Tokyo is a living city. I can feel it—sirens wailing a few wards over, evening rush hour setting my pulse racing.
I’ve been in this cell for nearly two days. Maybe longer, but I was unconscious for most of it.
Cops are just people. The uniform and badge grant them authority, but strip that away, and they’re as human as anyone.
Strong, lonely, sad—but brave enough to step forward.
They bitch about their parents but miss home. They crave love but fear marriage.
So do I.
We’re all the same. Yet the moment they slap on cuffs, they draw a line between us.
I don’t blame them. I don’t even know what I’m accused of, but it must be serious if they think I’m faking amnesia to escape justice.
I’d rather be in prison than forget who I am.
The aged owner of Haruyama kaiseki restaurant answered for everyone, flipping his “Open” sign as neon lights blended into the night.
They all call me “boy,” but I’m twenty. No one treats me like an adult. Maybe even I’ve started to believe it—eternally childish.
I can hear everything outside. Don’t know why, but I can. Whispered conversations, late-night paperwork.
Poor Detective Takashi, running on fumes.
He even fought with his wife over it. Not worth it.
His sweet daughter hid in the corner, watching them scream—same as always. Hope she finds someone better when she grows up.
Na?ve thought. Does love even exist anymore? Maybe a companion robot’s more realistic.
Ugh.
My mind’s racing again. Can’t help it. The headaches come when I’m lucid, and thinking helps distract me.
But now I’m the one who can’t focus.
“Hey, kid. Time to go.”
An officer opened my cell. Same routine every day—escort to the interrogation room, sit for hours, return aching.
Once I’m out, I’m filing a complaint.
I followed obediently, trying small talk:
“Is Detective Takashi waiting again?”
“Nah. He’s busy with Public Security. Today’s a doctor.”
“A doctor? I’m not hurt.”
The old cop chuckled. “Psychologist. Gonna see if you’re faking amnesia.”
I’m not. I’ve hardly lied in my life.
Then it hit me—if I’d really lost my memory, I wouldn’t remember how often I’d lied.
“Hello, Du.”
A gentle young man sat across from me—glasses, sweater, expensive watch. He smiled warmly.
“Hello, Doctor. Thanks for coming.”
Too polite. But I heard Japanese liked that.
“Just call me Futoshi. We’re around the same age.”
So my surname’s Du.
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“What do you need me to do, Futoshi?”
He didn’t answer, just pulled out a bag of gummy worms—red, coated in white granules.
Sugar? Salt?
Then he handed me tea. I took it politely, like I’d been taught.
Cheap supermarket blend.
“The police asked me to evaluate you, but don’t worry—we’re just talking.”
“Just talking?”
“Yes. For example, I noticed your Japanese is excellent.”
A genuine compliment.
“I studied in school.”
“Oh? Which one?”
I drew a blank. “I don’t remember. But it was public. I was in a prep program.”
He jotted something down. Being analyzed made me nervous.
“No problem. You don’t recall the school, but you know it was public?”
He’d started calling me “little brother.” His kind face was grating now.
“Yes. Because…” I stumbled in Japanese, switching to Mandarin. “My family’s poor. Couldn’t afford private. The prep program had lower requirements.”
He nodded, still smiling. Of course he spoke Mandarin—high-achieving psychologist.
More scribbling.
“Do you remember your name? Birthday?”
His gaze pinned me down. I shrunk into myself, staring at the floor.
“No. Nothing. My name, my family… everything.”
Not everything. I remembered my 13th birthday at Hai Di Lao. First time.
Useless memory.
“Then let me tell you.” He produced an ID card—my photo. Definitely me. Last year’s renewal. The line was endless—counters for elderly without neural implants, just me and a bunch of seniors.
Name: Du Wen DOB: 2057/05/07
“Du Wen…” I repeated it, determined to remember.
“Oh! My English name is Duven.”
That made him laugh—real tears.
“Who has English names these days?”
“Uh… everyone?”
