Chương 404: 185.Day Shift Handover 1

We ended up not ordering anything else. Not because reason had suddenly won, but because after the dobin mushi, the sea urchin–caviar wooden box, and that binchotan-seared sea urchin sushi that really deserved its own religion, you slip into a very dangerous kind of calm. Not the "too full to move" kind.

More like: you'd spent the whole day in a state where you were ready to declare war on parents, vendors, the system, the duty roster, and the Federation's entire holiday schedule—and then hot broth, rice, fish fat, and central heating simmer you down once, and you suddenly think: fine. Let the world have one more night. I leaned back and looked at the empty plates and half-full teapot, seriously considering whether, if I stood up right now, I'd briefly lose my respect for gravity out of sheer happiness.

Maki sat across from me, her cup already back on the table, her motions so clean it was like this meal wasn't "emergency resuscitation post-holiday shift," just an ordinary dinner. Which was very unfair. She'd stood with me from a little after six, been shoved around by crowds and regulations with me, braced through the wind for the handover with me.

Yet here I was, feeling like a human being that had been disassembled and put back together, and she still carried that "status: nominal, ready for tomorrow's battle" stability. I watched her and couldn't help speaking up.

"Maki."

"Hm."

"Do you ever actually get tired?" She glanced up at me, expression indecently flat.

"Yes."

"Then why do you look like you could go home from this and still edit three more documents?"

"Because I don't show it to you."

"…That sounds suspiciously like an advanced President skill."

"It's not a skill," she said.

"It's a habit." I was quiet for two seconds.

"That habit puts a lot of pressure on the people around you."

"On you?"

"Especially on me," I admitted.

"It makes me look like a low-grade piece of equipment about to fail its duty shift." Maki looked at me once, then replied, bland as ever:"You're not low-grade." I opened my mouth to make some crack about finally, human speech—and then she followed up, steady:"You just wear out fast." … Perfect. The Maki I knew was back. I cradled my cup, tossed back the last mouthful of tea, and decided not to burn calories arguing about whether I was "high-attrition."

If I pushed, she'd probably very seriously enumerate which hours today my speed had visibly dropped. That would be humiliating. I didn't need to hear it. Right then, a staffer walked over with the check folder, her smile textbook-perfect, with that professional brightness restaurants put on right before a seasonal campaign.

"You've both hit the promotion threshold tonight," she said.

"If you don't mind, we can take a free Christmas commemorative photo for you." I froze. Not because the event was weird. On the contrary, it was too reasonable. Reasonable enough that I felt a moment of respect for this chain's holiday operations model—soothe the working class with dobin mushi and sea urchin, then send you home with a physical photo you can later trip over and die of social discomfort from. Complete. Thoroughly complete. My reflex was to say no.

I hadn't even opened my mouth when Maki answered, calm as anything:"Please do." I lagged half a beat, turning to her.

"…Wait."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Don't you think you agreed too naturally?"

"If it's offered, we might as well take it," she said, voice as flat as if she were deciding whether to grab an extra copy of the handover sheet.

"Otherwise it's wasted." I looked at her and realized something. In this setup, if I insisted on refusing, the weird one would be me. The staffer was just offering a normal event perk. Maki was just normally accepting a freebie. If I started acting too jumpy, it would only make it look like I had an overreaction to "taking a picture with her." She hadn't done anything. In fact, she was acting completely by the book. It was my hesitation that would drag it into the realm of abnormal. I coughed.

"Let me just say this in advance," I muttered.

"If it turns out ugly, I'm not taking responsibility." Maki looked at me.

"Was there a time today when you didn't look ugly?" she asked. I narrowed my eyes.

"Is that supposed to be reassurance or a new form of attack?"

"Fact-checking."

"…I knew it." The staffer either didn't hear that exchange, or, out of seasoned service virtue, chose to pretend she hadn't. She led us over to a little seasonal display panel by the register. Nothing gaudy—just midnight blue, snowflakes, a small string of Christmas tree lights, and the restaurant name and date tucked in the corner. The more normal, the scarier. Because it meant that once printed, the photo would look like a totally ordinary memento. And ordinary mementos are the worst to deal with.

"If you could both stand just here," the staffer said cheerfully. I took my spot still trying to maintain a dignified this is just a free activity composure. The problem is: distance between people isn't always measured in centimeters. It's measured in awareness. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Standing close in the Council office, at the gate, by a meeting table—that's one thing.

