In the quiet of the night,
I spent long hours thinking, piecing together scattered fragments of images, sounds, and memories.
My memory was no longer as coherent as it once was, but it began to reveal to me an old face—my own.
The one I had tried so hard to forget.
I was... Takeshi Moriyama.
A young surgeon. I started working at Shinzo Hospital in 1997, in my mid-thirties.
I believed in the power of the scalpel—that it could save lives, no matter how harsh the circumstances.
But in the summer of 2000, my life changed forever.
That day, we received a young boy injured in a terrorist attack... the kind of case that made headlines.
I was the attending physician. I entered the operating room with confidence, and left it shattered.
The surgery failed. The child did not survive.
In the days that followed, the story spread like wildfire.
They accused me of recklessness and negligence. They needed a scapegoat—and I was the one.
But the truth, the one no one wanted to uncover, was deeper, more bitter:
Faulty medical equipment, scandals, and shady deals between the hospital administration and a company called Teka—putting patients' lives at risk.
Yet I was the only one who paid the price.
I was fired.
The blame became public and cruel.
The media tore apart my reputation. I became a black-and-white photo on a newspaper cover: The Killer Doctor.
People around me turned their backs. My family crumbled in an instant.
My name no longer opened doors—it closed them.
And then came what I was not prepared for.
In late 2000, months after my dismissal, I faced a far greater catastrophe.
Kento, the father of the boy who died, wasn't content with loss.
He decided I had to suffer as fate had made him suffer.
In a public place, in broad daylight, he waited for me... then fired three bullets.
My son, Hiroya, fell.
Three bullets. One moment. My life was reduced to a single, silent scene I could never forget.
I didn't scream. I didn't move.
I just watched—as if trapped in a dream from which there was no escape.
After that, my life collapsed like a house of cards.
I divorced my wife, Yuko.
We could no longer bear to stay together.
Each of us drowned in a different kind of guilt we could never shake off.
That's all I can clearly recall from those dark years.
From 2000 to 2005, my memory is fragmented.
All I know is that, three months ago, I woke up to find myself kidnapped.
The police said Kento was the prime suspect.
But I wasn't the only victim.
He had abducted journalists, doctors, administrators… everyone he believed was connected to his son's death.
And he killed them—one by one.
I was the only one who survived.
I understand Kento.
Truly… I understand him more than anyone else.
I lived the same pain.
I know the void left by a child's death… that black hole that can never be filled.
I know how life loses meaning—how laughter becomes a dagger to the heart.
But...
What I still don't understand is:
Why did he continue?
Wasn't killing Hiroya enough?
Why did he begin a killing spree? Three bullets every time, for every victim.
What kind of heart holds that much hatred?
What kind of mind can carry that fire—without being consumed by it?
Now, as I gather what remains of my memory, I feel there's a missing piece.
An unanswered question.
A secret yet to be revealed.
What turned him—from a grieving father into a machine of death?
Was he blackmailed?
Was he a victim too?
Was his son's death really the only motive?
All I know now is that I must search.
Search for Kento.
For his past, his present, his connections—any thread that might lead me to the truth.
Morning came with a soft knock on the door.
The old man invited me to breakfast.
I thanked him for the meal, and for his generous hospitality, then left his home.
I boarded the bus heading to the town near Shinzo.
The journey took three hours. Cold air slipped in through the old bus windows.
The whole way, I was lost in thought, revisiting questions that had no answers.
When I arrived, I walked slowly toward the local police station.
I entered without hesitation.
Inside, I found Officer Koda Nobuyuki at his desk, reviewing scattered documents.
I raised my hand in a light greeting and said:
"Good morning, Koda."
He looked up and nodded with a faint smile.
"Oh, Moriyama-san.
"I need a favor, if that's okay."
He gestured for me to sit:
"Go ahead. What is it?"
I sat down quietly, then said:
"Can you help me find someone? His name is Kento Arai."
His expression shifted slightly, but he began typing on his computer without asking questions.
A few moments passed in silence, then he said:
"Arai, Kento... born 1968. Formerly lived in Shinzo. No criminal record, but there are some notes."
I leaned forward with interest:
"What kind of notes?"
"He was questioned twice due to complaints of aggressive behavior. No formal cases were opened, but it seems he had violent outbursts—at least verbally."
He kept searching, then added:
"He used to work for a private security company called Ōmigami Security. He was involved in both field and training duties. Professional in surveillance and protection. He left the job in 1998."
"Was he fired?"
Koda shrugged.
"No clear record. Just says: 'Resigned for personal reasons.'"
I paused, then asked:
"Is there anything else? A medical file, maybe?"
Koda browsed further.
"Yes… according to public health records, he was receiving regular psychological treatment between 1998 and 2000. He saw a doctor named Saiji Kuwamoto."
Something stirred inside me.
"Psychological treatment?"
"Yes. He apparently suffered from mood disorders and frequent anger episodes, according to medical reports."
"Do you have the doctor's address?"
He hesitated briefly, then said:
"Technically, I'm not supposed to give you private information… but since you're not asking for anything illegal—and considering this isn't top-secret—I'll assume you're looking for answers, for personal reasons."
He scribbled on a small note:
"Kuwamoto Psychiatric Clinic, 3rd floor, Yamato Building, near Nagachi South Station."
I took the paper and replied calmly:
"Thank you, Koda. I know I'm asking a lot, but I truly appreciate your help."
He responded with a neutral tone:
"It's alright. Just… if you're going to keep digging like this—be careful."
I stood up, gave him one last glance, then walked out of the station.
The address was in my pocket.
And the next step was clear.
I would go to the doctor who once sat across from Kento Arai.
Perhaps he had heard things no one else had.
And perhaps, he knew the cause… long before we ever saw the effect.