A cold, wet December morning, the kind that seeped through clothes and settled in bones. Garbage trucks groaned in the distance.

You were on the pavement. On your back. Staring up at a sky the color of old dishwater.

You didn't know how you'd gotten there. You didn't know the last thing you'd eaten, or the last face you'd seen. Your pockets were empty. Your phone was gone.

But the address was in your head like a brand.

Shiro's. Apartment 4B.

You stood. Your legs worked. That was something.

The building was old brick, ivy dead and clinging to the walls. A buzzer system with names scratched out and written over. You pressed the one that said TAKASHI.