Masahiro was fired.
The accusation came from a colleague close to his rank—someone always lurking just outside his spotlight. They forged evidence of misconduct and presented it to the board. No trial. No hearing. Just a quiet exit.
What's worse, our creation—the unnamed android we built together—vanished. Gone from the lab. Later, I heard rumors she was sold off by the same person who accused Masahiro. I'd eventually find out where she ended up, but at that moment, I was left hollow.
I had lost the last source of light in my life.
Work no longer felt fulfilling. It was a burden. A heavy job to carry alone. And then, without giving goodbyes to Masahiro, the one who replaced him arrived.
Not a mentor. Not a dreamer.
Just a project director with cold, pinched eyes and a voice like a corporate knife. At the first all-hands, she declared: 'Android output up 60% in two quarters.' No warmth. No vision. Just numbers," I was not able to word my complaint and adhere to her command to avoid getting fired.
The lab used to hum with soul. A quiet orchestra of clicks, whirrs, and Masahiro's occasional humming under his breath. Now it was a factory floor—metal beds lined with lifeless bodies, tools arranged like surgical blades, and monitors spitting out productivity quotas like judges handing down sentences.
I scrolled through the directive on my tablet, the words blurring together in a gut-wrenching smear:
"Reduce effective latency. Cut 'Compassion Simulation' runtime by 70%. Remove organic hesitation. Increase obedience yield."
My hands trembled. I murmured, "This isn't a design," I muttered. "It's a mutilation."
Footsteps echoed behind me, crisp and calculated. The new director comes into the workshop in a heartbeat and mocks, "Still romanticizing machine consciousness, Sakurai?" Director Nishikawa's voice slithered into my ear like ice water.
She continues, "This isn't Masahiro's playground anymore. This is business. Realism doesn't sell. Compliance does."
I turned to face her. Clean suit, stiff expression. The kind of woman who measured life in line graphs and market shares.
I clenched my fist and took a deep breath, and complained, "They weren't supposed to be products," I said, my voice low but burning. "They were built to help humans understand themselves better. Emotions weren't a flaw. They were the point."
She laughed—sharp, almost so mockingly, and bantered,
"That's exactly the kind of idealism that got your mentor booted. Buyers don't want androids that cry. They want machines that follow orders. No backtalk. No moral conflict. Just results."
"And what about dignity?" I asked. "What about the right to choose? You're stripping them of everything that makes them feel even close to humans." She stepped closer, her voice like a knife wrapped.
She explained, "We're building tools, Sakurai. Not something that can feel emotions or give a real sense of companionship like us humans. If you want something that cries, play with your emotions when you're sad or stuff, then adopt a cat."
"Emotionality and realism are secondary. Deliverables first. Compliance second. I'm tired of your idealistic ramble. Now get to work!" She shouted.
This is not work of passion anymore at this point, this is just plain machine making.
Code. Assemble. Test. Repeat.
I'd once built androids that give the markings of a great companion—each one an icon of compassion, love, and companionship. Now, we were building robots modeled on the image of a pet or slave. For profit. For speed. For something that felt wrong but too fierce to challenge.
I tried to be as strong as I could, managing through, getting overwhelmed by the rough waves of the bitter treatments from my own family, being thrown to cliffs of me forced to support my dad's company and now being rampanly toyed by the works I once loved which now I see as new disguised form of slavery.
But soon enough, as I expected, trying to be strong while such a burden overweighs you down does have consequences.
Though in the tough place I've been walking on, some old friends I've got do get concerned and try to support me anyway they can, regardless of distance and time. Since they also heard everything that happened when we have a remote multiplayer gaming session from time to time
I remember when Aoi called during one of my overtime shifts. I didn't pick up. He messaged later:
[AOI]: "Heard about Masahiro-san and your android. You okay, man? I'm just a call away. Anytime."
I stared at the text until the screen dimmed. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I typed out:
[ME]: "Yeah. All good. Just busy. Thanks." But then I deleted it.
I tried to type again:
[ME]: "I don't know how to do this anymore."
Deleted it too.
