The soft hum of a crowded train echoed as countless commuters sat shoulder to shoulder, their heads buried in their phones or newspapers. Among them sat Takumi Saito, a 38-year-old office worker, staring blankly out the window as the city blurred by. To call his life unremarkable would be generous; it was a continuous loop of waking up, working, and coming home to a silence so deafening it could crush even the most spirited soul.

Takumi was an orphan—though he hadn't thought about that label in years. Raised in the sterile environment of state care, he had learned early on that life wasn't interested in handouts or fair endings. He worked hard in school, got a decent enough job, and carved out a routine that kept him alive, if not fulfilled.

Every morning, his alarm clock rang at precisely 6:30 a.m. He would sit in bed for a moment, staring at the peeling wallpaper in his tiny apartment, before shuffling to the bathroom. A quick shower, a clean shirt, and a tie later, he would be out the door, joining the sea of faceless workers.

His job at Ota Corporation was the epitome of mundane. He processed spreadsheets, attended meetings, and nodded politely at his coworkers' jokes. Lunch was always the same—a plain bento from the convenience store, eaten alone at his desk.

Yet Takumi didn't complain. Complaining implied hope for something better, and hope was something he had long since discarded.

The only thing that gave him pause was the occasional pang of loneliness. Walking home after dark, watching families gather around dinner tables through glowing windows, he would feel a dull ache. But Takumi, ever pragmatic, brushed it aside. After all, what did it matter? He didn't have time to dwell on things he couldn't change.

That evening was no different. After finishing his work and bidding a lifeless "Otsukaresama" to his colleagues, he made his way home. The streets were wet from a recent rain, the city lights reflecting in scattered puddles. His thoughts wandered as he walked, replaying the day's trivialities in his mind.

He approached a crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change. His mind was elsewhere—on the monthly bills he needed to pay, on the leaky faucet in his apartment, on the endless monotony of his existence.

The light turned green, and he stepped onto the street.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it happened.

A loud honk. Headlights barreling toward him. The screech of tires too late to stop.

His body hit the asphalt with a sickening thud. The world spun around him as the pain surged, then dulled, then faded entirely.

Takumi's last thought, as his vision darkened, was an odd one. How inconvenient. I had work tomorrow.