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Location: Konkan Coast, India
Time: One Week Later
The sea was unusually restless that morning. The usual lull of crashing waves had given way to a strange stillness, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.
Three fishermen from a nearby village—barefoot and sunburned—were pulling in their nets when one of them squinted at the horizon.
Fisherman 1: "Oye, what's that floating there?"
Fisherman 2: "Looks like… a body?"
The third man dropped his net and splashed into the water without a second thought.
They waded out, water up to their knees, and dragged the body onto the wet sand. It was a young man, barely conscious. His skin was cold and pale, lips cracked and trembling, chest rising faintly with shallow breaths. Bruises covered his limbs, and his clothes—a dark hoodie clinging to his body—were torn, soaked, and stained with dried blood.
Fisherman 3 checked for a pulse with practiced fingers.
Fisherman 3: "He's alive… barely."
They looked at each other. No one asked questions. This coast had seen strange things before. The sea sometimes took. And sometimes… it returned.
Without delay, they carried him to the village's only doctor—an elderly man who didn't ask names, only checked vitals and applied medicine with quiet hands.
The man had no ID. No wallet. No phone. Just silence—and a shattered past.
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One Week Later – Village Clinic
He woke up screaming.
His mind flooded with fragments:
Gunshots.
Kento's lifeless body.
John's furious voice: "You killed my son!"
The McLaren spinning off the cliff.
Water rushing into his lungs.
Darkness.
The clinic doctor rushed in, startled.
Doctor: "Easy, easy! You're safe now."
The man gasped for air, eyes wild. The doctor gently pressed him back onto the bed, then injected a mild sedative into his arm.
Doctor: "You're in India. You were found on the Konkan Coast. You nearly died… but somehow, the sea decided to spare you."
The man said nothing. His lips moved, but no words came.
He stared at the creaking ceiling fan above, blades turning in slow motion.
His heart was still beating.
He didn't know why.
But he was alive.
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Meanwhile – Tokyo, Japan
John stood by the sea every day.
He had seen the wreckage. The crushed metal. The shattered windshield of the McLaren. The bloodstained rocks.
But there was no body.
Kento's funeral had come and gone. The grave was always freshly decorated—courtesy of Hinata.
But John couldn't rest.
John (softly): "No corpse… no closure."
Inside the office, Hinata slammed a thick file shut.
Hinata: "Akira wouldn't do this. I've told you that for two weeks! He didn't kill Kento!"
John didn't respond. His eyes were hollow, weighed down by guilt, anger, and doubt.
She continued.
Hinata: "There's something missing. None of this feels right."
Still no reply.
John reached for Akira's case file once again. He flipped it open slowly, like peeling back a scar that never truly healed.
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Location: Mumbai, India
Time: 10:00 PM – Central Bus Terminal
Mumbai's bus station buzzed with chaos. Honking vehicles, shouting vendors, the constant shuffle of travelers. Amid the crowd, a hooded figure moved silently—shoulders hunched, gaze low.
Akira handed a few crumpled bills to a tall, broad-shouldered bus conductor in a mustard uniform and weathered cap. The man had rough skin, a thick mustache, and a large ticket machine slung across his chest.
Conductor (gruffly): "Sir, where are you headed?"
Akira: "Where is this bus going?"
Conductor: "Chandigarh. Leaves in five minutes."
Akira: "I'll take it."
The conductor nodded.
Conductor: "Climb in. No ticket, no travel."
Akira entered the sleeper coach and took a window seat near the back. He leaned his head against the cool glass, eyes distant.
Akira (thoughts): "I don't know how I survived… but I've spent the last week working near the docks. Earned 5000 rupees. It's not much… but enough for now."
The bus engine roared to life.
Conductor (calling out): "Everyone seated? No ticket, no ride!"
As the bus rolled forward, a teenage boy in a red hoodie flopped into the seat beside Akira. He looked energetic, his eyes sparkled with curiosity.
Boy: "Yo bro… you look Japanese."
Akira didn't flinch.
Akira: "That's because I am. From Japan."
The boy grinned.
Aarav: "Cool! I'm Aarav. What's your name?"
Akira hesitated.
Akira: "Aki… Akiyoma."
Aarav (laughing): "Weird name, man. But cool. I'm from Himachal Pradesh. Ever been there?"
Akira: "Never."
Aarav: "You should visit. It's beautiful. Mountains, snow, rivers. Peaceful."
Akira gave a faint nod.
Akira: "I'll keep that in mind."
They sat in silence as the road stretched ahead into darkness.
Aarav glanced around, noticing that most passengers were already asleep.
Aarav: "Aren't you gonna sleep?"
Akira: "What?"
Aarav (pointing ahead): "Look—everyone's knocked out."
Akira turned to see passengers snoring gently under blankets, their heads rocking with the rhythm of the road.
Akira: "I'll sleep later."
Aarav: "Alright, bro. Good night."
Within seconds, Aarav was out cold.
Akira turned back to the window, watching trees blur past under a starless sky.
Akira (whispering): "Himachal Pradesh…"
He didn't know what waited for him there.
But maybe—just maybe—he'd find peace.
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