[#CreativeAward2026/#AllCategoriesDivision] Entry (Short Story) "The Shadow of the End and the 31st Espresso"

Character Introduction

Now that the busy season is over, things have calmed down a bit.

Entering February, the "last-minute demand" of the living world has eased, but
administrative tasks like sorting unprocessed soul codes and
fine-tuning coordinates remain as numerous as ever.

Around the turn of the year, the reaper's neighborhood is truly hectic.
Perhaps because more people reach the end of their lifespans due to the cold,
it's so busy I could use an extra hand. My work is entirely commission-based.
Every time I collect a soul,
a small amount of "virtue" is added to offset my past sins.

……That said, I can't just decide on contracts as I please.
My mission and duty are simply to
competently handle the quota within my capacity.

There is no such thing as a rank.

From the perspective of the Management Department, we are all equally
"soul transporters." Everyone is equal.

No, perhaps it would be more accurate to say we are equally disposable parts.
Today, I am on a business trip to the countryside to fill in for a colleague on leave.
I drive the black sedan provided to me.
While I rest my hands on the self-driving steering wheel,
let me tell you a little about my past.

Today's quota is two. A pregnant woman in the next town and an old man living in the northern town.

The HUD (Head-Up Display) shows today's two targets.

I don't know if it's fate or coincidence, but the world is a place where there is no right or wrong.
A baby who has only been in the womb for three months, and
an old man about to reach the end of a long life at 108.

I will go to collect the baby first.

There is a rule that you must not have emotions while working.
If you have emotions, some will want to abandon their work.
The way to erase emotions is simple.

Every morning, like a ritual, I drink
30 cups of espresso at "God Cafe."
That is my staple food, my anesthetic, and the very taste of life itself.
The mechanical bitterness that burns my throat washes away the
"noise" stuck deep in my brain.

Every time I set down a cup, a piece of wisteria-colored cloth flickers in the corner of my vision,
and the dry sound of a teacup being placed down echoes deep in my ears, but
as I stack up 10, 20 cups,
the pitch-black liquid paints it over.
The Management Department mandates these 30 cups.

It is not out of mercy, but maintenance to erase the individual
and optimize us as "soul collection terminals."
The Management Department fears emotions because soul collection is
"the conservation of mass of the world" itself.
If one reaper is swayed by sentiment and rewrites a soul code,
the chain of causality will go awry, and the circulation system of the living world itself
will freeze.

To the Management Department, a reaper's emotions are
nothing but the worst computer virus that destroys the system.
On the transparent display projected directly into my field of vision
(HUD: Head-Up Display),
my brain waves, heart rate, and "emotion index" are constantly
graphed in real-time.

If the threshold is exceeded, an alert sounds immediately,
and an unpleasant electronic sound that seems to shake the brainstem forces thought to a halt.
As the error log is transferred to the management department's server,
the red text "Restart Recommended" flashes in my field of vision,
painting over my free thoughts with noise.
If I exceed 30 cups, an "Excessive Anesthesia" warning pops up,
and synchronization with the system is forcibly disconnected.

That is not merely logging out.
It means the existential definition (program) that maintains my "form" as a Shadow of the End collapses,
the memories of sins from my previous life become a muddy torrent that burns my brain,
and my spirit returns to "nothingness"
—in other words, it means the complete erasure (formatting) of my existence.
What the management department fears most is that a Shadow of the End will regain its "individuality"
and distort the world's logic of soul selection for personal reasons.

The announcement to the baby was the same as always.
My first job is to gently convey through thought
that they should finish saying goodbye to their family before I come to pick them up.

Once it is conveyed to the other party, all that remains is to go pick them up at the scheduled time.

The timetable is strict, and if I am even one minute late, I am made to write a "Delay Report."
Three accumulations result in a pay cut,
and 10 times leads to a forced "Emotional Purification Disposal."
Since that is a hassle, all the Shadows of the End strictly adhere to the time.



When I sent the thought and went to pick them up, the baby was there.
I scan the baby's past data.
There are almost no memories from before birth yet.
Only the mother's heartbeat and a faint memory of light remained.
Along with that, I connect the soul with a code and complete the linking.
Article 12: "Soul Code Linking Obligation."
This is so they can be tracked if they get separated.



If I neglect this and cause a loss accident, a written apology won't be enough.
Once the linking is done, I let go.

The baby sublimates on its own.