Standing in front of a seasonal backdrop waiting for a commemorative photo—that's another. I could actually feel my shoulders tighten. Maki stepped in beside me, perfectly calm, infuriatingly so. Her coat was still unbuttoned at the top, uniform collar and scarf lines all in regulation order. Next to her, I probably looked like a survivor dragged out of a very long administrative disaster. The staffer raised the terminal, still smiling.

"Could the one on the left move just a bit toward the center?" I stepped sideways on reflex.

"And just a tiny bit more," she added.

"It'll balance the frame." I edged in another half step. Maki didn't move at all. That was the worst of it. She needed no adjustment. She just had to stand there and the whole composition looked like she knew exactly where she belonged. My two micro-corrections, by comparison, were a live demonstration of what awkward looks like. I muttered under my breath.

"Why do all the embarrassing bits land on me?" Maki stared straight ahead, voice very low.

"Because you're the one moving."

"That answer is extremely unfriendly."

"Also extremely accurate." The staffer, mercifully oblivious to the micro-disaster in progress, continued in her professional tone.

"Perfect, just like that. If you could both look at the camera? Natural is fine, no need to pose." Natural. Sometimes that word is an act of tyranny. The more you tell someone to relax, the less they do. I stared at the lens, acutely aware that my face was probably broadcasting a state of "I am fine, clearly not fine." Maki, of course, was steady—steady enough that I reasonably suspected she would only alter her mouth's curvature by 0. 2 millimeters on a graduation ID photo.

"Okay, one, two—" She paused, then added gently:"And no need to be so tense, on the left." I wanted to close my eyes on the spot. Maki exhaled very softly beside me. I didn't know if that was a laugh. I did know that if I turned to look at her now, "natural" would be off the table. So I locked my gaze on the camera and stoically accepted this festive, complimentary social execution.

"Three. All set." I had just let out the first breath when the staffer glanced at the screen.

"This one's good, but if you don't mind, I'll take a backup." Me: "…" Maki: "Fine." I turned to her slowly.

"Are you particularly excited about creating evidence tonight?"

"I'm just respecting the service process."

"That line is one software patch away from 'I'm doing it for the system.'" The second shot was faster than the first. Probably because once a person knows there's no escape, they slide into a brief, resigned calm. The staffer sent the image to the printer; the little unit worked hard, spitting out a card with a festive border. Within a minute, she slid the finished photo into a thin sleeve printed with the restaurant logo and handed it to us with both hands.

"Here's your commemorative photo. Merry Christmas to you both." I'd thought Maki might let me take it. Instead, she reached out and took it quite naturally.

"Thank you," she said. The paper sleeve sat in her hand, and for a second I had no idea whether I should say anything. Technically, I'm in the picture too. Technically, I should ask. Technically, it's just a freebie. Not a big deal. And yet, the way she calmly took it and held onto it made me feel like saying anything would make it too pointed. So I didn't. After the staffer left, we stood by the register for a few seconds. In the end, I was the one who spoke first.

"Are you keeping it?" Maki glanced down at the sleeve.

"Since we took it."

"That is such a you answer."

"You can have it," she added. I looked at the sleeve, then at her. Outside was the winter night. The restaurant was still warm. We'd just settled the bill. The holiday lights overhead were still blinking away without fatigue. If I reached over and took that photo now, it felt like it would make the whole thing a bit too stark. So I shook my head.

"Keep it with you for now," I said.

"Otherwise I'll probably file it with the duty documents and turn it in with the patrol logs." Maki gave me a look.

"That would be…unfortunate."

"Exactly." I stuck my hands into my pockets.

"I'm not ready to have tonight's mental injuries preserved in the Council archive." She actually laughed, very lightly. Not big. Almost soundless. Which, of course, only made it more noticeable. We pushed the door open; cold air slammed into us at once. The restaurant's warmth snapped shut behind us, and that city-washed-by-snow chill came back against my skin. Streetlights glinted on the leftover snow, the sky darker than when we'd arrived, the wind sharper.

I handed Maki her helmet, climbed onto the bike, and started the engine. The motions were familiar—familiar enough that it felt like getting back on the bike should be enough to leave the photo, the backdrop, and the staffer's "no need to be so tense" behind us. Maki got on and settled her hands around my waist, the gesture completely natural. Too natural. I stared straight ahead and eased us out of the parking space. At first, neither of us said anything. Not the suffocating kind of silence.

