure sharpened.
Ren’s fingers tightened around the handlebar.
The man’s face turned toward him.
For one second, Ren thought the man was trying to speak.
Then his mouth closed.
His body went still.
The pressure vanished.
Ren staggered back and almost dropped his bicycle.
Only a dead man remained on the wet pavement.
People screamed.
Phones rose.
Sirens wailed somewhere far away.
A hand grabbed his arm.
Ren spun.
It was another rider, older, maybe in his late twenties, wearing a faded delivery jacket and a helmet with scratches across the visor.
“Are you crazy?” the rider said.
“Don’t stand there.” Ren stared at him.
The rider frowned.
“You look awful.” Ren pulled his arm free.
“I’m fine.” “You are not fine.
None of this is fine.” The rider looked toward the body.
Police sirens approached in the distance.
“Go before they block the road.” Ren did not move.
The older rider shook his head.
“Kid, listen.
People are filming everything now.
You get caught near another body and they will blame you for spreading it.” Ren looked around.
Phones were already raised.
Recording the corpse.
Recording the pharmacy.
Recording him.
His phone buzzed.
~~ Hayato: Shizuka left.
~~ Hayato: She said she is checking your usual spots.
~~ Hayato: I told her this is insane.
~~ Shizuka: You followed me.
~~ Hayato: Because you looked like you were going to fight the city.
~~ Shizuka: Stop typing and watch the crossing.
Ren stared at the messages.
They were outside.
Looking for him.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then a private message appeared.
~ Shizuka: I checked the school convenience store.
~ Shizuka: You were not there.
~ Shizuka: I checked the ramen lane too.
~ Shizuka: I know this sounds excessive.
~ Shizuka: I am worried.
That is all.
Ren stared at the messages until the screen dimmed.
He should have been annoyed.
He wanted to be.
Instead, something twisted under his ribs.
~ Ren: It is not safe.
Please go home.
Her reply came fast.
~ Shizuka: You used please.
~ Shizuka: That means you are scared.
Ren’s thumb hovered over the screen.
Then he typed the truth before he stopped himself.
~ Ren: Yes.
For several seconds, she did not reply.
Then: ~ Shizuka: Then let us be scared with you.
Ren closed his eyes.
That almost made him stop.
Almost.
But stopping meant letting them find him.
If they found him, they would ask questions he did not know how to answer.
The man outside the pharmacy was dead.
Ren was still moving.
For now, that had to be enough.
He turned the phone screen off.
By late afternoon, the Refuge Centers were no longer announcements.
They were places.
Lines.
Barricades.
Arguments.
Armed soldiers.
Ren passed TC-12 Kanda on his way to a delivery.
It had been a public school yesterday.
Now the front gate was blocked by temporary fencing.
Soldiers in masks checked IDs while city officials argued with families trying to enter.
A line stretched down the road and around the corner.
Some people carried suitcases.
Others carried nothing.
A woman pushed forward with a crying child in her arms.
“Please, he has a fever.” A soldier shook his head.
“We need to keep the line moving.” “He’s four.” “Ma’am, please step back.” “He’s four.” The soldier’s voice cracked.
“I’m sorry.” That apology did more damage than a refusal.
It admitted he had no power.
Ren slowed.
The soldier was young.
Maybe nineteen.
His rifle looked too large on him.
Behind the fence, the school courtyard had changed.
Tents stood where students used to gather after class.
Portable lights had been installed along the walls.
A truck unloaded boxes under another soldier’s watch.
Everyone kept checking the sky.
Ren understood why when the helicopters came again.
The sound rolled over the city before the machines appeared.
People in line looked up.
One helicopter crossed above the Refuge Center, low enough for Ren to see the side door open and soldiers seated inside.
Then another followed.
Then two more.
All heading south.
The woman with the feverish child shouted at the soldier, “Where are they going?” The soldier looked up.
For one second, his face showed the truth.
He did not know.
Then he lowered his gaze.
“Please remain in line.” That answer broke something in the crowd.
Voices rose.
“You don’t know?” “Are they evacuating people?” “Why are they all going south?” “Who are you protecting?” The young soldier stepped back.
Another soldier moved beside him and raised a hand.
“Calm down.” Nobody calmed down.
Then a soldier near the supply truck collapsed.
No warning.
