UN-lockers | [A Tanuki's Short Story]

The city was filled with the constant, frivolous sound of electronic beeps.


"Ping! Authentication successful." Sitting by the cafe window, I sipped colorless water.

My colleague sitting across from me pointed his lens at the
cup's goddess logo.

His fingertips trembled with excitement.
The screen glowed green, and the long-awaited sound rang out.

His expression relaxed,
and a deep sigh of relief escaped him.

This ritual, authentication, is the very breath of modern society.

"Kanata, why don't you give it a rest? With that water, your single-digit |Royalty Score| won't budge an inch."

"I'm not bothered by it."

That was a lie.

My weak color perception
cannot accurately read the color information of the logos.

No matter how many times I try, the system rejects me.
I am a born zero-pointer.

A non-standard existence
that has fallen out of the gears of society.

The screen that refuses to authenticate
emits a cold light.

One unread notification.
A black keyhole sitting in the center blocks it.

The sender is my only living relative, my grandmother.
This is the seventh message from her.

Seven
ghost messages that will not open, no matter how much I touch or shake them.

This digital sensory disorder,
a modern illness people call |Digital Deafness|,
has kept me disconnected from the world.

Just because my RS is low, I fail job applications at the document stage,
and shops display signs saying "RS 100 or higher only".

If you walk through the city, the faces of those who have achieved the unlock of new products
decorate the billboards.

In every apartment window,
a
collection wall filled with empty, authenticated product boxes shines proudly.

They belong to society by authenticating,
and un-lockers like me
are treated as if we don't exist.

Just like ghosts.

***

One night, when despair had reached my neck,

I found a staircase leading to the basement
in a disused multi-tenant building.

A dummy logo spray-painted on the wall.
A distorted keyhole for a product that doesn't even exist.

As I descended, as if beckoned,
it was a
No-Logo Market filled with hushed whispers.

Used clothes with the logos scraped off.
Homemade bread. Unlabeled bottled goods.

A place that escaped the curse of the Key-Zoku.
At its center, she stood.

"Welcome to the Un-lockers' hideout."

The woman who called herself Betana
wore a quiet smile.

She held regular meetings, preaching the value of old-world culture,
especially paper books.

"Books have no logos.
There are no keyholes to force a Key-Zoku."

This is the only last sanctuary where our thoughts
can remain free."

I accepted the old paperback she offered.

The smooth texture of the paper.
The pungent scent of ink mixed with old paper.

There was, indeed, peace there.

I found a place for myself in the market.
But peace does not last long.

The people who gathered at the meetings,
while speaking of the value of analog,
had lingering attachment to the lost RS in their eyes.

"Some genius apparently found a way
to unlock the smartphone keyholes."

They grew excited by the rumors,
and intentionally hoarded things that didn't require a Key-Zoku.

It was becoming a new means of self-display.

Everyone is unable to escape the thirst for approval.

The look of fatigue that occasionally crossed Betana's profile.
I did not miss it.

***

The system is always evolving.

Not just product logos,
but public signs, public scenery,
and even people's smiles were recognized,
becoming targets for Key-Zoku.

The city deepened in its madness,
and the eyes of surveillance
began to shine upon the No-Logo Market.

"This place has reached its limit too.
Let's escape to the true sanctuary."

The cornered Betana told her companions.

The final refuge she pointed to was,
a relic of the old era standing on the outskirts of the city.
It was a massive municipal library.

The dusty air and the infinitely continuing spines of books.
It was a utopia where even electronic sounds could not reach.

I let out a sigh of relief,
and was drawn to a section of the bookshelves.

A novel my grandmother gave me when I was young.
I read it over and over, remembering every corner of the story.
A book like a treasure.

I pulled the book out and sat down on a hard chair.
My fingertips, turning the pages, trembled with nostalgia.

I immerse myself in the world of the story.
I forgot time, the madness of the world, and everything else.

With a sense of being moved, I finish reading the final sentence.

Filled with a sense of fulfillment,
it was the moment I was about to gently close the book.

The small black dot that marks the end of the text.
Like an ink stain spreading,
it slowly begins to change its shape.

The center of the circle sinks in,
and the edges are carved into sharp angles.

It was the shape of that cold keyhole,
the one I hate so much.

Paper Keyhole.

Ignoring the laws of physics, it
is parasitizing the very "end" of the story.

I cannot drop the book,
nor can I raise my voice.

Just as I am frozen in place,
a faint vibration occurs in my pocket.

A bookmark that Betana handed me as a charm
before I came to the library.

When I take it out with trembling hands,
I see that the tip of the bookmark with the leather strap
has been carved into the shape of an elaborate key.

There was nowhere to run.

The mechanism is not just about consumption or connections.
It swallows everything—memories, stories, and even the very concept of peace.

I am just staring.
At the keyhole that will never open.
Forever, and ever, and ever.

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