Still Playing
This story comes from a friend who worked days at a net café in Shinsaibashi, the one on the fourth floor of the shopping arcade, across from the northern subway exit. She told me about it on the morning she quit, in a ramen bar in the Korean district.
It happened during last summer's heat wave. One of the regulars was an IT worker, in his fifties. He had lost his job six months earlier, and since then, he'd been living there and taking online gigs to survive. A very discreet man, always impeccable despite his situation — white shirt neatly pressed, suit a bit worn but well maintained.
That night, around , a customer came in — tall, elegant, wearing a blue kimono. Really not the type you'd usually see there. Since there was a noisy crowd near the entrance, her colleague on the night shift seated her in the back, in the booth right next to his.
The next morning, when my friend arrived, she was the one who found him. He was slumped over his keyboard, his face strangely peaceful. His hand, still resting on the mouse, completely frozen.
At first, she thought he was just asleep.
On his screen,
there was an ōgi game.
The chat window displayed the last message — おやすみ～
— left by komayo at 4:17 AM.
She checked the register:
that username matched the name of the woman in blue,
駒妖.
Already gone.
The IT worker had lost on time.
And my friend, she quit that same day.