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Ieiri entered the office, slinging her coat over the back of her chair and hanging her bag before taking her seat. The office towered over the city, the building itself so tall it seemed to graze the sky. Rows of desks stretched on and on, laptops and chairs situated nearby. The walls were a dull shade of grey, sunlight struggling in through wide window panes. A stack of paper piled by her desk. Coffee stain faded to a dull brown.
The woman was humming absently to herself. Hunched over the screen. A catchy tune from a movie she watched at night, her curtains drawn. Her only company was cigarettes. And Shoko never hummed, especially when doing paperwork. Ticking boxes and writing descriptions of the bodies she had cared to at the morgue.
"Well damn. Someone’s in a pretty good mood,” Kusakabe snorted, hanging his coat.
“Dunno if I’d phrase it like that…" Ieiri shrugged.
“You here for a fag?” She deadpanned.
“Nah,” he declared, folding his arms behind his head. “Told you I’ve quit.”
“Quitting is a phase. We all fall back to old habits eventually,” she muttered, more to herself than him.
“Yeesh, thanks. Not even a ‘good for you.’ Or ‘that’s great, keep it up.’ A real downer, you are.”
“I’m known for that, actually,” she snickered.
“Stop trying to be funny.”
“Fine, fine…”
The sun had finished rising, bathing the office in a static glow. Golden.
It was him again, passing by.
She didn’t know his name. She’s caught glimpses of him, though. Sharp nose. Dull eyes. Ironed suit. Hair slicked back. Worked on the front lines.
“Morning,” he mumbled, nodding in acknowledgement. Same as always.
Hiromi happened to be walking past, mug of coffee in hand, steam rising to the ceiling. His free hand dipped lower.
“Morning…” Shoko yawned, leaning back a little in her seat.
Ieiri rubbed her temple before scrolling down. Still she had so much paperwork to do. Instead, she decided to head into the morgue.
Her trainers clicked against polished stairs. The woman was greeted by the sight of a tall, grey door. A peephole was situated at the centre of the door so you could only see from the inside, not the outside.
Rummaging through her pocket, she looked for her I.D card. Nothing. She began patting down her pockets.
The door was left ajar, casting a shadow. Shoko was the only one inside. Stepping inside, she was curious as to who it could be.
“Kusakabe, get out. You’re not allowed,” her voice rang out, resounding against the walls. The cold air seeped through her clothes, settling into her muscles.
But it wasn’t Kusakabe
“Took you long enough.”
Her expression shifted, something in her eyes softening. Her heart skipped a beat. Probably heart palpitations from only coffee, no breakfast.
“You’re not allowed here either.”
“And yet,” he began, voice low as he reached into his pocket. He dangled her lanyard between his fingers, “Here I am.”
“When- when did you manage to steal them from me?” she spluttered, eyebrows crinkling in confusion.
“This morning as I passed by. You were far too busy to notice. So, this is where it all happens, is it? Such a prestigious job. You must be intelligent. The only one here who is, it seems.”
Rolling her eyes, her gaze shifted to the floor. “I cheated.”
“You seem like the type,” he mused, wrinkling his nose.
She turned her back on him. She had a job to do, after all.
Some days, she's the same as the bodies stuffed within those bags.
Unmoving. Stuck in place. Unfeeling.
Ieiri shrugged on her lab coat from the rack.
“Now you’re ignoring me? After all this effort to break in?”
Shoko pinched the bridge of her nose.“Why are you here, anyways?”
“Curiosity, I suppose. My line of work is rather boring. Thought I’d see what it’s like, down here.”
The woman huffed through her nose in amusement, and tossed him a spare labcoat.
Higuruma caught it with ease, before putting it on. The sleeves didn’t reach past his forearm, and the coat hung above his kneecap.
There was a certain distance in her eyes as she approached the table. But she doesn’t feel like she was there. Her limbs didn’t feel like her own. It was as if she was at the movies, and watching his own life before him unfold right on the big screen.
The colors were muted, the sounds distant. Playing both the actor and the audience, trapped in a role she can’t escape.
The young boy’s head was propped up against the chair, his head tilted towards the flickering light.
Death was a natural part of their line of work.
All the corpses, all their injuries had begun to look the same. Feel the same, blending into one. Fizzling apart. She had grown desensitized to such injuries with time. That's how she rationalised it in her head.
In fact, she’s grown a morbid fascination with corpses. Scattered across the morgue are various organs on display, preserved in jars. She kept a pair of eyes stacked atop a shelf, the sockets attached and all.
Textbooks lay open. Sprawled across the counter behind the morgue table. A stack of files lay beside it, untouched. Hiromi pressed a finger against a jar. Ieiri pulled out disposable gloves, letting them snap against her skin. Tying her hair, she scolded him. “Move your finger. I don’t want fingerprints on the jar.”
He dropped his finger.
“A collection of organs,” he drawled, “How morbid. Your only company down here, I assume.”
The woman shrugged.
“You could say that.”
There was no point in getting attached to him. One day, it could be his body she cuts open.
Making a careful incision, the scalpel glided smoothly through the skin. Then, each organ was carefully removed for examination. Shoko leaned over the counter while hastily scribbling notes. The rustle of gloves and the shuffle of equipment were the only sounds, save for the silence.