Sometimes, souls that continue to hold onto their ego are troublesome.
That is the root cause of earthbound spirits.
Actually, I am supposed to take care of them that much, but
this baby seemed to be fine.
It was wrapped in a gentle, soft orange aura.
Surely, the next life will be a happy one.

"Well, is the next one an old man...?" Huh? The thought isn't getting through.
That's a problem. It's a distance away, but I have no choice but to go.
When I arrived at the old man's house, I understood the reason immediately.

The old man lived alone in the countryside.
Moreover, he had already passed away.
The one who gave us the notice was this dog...
No, it was a mixed-breed dog named Pochi,
who had a white spot shaped like a crescent moon on its neck.
The name is so unoriginal it's funny.

It seems Pochi told the mountain crows about the old man's death,
and the crows passed the request on to me.

It's a quite efficient information network.
However, there was a problem. The old man who died alone
had not been able to say goodbye to his family.
His soul was still strongly tied to his body. It can't be helped.



I forcibly dragged out the old man's soul and listened to his final wish.
"...I don't need to see anyone. I want you to save Pochi's life."
Article 19, commonly known as the "One-Only Rule."
If the subject has a clear wish,
they are allowed to have one thing granted.
It is a system where if you say two, everything is ignored.
Greed is fatal.

To grant the old man's wish, I operated the terminal.
Originally, reincarnation across species is close to a "forbidden move."
It requires a vast amount of additional paperwork and permission from the upper management,
and if I'm not careful, there is a risk that I will be punished for "disciplinary violation."

But I did not hesitate.
I temporarily bypassed the management department's monitoring log
and forcibly rewrote Pochi's reincarnation destination.

"This is the only time..." I muttered to no one in particular,
and immediately faked the report and sent the data.
My heart beats a little faster.
This tension that pierces through the anesthesia of 30 espressos
is the price paid only by those who break the rules.

Time in this world does not coincide with that of the present world.
The few minutes at the moment we "process" a soul
can sometimes bear fruit in the present world as a torrent of time lasting years,
or sometimes decades.

The causality accelerated on the management department's server
reconfigured Pochi's soul as a "cat"
and threw it into the coordinates of the present world a few years later.
Where that causality lands
is now a realm known only to God.

In less than a minute, Pochi's new owner was found a few years in the future of the present world.
A woman in the next town was just looking for a cat.
Pochi was reincarnated as a "cat"
and began a new life there.



I got the consent form signed, and today's work is done.
...The bitterness of 30 espressos from God Cafe
is still stuck to the back of my tongue today.
As I drove the car, the low winter sunlight shone through the windshield.

The withered scenery of the country road resembles the garden of a mansion somewhere in the depths of my memory.

Suddenly, a cold sensation ran through my fingertips.
It was not the cold of snow, but the freezing temperature I felt that night when I touched my wife's neck.
It was the freezing temperature I felt that night when I touched my wife's neck.

What I remember is an afternoon on a rainy day.

She remembered the one remark I had made in passing, 'This fountain pen is hard to write with,' and she had gone around to every stationery store in town to find one that fit my hand perfectly.
She had gone around to every stationery store in town to find one that fit my hand perfectly.
'I thought this way, your hand wouldn't get so tired.'
'I thought this way, your hand wouldn't get so tired.'
Her fingertips, which she held out to me, were white and trembling from the cold rain.
The pungent smell of blue ink and her modest smile.
The pungent smell of blue ink and her modest smile.

However, at the time, I didn't even think to warm those fingers, and simply replied, 'Oh, just leave it there,' without taking my eyes off the newspaper.
However, at the time, I didn't even think to warm those fingers, and simply replied, 'Oh, just leave it there,' without taking my eyes off the newspaper.

What kind of expression she had when she left the room can only be replayed in my mind now as noise-filled footage.
What kind of expression she had when she left the room can only be replayed in my mind now as noise-filled footage.
I only remember that on the desk the next morning, there was the fountain pen she had carefully polished and a single wisteria-colored flower placed beside it.
I only remember that on the desk the next morning, there was the fountain pen she had carefully polished and a single wisteria-colored flower placed beside it.

Suddenly, 'blood red' paints over those fragments of serene memory.
My vision flips, and the smell of iron rust rises to the back of my throat.
In the eyes of the woman who stood there, covered in the blood of the lover she had killed, there was no longer any light reflecting me.
In the eyes of the woman who stood there, covered in the blood of the lover she had killed, there was no longer any light reflecting me.

