Mr.Adachi

“Sir, we found a body!” I trailed toward the frantic yelling of my Assistant Officer. “Jesus Christ, the smell is unbearable!” The living quarters reeked heavily of thick rot and sharp iron. The overwhelmingly pungent odor hit me like a physical wall, forcing me to step out of the room immediately to catch my breath. “What are we thinking?” I asked, steadying myself before stepping back into the doorway. “What do you mean, Sir?” My Assistant Officer shot me a genuinely puzzled look.

"Breaking news tonight. Authorities have discovered the remains of four local Yakuza members in the Port District." The news anchor’s voice crackled from the TV. Her face flickered ghostly blue against yellowed, peeling wallpaper. Bad reception. Static danced across her eyes like digital maggots.

It's been a week since my wife died, and it was my fault—all of it. I still remember that day, detail for detail: the sound of metal and nature meeting, the smell of gasoline and pine needles meshing together, and the revolting taste of iron that danced on my tongue. I survived for one reason, a sickening reason: at the time of the crash, I was inebriated. As for my wife... she died on impact. I tried everything, pleading and even praying to God that she wasn't dead; I guess God ignored my…

I’m twenty-six, and I just realized something that I can only describe as deeply, agonizingly uncanny. I can’t remember who my best friend was in high school. It sounds mundane—a random gap in memory, right? But I was going through my old yearbooks from sophomore and senior year, and as I turned the pages, a strange, creeping panic set in. I was looking for him. We were inseparable back then. But he wasn’t there. I scanned every column, every row, my breath hitching, that nagging gut feeling…