Morning arrived without ceremony.
Akiro noticed it first through the window. The rain from the night before had thinned into a pale mist, leaving the glass streaked and dull. The city beyond looked washed out, colors softened like a photograph left too long in the sun. Somewhere below, traffic moved again. Life resuming as if nothing had happened.
He lay still, listening to the room. The steady beep was gone now, replaced by a quieter machine tucked closer to the wall. His body felt different than it had the night before. Less foggy. The ache in his side remained, but it had settled into something predictable, something he could catalog rather than fear.
Predictability felt important.
The door opened softly.
Takeda stepped inside, this time wearing a different jacket, lighter than before. He carried a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a folded file under his arm. He paused when he saw Akiro awake, then crossed the room without hurry.
"You didn't sleep much," he said.
Akiro shrugged slightly. "Didn't feel like something I should do."
Takeda set the coffee down on the counter near the window. The file followed, but he didn't open it yet. Instead, he looked at Akiro the same way he had since the night before, with an attention that didn't press, but didn't drift either.
"They're planning to discharge you this afternoon," he said. "If everything stays the same."
"If," Akiro repeated.
Takeda gave a small nod. "If."
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but weighted. Akiro studied the man more closely now that he had the chance. Takeda looked older in the daylight, though not by much. Early forties, maybe. His hair was neatly cut but already flecked with gray at the edges, and there were lines around his eyes that suggested long hours and little rest. He didn't look like someone who enjoyed being mysterious. He looked like someone who did it because it was easier than explaining.
"You still haven't told me who you work for," Akiro said.
"I told you what matters," Takeda replied. "I observe inconsistencies."
"That's not a job title."
"No. It's a function."
Takeda leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. "Officially, there is no department for what I do. No paperwork with the right name. I'm borrowed when something goes wrong in a way that doesn't fit."
"And unofficially?"
"I don't pretend problems disappear just because we don't like the answers."
Akiro considered that. "So I'm a problem."
Takeda didn't correct him.
The nurse returned soon after, brisk and professional. She checked his wound again, noted the lack of internal bleeding with quiet satisfaction, and warned him three times not to strain himself. She didn't comment on how unusual his recovery was. She didn't need to. Her eyes did that for her.
After she left, Takeda picked up the file.
"There's something you should understand before you go," he said. "Nothing dramatic. No speeches."
Akiro waited.
"From this point on, you can pretend none of this happened," Takeda continued. "Most people do. The world will cooperate. Doctors will write it off as an anomaly. Police reports will close. Even the man who stabbed you will become a footnote, if he's remembered at all."
"And you?"
"I'll still be aware," Takeda said. "Which means I'll notice if it happens again."
Akiro felt a flicker of irritation. "You make it sound like I don't get a say."
"You do," Takeda replied calmly. "You can also choose not to understand it."
That bothered Akiro more than a threat would have.
He swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed, testing his balance. The room tilted slightly, then steadied. No delay. No resistance. Just gravity doing what it always did.
"That feeling," he said. "The resistance. Does it always happen when I'm about to die?"
Takeda studied him for a moment. "We don't know. But every recorded instance involves irreversibility."
"Irreversibility."
"Moments that don't allow correction," Takeda clarified. "Death. Total system failure. Outcomes that normally close the door."
Akiro absorbed that in silence.
"So it's not making me stronger," he said. "It's just stalling the end."
"That's one way to put it."
"Temporary."
Takeda's expression didn't change. "Temporary things still change the result."
Later that afternoon, Akiro dressed in borrowed clothes and signed his discharge papers. The hospital released him without ceremony, as promised. No special warnings. No follow-up appointments beyond the standard. It was almost insulting how normal it all felt.
Takeda walked with him to the exit.
Outside, the air was cool and damp. The city smelled of wet concrete and exhaust. People passed them without a glance, carrying bags, checking phones, moving forward.
Takeda stopped near the curb.
"This is where I leave you," he said.
Akiro hesitated. "You're not coming with me."
"No."
"You're not giving me a number."
"No."
Akiro huffed a laugh. "You're really confident this won't happen again."
Takeda looked at him then, really looked at him. "I'm confident that when it does, you'll know."
The words lingered.
Takeda turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing."
He reached into his jacket and handed Akiro a small card. Blank on one side. On the other, a single symbol printed in dark ink. Not a letter. Not a number. Something abstract, almost unfinished.
"If you ever feel the delay without an injury," Takeda said, "that means it's changing. Call the number on the back."
Akiro flipped the card over. The number hadn't been there a second ago.
When he looked up again, Takeda was already walking away, blending into the foot traffic with practiced ease.
Akiro stood there longer than he meant to.
The walk home felt longer than usual. Every step registered. Every sound felt slightly too present, as if his senses were tuned just a bit higher than before. He passed the convenience store without stopping, eyes fixed forward. The glass had been replaced. The floor cleaned. No trace of the night remained.
At his apartment, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the card again.
The symbol unsettled him. It looked like something mid-formation, as if it wasn't meant to be seen in a final state. He slipped it into a drawer and shut it firmly.
Normal. He needed normal.
That night, he dreamed without images. Only sensation. Pressure without pain. Time stretching thin, like fabric pulled too far. He woke before dawn with his heart racing, hand gripping the sheets.
Nothing was wrong.
That was the problem.
Days passed.
Akiro returned to work on light duty. Co-workers avoided the topic of the stabbing, offering vague sympathy before moving on. Life resumed with alarming efficiency. He tried to believe that was a good thing.
Then, one evening, it happened.
He was washing a cup at the sink when the feeling returned. Subtle. Almost gentle. The world didn't stop. The water still ran. But his movement felt buffered, as if his hand had to push through something unseen to finish its motion.
No injury. No threat.
Just resistance.
Akiro froze, breath held, waiting for something to follow.
Nothing did.
The sensation faded after a few seconds, leaving his pulse hammering and his thoughts racing.
He dried his hands slowly.
Across the room, the drawer where he'd hidden the card sat untouched.
For the first time since leaving the hospital, Akiro understood what Takeda had meant.
The delay wasn't a reaction anymore.
It was a warning.