No shout.
His rifle slipped from his shoulder and hit the ground before his body followed.
The crowd went silent.
For half a second, the entire Refuge Center forgot to breathe.
Then panic hit.
“Back up!” “Get away from him!” “Medic!” The young soldier at the gate turned toward his fallen comrade.
His face was empty with shock.
The woman with the child began crying harder.
An officer shouted orders Ren could not hear clearly.
A medical worker ran from a tent with a bag in hand, then slowed two steps away from the fallen soldier.
Even trained people hesitated now.
That hesitation said everything.
The uniforms made them look separate from the disaster.
The body on the ground proved they were not.
Ren rode away before the shouting became worse.
The city’s roads were failing too.
Not from cracks.
Not from bombs.
From people.
Cars sat in the middle of lanes after drivers died behind the wheel.
Buses stood abandoned near intersections because passengers refused to stay inside.
Delivery trucks crashed sideways after drivers collapsed mid-route.
Families blocked roads with luggage and shopping carts.
Police checkpoints had too few officers to hold them.
Near a shopping district, a delivery truck had jackknifed across the road.
Its front end had hit a traffic light pole hard enough to bend it.
The driver was still inside when Ren passed, slumped against the steering wheel while people argued around the vehicle.
Dozens of cars were trapped bumper to bumper behind it.
At first, everyone waited.
Then waiting became impossible.
A man smashed a car window with a tire iron, reached inside, and released the handbrake.
Another person shouted, “That’s not yours!” The man shouted back, “Then move it yourself!” Within minutes, people were smashing windows, releasing handbrakes, pushing cars onto sidewalks, dragging scooters out of the way, and pulling dead drivers from their seats when the vehicles refused to move.
Ren watched four strangers push a small car aside while a fifth person stood near the driver’s door with both hands over her mouth.
The driver lay on the pavement behind them.
Someone had covered his face with a jacket.
Not neatly.
Quickly.
Because the road needed clearing.
Maybe the woman knew him.
Maybe she did not.
The city had no time to ask.
A bus horn blared farther down the road.
Not a warning.
A stuck sound.
Long.
Flat.
Endless.
Someone shouted for help.
Someone else shouted back that there was no help left.
Ren tightened his grip on the handlebar and rode through a narrow gap before it closed.
Supply runs started failing before the Refuge Centers were full.
Everyone heard different versions.
A water truck never reached TC-07.
A medical van was stripped near Ikebukuro before police arrived.
A fuel convoy stalled behind abandoned vehicles on an expressway.
Two Self-Defense Force drivers collapsed during an escort near a distribution depot.
A rice shipment to TC-12 was delayed, then rerouted, then lost.
Lost.
That was the word the official update used.
Not stolen.
Not crashed.
Not abandoned.
Lost.
People understood anyway.
Ren saw one failed convoy near a river crossing.
Three trucks and two military vehicles had stopped along the road.
One truck had mounted the curb.
Another had its rear doors open while civilians reached inside and pulled out cardboard boxes.
A soldier stood nearby with his rifle lowered, shouting for them to step back.
No one listened.
Another soldier knelt beside someone on the road.
Not a civilian.
A uniformed driver.
The kneeling soldier was doing chest compressions with a desperate rhythm.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
His commander shouted at the crowd.
“This is emergency supply cargo.
Move away.” A man carrying a box of bottled water shouted back.
“My daughter hasn’t drunk since morning.” A woman behind him cried, “Take the medicine first.
Medicine.” Someone else yelled, “There’s rice in the second truck.” The crowd surged.
The soldier raised his rifle.
Then stopped.
There were too many people.
Too many hands.
Too many hungry faces.
His arm lowered.
Ren rode past before he saw what happened next.
His delivery took him to an office building where only three floors still had lights on.
The receptionist desk was empty.
The elevator worked, but Ren took the stairs.
Elevators felt like traps now.
On the tenth floor, he found the customer sitting alone among rows of empty desks.
A woman in a black blazer.
About thirty.
Her laptop was open.
Her eyes were red.
“You found the place,” she said.
“The lights are on.” She laughed weakly.
“For now.” Ren placed the food on the desk near her.
She looked at the bag like she had forgotten she ordered it.
“You’re still working?” “Yes.” “Why?” Ren gave his usual answer.