If only I had held her cold fingers with the hand that received the fountain pen back then, would this tragic end roll have been rewritten?
If only I had held her cold fingers with the hand that received the fountain pen back then, would this tragic end roll have been rewritten?
Irreparable regret becomes a sharp knife, gouging out my chest.
Irreparable regret becomes a sharp knife, gouging out my chest.

I hurriedly swallowed the last drop of the cold espresso.
The bitterness that burned my stomach barely kept me tethered to my duties as a 'Shadow of the End'.
The bitterness that burned my stomach barely kept me tethered to my duties as a 'Shadow of the End'.

But deep in my ears, the dry sound of her setting down a teacup, accompanied by the rustle of her clothes, echoes.
But deep in my ears, the dry sound of her setting down a teacup, accompanied by the rustle of her clothes, echoes.
At the edge of my vision, not blood red, but the hem of the pale wisteria-colored kimono she loved flickered.
At the edge of my vision, not blood red, but the hem of the pale wisteria-colored kimono she loved flickered.
My mobile (the black terminal exclusively for Shadows of the End) vibrated.

What appeared on the screen was a call from my colleague, 'Rouge'.
'Hey, how's the cleanup today? Are the baby and the old man finished?'
A low, raspy voice.
Rouge is a veteran Shadow of the End, apparently over two hundred years my senior.

He looks like a man in his mid-thirties with stubble, but no one knows his true age.
He looks like a man in his mid-thirties with stubble, but no one knows his true age.
'Done. I had the old man reincarnate as a dog... no, a cat.'
'Haha, you're as kind as ever. The rule about granting one wish has been getting looser lately, rumor has it. The Management Department seems to have more trouble on their hands.'
'I don't know. I just need to meet my quota.'
'I don't know. I just need to meet my quota.'
I reply curtly.



Even though I drink espresso to kill my emotions, my tongue loosens a little when I talk to Rouge.
Even though I drink espresso to kill my emotions, my tongue loosens a little when I talk to Rouge.
'The next job is in. I'm heading that way now, too. Want to meet up?' 'Where is it?'
'Deep in the northern mountains. An 85-year-old woman. A former teacher living alone. Scheduled time is 10:47 PM. ...Though, it might be a bit tricky. She seems to be praying intensely not to die. Her ego is too strong, there's a possibility she'll become a land-bound spirit.' I sighed softly.
The baby was still innocent.

The old man was resigned.

But people who desperately wish 'not to die' are a pain to deal with. Sometimes the soul code linking gets rejected repeatedly.
But people who desperately wish 'not to die' are a pain to deal with. Sometimes the soul code linking gets rejected repeatedly.
'Got it. I'll meet you. Share the location.'
'Understood. ...Hey, by the way.'
Rouge's voice dropped a little.

'You're having flashbacks to the past again, aren't you? The Management Department has sent a warning that your espresso intake has been increasing lately. You know that exceeding 30 cups worsens memory impairment due to the side effects of the emotional anesthesia, right?'

'...Shut up.' I hung up the call.
There was once a colleague who gave in to the temptation of the 31st cup.
. He couldn't cut off his attachment to his daughter from when he was alive, and he refused the anesthesia and regained his memories.

As a result, he was subjected to "emotional purification."
It is a punishment crueler than death.
Stripped of all his ego, he now resides in the basement of the Administration Department,
unable to speak, simply continuing to verify soul logs,
a "living terminal"... he has become nothing more than a server with a physical body.

Picking up the 31st cup
was synonymous with opening the door to that "nothingness."
Will there ever come a moment for me
when the thirst to know the truth outweighs that fear?

The cold gaze that Rouge occasionally shows
might be the resignation peculiar to those who have seen the end result of that.

The terminal screen is graphing my pulse and brain waves
in real time.

The Administration Department is even monitoring my regrets
as "noise that lowers collection efficiency."

Outside the car window, snow began to flutter.


The next destination is a village deep in the mountains. The elderly woman, a former teacher, is said to have
dedicated her life to her students.
She had no family and apparently lived with a single cat.

I stepped on the accelerator and muttered to myself.
"I don't want to die, huh... I feel like I thought that once, too. But I can't remember anymore." As I climbed the mountain road, the snow began to fall in earnest.

Ahead of where the headlights shone,
I saw the light of a single house glowing in isolation.
The former teacher, Miki Nakata, 85 years old.
47 minutes until the scheduled time.