He dodged the question. “Alright, alright. Now—do you remember where you were two days ago? What you wore? Ate for breakfast? Did?”
“Anything. Tiny details count.”
I strained to recall, filtering out mental noise.
“Woke up early. Ate… dumplings? At a place in Ikebukuro.”
“Wore a big white T-shirt, jacket over it. Loose cargo pants. Comfy clothes.”
He stayed silent, waiting for me to slip up—to reveal some damning clue.
“Du Wen, why aren’t you wearing those clothes now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Police checked cameras. You never went home that night. Next sighting was the victim’s house. Where were you?”
“I don’t…”
“It’s okay. How did you feel that day?”
His words cornered me, pinning me to the wall.
The bars weren’t there to protect me.
“No memory. Maybe… scared?”
If I was guilty, I would be scared.
“Scared. Interesting.”
“Last thing you remember? Where’d you wake up?”
“Uh… surrounded by cops. Then here, in this room.”
Finally, something I knew.
“I was cold. Thirsty. But the officers just yelled. Never let me speak…”
He frowned.
“Cold and thirsty, Du Wen?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe because you were only wearing a T-shirt—thin, summer wear. Why?”
“I don’t know…”
How much longer? Could he really find answers in this?
I was lost.
“Relax. Memory loss is normal. Let’s play some games.”
Takashi and Nishikawa watched through one-way glass as the doctor showed the boy pictures, testing his memory with stories and number sequences.
Two hours later, the doctor joined them for coffee.
“Met PD’s brew isn’t bad.”
It was instant.
Takashi sipped his silently.
“Gentlemen, I can’t say for certain yet. He needs medical scans—at least a neural sweep.”
Nishikawa shut that down. “Too risky. You know how things are outside.”
“Understood. But he’s showing genuine amnesia symptoms. Medical scans would clarify.”
He kept it simple for the non-experts.
“Short-term memory’s intact. Doesn’t seem trauma-induced. And I doubt he’s faking.”
A polite way of saying not my problem anymore.
Nishikawa played along. “Of course. We trust your expertise.”
Takashi had recommended him for one reason—he was dating Dr. Amamiya from UDI. Aoki, smitten with her, had agreed to this meeting without consulting Takashi, hoping to size up his rival.
Aoki lurked nearby, watching.
“I suspect memory tampering. It can cause hippocampal atrophy, impairing short-term recall and more.”
“He forgot his name and the crime, but remembers breakfast? Unusual, but that’s my best guess.”
Takashi and Nishikawa exchanged glances.
“You’re saying… someone altered his memories?”
“Yes. The tech exists—prototypes in CAS labs. Highly illegal. Only a handful have access.”
Nishikawa grimaced. Chinese Academy of Sciences? If their top scientists were involved, this case just got infinitely more complicated.
Instructor Batou might storm Chang’an himself. Young Batou could’ve waltzed past Capital Security.
“Anyway, thank you. Send my regards to Dr. Amamiya.”
Futoshi stood, shaking Takashi’s hand. “The pleasure’s mine. Chiaki speaks highly of you.”
Doubtful. She probably complained about pushy detectives.
“Our center’s happy to assist with further tests.”
Another pitch. With media frenzy around the case, his institute wanted in.
“Unnecessary. Public Security will handle it.” Nishikawa cut him off.
Futoshi took the hint, bundling up to leave.
Only Nishikawa and Takashi remained.
“So?” Takashi offered a cigarette.
“Orders came down. He’s being transferred on the 13th. After that, it’s our problem.”
“It’s still my case. If you need help—”
“No. Section 9’s taking over. Stand down.”
Nishikawa softened. “Your team’s been invaluable. I’ll follow up on the rooftop lead. Something tells me catching that cyborg will break this wide open.”
“Good. Just doing my job.”
Takashi left, his coffee unfinished.
“See you on the 13th, Nishikawa. Good luck.”
Aoki chased after him, bowing hastily.
Nishikawa drained his cup. As a cyborg, he didn’t need caffeine.
But today, he’d wanted coffee.