Next, she began inspecting the wound. It was jagged. A gaping crater on the side of his skull, a jagged edge of bone visible beneath the torn flesh. Blood had congealed around the edges, forming a dark, sticky crust that seemed to pull the skin taut. The impact had shattered the temporal bone, sending shards of it deep into the brain tissue. A portion of the scalp had been torn away, revealing the glistening white of the skull beneath.
The wound was severe. Caused significant displacement of the brain, with fragments of cerebral matter bulging out through the opening. Grotesque. A pinkish-gray pulp.
Carefully examining the wound, the morgue attendant noted the presence of subdural hemorrhaging, the blood pooling beneath the dura mater, a deep crimson that contrasted starkly with the pale skin. The surrounding tissue was swollen and bruised, a mix of purple and black that seemed to spread like a dark stain across the skin. The smell of blood and decay hung heavy in the air.
Wads of cotton were displayed on the counter, waiting for usage. But they remained there, discarded. Shoko no longer had any interest in restoring their appearances to normal.
She wanted to see it, right before her eyes.
The evidence of the cruel, cold world they live in.
She reached for the camera, to snap pictures of the particularly gross areas, and one for personal keeping.
“Fascinating,” he spoke up, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“If you keep quiet like this, I might let you in here more. Might.”
The man raised a hand to his chest. “I’m honoured.”
After peeling off her gloves, she announced:
“I’m getting a coffee. Or something. It’s freezing in here.”
“Seems perfect for the likes of you.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she offered him a smile. “Ha. You flatter me.”
The two of them made their way into the kitchen, watching the light flicker on, casting dismal shadows across the walls. A sign was plastered to the door, depicting a black and white cigarette with a red cross over it. Regardless, she reached into her pocket, pressing one between her lips.
“The sign says no smoking,” Higuruma, standing by the door, arms folded across his chest. Eyes sharp.
She began tugging at a loose thread on her labcoat and grinned, more teeth than ease. She rolled the cigarette between her fingers.
“You won’t snitch?”
“I suppose not.” he relented. He stepped forwards, and reached into his pocket. Hiromi cupped a hand around the cigarette and brought his lighter to it, watching as flames sparked.
Their gazes locked. Neither of them looked away.
He was close now. Too close. Her heart spiralled into an irregular rhythm. She hoped the flushed tips of her ears wouldn’t betray her. She didn’t have a crush on him, it was just attraction. Just attraction. Ieiri was so stunned by the proximity she almost forgot all about it. She took a long drag, letting the tobacco cloud her lungs.
Without warning, Hiromi pried the cigarette from her lips, and brought it to his own. The edges were smeared with lipgloss.
“It’s- it’s strong,” he spluttered after exhaling, smoke clouds wisping around the cigarette.
The woman snorted, tilting her head to the side. “Can’t handle it?”
“Of- of course I can,” he blinked, expression shifting. “I only said it because I’m surprised you smoke it.”
Higuruma tapped the cigarette, ash falling onto the kitchen counter. Then he ran the tap and held the cigarette under it, watching as water soaked it and tossed it into the bin.
The woman folded her arms across her chest. “Tch. You’re no fun.”
He shrugged. “Neither is lung cancer.”
“I’ve seen you around before. Ieiri Shoko, is it? Don’t tell me- I already stole your I.D.”
“Bastard,” she huffed, tone clipped with exasperation, “But you can just call me Shoko. I don’t care much for formalities.”
Turning his back on her, he pressed the kettle, the boiling of water slicing through the silence.
“You’re quiet,” Ieiri mused, sitting on the counter, legs dangling from the ledge.
“I don’t waste my time on talk that’s not worth it.”
The woman scoffed, leaning back on her hands, “Arrogant.”
“I prefer focused.”
Hiromi poured two mugs. No sugar, no cream—it was black and bitter, the way he liked it. Sliding one across the counter to her, he grunted. “Drink. You look worse than the corpses you clean up.”
Shoko smirked, accepting the cup. The rims were chipped and stained, but the heat was welcome. She swirled the cup a little, the gesture absent. “If this kills me, you’re the one explaining it.”
Higuruma chuckled, taking a long slow sip from his own mug. “If I wanted you dead, it wouldn’t taste this good.”
For the first time, she laughed. Corners of her lips lifting into a smile- something she barely ever did, making pride bubble in his chest. She shook her head, and took a sip. Ieiri didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her.
“Yo. What’s the staring for?”
“You have something on your face. Lipgloss. Near your mouth.”
Setting her cup down, she raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh. Is it gone now?”
“No, it’s- no. Up. To the right. No, your other right. Just- hold still,” he grunted. Leaning in, he used his thumb to swipe at the corner of her mouth, the tenderness in the gesture making her heart flutter.
She averted her gaze, feeling the tips of her ears flush. Hiromi stepped back, shoving his hands into his pocket as silence swallowed them.
A dull thud. An object landed into her lap.
“You can have it back. I don’t think I’ll need it to break in to the morgue to see you any more.”
“Tch. Bold assumption,” she drawled, rolling her eyes.
But he wasn’t wrong.