In 1954, as Japan recovers from the devastation of World War II, a dark secret festers within the halls of Toho Studios. Eriko Tanaka, a journalist, is drawn into a mystery surrounding her brother, Shindo, a movie photographer working on the set of...
The hum of the engine faded as Shindo parked outside his apartment. The night air was thick with the distant sounds of the city-cars passing, the occasional murmur of pedestrians, the faint hum of a radio playing from a neighbor's window. But none of it registered.
His hands felt cold as he gripped the steering wheel. His mind was stuck in an endless loop, replaying the day's events like a broken film reel. The sight of the bloodied Gojira suit. The way the flesh had fused. The movement. The eyes.
A shudder ran through him.
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After what felt like an eternity, he finally forced himself out of the car. His legs felt stiff as he walked up the narrow steps leading to his door. The familiar scent of home greeted him as he stepped inside, the warmth starkly contrasting the cold dread still clinging to his bones.
Eriko was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The sound of sizzling oil and the faint aroma of cooked vegetables filled the small space.
"You're home late," she said without looking up, focused on stirring a pot. "Rough day?"
Shindo hesitated. His throat was dry. He could tell her everything. He should tell her everything. But the words refused to come.
"Yeah," he muttered instead, rubbing the back of his neck.
Eriko turned, finally giving him a proper look. Her brows furrowed. "You look pale. Are you okay?"
Shindo forced a nod. "Just tired. Not really hungry."
"You should eat something," she insisted, concern in her voice. "Skipping meals isn't going to help-"
"I just need to rest," he interrupted, voice a little too sharp. He regretted it immediately when he saw the hurt flicker across her face. "Sorry. I just... I need some time alone."
Eriko watched him for a moment before sighing. "Alright. But if you need to talk, you know I'm here."
Shindo nodded, already making his way to his room.
The moment the door shut behind him, he exhaled heavily, pressing his back against the wood. His heart was still pounding.
He needed to see the photographs.
Walking over to his small desk, he set his bag down and pulled out the camera. The rolls of film inside felt heavier than usual, as if they carried the weight of everything he had witnessed.
He got to work.
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