Ken had walked past the koban in his neighborhood thousands of times without ever really noticing it. This small police box was no different from the others scattered around Tokyo. It looked calm, despite the wanted posters plastered across its windows.
But for the first time in his life, Ken stepped inside. The lone officer squeezed inside barely had space to offer a polite bow in welcome. Taking in Ken’s pallid, hollow-cheeked face, the officer put on a courteous mask, trying to put him at ease.
“How can I help you? You look exhausted. Please, take a seat!”
“Thank you. I often work nights. Haven’t had any sleep in ages.”
“You must work hard! What do you do?”
“I create visuals for independent bands—album covers, merchandise, promotional posters. Sometimes, I photograph concerts. But mostly, I’m a VJ. People know me by the name Yamato.”
“A VJ, you say?” The officer prepared a black coffee, intrigued. “I admit I’m not familiar with the term.”
“Most people your age know VJs as television hosts for music shows. But today, a VJ means something different. In concerts, I handle live video sequences synced with the music. I project visuals onto the stage to amplify the energy of the performers, to make the crowd feel the vibe and intensify the band’s image, you know? I work closely with the musicians to capture the emotion of each song.”
“You young people are full of resources! Would you like sugar in your coffee?”
“We have to adapt, for sure. The bands I work with don’t always have the budget for a VJ, so I make do. I prep video sequences in advance, but depending on the show’s flow, I often end up improvising. VJ software isn’t cheap. I mostly use Resolume or VDMX. And don’t even get me started on the control surfaces, projectors, LED screens, cameras... Competition’s tough in Tokyo.”
“I see,” the officer murmured, handing Ken a cup. “Sounds like a complex job. So, how can I assist you?”
“I want to turn myself in. She won’t be back this time, I made sure of it. Thirty stabs, yes, I remember. I counted. I’m sorry, but... it had to stop. I had to get her out of my head, to make her disappear...”
Three weeks earlier
A thick cloud of cigarette smoke surrounded Ken and the band members of Neon Tokyo Waves. They were taking a well-deserved break outside WWW, a prestigious concert venue in the heart of Shibuya. It wasn’t Ken’s job, but he’d helped his friends and their crew set up instruments, amps, pedals, mics, and cables on stage. While Neon Tokyo Waves tuned their instruments and checked their monitors with the sound engineer, Ken had scouted the venue with his camera, looking for the best angles. His shots would help the band feed their social media and provide concert visuals for any journalists, should they be lucky enough to score an interview.
“Our manager told us to stop posting personal photos on Instagram,” the singer muttered, blowing out smoke.
“Shame,” Ken replied. “I thought your fans enjoyed those. Makes them feel closer to you.”
“Right, but you heard about that idol who got attacked outside her home, didn’t you?” the bleached-blond bassist said. “Every photo she posted was analyzed by her stalker. He zoomed in to find street signs and buildings in her eyes’ reflection. With just a few pictures, he figured out which station she used to get home. Based on the lighting, he deduced the time she took her photos and guessed her work schedule. Background details in her selfies let him narrow down her location. And then he acted.”
Ken swallowed, realizing he’d never paid attention to such details in his own posts.
“My groupies would never hurt me!” the singer boasted, flicking his hair back.
“I’m safe,” the drummer joked. “Taisei always plays his guitar right in front of me. You make me invisible, guys. I’m the only one who doesn’t get asked for an autograph. Yamato, I’m counting on you to put me in the spotlight tonight.”
As fans began to queue outside WWW, the band felt eyes on them and slipped back into the venue for last-minute checks.
The concert kicked off to a thunder of cheers. Neon Tokyo Waves’ fans crowded the front row, their phones out to record the entire show. Fortunately, the band had left a gap between the first row and the stage. Safely separated by a barrier, Ken captured the musicians’ energy from every imaginable angle. The audience danced and sang along to the band’s neo-funk beats, downing cold beers as they swayed. Ken thought about capturing the electric crowd, but something stopped him from pressing the shutter. Or rather, someone.
Amid the swaying crowd stood a young woman, perfectly still. Her face was strikingly pale, her black hair damp. She was looking straight into the camera. Ken’s hand froze, and a deep unease washed over him. He quickly shifted his focus back to Neon Tokyo Waves but noticed out of the corner of his eye that the woman was moving closer to the front. She pressed herself against the barrier, reaching up to speak to him. Despite the roar of guitars and fans, he heard her whisper clearly: “Ken.”
Ken’s hand tightened on his camera. He tried to steady himself, focusing on the shifting lights and the blur of fans pressed against the stage. But it felt impossible to ignore her presence, as if she had somehow invaded the performance itself, becoming part of it—a silent, haunting figure just inches away from the frenzied crowd. His grip loosened, and he almost dropped the camera. It was like a shiver ran down his spine, every sense screaming to look away, yet he couldn’t.
Back home in the heart of Shinjuku, Ken opened his computer and typed “Yamato VJ,” the alias he’d adopted entirely. How had this fan known his real name?
Google’s results showed his official Instagram page, Twitter account, and professional website. Nowhere was “Ken” mentioned. Three hours of searching turned up nothing that connected his alias to his real name. Where had she found it?
Exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from staring at his screen, Ken eventually passed out on the tatami, right beside his futon.
He must have misheard.
