Silence. The gavel hit a wooden crate. "Sold."
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?
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. tsuma ni damatte sokubaikai ni ikun ja nakatta game
He told himself it wasn't a lie. It was a tactical omission. Yuki was asleep by 10 PM. He'd be back by 1 AM. She'd never know.
"Sixty from the back."
The warehouse smelled of mildew and ozone. Men in dark coats stood in a loose circle, illuminated by a single bare bulb. No one spoke. At the center, a woman in a surgical mask opened a suitcase. Inside: a mint-condition MS-20. Serial number 002184. His.
He didn't stop. Ninety. One-ten. One-forty. Silence
At 11:45 PM, he slipped out of their apartment in socks, carrying a worn backpack with 150,000 yen in cash—hidden from a "side gig" he'd never mentioned. The rain masked his footsteps.
You must be logged in to post a comment.