“Money.” She nodded slowly.
“I stayed because the server migration wasn’t finished.” Ren said nothing.
She looked around the empty office.
“My team stopped replying after lunch.
One said his father collapsed.
Another said her train stopped because someone died onboard.
My manager told us to continue from home tomorrow.” She smiled, but it failed halfway.
“Tomorrow.” Ren understood.
People kept talking about tomorrow because they were afraid it might not arrive.
The woman opened a drawer and took out a small packet of wet wipes.
“Here.
For your hands.” Ren accepted it.
“Thank you.” She hesitated.
“Do you think the Refuge Centers are safe?” Ren thought of the young soldier.
The fence.
The woman with the child.
The soldier collapsed beside the supply truck.
The helicopters heading south.
“No.” The woman looked down.
“I thought so.” He left her there with the food untouched.
By evening, Tokyo was no longer pretending.
Police lights flashed at intersections.
Sirens overlapped so often they became part of the weather.
Shops closed early despite government instructions to maintain essential services.
Some streets had small crowds gathered around bodies, waiting for help that did not come.
Ren stopped accepting orders after his phone battery dropped below fifteen percent.
He checked the time.
22:38.
Then his phone buzzed.
~ Mori: You still got hands, kid?
Ren stared at the message.
A second one came in.
~ Mori: Client changed the latch position.
Wants it done tonight before curfew starts tomorrow.
Then another.
~ Mori: Quiet job.
No machines.
Same side entrance.
Ren looked toward the direction of his apartment.
Home meant his uncle.
His aunt.
The cabinet.
The bracelet he still could not reach.
His hope sitting somewhere inside those walls.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
~ Ren: I’ll be there.
Mori replied after a few seconds.
~ Mori: Bring your hands.
Leave your problems outside.
Ren almost smiled.
Almost.
When Ren reached the construction site, Mori and Iwata were already packing materials near the side entrance.
Iwata looked him over once.
“You look terrible.” “That sounds right,” Ren said.
Mori snorted.
“At least your hands still work.” Iwata reached into the van and pulled out a small flashlight.
He tossed it to Ren.
Ren caught it against his chest.
“Power’s bad tonight,” Iwata said.
“Thanks.” “Don’t waste the battery.” Mori pointed at the building.
“Inside.
Quiet job.
No machines.” The building stood in a quiet residential district, covered in dark mesh and temporary scaffolding.
Officially, renovation had paused weeks ago due to permit issues.
That was what the notice on the front gate said.
Ren followed Mori and Iwata around the side, past stacked boards covered with blue tarp and a row of paint buckets turned upside down against the rain.
Mori checked the street once before opening the side entrance.
No speech.
No warning.
Everyone knew why they were there after dark.
Ren slipped inside with them.
The smell of sawdust, plaster, metal, and damp concrete greeted him.
It was familiar in a way home never was.
Two workers were there.
Mori, a thin man with missing teeth who smoked too much.
Iwata, broad-shouldered and quiet, always wearing gloves even when he ate.
Mori looked up from a portable light.
“You’re late.” “City’s blocked.” “Everything’s blocked.” Iwata lifted a plywood sheet without speaking.
The room they were working on did not exist on the approved plans.
It was hidden behind what would later become a walk-in closet.
Reinforced walls.
Concealed ventilation.
A sliding panel designed to disappear behind built-in shelves.
A hidden room.
Ren had worked on three already.
Rich people wanted places to hide valuables.
Then documents.
Then themselves.
Demand had increased after the deaths began.
Mori handed Ren a folded blueprint.
“Client changed the latch position.” Ren studied the plan for a few seconds.
Then folded it and handed it back.
Mori snorted.
“Still creepy.” Ren picked up a hand saw.
“You asked me to memorize it.” “Yeah, but normal people need longer.” Iwata spoke without looking up.
“Normal people don’t work three jobs.” Mori laughed once, then coughed.
Everyone paused.
Mori noticed.
“Oh, relax.
Smoker’s cough.” Nobody laughed after that.
They worked quietly.
No power tools.
No hammering unless timed with passing traffic.
Cuts were done by hand.
Dust was swept immediately.
Materials were moved slowly to avoid noise complaints.
Every action required patience.
Ren was good at it.
Better than he should have been.
