"Just looking," he whispered to the bathroom mirror. "Not buying."
"Welcome home," said Yuki from the dark living room. She sat on the sofa, still in her day clothes, a cup of cold tea beside her. On the table: her phone, screen lit with a message. Your husband won item #002184. Total: 170,000 yen. Delivery arranged. tsuma ni damatte sokubaikai ni ikun ja nakatta game
Kenji's hand trembled. He raised his number. "Just looking," he whispered to the bathroom mirror
He handed over the cash—his secret savings—and cradled the synth like a newborn. The men dispersed into the rain. Kenji stood alone, heart hammering. What have I done? On the table: her phone, screen lit with a message
Kenji's blood froze. "That's… not possible. They said no phones."
Kenji had always been a careful man. He balanced his checkbook to the yen, never stayed out past nine without calling, and had long ago surrendered his credit card statements to his wife, Yuki, for "routine auditing." She wasn't controlling—just efficient. Their marriage ran like a well-oiled machine.
"I wanted to see if you'd come," she continued, stepping closer. "If you'd lie. If you'd empty a secret account for a machine." She picked up the synth. "It's mine, by the way. I bought it from the man you sold it to, three years ago. Just in case you ever chose it over me."