001. The Reaper Has Visited

Warm, gentle light flickered atop the brown liquid, lingering at the rim of the white porcelain cup.

His slightly hunched back strained to straighten as he worked. A mask covered most of his face, and beneath fogged glasses, his deep gray eyes radiated a solemn, dignified gravity.

Fingers and palms moved meticulously between cup and pot, every gesture precise, as if performing a sacred ritual in reverence to the gods. Wisps of steam rose and drifted with his movements.

Anrito was brewing coffee behind the counter—several heaping spoonfuls of coffee grounds. Heavy, intense, bitter, scalding, indifferent and decadent.

...

Translucent splashes of water blossomed, layering across the coffee shop’s glass walls, swallowing Tokyo’s drab skyline and separating the inside from the outside into two distinct worlds.

Some say rain and coffee are the perfect pairing; the rich aroma of coffee stirs hidden emotions within, then lets thoughts ripple outward with the waves in the cup.

But the men gathered around the table, dressed impeccably in suits, spoke quickly and clearly, their words brimming with cynicism. They cared neither for the fleeting warmth and flavor of the coffee nor for the cool, poetic rain outside.

In truth, Anrito had to admit, after reaching a certain age, life seemed to abruptly abandon poetry and melancholic reflection, leaving only blunt, pragmatic thoughts that fluttered aimlessly in his mind like moths.

Ten years ago, if you’d thrown Anrito onto a rain-soaked playground, he could have clapped his hands and recited haiku aloud: “Sudden rain falls, those who stand without umbrellas.”

Now, at twenty-five, he’d worry about his leather shoes and briefcase before stepping out into the rain, fret over congested traffic on his way to work, and at most curse heaven for its ill temper, adding trouble even to paid bathroom breaks.

Carrying a steaming cup of espresso to the table, Anrito, likewise sharp in his suit, looked at his colleagues.

“Still discussing that ‘Reaper’?”

“Yes... The suspect the investigation unit caught yesterday died suddenly, just like before, without warning. There was a dashed tattoo pattern on the neck.”

Anrito pulled out a chair and sat. “This is a blatant provocation to Public Security. The division chief must be under tremendous pressure... Here you go, Chief Tendo, your espresso as requested.”

He handed the coffee to Tendo Ryotaro, the most senior member in the office, who often looked after newcomers.

The officers at the table belonged to the Special Task Force for Supernatural Events of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, abbreviated as “S.T.F.”

---

Though the name sounds odd, this special unit has existed for nearly a century. As the name suggests, it handles all manner of inexplicable incidents within Tokyo.

Recently, the “S.T.F.” faced an especially elusive target.

It began a month ago, when a so-called “Reaper” urban legend spread widely online.

It was said that this entity enjoyed harvesting the souls of those guilty of unforgivable crimes.

Though doubts remained about the legend’s authenticity, the “S.T.F.” was certain the “Reaper” was real.

Over the past month, many serious offenders—either temporarily detained or released on bail—had died mysteriously.

The forensic reports were unanimous: cardiac arrest.

Surveillance footage showed that the victims appeared healthy moments before, then suddenly collapsed, losing all signs of life.

It was as if some invisible force had snatched their souls, leaving behind only an empty shell.

Beyond the cause of death and the victims’ criminal backgrounds, there was another commonality: at the moment of their demise, a dashed tattoo appeared on their necks.

As if announcing to the world, “I’ve claimed everything above this one’s neck.”

Over the past month, the “S.T.F.” tried everything: setting traps, monitoring potential targets round-the-clock, hiring monks rumored to possess mystical powers, digging into the victims’ histories through the public security system... Every method yielded nothing.

Meanwhile, the “Reaper” continued its work, and in every case handled by the police, the relevant criminals died overnight.

It was as though the “Reaper” stood beside them at all times, watching their every move, trampling human law with brazen, almost mocking contempt.

This invisible deity was rapidly amassing legions of followers online...

“Utterly incomprehensible!”

The young woman seated to Tendo Ryotaro’s left spoke through gritted teeth.

---

Her expression was pained and dejected, tinged with latent fear. “No records or documents ever mention a creature like this in Japanese history!”

Tendo Ryotaro gazed into his coffee, his somber reflection fragmented by countless ripples on the surface. “Perhaps it’s a newly born, powerful myth...”

Anrito clenched his fist in solidarity, his face grave. “No matter what, we can’t let this impostor continue running amok!”

Amid scattered complaints and sighs from the “S.T.F.” members, the brief post-work gathering ended.

Only Anrito remained to tidy the messy table.

...

The name of this coffee shop was “Night Moon,” closed to the public.

“Night Moon” was both Anrito’s part-time hobby and his sole refuge in Tokyo.

The café was small, seating no more than ten or so patrons. It occupied an inconspicuous corner in Sakura Shrine Town; its few merits were low expenses and proximity to the train station.

Anrito skillfully cleaned the tools used for brewing coffee and placed the washed cups into the sterilizer.

Only then did he slowly ascend the rear kitchen stairway.

“Night Moon” served as the “S.T.F.”’s contact point in Sakura Shrine Town. The previous manager’s family of four had perished in a car accident, and since Anrito had been reassigned to Tokyo from the countryside that winter, he’d been appointed as the new caretaker.

The stairs led to the café’s attic, originally used for storage and food supplies—just six tatami mats in size. Anrito had paid out of his own pocket to transform it into a cozy bedroom.

The suited officer removed his shoes and socks at the carpeted top step, and as he entered the attic, a distorted phantom greeted him from the darkness.

“Good afternoon... Toru, have you been killing a bit too often lately?”