Same moment, Shibuya Ward, Tokyo, a convenience store, 23:19.
Matsumoto Hidetoshi walked out of the convenience store’s automatic doors, carrying a plastic bag containing two rice balls—one tuna mayonnaise flavor and one umeboshi kombu flavor—a bottle of happiness juice, a bag of Shichimi Togarashi flavored chips, and a pudding cup.
He wore a faded navy blue hoodie, black sweatpants, and slippers with slightly cracked soles.
His hair was a greasy, messy mess—not long, not short, in that state of having gone a few days without washing and a month or two without a haircut.
Twenty-nine years old, 5’8″, on the thin side, with a presence roughly equivalent to a vending machine on the side of the road—the kind of person only noticed when someone needs something, otherwise just standing there blending into the background.
He stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change.
The night air was colder than he expected.
November in Tokyo already carried the scent of winter.
Sparse crowds of pedestrians hurried past on the street, not a single one sparing him a glance.
His daily routine was to sleep until he naturally woke up, usually between 10 and 11 AM.
Then he’d have breakfast, or rather brunch.
After eating, he’d start his day’s “itinerary”—watching anime, playing games, scrolling X, occasionally checking if there were new pre-orders for figures, and also checking Haruka’s updates.
Come evening, it was back to anime or gaming.
He only chose to go out late at night when his refrigerator was completely empty, to buy food for the next day.
And so it went, on and on, cycle after cycle.
Twenty-nine years old.
The age when normal people should be working overtime in some office building, questioning their life choices.
Or the age to be at an izakaya complaining about their boss with coworkers.
Or the age to be fumbling through an apology after a fight with their girlfriend.
But for Hidetoshi, well, his living expenses were low anyway.
He could support himself just from the rent his parents’ property in a prime location brought in.
Why not take it easy?
The wind picked up a bit.
He switched the plastic bag to his other hand and shoved the free hand into his hoodie pocket.
His apartment wasn’t far from the convenience store.
Just cross this intersection and walk one more block.
The wind was strong at the intersection, and the plastic bag rustled faintly in the night breeze.
As he waited for the green light, he looked down at his phone.
Just then, a notification popped up on his X timeline.
It was an update from Haruka’s official account:
“Today’s recording is done! Thank you to all the staff! Gonna do my best tomorrow too~! ✨”
Looking at this post, his expression management failed him.
The corner of his mouth curled up into an exaggerated arc, even resembling a goofy grin.
A nearly thirty-year-old man standing by the roadside late at night, grinning like an idiot over a 16-year-old girl’s update.
If anyone saw him, they’d probably think it was pretty… cringey?
But who was watching him this late at night? And even if someone was, he’d probably explain, “Nonsense, I wasn’t grinning. I was just thinking about my little crickets. Every single one of them has such heart and loyalty…”
The signal turned green.
He put his phone away and stepped onto the crosswalk.
A very expensive-looking commercial van was parked next to the crosswalk.
He glanced at it casually as he walked on, vaguely feeling like the vehicle looked somewhat familiar.
—
Same moment, a certain national highway in Shibuya Ward, Tokyo, 23:21.
Tanaka Yoshio, 47 years old.
A contracted driver for a large transport company.
This was his fifteenth consecutive hour of driving.
He had departed from Osaka at 7 AM, driving a 10-ton truck loaded with building materials toward Tokyo via the Tomei Expressway.
According to the company’s schedule, he should have arrived at the Tokyo distribution center at 3 PM, unloaded, rested until the next morning, and then driven the next run.
But there was an issue at the distribution center.
The warehouse was full, so they made him wait at a service area for nearly four hours.
Meanwhile, the company insisted he take the next batch of cargo back early.
By the time he finally unloaded and loaded new cargo, it was already 11 PM when he left the distribution center.
Japan’s transportation industry had issued a regulation in 2024, limiting truck drivers’ overtime to within 960 hours per year.
This was to solve the long-standing problem of frequent accidents caused by driver overwork.
