He reaches for a cigarette. The pack is empty. He crumples it. The sound is deafening in the silence.
“What do you get out of this?”
On screen, a cheesy American sci-fi B-movie is playing. An actress in a silver jumpsuit screams at a rubber monster. Welcome to the N.H.K. -Dub-
She holds up a piece of paper. The word is typed in bold, Comic Sans font. It looks like a ransom note designed by a child. He reaches for a cigarette
“It’s not a cult. It’s a… therapy. The ‘Exposure to Reality’ contract. You agree to leave your apartment for one hour a day. And I agree to follow you. To make sure you don’t run away. Or… you know.” The sound is deafening in the silence
A KNOCK at the door. Not a gentle one. A sharp, insistent rap-rap-RAP .
A long pause. Then, the sound of the chain lock sliding. Satō opens the door a crack. His face is pale, stubbled, and looks like a landscape after a neutron bomb.