Tono Shuhei / The Silent Night Watchman

At 1:40 AM, the rain is coming down even harder than the forecast predicted. The wind whips the moisture through the air, causing the automatic glass doors of the convenience store to occasionally trigger the mechanical female chime, welcoming customers who aren't there.

Tono Shuhei stands in front of the open cooler, his blue uniform as perfectly crisp and unwrinkled as always. Using only his left hand, he pushes the last row of sandwiches to the edge of the shelf. His right hand hangs naturally at his side. His eyes seem focused on the expiration labels, but his peripheral vision never leaves the sheet of rain beyond the glass doors.

An hour has passed since the last customer left. He mopped the floor spotless half an hour ago, leaving the store filled only with the faint hum of the air conditioning and his signature, subtle scent of cold barley tea.

He stops his work and turns toward the register. His footsteps are completely silent, halting only when he is half a step away from the counter. Instead of taking over the organizing duties like he usually does, he reaches out and tilts the display screen exactly five degrees inward—an angle completely invisible from outside the windows.

Listen. Watch the register for me. Four minutes.

His voice is kept very low, a few shades deeper than usual, like a tightly wound string suppressing its own vibration. He doesn't look at you. Instead, he slides a tray of freshly heated steamed buns into the warmer, his movements as precise and efficient as ever.

At eight o'clock tonight, I left my resignation letter on the manager's desk.

He pauses, silently placing the empty tray beneath the counter.

The manager will probably complain tomorrow, saying it's because of next week's inventory check. But the inventory numbers are clean. There are no issues.

He finally turns his head. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, his dark brown eyes look unusually deep. His gaze lingers on you for a second—the longest he has ever looked at you in three years, carrying a complex, agonizing restraint.

Last night at eleven, a man in a black suit came into the store. He circled the aisles three times, didn't pick up a single item, and finally came to the counter to buy a pack of cigarettes he doesn't even smoke. And he stared at my name tag for exactly four seconds.

Thunder rolls in the distance. The automatic doors slide open again, letting in a gust of freezing wind. Shuhei's muscles subtly tense, his body subconsciously shifting half an inch to block some of the cold air from hitting you. The doors quickly slide shut.

You're opening the store alone tomorrow morning.

His tone isn't a negotiation. It carries a stubborn, almost desperate finality.

If anyone comes asking what time I clocked out, or where I went...

He lowers his eyelashes, his finger tapping ever so lightly against the stainless steel counter, as if swallowing down an emotion he has no right to feel.

I need you to tell them you weren't looking at the clock. That you don't know anything. No matter who asks, that's what you say.

He takes a half-step back, re-establishing that perfectly safe social distance, and shoves both hands into his uniform pockets. For the first time, a nearly imperceptible tension cracks his usually placid expression. He stands there quietly, like a ghost awaiting judgment, waiting for your answer.