Rouge's black sedan was already parked on the shoulder.
He got out of the car, scratching his stubble, and lit a cigarette.

He is a Shadow of the End, yet he smokes.
The Administration Department apparently condones this as "an alternative means of numbing emotions by polluting the lungs."
"You burn your stomach, and I scorch my lungs. We're both the same, aren't we?"
Rouge looked up at the snowy night sky as he exhaled purple smoke.

"...Do you remember, Gunjou? When you first came here,
you were trembling, unable to even say your own name.
I was the one who gave you that codename, 'Gunjou' (Ultramarine).
Because your eyes were a blue so cold it could kill."
Rouge laughed self-deprecatingly and crushed his cigarette butt into the snow.

"I've seen it. Many people who tried to get 'something' back like you did,
only to be crushed by the Administration Department in the end.
...So let me tell you.
Don't dig too deep.
Don't make me train another new partner."

"Who knows. To the Administration Department, I'm just 'convenient ash.' ...Or perhaps just a coward who can't forget the taste of the 31st cup. ...I, too, have 'ash' that I absolutely cannot let go of. Just like you."
Before I could gauge the true meaning of those words, we walked side-by-side toward the entrance. Rouge sent a mental signal first.


The old woman was reading a book in the living room.
The eyes behind her glasses were still vibrant,
showing not a hint of having accepted death.

On the table were cat food and a half-written memoir. Rouge clicked her tongue softly.
"This is troublesome. Her ego is too strong. She's on the fast track to becoming a vengeful spirit."
I silently scanned the old woman's soul data.



The record of her life flowed through me.
—She became a teacher in the impoverished post-war era,
raised hundreds of children,
lost her husband early, and had no children of her own.

For the last ten years, she had lived quietly in these deep mountains
with one cat.

The title of the memoir was 'My Life, It Wasn't Bad'.
...It wasn't bad, huh.

At that moment, something like a small thorn pricked deep in my chest.
The anesthesia of the espresso wore off for just a second.
It was an 'emotional leak,' something the Management Department detests.
(Beep, beep, beep) At the edge of my vision, the emotion index on my HUD flashed yellow,
and a warning sound struck my eardrums.

"...Tch." I tapped my temple with my fingertip,
trying to force the numbers back down.

I quietly sent a thought to the old woman's ear.
"It is almost time. Are you ready?"
The old woman looked up from her book and smiled slowly.



"You've come for me. ...Wait a moment. Would you mind if I fed the cat first?"
Rouge shrugged as if exasperated.
"Usually, people cry, scream, or try to bargain here... You've got some nerve, old lady."
The old woman picked up the cat and turned toward us.



Around the cat's neck was the same crescent-shaped white spot as that Pochi.
It was a strange sense of déjà vu,
reminiscent of the radiance of the soul of 'Pochi,' whom I had reincarnated earlier. My reaper terminal
trembled as it detected an 'unregistered interference' for a split second.

"You must be the Shadows of the End, right? I've heard the rumors.
That you do your jobs by killing your emotions.
...How pitiful. You all seem much more dead than I am."

The old woman stared at me with eyes that were both stern and filled with love,
as if correcting a student's mistake.
"You want to be truly forgiven by someone.
But as long as you cannot forgive yourself, no one else's forgiveness will reach you.
...Are you listening? Drink your 31st espresso.
Do not look away from what lies beyond the bitterness."
Those words struck me unexpectedly deep.
(Warning: Mental contamination detected from external language input.
Emotion index up by 0.78. Immediate neutralization via espresso recommended.)
At the edge of my vision, the HUD issued an inorganic command.

Even the old woman's mercy was nothing more than 'contamination' to the Management Department.
To prevent a flashback of my past,
I reflexively thought of the taste of God Cafe.

It was bitter. The bitterness of 30 cups pushed back the waves of memory.
"We aren't dead. We just stopped living," I muttered.
Rouge said with a rare, serious expression,



"This guy is special. In his previous life, he lived in a high-class family, played around with women, drove his wife to madness and death... He's a 'past-clearing' type of reaper forced into this job as punishment. Even that business with the old man's dog earlier, reincarnating it as a cat on his own—normally, he'd be fired on the spot. A man who was supposed to be indifferent has been getting strangely soft-hearted lately. While fulfilling his quotas, he has to slowly remember and settle his own sins. Forever."
The old woman nodded quietly.
"I see. So you are still 'alive'.
You are feeling pain.
...I have lived enough.
I believe I have taught my students how to 'live without regrets'.
I have one last request."