In the end, I didn't reply. Not because I didn't want to. But if I started talking, I was afraid I'd never stop. They had their own lives, careers, relationships, and things to do. What right did I have to dump my burden into their inbox at 2 AM?
I walked away from them, trying to trudge my path alone. But like raindrops gathering into a flood, the burdens around me rose until I started thinking of escape… But I don't know where to go, I want to do something, but I don't know what to do. I was—lost…
On a sunny day, at lunch break, I went to the rooftop park, which is open, and I felt the breeze dancing around me. Birds flying, chasing their mates and friends, I felt jealous. Wonder if I can be like them, flying free out of the cage I let myself into. I walked to the edge, which has a low barrier, and some parts of the building are over the barrier.
I knew the danger. I ignored it. I stepped past the barrier and stood on the narrow ledge. And I saw cars, people, and a drastic height between me and the ground below, separated by just a footstep. I let all my emotions flow and overflood me, guilt, sorrow, shame, regret, grief, all come to me at once. I thought I was about to fly—finally. But it wasn't freedom. Even if it was just a fall, disguised as a flight. I'm trying to raise my shaking right foot.
When I finally lifted my right foot, a sudden rush of memories of my mom's gentle face came to me like a tsunami. And I can't help but picture how her face looks if she finds me dead like that. I stumbled back to safety. And then I cried—loud, ugly, aching tears. Not because I wanted to die. But because I didn't know how to live. Thinking on how unjustly things have been going on for me… yet I don't know or do anything about it.
After I calmed myself, I went down the building and proceeded to walk home. When I was going through the busy part of Kumamoto, a man in monk's robes stood by the crossing, pressing pamphlets into tired hands, greeted me, and gave me a brochure for a Zen Meditation Stay at a ryokan affiliated with a Buddhist Temple. The brochure even promoted success for the people who attended before. I got interested, even though I'm a self-proclaimed atheist.
So I dared myself to take a three-day paid vacation to Nishikawa-san, and surprisingly agreed after mocking me for having dead-fish eyes. And, when I got there, it was an onsen ryokan, quite high in the mountains. The monk led us up a steep trail to the ryokan. We get there safely, settle into our rooms, and meet at the foot of the stairs going up to the temple. Yes, we have to hike again. At least we have our portion of exercising here.
It's been ten minutes since we started climbing the stairs. Some are already exhausted. Even I feel my lungs burning halfway up the trail—but part of me welcomes it. Pain, at least, means I'm still alive.
Along the way, a few collapsed. Others turned pale or dizzy. And somewhere between one step and the next, I caught myself thinking: What the hell am I doing? But, eventually, we got there and were greeted with mysterious-looking water served on wooden ladles that were taken from the well inside the temple.
The water feels fresh, and the scenery is—at the very least—captivating. The man who seems to be the head priest greets us, then leads us to the zazen hall. There, he instructs us to sit for a full hour. A full hour. In silence. Conversing with your raging thoughts, wrestling them into calm, hoping to stumble across some sort of mystic path or beam of spiritual light.
Don't mind me. That's just my atheistic self talking.
I tried to meditate, what happened, what did I do wrong, what could I do? But no matter how many times I tried, no sort of magical guidance like that promoted in the brochure came to me, so it almost feels like I'm just hiding from the burdens I have. 3 days went so fast, some of the people who attended with me said they felt better, and here I am, probably my lack of faith and being an atheist, probably what makes it hard to appreciate it.
Near the end of my stay, I asked one of the monks if I could speak with the head priest—maybe talk a little about what I was going through.
He stopped me with a kind smile and said that sort of consultation was a privilege… reserved for temple and ryokan donors.
"But you can become one starting today," he added brightly. "Just a donation of two hundred thousand yen."
I was caught off guard by a wave of cynical thoughts.
It felt like this temple wasn't guided by clarity or compassion, but by business. Despite the three-day visit already costing fifty thousand yen, the monks still went around urging visitors to donate, almost desperately.
I raised an eyebrow and declined. Politely, at least.
When did spirituality and guidance become commodities for sale?
