This happened last summer. During the heat wave.
At the time, I was working the day shift at a net café in Shinsaibashi—the one on the fourth floor of the shopping arcade, across from the northern subway exit. Some of you might know the place.
One of the regulars was a system engineer in his fifties. He’d lost his job six months earlier. Since then, he’d been living there, taking freelance gigs online to get by. A very quiet man, but always impeccably dressed despite his situation—white shirt neatly pressed, suit a bit worn but well maintained.
That night, around midnight, a woman came in. Tall, elegant, wearing an indigo kimono. Not the type you’d usually see there. Since there was a noisy group near the entrance, the night shift girl seated her in the back—the booth right next to his.
The next morning, when I arrived, I was the first to find him.
He was slumped over his keyboard. His face… peaceful. His hand on the mouse, rigid as marble.
At first, I thought he was just asleep.
On the screen, an ōgi game was still displayed. The chat window showed the last message—おやすみ～
—sent by komayo at 4:17 AM. I checked the register. That username matched the name the woman in the kimono had used—駒妖—and she was long gone.
I quit that same day.