In the elevator.
The exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like invisible chains. Every fiber of his body screamed for rest, but he knew rest was a luxury that no longer belonged to him.
He leaned back against the elevator's cold metal wall. The icy touch crawled up his spine like a bitter reminder. He wanted support. He found discomfort. Just another irony in the middle of nothing.
Tears slipped down, silent, like rain on cracked glass. He didn't sob, didn't tremble — he'd already cried too much on the inside to make a scene on the outside.
The elevator groaned to a stop on the tenth floor.
He had to breathe out, swallowing his own pain. Two young people stepped in, laughing, blissfully unaware of the weight of the world.
A redhead with bright eyes and a girl with brown hair tied back with a colorful ribbon.
"The Master is incredible… did you see how she wiped out that demon with just a snap of her fingers?" the girl said, excited, like she was talking about a living legend. Her eyes sparkled with a childlike awe.
As if she'd seen a shooting star — and believed in miracles again.
"Hardcore, huh? Uh… I don't think there's any exorcist colder than her…" the redhead replied, trying to sound more grown-up but failing to hide that same spark — the hope that maybe she'd notice him too.
Their chatter echoed in the man's ears like a distant hymn. Almost sacred.
And that… that broke something inside him.
That impure man.
Filthy with pleasures.
With money, greed, envy.
With shady deals, broken promises, and lies he'd told while looking people straight in the eye.
There, between the elevator's squeaks and that hopeful youth, he had a brief moment of light. Fleeting. Fragile. But real. Like a candle flickering in the dark.
When the two stepped out, one floor down, the air seemed lighter. As if their presence had left something behind — or carried away a piece of the rot that clung to him.
Last generation? he wondered, staring at his distorted reflection in the metal doors. I hope not…
Then he slipped his hands into his pockets.
There, between the pack of cigarettes and an old thousand-yen note, he searched for something he couldn't quite name.
It wasn't redemption. Or forgiveness. Maybe just a sign that something inside him hadn't completely rotted away.
I don't want to be an example for anyone…
It was his letter to time and fate — with no sender, no receiver, written in the silence of someone who's already screamed too much inside.
But he still saw himself as too stained to ever seek redemption.