Chapter 5: First Snow
887words
My eyelids weighed tons. I forced them open a crack. Blinding white filled my vision—a hospital ceiling under harsh fluorescent lights, so pristine it hurt to look at.
"...Miss Sato Kiko? Are you with us? Can you hear me?"
A steady male voice cut through the background noise, reaching my foggy brain. I turned my stiff neck with effort, dragging my gaze from the ceiling to find its source.
Two men in dark suits stood beside the bed—thirties or forties, serious faces. One held a police notebook while the other scribbled notes. Their official presence brought a weight to the sterile room.
Sato Kiko. My name. The recognition came without emotion—just a simple fact.
"I'm... okay," I croaked, my voice like sandpaper on metal. I tried to sit up, but that familiar dull pain shot through my skull. I gasped and froze mid-motion.
"Take it easy, Miss Sato." The younger officer stepped forward, his voice gentle. "You've been attacked. You have a concussion and need rest."
The attack. The pain. The pieces connected.
"The person who attacked me... did you catch them?" I asked, my voice shaking.
The older officer nodded, relief crossing his face. "Yes, don't worry. We caught the homeless man who attacked you right after you blacked out. He was trying to steal your wallet. Lucky you shouted for help before you went down—got some pedestrians' attention and scared him off."
"Is... that what happened?" I lowered my eyes. "That's... good. Thank you... thank you so much."
Relief flooded my voice—the perfect mix of trauma survivor and grateful citizen. My shoulders trembled slightly. I could feel their gazes softening with sympathy.
They asked a few more questions—did I know the homeless man, did I remember details of the attack.
When they finally left and the door clicked shut, silence crashed down. The sterile whiteness swallowed me whole. I lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling, the throbbing in my skull and the antiseptic smell reminding me of this absurd reality.
Discharge was quick. I refused the police escort, claiming I needed solitude. The cold air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside, clearing my head. I bypassed taxis and walked toward the subway, moving through crowds like a ghost, separated from humanity by an invisible wall.
Back at the high-rise, I used "my" key to unlock the door. It closed behind me with a crisp click, sealing out the noisy world.
The apartment was freezing. The air felt stale, with a hint of dust, yet everything was obsessively clean. Dark hardwood floors gleamed like mirrors. On the gray sofa, cushions sat at perfect 45-degree angles. The glass coffee table stood empty, so spotless it reflected the ceiling. The whole place felt like a showroom—perfectly arranged yet disturbingly empty and soulless.
I left the lights off, slipped off my shoes, and padded barefoot across the cold floor toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The movement felt familiar, ritualistic.
I reached out, gripped the heavy charcoal blackout curtains, and yanked them open.
Outside lay a twilight world blanketed in the season's first snow. Countless crystalline flakes drifted silently from the leaden sky—heaven's mourning, or perhaps its final tenderness before apocalypse. They wrapped the city in a dreamlike white haze.
"First snow of the year," I whispered, my voice dying in the empty room. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, letting the chill seep into my skull.
My gaze cut through the dancing snow, locking onto one specific window in the old building across the way. It glowed with warm amber light—the only sign of life in the cold, white wasteland.
Through the glass, I watched their little scene unfold. A Christmas tree twinkled in their living room. A woman in a bright red wool coat—that same damn red—stood on tiptoe, reaching to place a star on top. Behind her, a tall man steadied her waist, smiling. They murmured to each other, faces glowing with that unguarded happiness of people who think they're safe. Her laughter occasionally rang out, filling their tiny, warm bubble of a world.
Takada Misaki. Her name surfaced in my mind, sharp and clear.
That coat—that searing, vibrant red—stabbed into my eyes. A toxic cocktail of hatred and sick jealousy surged through my veins like black poison. Why? Why did she get the warm lights, the stupid smiles, that red coat that should never have been hers?
Without changing expression, I pulled a pack of Seven Stars from my pocket and lit one with a plain silver Zippo. The motion came as naturally as breathing.
Click. Sharp and final.
The flame briefly illuminated my face in the darkness. I inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke fill my lungs, bringing that familiar, almost narcotic calm.
My cold gaze cut through glass and snow to fix on that happy, jarringly red figure in the window opposite.
Smoke curled from my lips, veiling whatever showed in my eyes.
A plan.
A perfect, unsolvable murder—an exquisite work of art—began taking shape in my mind, wrapped in fresh snow and nicotine.
In the swirling smoke, my lips curved into the ghost of a smile, so slight even I barely felt it form.
