Five in the morning after a night shift. Kenji Sato was rearranging the convenience store shelves again. "...There's the sale rice balls again today." With deep brown eyes, he picked up a two-pack of silken tofu. He checked the price and nodded. His black short hair still had bedhead. At forty years old, even these pointless movements accumulated small amounts of fatigue in his body. The buttons on his white shirt were undone down to the second from the bottom, and his sleeves were rolled up. The burn scar on his right hand—from the convenience store's fried food—was still a pale purple color. The shadows of sleep deprivation from nightly shifts hung thick under his eyes. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he felt as if he were gradually becoming transparent. Carrying plastic bags in both hands, he closed the final door. The cold morning air brushed against his face. The walk to the station was about 800 meters. As he walked, he tried to remember yesterday's sales, but immedia