That thought echoed through my mind—my atheistic mind—as I packed my bags and boarded the train home. As the train rumbled back toward the city, I stared out the window, still searching for a guiding spark. Still wondering if it would ever come
Not long after that wasted visit, I stumbled into another attempt at a 'spiritual journey'—this time, through a local Shinto shrine with its serene shrine maidens. Still searching, I also tried exploring a Hindu practice, and—regrettably—a group that turned out to be a full-blown cult calling themselves something like The Chosen Souls.
I'd rather not remember the exact name. After two days of trying their various 'methods,' I found no guidance, no insight—just more vague promises. And, unsurprisingly, no real chance to consult anyone unless I was willing to make a 'charitable donation.'
But eventually, my paid days off ran out, and Nishikawa-san began pestering me—working me harder than ever, as if I were just a machine building another machine. That rainy night, I walked home with no umbrella. I ignored the roar of the rain, the cold slap of water against my skin, the weight of my soaked clothes. I just walked—aimlessly—until my knees gave out.
There I was, hands pressed to the wet pavement, unsure if what streamed down my face were raindrops or tears.
The rain came down like it had a score to settle. It didn't just fall—it attacked. Soaked me straight through my coat, my shirt, my skin. I couldn't tell where the cold ended and I began walking. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the street itself wanted to keep me from moving forward.
I didn't know where I was walking. I didn't care.
People passed with umbrellas and blank stares, as if my soaked, slouched figure wasn't even worth a second glance. Maybe they were right.
And then, my legs gave out.
I hit the pavement, knees slamming into concrete, palms scraping against the soaked asphalt. I didn't even feel the pain. The rain masked everything. I couldn't tell if I was crying or just letting the storm wash me away.
"If You're really out there…"
I didn't speak it out loud. It was just a whisper inside, buried under layers of exhaustion and disbelief.
"If any of You are listening… Can You please just tell me what I'm doing wrong?"
My hands curled into fists against the ground. Mud oozed through my fingers like the shame I couldn't wipe off.
"I'm so tired."
I swallowed hard.
"I don't know how to fight anymore. I don't know what I'm even fighting for. Myself? My dignity? Some dream I barely believe in anymore?"
The city moved on without me. Cars rushed past. Neon lights flickered. The world didn't care that I was breaking.
"Please… I'm not asking for a miracle. Just—just a sign. Just a little guidance. Just something to remind me I'm not alone in this hell."
Silence.
No voice from the sky. No divine warmth. Just me and the freezing downpour.
But even without an answer, something inside me loosened. Like I'd been holding my breath for years and finally let a little of it out.
I stayed there, letting the storm soak me to the bone.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel small—just a human, asking the sky for help. The city didn't stop. Not for me, not for anyone. My soaked body trembled, my mind spinning between hopelessness and numb silence. I don't know how long I stayed there, kneeling in the cold, asking invisible gods for a sliver of meaning.
Eventually, I stood, legs weak, body heavier than it should've been. I walked without direction, just letting the night drag me wherever it wanted. My soaked sneakers squelched against the pavement. My vision blurred—not from the rain this time, but from exhaustion deeper than sleep could fix.
Then, out of nowhere, through the haze of flickering street lamps and dripping neon, I saw it.
A modest white building. Clean. Quiet. Its glowing signage softly lit the rain like a distant lantern in the fog.
Kumamoto Islamic Center.
The name stood out like an old memory I never had. It felt foreign, but warm. Strange, but still… safe. Like something that didn't expect anything from me except that I show up.
My legs moved on their own. Just a few steps closer—just to see it with my own eyes. But I never made it to the door.
The moment I stood before it, something inside me shattered. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the rain-slick pavement. My breath caught mid-gasp, chest tightening like the world itself refused to let me speak.
And as the storm cried harder than I could, the last thing I saw was the faint glow from the windows—soft sparks of light bleeding into the night, like a distant hope I had no right to reach for.
Just before everything went dark, a figure burst from the light. Dressed in white, sandals splashing through the puddles, he rushed toward me, eyes wide, not with fear, but with something gentler.
"Oh God… What happened to you?" I think he said, or maybe I only wished he had.
Then came warm hands, lifting me from the cold. And in that moment, I let go of everything. Let him carry what was left of me.
Chapter End