When the last train pulled into the station, Fujita tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped it out. The late-night platform was so empty he could hear himself breathing.
He tugged at his tie. His neck ached from how tightly it pressed against him.
Objectively speaking, after three straight days of overtime at the company and only a few hours of sleep each day, anyone's eyelids would have been too heavy to lift. The fact that he was still standing counted as real grit.
The train's headlights appeared in the distance. At the sight of their hazy yellow-white glow, Fujita let out a breath of relief.
At least he had made it. If he missed this train, a taxi back to his apartment in Chiba would cost twenty thousand yen—half a day's overtime down the drain.
But was it his imagination, or were the headlights unusually dim tonight?
The train clattered in. Its front looked filthy, and its lights were dim. Fujita frowned to himself but boarded anyway.
It was late at night, after all. A few passengers sat scattered around, almost all of them asleep with their eyes closed, looking utterly drained.
The carriage felt oppressively quiet. Aside from him, only a young man in a baseball cap sat diagonally across from him, looking down at his phone.
Perhaps sensing Fujita's gaze, the young man looked up and smiled amicably. Fujita nodded back in greeting.
The middle-aged office worker had just taken out his phone to check his emails and sat down by the window when his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.
The words on the screen began to swim and blur. After dozens of hours sustained by nothing but convenience-store rice balls and energy drinks, his body finally issued its ultimatum inside the swaying