Market of Lost Voices

Shinjuku, Level -7.

Platform 13⅓.

The clock struck 13:13 exactly as Ren and Aoi descended the stairs that shouldn’t exist.

The staircase only appeared at that minute. Those who missed it waited another day. Or never found it again.

The air smelled of burnt takoyaki, cheap incense, and nostalgia that no one remembered feeling.

The market was a giant hall made of old subway tunnels glued together. Hot pink neon lights flickered on kanji that changed meaning every second.

“Buy your yesterday” turned into “Sell your tomorrow” turned into “Trade your self.”

Wooden stalls floated half a meter off the floor. Vendors wore broken kitsune masks.

At one, an old man sold memories in glass jars: “First kiss – 500 yen.”

At another, a 12-year-old girl offered names in music boxes: “Choose one that suits you.”

Ren gripped the cassette tape in his pocket like an amulet.

“Stay close to me,” he whispered. “And don’t accept anything for free.”

Aoi smiled faintly.

“I’ve been here before. With you. Three times.”

They followed the sound of an auction.

In the center of the market, a round stage made of broken mirrors.

In the middle, an auctioneer with an old radio voice:

“Lot 17! Male voice, 17 years old, fresh recording! Last recorded sentence: ‘I haven’t killed anyone… yet.’”

Who bids higher for a voice that still believes in justice?

Ren stopped. He felt his blood run cold.

On the stage, a silver cassette tape spun inside a glass globe.

The tape was identical to the one in his pocket.

Aoi held his arm.

“It’s yours,” she whispered. “The one you recorded yesterday. Before you met me.”

Ren swallowed hard.

“How much?” he shouted to the auctioneer.

“We start at 1,000 yen!” the masked man replied.

Ren raised his hand.

“2,000!”

A man in a black hood in the back raised a sign: 5,000.

Ren gritted his teeth.

“10,000!”

The hooded man laughed. Distorted voice:

“50,000. And a future favor.”

Aoi pulled a too-bright golden coin from her pocket. She placed it in Ren’s hand.

“Use this,” she whispered. “I found it on the train. Three times.”

Ren looked at the coin. It was ancient. Year 1192. But brand new.

“100,000!” he shouted, tossing the coin onto the stage.

The coin rolled. It stopped on its edge. It began spinning by itself.

The auctioneer’s eyes widened behind his mask.

“Sold! To the boy in the black uniform!”

The glass globe opened. The tape flew into Ren’s hand as if it had a will of its own.

The hooded man vanished between the stalls.

Ren held the tape. He trembled.

He put it in the rusty Walkman that the auctioneer threw in as a bonus.

He pressed play.

First, silence.

Then, his voice. Exactly his voice. But younger. More scared.

“If you are listening to this, you have already killed me three times.”

Stop repeating the mistake.

I don’t want to die again.

And you don’t want to be the guy who kills me.

Again.

The tape stopped. Rewound itself. Erased.

Ren stared at the Walkman as if he had seen a real ghost.

Aoi touched his shoulder.

“Now you have two tapes,” she said. “The one you bought and the one you already had.”

“They are the same. But they are not.”

Ren put both in his inner pocket. Together.

“Let’s go,” he said.

But the market didn't let anyone leave so easily.

The neon lights began to flash red.

Old subway alarms blared.

From the ceiling, giant TSD holograms appeared:

REN KAITO – ALPHA LEVEL DESERTER

ELIMINATE IMMEDIATELY

NO WITNESSES

Dozens of agents in black uniforms began to emerge from the stalls.

All identical. All with the kanji “抑” on their backs.

All with Ren’s face.

One of them spoke with the communicator’s voice:

“Ren Kaito. You have 30 seconds to surrender.”

Ren looked at the clones. All 17 years old. All with the same thin scar on their forehead that he got at 12.

Aoi held his hand tightly.

“Run or fight?” she asked.

Ren looked at the stage. The auctioneer had already vanished.

In his place, a large mirror. Round. Broken in the middle.

In the reflection, Ren saw Aoi.

But Aoi was crying black light.

And behind her, an older Ren held up a black glove.

Ready to erase.

Ren blinked.

The reflection vanished.

But the voice continued to echo throughout the market:

“29… 28… 27…”

Aoi pulled Ren toward a side corridor that hadn't been there before.

“Run,” she said. “Always run.”

They took off.

The stalls turned into a labyrinth.

The lights turned into a strobe light.

The clones followed behind, steps perfectly synchronized.

Ren and Aoi turned one corner. Another. Another.

They reached a dead end.

Only a large mirror. The same one from the stage.

Now whole.

Ren stopped in front of it.

In the reflection, Aoi was behind him.

But her eyes were golden.

And she smiled differently.

“Ren,” the Aoi in the mirror said. “The hunt never ended.”

Ren turned quickly.

The real Aoi still held his hand. Her clear violet eyes were confused.

“What is it?” she asked.

Ren looked back at the mirror.

The Aoi in the mirror raised her hand.

She pointed at the real Aoi.

“Because I am the hunter,” the Aoi in the mirror said.

The mirror cracked down the middle.

A black light exploded outward.

Ren felt the ground disappear.

The last thing he saw was Aoi's hand slipping from his.

The last thing he heard was the countdown hitting zero.

The last thing he felt was the cassette tape in his inner pocket heating up as if it were melting.

Then everything went silent.

When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting on the train to Kyoto.

Alone.

04:42 AM.

Aoi was not beside him.

But on the seat next to him was a note.

Her handwriting:

“Day 4 – You saved me at the market. I saved you on the train. Day 5 – You will kill me. I let you. Because I always return. And you always forget. Until one day you remember.”

Ren checked his pocket.

The two cassette tapes had merged into one.

And on the Walkman, a new recording started playing automatically.

His voice. Older. Tired.

“If you are listening to this for the fourth time…”

Congratulations.

You’re starting to remember.

Now there’s just one more thing.

Don’t kill me again.

Please.

The train jolted.

The windows showed Kyoto burning.

Ren closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the train was stopped.

Door open.

Fog outside.

And a monastery that never existed waiting for him.

Again.

But this time, Ren smiled.

Because now he knew.

The hunt never ended.

Because the hunter and the ghost were the same person.

And the market of voices had just sold the most expensive truth of all:

The truth is only the lie that no one managed to erase.

But someone was trying.

And that someone was him.

The train mirror reflected Ren's face.

For a second, his eyes were golden.

Then they returned to normal.

The train whistled.

Ren descended.

The fog swallowed everything.

And the market of voices lost the most important customer of the night.

Because now Ren knew where to find the voice that truly mattered.

His own.

Before turning into a monster.