Kenji's synth clattered to the floor.
Which is why what he did on a rainy Thursday evening was so profoundly, inexplicably stupid.
He handed over the cash—his secret savings—and cradled the synth like a newborn. The men dispersed into the rain. Kenji stood alone, heart hammering. What have I done? tsuma ni damatte sokubaikai ni ikun ja nakatta game
He didn't stop. Ninety. One-ten. One-forty.
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. Kenji's synth clattered to the floor
Silence. The gavel hit a wooden crate. "Sold."
Kenji's blood froze. "That's… not possible. They said no phones." The men dispersed into the rain
"I wanted to see if you'd come," she continued, stepping closer. "If you'd lie. If you'd empty a secret account for a machine." She picked up the synth. "It's mine, by the way. I bought it from the man you sold it to, three years ago. Just in case you ever chose it over me."