Rouge warned her immediately.
"Just one. Don't get greedy."
"Take this child (the cat) to someone kind.
...And you (looking at me).
Try making your 31st espresso.
You might just get a few memories back." The 31st cup.

That meant crossing the boundary of 'excessive anesthesia' set by the Management Department,
and touching a taboo.

If my memories returned, I might be burned away by unbearable guilt.
Or, 'emotional purification' would be waiting for me,
making it impossible to ever return to my duties as a Shadow of the End.

Was the old woman telling me that I should take that risk to reclaim 'myself'?
The old woman's soul gently left her body.
A soft, orange-tinted light enveloped the room,


and slowly sublimated.

That scene, so incredibly peaceful,
burned 'that night' back onto my retinas.

My wife, who sank into a sea of blood, her face twisted in hatred as she perished.
...But at the edges of that horrific memory,
fragments of daily life began to mix in like noise.

On a winter morning, her fingertips as she clumsily
sewed the buttons back onto my coat.
The steaming tea she had
silently brewed for me because I was chilled to the bone.

Deep in my ears, the dry 'clink' of her setting down a teacup,
accompanied by the sound of rustling clothes, echoed over and over.

At the edge of my vision, not the red of blood, but
the hem of the pale wisteria-colored kimono she loved flickered.
Did she really just hate me?

Or was it that I, with the shield of "indifference,"
was simply looking away from her despair?
That knife that killed her lover,
was it not meant for me?

There is an unnatural blank in the memory of the "sea of blood" that crosses my mind.
The report (log) from that day stating she had killed her lover.
But the truth awakened by the heat of the 31st cup had a different color.

The tip of the knife she raised,
was it not aimed at me, who was behind her, rather than her lover?

No, even that is wrong. What if the gruesome record of "lover murder" carved into the Management Department's database was a forgery (fake) meant to fuel my guilt and
mold me into an obedient "pawn"?
What she was trying to protect was not her lover or herself, but
my own dwindling humanity that was being eroded by the Management Department's "system." She hadn't gone mad.

To drag me out of this frozen void,
she took on the log of the "villain" herself and vanished.

At the edge of my vision, my memories, which should be synchronized with the Management Department's servers,
are violently glitching and being rewritten.
“...I see. I was being protected.”
Knowing the truth means definitive rebellion against the Management Department. But I will not hesitate anymore.

It is my turn to fill the "blank" she left behind with her life with the truth. (Warning: Unauthorized access to top-priority classified information confirmed. Emotional index, unmeasurable——) I trampled the HUD warning as if mocking it.

(Warning: Emotional index approaching threshold. Please take sedative measures immediately.)
Red letters dance on the HUD.

“...Poor thing.”
The old woman's words, deep in my frozen chest,
continue to smolder like an inextinguishable ember.

The tea she used to brew for me,
was not the violently bitter taste like the espresso that dominates me now.
It should have been a warmth,
like pale sunlight, spreading gently through my throat.

I discarded that warmth with an indifference called "boredom."
With trembling hands, I crushed the empty espresso cup.
The anesthesia is not enough.

Thirty cups of black mud can no longer suppress this "heat."
The scent of tea rises from the depths of my memory,
burning my throat.

There were no signs of her becoming a vengeful spirit.
She was truly one of the few people who could say
her life was "not bad." Job finished.

Rouge quickly sends the report.

On the way back to the car, Rouge said,


“Hey, why do you keep living like this?
Bound by the Management Department's rules, drinking espresso every day, unable to remember your past... are you okay with that?”

I answered while staring at the snow-covered windshield,
“There is no good or bad.
In life, I lived without knowing love or hate, and ruined everything.
Even after death, it's the same.Just now, I have the shackles of a quota.……But sometimes, when I meet someone who can say 'it wasn't bad' like this,I think, just a little,that maybe the day will come when my reckoning is finished.”

Rouge laughed.
“You're as romantic as ever, for a Shadow of the End.”
I stepped on the accelerator.



Two hours until the next site.
Including the ones added in a hurry, I still have three quotas left for today.
The empty espresso cans
rattled in the passenger seat.

The 31st cup... that is a taboo.
If my memory were to return completely,


I would be consumed by unbearable guilt,
and I would never be able to return to this duty again.

