Chapter 4 - Entry 01 / I will not break

The pen they gave me was red.

The pages of the notebook, pale yellow. A color that made you think of age and decay. Or maybe that’s just the room poisoning my perception.

They placed it carefully through the flap after 173 days. Yes. One hundred and seventy-three. I’ve been carving numbers into the wall, shallow notches with the corner of the food tray. It took me two full days to even realize what the notebook meant: a gift, yes. But one designed to pull. To make me talk to myself in new ways.

So be it.

Let this be my first entry.

Entry 001: I Will Not Break

Date: Indeterminate. 173 days since abduction.

Subject: Rei Kirishima.

Occupation: Former detective.

Status: Imprisoned.

Condition: Mentally functional. Questionably sane.

Purpose of Journal: Preservation of thought, record of logic, resistance to psychological decay.

Let me make one thing clear to whoever is watching, listening, reading: I will not break.

I begin with structure.

Suspects:

Criminals I apprehended during my tenure as detective. Political targets I accidentally crossed during the Yakushima corruption investigation. The man with the cough who sat in court and said, "You took everything from me." The woman with the silver earring who never blinked. She said, "Karma has beautiful hands."

There are others. But they are shadows now. The room has made them soft, like wet paper. I need to remember them before they disappear.

Theories:

This is a black site. Government or otherwise. Psychological experiment. Long-term mental endurance trial. Private revenge holding. Some vigilante group or victim's family. Or—the most painful theory of all—I am dead. And this is Hell.

Training Plan:

100 pushups in intervals. 50 sit-ups. 10 minutes of meditation, minimum, after light cycles. Deep breath retention exercises: to fight panic, to control.

I rotate routines depending on the timing of the meals.

Which brings me to the pattern.

Observation: Food Timing Patterns

Flap opens exactly 7 seconds after a brief static buzz. Always the same tone. Like an old CRT television booting.

Why static? Why 7 seconds?

I count those seven seconds now with my pulse. Sixty-eight bpm at rest. So roughly eight beats.

Eight beats between noise and sustenance.

Is this a signal? Or is it a ritual? A leash tug?

I don’t write Aiko’s name in this book lightly. She is sacred. But I will write it here now, because I must remember.

Words to Remember Aiko By:

"Papa, why does your face scrunch when you lie?" "I drew this! It’s you, Mama, and me! And you're a bear." "If you get lost, I’ll use our signal. Remember it? One knock, then three."

(One knock. Then three. I tap it into the wall sometimes, just in case.)

My wife Yukari. Her smile is harder to recall than it should be. That frightens me. That infuriates me.

I still see the red pendant.

I still remember the moment.

The moment before unconsciousness.

The way the TV flickered two weeks ago. The pendant shimmered. Then gone. Static. I swore I heard my name in the fuzz.

"Rei."

I thought I imagined it. But when I touched the TV—the screen was warm.

So someone was watching.

Or something.

The walls are thick. I screamed for hours the first week. No reply. No echo. Only silence.

I wonder if Aiko screamed too. If Yukari screamed.

I hate myself for not being able to remember clearly.

There are holes in my memory.

Or maybe that’s their design.

Whoever they are.

But let me tell you something, you faceless bastards.

Every entry I write is a blade.

Every push-up a weapon.

Every second I stay alive here is warfare.

You gave me a notebook to break me. I’ll turn it into a map.

Because I will get out of this room.

And I will burn down the world if it means seeing my daughter again.

Signed,

Rei Kirishima

Entry 001 complete.