A young man was in a factory—an automobile assembly plant. It had high ceilings, and the scent of machine oil filled the air. The sounds of welding machines and sparks could be heard in the background, but the factory was so large that it was difficult to discern where exactly the sounds were coming from.
Newly welded metal parts flowed down the conveyor belt. The young man riveted those parts, wiped off the machine oil with a rag, then used a metal tool to file off any leftover burrs. That was his job. In ten or so seconds, another freshly welded part, no different from the last, would come down the conveyor belt. The young man would then rivet, wipe, and remove its burrs. Then another part would come his way. Rivet, wipe, file. Rivet, wipe, file. Rivet, wipe, file. Rivet, wipe, file.
He would do that as many times as it took until he eventually thought, I’ve had enough of this. After finishing the next metal part, he was going to quit and go home. He had that same thought every single time he worked until the bell eventually rang, letting all the workers know that their shift was going to end in five minutes. Only during those five minutes did the young man feel somewhat human. His mind was empty. He simply put every fiber of his being into using his hands.
Once work was over for the day:
“Hey, we’re gonna grab something to eat. Wanna come?”
His senior coworkers invited him out for dinner, but he made up some excuse and took his leave. He then got changed without making eye contact with anyone before departing the factory.
I wanna get out of here as fast as I can. I don’t belong in a place like this.
But things didn’t go so smoothly that day. He was stopped before he could even leave the premises. The young man considered ignoring the person who called out to him, but he knew who it was, so he froze in place.
“Hey, boss,” the young man said. “Did you need something?”
“Hate to ask you this, kid, but could you come with me?”
It was the plant director, a bespectacled man with a shock of white hair. A big shot in the company, he rarely spoke to such a low-level worker like this young man, who had only seen the director’s face in the pictures plastered on the factory’s walls.
“Oh, uh, I was actually just on my way home,” the young man bluntly replied.
“Don’t be like that. Come on, you have a visitor. Now follow me.”
The director grabbed the young man’s hand. He was about to break free when he realized the director’s hand was trembling. His face was pale and bloodless, and he was obsessively checking his watch. The director was clearly afraid of something.
The young man had no choice but to follow him. The director eventually took him to the reception room—the only place in the entire factory that had been spiffed up. The smell of coffee wafted through the oak door with its metal fittings. They must have poured a cup for the guest. The young man had absolutely no idea who it could be. A visitor, for him? He no longer had any friends who would reach out to him like this. Just about a year ago, he had a large group of friends who’d come check up on him, but nobody visited him anymore. Nobody.
So who could this be?
After the director knocked on the door and let himself in, the young man soon followed. Sitting inside was the last person he ever expected to see.
“…Chuuya.”
There were two people in the reception room. One was a tall European man, most likely a detective based on how he was dressed. The other person was Chuuya Nakahara, an old friend. Chuuya stared blankly at the young man, then stood up.
“Shirase,” he said, his tone stern and deep. “Long time no see.”
The young man called Shirase grabbed a nearby vase and wasted no time in throwing it at Chuuya.
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