"You didn't go to a black market auction behind my back as a game , Kenji," she said, placing the synth gently back in his trembling hands. "But I did. And you just lost."
Which is why what he did on a rainy Thursday evening was so profoundly, inexplicably stupid.
Kenji opened his mouth. No sound came.
"Just looking," he whispered to the bathroom mirror. "Not buying."
Kenji had always been a careful man. He balanced his checkbook to the yen, never stayed out past nine without calling, and had long ago surrendered his credit card statements to his wife, Yuki, for "routine auditing." She wasn't controlling—just efficient. Their marriage ran like a well-oiled machine.
At 11:45 PM, he slipped out of their apartment in socks, carrying a worn backpack with 150,000 yen in cash—hidden from a "side gig" he'd never mentioned. The rain masked his footsteps.
