Working the graveyard shift was never fun. Who would've thought it?

 

Junichiro did. In fact, a month, three weeks and four days ago Junichiro stood, with his disappointingly flat bag clutched close to his chest, in front of the 7/11 around the corner from what was formerly the Armed Detective Agency offices. With the stench of a high school football player and an identity he'd invented for himself overnight, Junichiro stared at the 'We're Hiring!' poster haphazardly stuck up in the window of the 7/11 around the corner from what was formerly the Armed Detective Agency offices.

 

'This could be the job for me'— he'd thought, reading the poster. Eleven thirty to five am. 'Something to keep me afloat until the Agency comes back together. Sure, the hours are late, but I've powered through all nighters back when I was in middle school. I'll be fine.' And it was only on the first night that he realised the flaw in his thinking. His inability to consider all the details…

 

in the fact that he's in bed every night by ten PM.

 

Junichiro's lack of foresight is what brought him to his current predicament— fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and sleep as he struggles with finding the correct ratio of ingredients that he needs to pour into the barely-working slushy machine.

 

Maths would be the death of him.

 

The clock on the wall tick-tick-ticks it's way to somewhere around one twenty five.

 

He's tired. And when he's tired, he's vulnerable.

 

Junichiro lifts his hand from the slushy mix to push back his sweat-slicked hair. What's odd is that he feels it happen, but he fails to see it happen. He sighs. Light Snow's lagging behind again. He whips his head around— the visual delayed from the actual— and peers at his two ever-constant companions.

 

Naomi's frozen on the seating behind him, her newly-tied shoelaces suspended in the air as she appears to drop them triumphantly.

Kunikida is stood just to the side of her— carefully placed, in case she fell. Naomi was reckless when she was playful— his glasses halted in their slow descent down the man's nose.

 

Junichiro sighs, his body rattling upon his exhale.

 

The conveyor belt by the cash register rattle-rattle-rattles, too. Junichiro is sick of being on hold with the repair company.

 

But the automated rattle serves as a reminder that Junichiro is the only real being in the shop. He's the warden in a place totally devoid of life. He, in his exhaustion-addled state, deems the place safe enough for him to have a moment's reprieve. After all, he'd covered up the cameras long ago.

 

He drops onto the floor.

 

The plastic of the slushy machine moved through the soft ice with a swsh-swsh-swsh. The ice rises up before separating either side of the plastic and falling through it in tiny little pieces— much like the snow of Junichiro's ability.

 

He watches the snow melt off of him in the reflection of the faux-marble counter. He doesn't turn to watch Naomi and Kunikida's dissolution.

 

Instead, he scoots backwards— to where they would have been— and brings his knees to his chest. He wants to relax— because he hadn't had a chance to in ages— but he can't.

 

He can't do it.

 

He doesn't deserve it.

 

Perhaps even both.

 

 

If he relaxes, he'll fall asleep. If he falls asleep, not even the screechy rattle-rattle-rattle of the conveyor belt will wake him up. And if he doesn't wake up in time, he won't get paid.

 

His body aches.

 

He hasn't slept properly in weeks. While unfulfilling and mostly empty, Junichiro couldn't sleep on the job. He's far too anxious that his boss will come stumbling in and fire him on the spot.

 

His head aches.

He supposes that sleep plays a part in this as well. The constant activation of Light Snow didn't exactly help much, though. It had grown bigger, stronger than the two years of All Men Are Equal's influence had allowed him to grow accustomed to. At least it wasn't on right now. His head isn't as sore as it could be.

 

His heart aches.

He hadn't seen anyone he cared for since Ranpo's brief appearance four days ago. That hardly counted. He hadn't had a meaningful conversation in months. He hadn't unloaded his thoughts in months. They remain cooped up in some compartment in the back of his mind, writhing, struggling, squirming in their over-crowded accommodations. His heart aches. He needs comfort. He needs a listening ear.

 

He needs—

 

Pale beige trousers with a matching crisp vest. A black shirt with a red knot fastened just beneath the collar. A holster, a red hair bobbin , a notebook.

 

Junichiro draws his knees closer to his chest. He presses them into his eye sockets. The tap-tap-tap of a sturdy-soled shoe matches the rhythm of Junichiro's heartbeat. Junichiro hugs his knees as tight as he can muster.

 

He breathes in…. he breathes out.

His heart slows down.

Falling out of sync with the irritating tap-tap-tap.

Odd.

 

He lessens his grip and tilts his head upwards, ever so slightly.

 

Pale beige trousers with a matching crisp vest. A black shirt with a red knot fastened just beneath the collar. A holster, a red hair bobbin, a notebook.

 

Junichiro furrows his brow. He consults the pounding in his head. He didn't realise that he'd set his ability back up. Maybe his head hurts for a completely mundane reason. He finds that the best way to deal with unwanted illusions was to ignore their existence entirely. Instead of engaging with it, he turns his head to the right in search of his cheap imitation of Naomi. She can't be too far away.

 

"Junichiro Tanizaki, are you ignoring me?"

 

Junichiro screws his eyes shut.

 

A blunt object collides with his side.

 

He yelps as he unfurls from his ball.

 

"What the hell, dude?" He whines, whipping his head around to catch sight of what just came flying at him.

 

Tap-tap-tap.

Junichiro's weary eyes widen.

Black dress shoes.

 

The tap-tap-tap ceased as the real person crouched down in front of him.

 

"It's not like you to be working this late, Junichiro." The Doppo Kunikida sighs. "Don't tell me that this has led you to forget how to deal with customers. Such a shame, you were quite talented with it."

 

Junichiro's mouth gapes open. "I—" He chokes. He scrambles into a less pathetic position. He ends up swaying side to side, with his knees on the floor and a posture reminiscent of a wet tissue. "How did you— I— oh, Mr Kunikida—"

 

Kunikida cuts him off before he can start full on sobbing.

 

"Ranpo told me where to find you. He seemed to think that you need support he wasn't equipped to give you." His face takes on a sad smile. "So what do you say, brat? Do you need a listening ear?"

 

Junichiro feels his face crumple.

 

It's one forty-five am, and when he's tired, he's vulnerable.

 

Tears begin to slide down his face— one two three— until the floodgates open and he's totally sobbing.

 

Kunikida startles in a panic, reaching under his arm to flick through his notebook—

 

But not before Junichiro hurries up into a crouch…

 

…and launches himself forward, his arms trapping Kunikida in his clutches.

 

His body aches.

His head aches.

His heart aches.

 

On the floor of the 7/11 around the corner from what was formerly the Armed Detective Agency offices, that was fine.

The graveyard shift was never fun. It left Junichiro in tears, more often than not.

Kunikida's arms draw him closer, a hand coming to the back of Junichiro's head as he holds the boy closer to his chest.

But this time, Junichiro at least had some comfort to get him through it.