Kazuki didn't finish his lunch.
He stood slowly, his spoon still resting in the bowl, untouched. Around him, conversations flowed as they always had, laughter drifting from nearby tables like gentle static.
But he heard none of it.
Hayato was missing.
He walked out without a word.
Not toward the lab. Not toward the station. He walked until the corridors grew unfamiliar—until he reached the Civic Records Archive, a sector he rarely visited.
The door slid open without challenge. No one questioned him. He was a registered scientist, after all. No one ever questioned anyone here.
He typed Hayato's full name into the query terminal:
Hayato Takamura.
Historian. Clearance: Level 4-C. Sector-2 resident.
For a brief moment, the screen flickered. Then returned a message:
"No such citizen on file."
Kazuki blinked. Retried the name. Tried variants. Scanned security archives, employee rosters, cafeteria logs.
Nothing.
No work records.
No commute data.
No lunch schedule.
No trace.
It was as if Hayato had never existed.
He leaned back, breathing shallow.
Was he imagining it?
No. He remembered the sound of Hayato's voice. The way he sipped his tea too loudly. The curious glint in his eye whenever he mentioned "impossible history." He remembered their conversations. Their disagreements. That odd moment—just a few days ago—when Hayato whispered something strange:
"If they give you something new, check the old things first."
Kazuki didn't understand it then. Maybe he still didn't. But now…
Now it felt like a warning.
He left the archive and stepped into the flow of afternoon pedestrians. Faces passed. Smiling. Relaxed. Perfect.
The air tasted too clean. The sun too symmetrical. Even the children's laughter felt automated.
He took the subway—but exited four stations early.
He didn't know why. It just felt… necessary.
A sudden desire took root in him. To see Hayato's apartment. To confirm, physically, that the man had lived, had breathed, had eaten and slept and written and read and laughed. That he existed.
He moved quickly, heart pounding for reasons he didn't understand.
When he arrived at the address he remembered…
…there was no door.
Not locked.
Not hidden.
Just gone.
Where there should have been a door, there was smooth wall—featureless and perfect, as if nothing had ever been installed there.
Kazuki touched the surface. It was warm with the hum of networked infrastructure. Recently sealed.
He stepped back. Looked up.
No name on the housing directory. No registered occupant. No heat signature. No light behind the glass.
Just void.
Hayato was being erased.
Kazuki stood there for a long time.
Even after the artificial sun dipped behind the dome's horizon.
Even after his datapad buzzed with a gentle reminder:
"Return to routine. Harmony awaits."
He didn't move.
Because deep inside his mind, a word had started repeating—
"Remember."