Chapter 5: Lessons from Television

The first time the television turned on of its own accord, I didn’t even flinch.

It crackled like an old wound opening, sudden and raw. A burst of white light filled the gray cube I called a room. No remote. No buttons. No voice commands. Just a blank screen at first, humming like a dying animal.

Then came color.

At first, it showed static scenes: old Japanese films, postwar black-and-white dramas, and dusty NHK cooking shows from the 1980s. Nothing violent. Nothing overtly psychological. But I knew better. Someone was curating these. Selecting each reel with deliberate intention.

They were testing me. Feeding me images, waiting to see what would move me.

But they underestimated one thing — I wasn’t passive.

If they wanted me to watch, then I’d learn. Absorb. Adapt.

Let them make me a machine.

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Day 456 : Martial Discipline

I began with the basics.

A rerun of an old NHK documentary played: “The Legacy of Kyokushin Karate.” A younger man might have taken it as entertainment. I saw it for what it was — a gift in disguise. Muscle memory, reflexes, spatial control. I stood and mimicked the stances, slow at first, awkward. My body, stiff from weeks of low movement, protested.

But I didn’t stop.

Punch. Exhale. Reset.

Pivot. Chamber. Extend.

In the mirrorlike reflection of the dark TV screen, I watched myself transform from a forgotten detective into something leaner, sharper. I drew energy from the silence. From the nothingness. My breath became a metronome.

I trained twice daily. Once after each meal.

Repetition was key.

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Day X + ??: Survivalism 101

They shifted tactics. Next came survival documentaries.

One in particular stuck with me: a man building fire in a snowstorm with two sticks and a plastic water bottle. He whispered mantras to himself to stay sane. “One breath. One task. One reason to keep going.”

I stole the phrase and etched it into the wall beside my journal entries.

> One breath. One task. One reason to keep going.

My reason had a name: Aiko.

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Notebook Entry: Pressure Points

Somewhere between a cooking show and an old documentary about a kendo master, they broadcasted a Japanese medical special — acupuncture and neural pathways. I watched twice.

Then I drew.

I used food residue as ink. The tips of sharpened tray metal as a stylus. I carved the body's soft targets into my notebook: neck cluster, radial nerve, solar plexus, the lower mandible hinge.

Weakness isn't just emotional. It's anatomical.

They were teaching me how to break — I was learning how to break them.

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Psychological Shift: Ownership of Pain

Every punch against the concrete wall became a meditation. The sting in my knuckles? A reminder I still existed.

The bruises on my shins from low kicks? Evidence of life. Each mark a page in my living body journal.

I whispered the names of Aiko and Yukari between forms.

This was no longer a prison.

This was my dojo.

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Sometimes, mid-practice, I would hallucinate — I think. Or remember. Or dream.

Yukari’s voice, sarcastic as hell: “Rei, you’re doing kata in the living room again. Is that supposed to impress our daughter or scare the cat?”

I chuckled once. Just once.

Then the chuckle became a choke. The choke became a scream muffled by my own sleeve.

I sat for a long time after that. No training. No breathing. Just silence. And the hum of the TV like a ghost’s lullaby.

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Then came the commercial.

It appeared without warning, nestled between two cooking shows. The screen flashed red — not bright, but a deep, bleeding crimson. A rising sun. Stylized. Painted, almost like a seal or brand. The screen faded into a phoenix erupting in reverse — instead of flames rising, they collapsed inward, folding like wings being swallowed.

And in the middle of the phoenix… a mask.

White. Porcelain. With a sliver cut into the eye.

My breath stopped.

I’d seen that emblem before.

A decade ago, maybe more. In a closed-case file marked "SAKURA-13" — the code name for a string of ritualistic killings in Kyushu. We thought it was just a cult hoax. No solid leads. The file was sealed before I could dig deeper. But I remembered it. Not because of the case itself — but because the emblem had shown up once before...

On a postcard sent anonymously to my office.

Six days before Aiko’s second birthday.

It said:

> “Red birds never die. They just molt.”

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They know.

They want me to know.

This wasn’t just confinement anymore.

It was grooming.

Programming.

Or worse… recruitment.

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Rei’s Voice – Closing Reflection

I can’t forget who I am.

They want me to become something.

But they forget — monsters don't form in cages. They're revealed by them.

I won’t break.

I will adapt.

And when I get out of here — and I will — I’ll find the hand behind the phoenix.

And pluck every last feather from its skull.

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