The presentation ended, and a brief silence fell over the conference room. Kiryu Ryuichi accepted that silence as a familiar pause. He quietly closed the final page of the materials—the one where the line graph cleanly exceeded the target line—and set it aside. "Kiryu, impressive as always," said the department head. Department head Sakakibara spoke with his arms crossed. His tone was ambiguous—whether it was praise or confirmation, it was hard to tell. "Thank you very much," Ryuichi replied. His response was equally devoid of emotion. He bowed his head lightly. That was all. Ryuichi thought Sakakibara might continue with something, but nothing followed. The five colleagues around the long table began to stir. The sound of laptop lids closing, chairs being pulled back, quiet laughter. "You done? Want to grab food?" "Think we can get a reservation at that motsu-nabe place?" "Ryuichi, you coming too?" The last comment wasn't directed at Ryuichi specifically. It was thrown into the air, just happening to reach his ears. "I'll stay," Ryuichi said. A brief pause. "Got it." And that was the end of it. No one tried to convince him to come. No one looked disappointed. That's how it is, Ryuichi thought quietly. Souun Holdings, 22nd floor, Third Sales Division. From the Souun Tower in Marunouchi, Tokyo always seemed to be moving. The evening sky wavered between orange and indigo, and the distant sound of trains drifted from the station. Ryuichi didn't approach the window. He turned to his desk. He opened the materials for the next client—Niwa Heavy Industries in Shinagawa. He began making corrections in red pen on the report addressed to Materials Director Niwa Seiichiro. The office grew quieter and quieter. Ryuichi didn't feel lonely about not being invited. Or more precisely, he "chose not to feel" that way. For the first three years, he'd declined every time someone asked. "I have work," "Maybe next time," "Sorry, I have a prior engagement." When people are turned down repeatedly, they naturally stop asking. It's only natural. It's rational human behavior. So the fact that no one asked him anymore was the result of his own choice. A choice, yes. Without stopping his red pen, Ryuichi told himself that. --- The apartment in Harumi was quiet tonight as well. Chuo Ward, Residence Harumi Tower, 27th floor. Sometimes Ryuichi thought the ten seconds between stepping out of the elevator and opening the apartment door were the longest ten seconds of his day. He didn't know why. It was just that his finger inserting the key felt slightly heavy. He turned on the lights. 1LDK, 55 square meters. White walls. Gray carpet. The living room held only the bare essentials—a sofa, a table, a television—spaced far apart. A few work-related books on the shelf. Nothing on the walls. It was as if the sense of living had been deliberately removed from this room. He opened the refrigerator. Two convenience store bentos. One bottle of mineral water. And for some reason, a single can of chu-hai with an expired date sitting in the corner, as if someone had forgotten it there. (Oh, this is still here.) Ryuichi picked it up, checked it, and gently put it back. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away. For some reason, it felt natural for it to be there. He put a bento in the microwave and set the timer. After the beep, he placed the steaming bento on the table. While eating, he looked out the window. Tokyo Bay spread before him. The water's surface reflected the night sky, glowing dully. The arch of Rainbow Bridge was outlined with evenly spaced orange lights. It was beautiful, he thought. Thirty-five years old, three years since moving to this apartment. Every time he saw this night view, he certainly thought it was beautiful. But. There was no one to say, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" That fact was somehow clearer tonight than usual. Ryuichi ate mechanically, unable to taste the bento properly. He'd had a girlfriend once, back in university. It lasted six months. It wasn't that the other person was at fault—it was more that Ryuichi had preemptively distanced himself, anxious about what would happen once work became serious. That's how it ended. If asked why he'd grown so accustomed to being alone, it traced back to childhood. His father was a trading company employee who traveled frequently. His mother worked at a hospital's administrative office and came home late. When Ryuichi returned from elementary school, he'd unlock the door, turn on the lights in the dark room, and turn on the television. If the TV was on, he felt slightly less alone. That habit persisted even now—at night, he unconsciously turned on the television. If there was sound, the silence felt a little more distant. (It wasn't that I was unhappy. I just got used to it.) He'd become too accustomed to being alone. That was all, Ryuichi thought. He chose to think that way. --- The next morning, an invitation arrived in his work email folder. From: Niwa Seiichiro, Materials Director, Niwa Heavy Industries. Subject: "Autumn Trading Partner Exchange Party Invitation." Opening the message, it contained details in polite language: Hotel Rinmiya in Roppongi, "Phoenix Hall," Saturday evening 7 PM, standing reception, approximately 300 guests. (This is something I have to attend.) Ryuichi thought for three seconds and sent his acceptance. He could stay calm during negotiations. He could talk about numbers for hours. But a venue with no clear goal—a place where the point was simply to talk to people—he was never good at those. Should he stand? Walk around? Smile? Every time, the question "What expression should I have right now?" would surface in his mind, and it always exhausted him. But that's part of the job too, Ryuichi thought. He confirmed that his suit had been returned from the cleaners yesterday and wrote the appointment in his schedule book. --- The day of the party. Hotel Rinmiya stood 45 stories