Blueprints made sense to him.
Space made sense.
Walls, load points, hidden gaps, sight lines, corners people ignored.
A building showed you where it could hide things if you knew how to look.
Near midnight, Mori checked his phone.
“Damn.” Iwata looked over.
“What?” “Another advisory.” Ren wiped dust from his hands and checked his own phone.
^^ PUBLIC ORDER NOTICE Due to increasing public unrest, selected districts will enter emergency curfew from 22:00 tomorrow.
Citizens should remain indoors unless traveling for essential needs.
Access to Temporary Community Support Centers will be prioritized by local authorities based on capacity and emergency need.
Ren read the last line again.
Capacity.
Emergency need.
Words that sounded reasonable until you imagined a gate closing in front of you.
Mori spat into an empty bottle.
“That means full.” Iwata sealed the toolbox.
“Or they are choosing who gets in.” The portable light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Nobody moved.
Mori looked at the ceiling.
“Six months, they said online.” Ren turned.
“What?” Mori lowered his phone.
“Some engineer thread.
Said if people keep dying and workers don’t maintain power plants, water systems, fuel supply, all of it, maybe we have six months before everything starts failing properly.” Iwata kept working.
“Six months is generous.” Mori stared at him.
“You always this comforting?” Iwata did not look up.
“I count what breaks first.” Ren looked down at the unfinished hidden room.
A room built for someone rich enough to hide from the world.
Six months.
Power outages.
Water failures.
Dead communication towers.
Refuge Centers filling before they were ready.
Humanity had not reached the end.
It had entered a countdown.
The pressure inside Ren’s skull returned.
He closed his eyes quickly.
Not here.
Not now.
Ren looked down at his hands.
They were steady again.
Too steady.
The man outside the pharmacy had died in front of him.
The old man at the bus stop had died beside him.
The student in the auditorium had died before anyone understood what was happening.
Each time, Ren had felt the same thing.
A pull.
A pressure.
A wrongness that came and vanished before he could name it.
Mori looked at him.
“You okay, kid?” Ren gripped the hand saw until the handle pressed into his palm.
“Yes.” He knew he was lying.
Something was wrong with him.
Not enough to understand.
Enough to fear.
At 2:17 a.m., the radio on Mori’s belt crackled.
It should not have.
It was a short-range work radio, used only on site.
Static filled the room.
Then a voice came through.
Broken.
Distant.
Not one of theirs.
<< Center Seven reporting multiple collapses inside perimeter…
holding tents full…
recovery teams overwhelmed…
command not responding…
repeat, command not responding…
Mori’s face went pale.
Iwata slowly lowered the plywood sheet.
The voice continued under layers of static.
<< Civilian intake exceeding capacity…
ration supply critically low…
crowd control failing…
requesting security reinforcement…
More static.
Then a different voice cut through.
Sharper.
Urgent.
<< All available engineering units redirect to southern perimeter…
containment structure incomplete…
A pause.
Then the voice returned, lower.
<< Repeat, containment structure incomplete…
power draw exceeded projected load during second test…
grid instability reported across connected districts…
Mori stopped breathing.
Ren looked at the portable light.
It flickered again.
The voice broke apart.
<< Foreign liaison channels active…
global collapse reports increasing…
command requesting updated satellite review…
The radio screamed with static.
Then died.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Mori grabbed the radio and shook it.
“What the hell was that?” Iwata looked at the radio.
Then at the portable light.
Then at the unfinished wall.
“Pack up.” Mori turned to him.
“What?” Iwata was already closing the toolbox.
“We leave.” “The client paid for tonight.” “The client can complain if he is alive tomorrow.” Mori opened his mouth.
No argument came out.
Ren looked at the radio in Mori’s hand.
Center Seven.
Southern perimeter.
Containment structure.
Foreign liaison.
Global collapse reports.
None of it explained anything.
It only made the room feel smaller.
Mori shoved the dead radio into his belt and pointed at Ren.
“You heard nothing.” Ren nodded.
Iwata lifted the toolbox.
“All of us heard nothing.” The portable light flickered once more.
This time, it stayed dim for three full seconds before brightening again.
Mori whispered, “I hate tonight.” Ren looked toward the hidden room.
A room built to disappear.
For the first time, he wondered if hiding would still work.
Chapter 4 End