Not the "nothing to say." More like both of us knew that everything that needed saying, didn't need saying, had been said too smoothly, or had been quietly accepted, had pretty much had one round already. All that was left was to let the wind blow things apart a bit so they didn't all bunch up in the same spot. At the next red light, I brought us to a stop. The glass on the building across the street reflected a faint blur of lights, snow gone white along the edges.

The street was much quieter now, just the occasional car gliding by, dragging the sound of tires over snow. I didn't look back. I stared at the signal and suddenly asked:"That photo. Is it really bad?" There was a beat of silence behind me. Then Maki answered:"It isn't." My fingers tightened on the grips. I didn't say anything right away. Two seconds later, I muttered:"You answered too fast. That's suspicious."

"Because I already looked at it," she said.

"... You looked at it right away?"

"Mm." I felt something like a very fine instrument tapping my temple.

"Maki, you have a real talent for turning something that could have stayed vague into physical evidence."

"Weren't you the one who asked?"

"You could have lied."

"No need." The light turned green. I opened the throttle, and we slid out. Once the wind came up, a lot of phrases automatically got cut. Good. Some things are best blown apart by night air so you can pretend you didn't hear them clearly. Not that it mattered—her "It isn't" was still sitting there calmly, filed with tonight's processed-but-not-yet-public items. We rode a while longer before she added, even more lightly:"And you look more natural in the second one." Oh. That cut deeper than the last sentence.

Because it meant she hadn't just glanced at it. She'd looked closely enough to know the difference between take one and take two. I nearly gave in to the urge to pull over at the next intersection and argue with her. Basic traffic self-preservation was the only thing that kept me from doing it.

"Maki."

"Hm."

"Did you wait until now on purpose?"

"A little."

"I knew it." She didn't elaborate. Her hands just steadied slightly at my waist. Nothing dramatic. Might have been just a normal shift getting ready for a turn. But because it happened now, at this temperature, after this dinner, after that photo, it refused to read as entirely normal. So I threw all my attention back into the road, reminding myself that my main job right now was keeping the bike upright, not doing a risk assessment on a free commemorative printout in my head.

Unfortunately, the more you tell yourself not to think about something, the more you do. I thought about the staffer saying "looks good" in that bright voice. About the way Maki had slipped the photo into its sleeve. About her "It isn't," and about the fact that I'd actually asked. Enough. I'd thought the most dangerous object tonight was that box of ultra-thins. Apparently we had to add one free photo to the list. By the time we got back near home, the wind had sharpened.

I rolled the bike into its usual space and killed the engine. The world went quiet again. The residual vibration stayed in my hands; the night air was so clear it felt like saying one word too many would push something unnamed a half-step forward. Maki climbed off first, pulled off her helmet, and exhaled. I did the same, pausing on my feet for a second before saying, low:"Don't show that photo around." She looked at me.

"To whom?"

"You know who I mean," I said, deadpan.

"If Jess sees it, I won't need a new yearly planner next year. She'll just wave that thing at me for twelve months." Maki was quiet for a couple of seconds. Then she slipped the sleeve neatly into the inside of her coat.

"Alright," she said.

"I won't show her." That "alright" was short. Short enough to sound like she was just agreeing to something minor. And yet, hearing her say it, I felt more off-balance than before. Because if the photo were truly nothing, she wouldn't have to tuck it away so carefully. I stood there in the snow-chilled night and watched her hand come back out of her coat, suddenly wanting to put a bow on the night. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like tonight couldn't really be neatly summarized.

There was too much. Duty, fatigue, sushi, dobin mushi, sea urchin, that "we won't need it," the wind on the road, the restaurant's photo event, her quick, steady "It isn't," and that sleeve now inside her coat—all of it mixed together, leaving tonight feeling like something I'd finished eating but still couldn't get off my tongue or out of my head. In the end, I only managed to admit one thing.

"... Today wasn't that bad, I guess." Maki stood opposite me and gave me a look.

"You're only realizing that now?"

"It's not that I just realized." I shrugged out of my gloves, keeping my tone within a barely respectable band.

"I just thought today would look more like an injury report, and it somehow picked up a few things that qualify as memories." She didn't answer right away. The winter wind cut between us, carrying a touch of snow. Then Maki replied, very lightly:"Then remember it." I looked up at her. Her expression was as plain as ever, nothing special on the surface. Which, of course, was the problem.

Because it made it impossible to tell whether she was just responding out of habit—or whether she'd already filed tonight somewhere it wouldn't get thrown away. I was quiet for two seconds, then coughed and looked aside.