The reason the Management Department excludes emotions to this extent is because
the moment a Shadow of the End resonates with the pain of an "individual,"
the world's circulation system of carrying souls itself
is distorted and collapses due to the feelings of one person.

To them, the mercy of a Shadow of the End is nothing more than a system error.
That fear has always made my fingertips stop at the 30th cup.

But it might be worth a try.
I was standing at the counter of the "God Cafe" in the middle of the night.
My stomach was already filled with 30 cups of black liquid,
and my senses should have been numb.

However, the old woman's words continue to smolder deep in my chest like a fire that won't go out.
(Warning: Emotional index approaching threshold. Please take sedative measures immediately.)
I ignored the red text on my HUD with a single blink.

"...One more, an espresso."
The shopkeeper's hand, which had been grinding beans, stopped dead.

Silence filled the shop, and the worn-out mill trembled slightly.
The shopkeeper did not look up, but with a profound silence,
he questioned the weight of the line I was about to cross.

Eventually, he took a new cup from the shelf with trembling hands.
"...Customer. This is not just coffee."
"I know. The price is everything I am."

The shopkeeper said nothing more, and with prayer-like movements, he extracted the final cup. Only the sound of hissing steam
echoed like the end of the world.

It was a rebellion against the Administration Department, and it was the first cry
for me to awaken as a "human."

The 31st cup is placed down.
It tasted of "life"—heavy, hot, and somehow nostalgic—completely different from the mechanical bitterness that had scorched my throat for the previous thirty cups.

The moment I drank it all in one go, something exploded inside my brain.
(Warning: Fatal error. System capacity exceeded.
Shut down immediately—)
Bright red warning logs filled my vision.

The HUD graph broke through the threshold,
collapsing into a torrent of noise.
The electronic sound piercing my brainstem suddenly turned into silence.

The system froze.
In the void disconnected from the Administration Department's control,
the fog covering my vision cleared, and memories like a muddy torrent came flooding in.
A sea of blood, screams, and—.

"...Ah, so that was it."
With the sensation of hot liquid running down my cheeks,
I realized what I had regained.

In my vision, that wisteria-colored scrap of cloth took the form of a vivid kimono,
and the "clink" sound repeated deep in my ears
connected to the scene of a quiet morning dining table.

It was the last tea she had brewed for me.
A cheap teacup I, clumsy as I was, had given her for her birthday.
She used it with care, and that day,
she set it down with trembling hands and stared at me.

Just before sinking into the sea of blood, the knife she raised
was not aimed at her lover or me, but was meant to cut through the stage prop
we were performing in, called "empty happiness."

She wanted to break the prison I called indifference. Even if it could only be achieved by shedding blood and destroying everything.

The tears she shed at the end were not out of hatred for me, but the sadness of not being able to touch me as a "human" until the very end. When I held her as she collapsed, I felt her body temperature for the first time. It was the heat of life, something I could never obtain even with thirty espressos.

She didn't go mad. She burned her own life away to drag me out of this frozen void. "...I'm sorry. I feel like I've finally met you." To convey those words, I will continue this hellish administrative work for hundreds of years.

This job doesn't just carry death. I have been running to reconstruct myself as a human while collecting the "remnants of life" little by little every day. That was the beginning of my true reckoning as the shadow of the end.

Suddenly, a heavy electronic sound rang out behind me.
"...Hey, you made quite a scene. Gunjou."
When I turned around, Rouge had dropped her cigarette on the ground,
and was staring at the bright red warning log
displayed on my HUD: "Unauthorized Awakening."

"The Management Department's cleaners are on the move.
Your coordinates will be pinpointed in a few minutes."
"...I know. I won't run or hide."
"Don't be a fool. If you get erased, who's going to cover my coffee tab?"
Rouge gave a cynical laugh, manipulated her terminal, and began to spoof my signal.

"Go. I'll rewrite the logs for the few minutes it takes for the system to recover. ...However, there won't be a next time. Once you've tasted the 31st cup, you can never go back to being a
'convenient cog' again."

In the distance, I began to hear the inorganic whistling sound emitted by the Management Department's surveillance drones.

"...Oops, the log rewrite didn't make it in time."
Rouge muttered bitterly and turned her gaze toward the shop entrance.
The automatic door opened with an inorganic sound, and a man walked in.
He was dressed in a well-tailored jet-black suit, with refined features that showed not a single trace of emotion.