high in Roppongi 5-chome, and at night its glass exterior reflected the surrounding neon lights with a dull gleam. Beyond the entrance, a marble lobby opened up with an unusually high ceiling. Ryuichi arrived at the grand banquet hall on the third floor at exactly the appointed time, dressed in his usual navy suit, white shirt, and tie. The banquet hall called "Phoenix Hall" was as spacious as its grand name suggested. Though it was supposed to hold 300 guests, it appeared completely full tonight. Warm indirect lighting. Orchestral BGM flowing softly. Catering tables lined along the walls. Champagne glasses raised high here and there, laughter ringing out. Ryuichi took a champagne flute at the entrance and stood against the wall. (Just as I thought—I hate this.) Negotiations had a purpose. There was a counterpart, talking points, an endpoint. But a party like this had diffuse objectives. You could talk to anyone or talk to no one. That freedom felt heavy to Ryuichi instead. With his back against the wall, he brought the glass near his lips. The champagne bubbles tickled his nose. For a while, he gazed vaguely across the venue. People exchanged business cards while laughing. Somewhere, someone sat on a sofa looking bored, staring at their smartphone. Ryuichi thought, "Maybe that person doesn't like this either," and felt a small kinship. Then his feet moved. He wasn't aware of it. While gazing vaguely at the venue, his body had shifted slightly to the right, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of a table. On the table, small bite-sized dishes were arranged. White plates. Silver tongs. Colorful canapés lined up neatly. Ryuichi picked one up. The moment it entered his mouth— (Wait...) He stopped. Foie gras mousse—he thought—on a thin crêpe base, topped with a faintly sweet jelly of some kind. A refined saltiness came afterward. What was remarkable was that despite leaving almost no aftertaste, it had an incredible sense of "having eaten something." (What is this? It's amazing.) He took another. Equally delicious. A third. This one was different—salmon and cream cheese—but equally good. Ryuichi was reaching for a fourth with the tongs in hand when— "Sir, those are from the adjacent party's catering," a hotel staff member said in a low but gentle voice from beside him. Ryuichi froze. He slowly looked up. The staff member in the white jacket was looking at him calmly, his expression completely unchanged. (...Adjacent?) Looking around, he noticed the catering tables were arranged slightly differently. A thin dividing pillar separated them, and beyond it—in the adjacent banquet room next to "Phoenix Hall"—a door was slightly ajar, and that room's catering table extended toward his side. The interior design was nearly identical, so the boundary line was completely unclear. "I sincerely apologize," Ryuichi said. He bowed deeply. The staff member returned a silent bow and left without saying anything. That quiet forgiveness somehow stung more than anger would have. Ryuichi honestly returned to his own catering table. He looked at the dishes on his side. Cherry tomatoes on skewers. Cheese and crackers. Ham. Prosciutto. It wasn't bad in itself. It wasn't bad, but the memory of the foie gras mousse was too vivid, making everything seem somehow dull. (Why am I letting this affect my mood?) Ryuichi ate a cherry tomato. It was ordinarily delicious. But just ordinarily delicious. (...And I ate three of them.) Self-loathing, disappointment, and a slight urge to laugh mixed together. Why did his heart waver so much over something so trivial? A 178-centimeter-tall, lean 35-year-old with a 12-million-yen salary managing five major clients with 4-billion-yen annual sales, taking this much damage from three canapés. His deep brown eyes held a faintly self-deprecating light as Ryuichi returned to the wall. His short black hair was perfectly neat. His tie knot was flawless. His hands bore a thin scar—on the base of his right thumb, an old wound from work—slightly hardened. With a serious expression, Ryuichi sipped his champagne. (How much longer until I can leave?) An hour had nearly passed since he'd arrived. --- Then the atmosphere of the venue changed. Not the sound. Not the form. If anything, the "flow" of the air changed. Like a river stilling for a moment—the murmur of the crowd shifted in quality. A wave moving from the distance toward this side. The people naturally parted, creating a path. Ryuichi's gaze turned that way. A habitual, mechanical movement of his eyes. He didn't even know why he'd looked. Beyond the parting crowd. Black hair. Long, flowing smoothly from the nape of the neck across the shoulders. The hem of a kimono—Kyoto yuzen dyeing, the pattern visible even from a distance, deep indigo and green mingling—swayed as it slipped through the gaps between people. Just for a moment. Barely three seconds, perhaps. That silhouette disappeared into the crowd. Ryuichi's eyes followed it. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was already gone. Somewhere deeper in the venue, or perhaps already moved elsewhere. Too many people to tell where it had vanished. (...What was that?) Ryuichi's gaze returned. He couldn't explain why he'd followed it. A person in a kimono at a party wasn't particularly unusual. But the crowd had parted. That natural movement—what was it? People are drawn, without conscious thought, to the "gravity" of a place. That silhouette had certainly possessed some kind of gravity. A small snag remained in his chest. It was an inexplicable sensation. Like forgetting something, like missing something. Ryuichi turned the feeling over in the corner of his mind while picking up his champagne glass again. Standing against the wall. Alone. Quietly. The venue's noise continued. The sound of bubbles rising in the glass couldn't be heard, but it was happening inside nonetheless. Ryuichi tilted his glass slightly, watching the bubbles move. There w