Chapter 3 – Grasping at Straws

By the time I got home, I had three theories, two migraines, and one uninvited cosmic entity still refusing to leave.

My apartment was small, cheap, and aggressively honest about it. One room, one table, one window that faced another building so closely I could see my neighbor’s laundry schedule. The lights flickered when I turned them on, which felt less like electrical failure and more like commentary.

“Before you say anything,” I told the air, kicking off my shoes, “this is not a reflection of my life choices. It’s a reflection of the housing market.”

It is… adequate, Death said.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about it.”

I dropped my bag, opened my laptop, and stared at the article again.

It stared back.

Nothing had changed. The words were still cautious, still carefully phrased to avoid lawsuits and mysterious disappearances. It was good work. It just wasn’t enough.

I opened a new document.

“Okay,” I said. “Ground rules, part two.”

You enjoy enumerating.

“It gives me the illusion of control.”

I typed as I spoke.

You do not interfere with my research.

You do not possess me.

You do not decide anyone’s fate without at least running it by me.

I looked at the list.

“…I don’t know why I wrote the third one.”

It would not be efficient.

“Comforting.”

I pulled up a series of municipal databases—public ones first, then the gray-area ones that technically required authorization I didn’t have but emotionally deserved.

Traffic accidents. Infrastructure failures. Industrial incidents.

Patterns emerged the way they always did: clusters, correlations, places where probability bent a little too neatly.

Then I overlaid them with something new.

Prediction timestamps.

Every major incident in the last six months had a shadow entry—created minutes, sometimes seconds, before it happened. Not warnings. Not forecasts sent to the public.

Internal confirmations.

“See?” I said, pointing at the screen like Death had eyeballs. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say ‘wow’ and then get scared.”

You are already scared.

“I prefer ‘concerned.’”

I scrolled further back.

The data thinned out.

A year ago, the entries became erratic. Two years ago, rare. Three years ago, nonexistent.

The system hadn’t always been there.

“Someone built this,” I said.

Yes.

“And they weren’t subtle.”

No.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes.

“So why me?” I asked. “Why not a priest or a monk or someone with better posture?”

You look where others stop.

“That’s not a compliment.”

It is an observation.

I sighed and checked my phone.

No new messages from my source.

That was… unusual.

I typed out a quick text.

You alive?

The message sent. No read receipt.

I hated that my brain immediately went to worst-case scenarios.

“Okay,” I said, standing up. “I’m not spiraling. I’m being proactive.”

You are pacing.

“Multitasking.”

I moved to the window, peering out at the city. From up here, Osaka looked stable. Predictable. Streets lit in orderly lines. Trains moving on schedule.

“Can you see it?” I asked. “The deaths. Do you know who’s next?”

There was a pause.

I used to, Death said. The ends were… quieter. Singular.

“And now?”

Now they are pre-written.

I didn’t like the way she said that.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re in charge.”

I am not.

That landed heavier than anything else she’d said.

“You’re telling me,” I said slowly, “that someone figured out how to run mortality like a spreadsheet.”

Yes.

“And you’re just… stuck in my head.”

For now.

I laughed again, because that was becoming a problem-solving strategy.

“This is incredible,” I said. “I finally find a story big enough to matter, and it comes with an existential roommate.”

You are still resisting.

“Of course I am. My options are ‘deny reality’ or ‘accept that death has customer support issues.’”

I returned to the desk and dug deeper—past city records, past corporate disclosures, into subcontractors and shell companies.

One name kept resurfacing.

Not at the top. Not publicly.

A data analytics firm specializing in disaster modeling. No flashy branding. No press releases. Just quiet contracts and impressive accuracy rates.

My phone buzzed.

Finally.

A message from my source.

They know you’re looking.
Stop.
I mean it.

I typed back immediately.

We need to talk.
Where are you?

The typing indicator appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered it.

“Hello?”

Static.

Then breathing.

Then a voice—not my source’s.

“You should have stopped,” the voice said calmly. “Some futures don’t like being questioned.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

“Well,” I said, into the silence of my apartment, “that’s definitely a red flag.”

You are approaching the edge of your ordinary existence, Death said.

“That’s poetic.”

It is a warning.

I closed my laptop, heart pounding.

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t quit stories halfway through. It’s unprofessional.”

Continuing will place you in danger.

“I know.”

People will die.

“They already are.”

We sat with that for a moment.

Then I grabbed my jacket.

“Okay,” I said. “New plan. I’m going to check on my source in person. You’re going to explain everything you’ve been avoiding. And if this ends with me regretting my life choices—”

It will, Death said.

“—I want it on record that I complained in advance.”

For the first time since she woke up, I felt something like approval.

Very well, Death said. Let us proceed poorly.

I locked the door behind me and stepped back into the city, holding onto the thin hope that being stubborn was still a valid survival strategy.