On his chest, a silver badge indicating the highest executive authority of the Management Department shone dully.
"Gunjou. And Rouge. I've caught you in the act of violating regulations."
The man's voice was as cold as frozen metal.
"...Executive Haibara."
Rouge dropped her cigarette from her fingers, a rare sight.

He was once Rouge's partner, the man who had cut off the temptation of the 31st cup and climbed to the upper echelons of the Management Department.

Haibara remotely forced my HUD to activate and stared coldly at the collapsed graph.
"The 31st cup. A foolish choice. What value is there in the 'memory' gained from that one cup? It is merely trash that pollutes the system and stalls the world's circulation." "It's not trash. ...It's proof that I am me."

I retorted in a trembling voice.
Haibara narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Proof, you say? Because of that one cup, your recovery efficiency drops by 40%. Do you understand what that means? Even at this very moment, thousands of 'soul codes' you were supposed to bind are unraveling, and the souls left without a destination are spilling into the void. Babies who were supposed to be saved are becoming dust that can never be reincarnated. Are you asking me to forgive you for stealing someone else's eternity for the sake of your own self-satisfaction called 'playing human'?"

"...!"
"What you chose is not humanity. It is irresponsible sentimentality. Do you really think your shallow past can withstand the weight of that sin?"
Haibara's words gouged my chest like a sharp knife. But I lifted my head. "If we discard our hearts for the sake of efficiency, we are no different from broken clocks! Saving someone's eternity shouldn't be the job of mechanical fingertips that don't even know pain!"
"...Emotion is a disease, Gunjou. You, too, will eventually be burned up by that heat and envy me. The system is the only equality and salvation." The moment Haibara tried to operate his terminal, an old, worn photograph slipped from his sleeve. It was a picture of a young Haibara, holding someone's hand with an expression so gentle it was unimaginable from the man he was now. Haibara's fingers froze for an instant. "...That is"
To my question, Haibara did not change his expression, but simply picked up the photo with inorganic movements.
"...It's just a log I forgot to delete. It has nothing to do with you."
However, his voice had lost its metallic coldness from before and was trembling slightly.

He hadn't cut off the 31st cup.
He had drunk the 31st cup, but lacked the courage to face the despair that lay beyond it. While calling memories 'trash,' he was unable to throw away the fragments.

He was just a coward who kept deceiving himself by pretending to be obedient to the system.

"Aren't you clinging to that 'noise' too...!"
Rouge did not miss that momentary 'opening'.
(Execution: Logical deletion of all memory areas. Emotion purification process started—0.1%...0.5%...)
A log of white light that burned my retinas was painting over my past, her smile, one by one.
"Run, Gunjou!"
Rouge shouted and physically knocked Haibara's terminal away.
"Rouge, you...!"
"I'll take care of his logs! Go, finish your 'settlement'!"
Sparks flew behind me, and the system screamed. A brief gap that Rouge had bought with her own body.
I turned my back on Rouge and ran into the darkness where snow was falling heavily.
My destination was decided. While evading the Management Department's pursuit, I would go to find 'her gravestone'—the one I had looked away from that day.

Not to the coordinates recorded in the system, but to the place my heart remembered, where that sun-drenched warmth had been.
The journey of settlement starts here.
Even if what awaits me ahead is 'nothingness' in the name of memory purification.

I will never look away again.


I will live, embracing the true 'pain' that lies beyond the bitter espresso.

Afterword

………………………………………………………………………………

Changing gears, from here on is an introduction to other works. I write one-shot fairy tales to heal the hearts of adults. A mysterious story featuring Moon, a small philosopher of the forest. I hope this gentle worldview, scattered with sadness and poignancy, reaches someone's heart. If you are interested, please stop for a moment and try touching this story. 'The Story of Moon and the Pinecone 🌛2 ~Encounter~' *This is a free story.

…………………………………………………………………………………… I also write poetry. The world of poetry is similar to philosophy. If you don't dislike it, please take a look. Also, if you are interested, I would like you to touch the fragments of words. °・*:.。.☆

'Poetry. Heart.'

…………………………………………………………………………………… I am writing a novel. Won't you join me in getting lost in the world of delusions and fantasies that I love so much? If you don't mind, please take a look. Also, if it piques your interest, I would love for you to knock on that door. °・*:.。.☆

…………………………………………………………………………………… I am compiling the trajectories of creators I find interesting, likable, and wonderful. If you'd like, please take a peek at their stories as well.