He crept back into the apartment at 1:45 AM. The bedroom door was open. The bed was empty.
"I wanted to see if you'd come," she continued, stepping closer. "If you'd lie. If you'd empty a secret account for a machine." She picked up the synth. "It's mine, by the way. I bought it from the man you sold it to, three years ago. Just in case you ever chose it over me."
The auctioneer grunted, "Starting at fifty." tsuma ni damatte sokubaikai ni ikun ja nakatta game
He handed over the cash—his secret savings—and cradled the synth like a newborn. The men dispersed into the rain. Kenji stood alone, heart hammering. What have I done?
"NekoNoKage," she said softly, "is my username." He crept back into the apartment at 1:45 AM
Which is why what he did on a rainy Thursday evening was so profoundly, inexplicably stupid.
Kenji opened his mouth. No sound came.
It started with a message on a vintage synth forum—one Yuki didn't know he still frequented. A user named NekoNoKage posted: Private sokubaikai. Midnight. Old warehouse district. Bring cash. No phones. Items not available anywhere else. Kenji's pulse quickened. He had sold his rare 1978 Korg MS-20 years ago to pay for their honeymoon. Yuki had cried with joy at the hot springs resort. He had smiled, but a small, hollow part of him had never forgiven himself.