But regulations are regulations, and reality is reality.
It’s just like how the vast majority of companies turn a blind eye to a certain three-word regulation.
The transport company’s schedule looked nice on paper, but in actual operation—delivery delays, urgent client requests, understaffing… various factors stacked up.
Between the “compliant hours” on paper and the real fatigue behind the steering wheel, there was always an invisible gap.
As the saying goes, plans never keep up with change.
Right now, Tanaka Yoshio’s eyelids felt as heavy as lead.
He estimated it would take about twenty more minutes to reach the designated delivery point.
Then he could unload, go home, take a nice bath, and sleep.
He bit his lip, rolled down the window to let the night wind rush in.
The cold air temporarily drove away some drowsiness.
He reached for the coffee in the passenger seat, took a big gulp.
The radio was playing a late-night program.
The host’s voice was low, slow, like a lullaby.
The signal at the intersection lit up ahead—red light.
His right foot lifted off the accelerator and moved toward the brake pedal.
23:22.
The tour van was stopped at the red light.
The jazz on the car’s music radio switched to a different song, becoming a lazy saxophone solo.
In the back, Haruka was fast asleep.
Her cheek was pressed against the window, her breath forming a small patch of fog on the glass.
Her backpack had slipped off her lap, wedged into the gap between the seats.
In the passenger seat, Ritsu was also half-asleep.
His consciousness drifted between alertness and a daze.
The red light’s glow reflected on the dashboard.
His eyes were half-open, his gaze unfocused, fixed on the crosswalk ahead.
Someone was crossing the crosswalk.
That person was wearing a navy blue hoodie, carrying a convenience store plastic bag.
His walking posture was a bit sloppy, looking like he had no energy.
Ritsu’s gaze lazily swept over that figure.
Then his eyebrow twitched slightly.
That figure, no, that person had already walked right past the front of the van.
Ritsu could see his profile.
Under the light, that face was just a fleeting outline, but that face was so familiar to him, Ritsu would recognize it even if it were burned to ashes.
Ritsu’s consciousness was jolted out of its half-asleep state.
He straightened up, preparing to roll down the window, stick his head out, make some small talk, and say hello.
After all, the last time they met was two months ago.
Besides, he was just getting hungry anyway, so he might as well mooch some of the stuff this kid just bought from the convenience store…
—
Crash.
First came a certain massive, dull, twisting sound of metal, as if the whole world had been crumpled into a ball of aluminum foil.
Then the sound of shattering glass.
Then the sound of everything not fastened down flying forward from inertia.
Then the sound of airbags deploying—a muffled thump, like someone had slammed a pillow into you with force.
Ritsu’s vision was instantly filled with white.
The airbag slammed into his face, his chest, his arms.
He vaguely thought he heard something crack in his ribs.
The pain hadn’t even reached his brain yet before his consciousness snapped, broken off in the violent shaking.
The last image lingering on his retina was the figure in the navy blue hoodie beyond the shattered windshield, being struck by something—
—
“We interrupt this program with a news bulletin: At approximately 23:22, a large cargo truck failed to stop at a red light at an intersection in Shibuya Ward, entering the intersection at a speed of about 50 km/h. The truck first struck the left rear side of a commercial vehicle stopped at the light, causing severe deformation to the rear of that vehicle.
The truck then swerved as the driver yanked the steering wheel, striking a pedestrian who was crossing the street. Finally, due to overload causing a shift in the center of gravity, the truck overturned approximately 15 meters from the intersection.
The accident resulted in three fatalities: Truck driver, Tanaka Yoshio (47), pronounced dead at the scene.Pedestrian, Matsumoto Hidetoshi (29), pronounced dead at the scene.Commercial vehicle passenger, Hoshino Haruka (16, occupation: Entertainer), confirmed dead after transport to hospital.
Commercial vehicle driver Watanabe and front passenger Mizutagawa Ritsu sustained minor injuries—arm fracture and rib fracture with mild concussion, respectively. Both are out of danger.”
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