I climbed the iron stairs in silence.
On the third floor, I found the pale gray door, above which hung a simple sign:
"Kuwamoto Psychiatric Clinic – Dr. Saiji Kuwamoto, Private Consultations."
I knocked.
No one answered.
I waited.
Then the door slowly creaked open, revealing a man in his late sixties—thin-bodied, but his sharp eyes still burned with alertness.
He spoke in a low voice:
"Yes?"
I replied calmly:
"My name is Takeshi Moroyama… I need to speak with you about one of your former patients."
His expression darkened slightly, but he didn't shut the door.
"Come in."
I stepped into the room.
It didn't resemble a medical clinic; it felt more like a personal study.
Shelves stacked with faded books, old photographs on the walls, a wall clock frozen in time.
The doctor gestured silently for me to sit.
He observed me as though trying to decide whether I was alive… or already dead.
I said quietly:
"I came about a man named Kento Arai."
His face didn't change, but his hand trembled slightly as he placed the teacup on the table.
He asked:
"Why?"
I answered in a low voice:
"My son died by his bullet."
Silence fell.
Then he said cautiously:
"Kento Arai… was never a simple man."
He pulled out a small file from his desk drawer.
He handed it to me slowly, without opening it.
"A patient file. Old. I usually don't disclose these things. But it seems you're looking for more than answers."
I opened the file.
It was worn out, its pages yellowed, their edges nearly burnt.
Page one: Registration Form.
> Name: Kento Arai
Date of Birth: September 5, 1967
Age at first session: 30
Referral Reason: Severe anger episodes, sleep disturbances, social withdrawal tendencies.
The doctor said in a low voice:
"Kento… never knew his father.
His mother was a solitary woman trying to raise him amidst life's storms.
She worked nights at a factory, and when she returned, exhaustion choked her… along with the desire for silence."
I looked at him, silently urging him to continue.
He went on:
"She was a mother… but strict, weary, sometimes harsh.
Her harshness didn't stem from hatred—but from fear.
Her beatings were rare. But her silence, her cold looks, her clipped words…
That's what left the deepest scars."
He took a deep breath.
"He was lonely—not because no one was around, but because those around him never heard his silence."
I asked:
"Did he share these details with you?"
He nodded sadly:
"Sometimes. But he would stammer between one rage attack and another.
Once he told me:
'I feel like a ticking bomb. I can't control myself. My mother tries, but she's tired… just like me. When she gets angry, I explode—at her, or at anything.'"
His voice then was like an apology for something he hadn't even done.
I asked:
"Was his anger always visible?"
He replied:
"As a child, he was withdrawn. But when anger struck, he transformed.
Like a cornered animal. Merciless, unconscious.
At school, he would hit… then collapse in guilt, unable to even say sorry."
Then he added:
"That rage wasn't from a moment.
It was the voice of a long pain.
And his mother, despite her harshness, didn't know how to save him.
He would try to make her laugh, but always failed."
He paused, then said:
"She would sometimes call out to him:
'Why can't you be like him?
Why can't you be strong?
I can't take it anymore!'"
I asked:
"Was there no one to protect him?"
He shook his head:
"No. No extended family, no close friends, no teachers who understood him.
He had no real safe space."
I asked:
"Did he try to talk to anyone?"
He smiled bitterly:
"He tried.
But always ended up back in the same cycle:
Anger. Apology. Loneliness."
He continued:
"Inside him was a terrible conflict—between a wounded child and a rigid adult persona.
The older he got, the more he built a wall of harsh discipline around himself."
I said, affected:
"And that conflict stayed with him through youth?"
He nodded:
"Yes.
So when he joined private security, people saw him as strict… but he was punishing himself in secret.
He believed every mistake deserved pain."
I said softly:
"As if rashness and violence were ways to atone?"
The doctor replied:
"Exactly.
He was convinced that pain was the only path to redemption."
Then he added in a heavy voice:
"And it didn't end with childhood… it deepened, especially after he lost his son."
I understood then—Kento wasn't just a killer.
He was the victim of a lifetime of neglected pain.
The doctor continued:
"Joining Ōmigami Security was a search for meaning.
For a place where he felt he had worth.
But he ran headfirst into the wounds of childhood again."
Then he added:
"The stress of the job reignited his anger spells.
And he endured everything in silence."
I asked:
"Was there a specific incident that triggered his breakdown?"
He replied:
"Yes.
An incident where he fired three shots.
He said that was the beginning of his becoming a 'broken man.'"
I asked with concern:
"Was the shooting justified?"
He slowly shook his head:
"Maybe professionally.
But internally… it was the earthquake that shattered his fragile balance."
I added:
"And did he try to get help?"
He said with a faint smile:
"He came to me in 1997.
He was hesitant—afraid of appearing weak—but something in him was pleading to survive."
I asked:
"What was he like in sessions?"
He answered:
"Kind, but harsh with himself.
To him, admitting fault wasn't the start of forgiveness—it was the start of punishment."
He would often say:
'I'm guilty… I have to pay the price, even if I'm alone.'"
Then he said:
"He was diagnosed with a severe mood disorder and dissociative episodes.
His trauma from childhood ran deep."
I asked:
"Was he able to continue working?"
He answered:
"He tried.
But he started hurting himself.
He saw pain as a penalty—to pay for everything he had done, or imagined he had done."
Then, with more caution, he added:
"He did things people didn't see, but to him, they were ways to atone…
Helping a stranger in the street, over the top.
Paying someone's debt without knowing them…
Sometimes, he'd just search for strangers to apologize to—for no reason.
It was like he had a strict judge inside, constantly sentencing him."
He sighed a little, then continued:
"His need for atonement became a compulsion…
He wouldn't sleep unless he felt he had 'paid a price,' no matter how small or strange.
Sometimes it led to worrying behavior…
He'd put himself in danger, reject any sense of peace—as if he believed he didn't deserve it."
Then his voice lowered:
"But after his son's death…"
He paused, as if something caught in his throat, then said:
"After that tragedy, the delicate balance he had maintained collapsed.
His disorder worsened severely. He could no longer distinguish between real guilt and imagined guilt.
He saw every look of reproach—even from strangers—as proof he deserved punishment.
He once told me he felt even the air was judging him."
I looked at him in shocked sorrow.
The doctor continued:
"He began to dissociate from reality at times…
Heard his son's voice at night.
Sometimes he'd come to sessions in silence, staring at the wall, without a word."
Then he added with sadness:
"His son's death didn't kill him physically—but it destroyed him spiritually.
He no longer tried to heal…
Instead, he sought an ending he considered 'fair.'"
"Part of him was aware…
The other part was drowning in a guilt that never healed.
He lived between the desire for salvation—and a darkness that swallowed him without mercy."
A long silence fell between us.
Then I looked at him and asked:
"Do you know anyone from his past? A friend? Relative? Teacher?"
He thought for a moment, then said:
"He has a sister… Misaki Arai, seven years younger.
She used to visit him occasionally .
Last I heard, she lives up north, near a city called Hibi. She works as a teacher there."
I stood up.
"I will go to her."