I Was ¥1.8 Million In Debt When the Legacy System Chose Me

The interview room at Kawaguchi Police Station smelled of stale tobacco, floor wax, and cheap tea.

Ren sat on a cold steel folding chair, his left side pulsing with a dull, sickening ache whenever he breathed too deeply. He hadn’t slept since waking the previous morning. It was 8:30 a.m. on Tuesday, 7 February 2023, and the harsh fluorescent tube overhead buzzed with a sound like trapped flies.

Across the worn wooden desk, Detective Saito flipped through a gray paper file. Saito had heavy shadows beneath his eyes and a rumpled collar. Nothing in his face invited trust or comfort. He looked tired and interested only in getting the facts straight.

"Start from when he entered," Saito said, not looking up from the folder. "What time was it?"

"A little after 2:30," Ren said, his voice raw. "He came to register one, pulled a utility knife about eight centimeters and pointed it at me."

"And you opened the register immediately."

"Yes. The safety rules say to cooperate if there’s a weapon. I didn’t try to stop him or fight. I opened the till, stepped back to protect Morita-san in aisle three, and let him take the cash."

Saito made a quick note with a red ballpoint pen. "Manager Endo claims you were on duty alone when ¥45,000 in tobacco inventory went missing during the previous week’s graveyard shifts. He suggests the till drawer may have been left unsecured prior to the suspect entering, or that proper cash drop limits were ignored."

Ren felt a tight knot form in his stomach. If Endo’s version held, QuickMart could fire him for cause and try to make him responsible for the missing stock and stolen cash.

"The shift log and register sign-ins will show I wasn’t there," Ren said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the tight dread in his chest. "Morita-san saw Manager Endo take the key box at 2:10 and leave before 2:40."

"We have Morita-san’s statement," Saito interrupted dryly, tapping a sheet in the folder. "She gave her account separately before leaving the scene. She confirms your position behind the counter and where the suspect stood."

Saito turned another page. "What about the receipt strip on the counter?"

"He hit the feed button while taking the cash, so I left the strip where it was," Ren explained. "I told Morita-san not to touch the counter."

Saito looked up, studying Ren for three seconds. "You’re thorough for a part-timer."

"I just didn’t want to be blamed for it," Ren said simply.

Saito’s expression did not soften. He closed the file with a soft thud. "We’ll collect the camera footage later today. If the video matches your timeline, the robbery investigation is straightforward. As for Manager Endo’s claims about inventory shortages and register management, that’s an internal employment matter for your franchise operator unless someone files a fraud complaint."

He stood up, gathering his papers. "Keep your phone on. We may need a follow-up statement after we review the footage."

Ren walked out of the interview room into the station hallway.

Takashi Endo was standing near the front desk, holding a paper cup of water. His eyes narrowed as Ren approached. Endo stepped forward, keeping his voice low to avoid attracting the desk officers’ attention.

"Cash is gone, stock is missing, and you were at the register," Endo muttered, his face flushed. "Corporate will look at you first when I submit the final incident report."

Ren stopped. His shoulder throbbed, but he looked Endo straight in the eye. "The logs will show who was there. So will the camera."

Endo sneered, tossing his paper cup into a bin, and walked briskly down the steps toward the parking lot.

Saito had not solved the dispute, nor had he cleared Ren with his employer. Endo was still manager, his job at QuickMart was still hanging in the balance, and the debt collectors were still waiting.

Ren pushed open the heavy glass doors of the police station and stepped out into the crisp morning air of Tuesday.

The morning sun reflected harshly off the pavement. As Ren descended the concrete steps, his cracked smartphone vibrated once in his coat pocket. A sharp, distinct pulse.

He pulled it out. The screen flickered, and the translucent interface panel overlaid his lock screen.

[Evidence preserved.]

[False statement refused.]

[Reward authorised: ¥5,000.]

[Minimal interface unlocked.]

A notification pop-up from his PayPay app appeared immediately beneath the System text:

You have received ¥5,000.

Sender: Genichiro Legacy Reserve — Digital Rebate

Transaction ID: GLR-20230207-00941

Reference Code: RK-02

Ren tapped the notification. The app opened normally. The ¥5,000 appeared in his PayPay balance. The transaction page listed the sender, date, amount, and reference number, with an option to download the receipt. It looked more complete than an ordinary personal transfer, but Ren had no idea what it meant for tax.

He stared at the reference code: RK-02.

’Reserve Kisaragi, account two?’ It was the first explanation that came to him, though it answered nothing.

He stood on the sidewalk for two full minutes, waiting for a bank error message or a fraud alert. Nothing happened. The money remained there, quiet, functional, and undeniably real.

Five minutes later, Ren pushed open the door of the Doutor Coffee near Kawaguchi Station. The scent of roasted coffee beans and warm bread hit him, making his empty stomach rumble painfully.

He stood in line behind a businessman in a suit, his heart racing slightly as he approached the register.

"Welcome," the clerk said briskly. "What can I get for you?"

"A Morning Set A with hot black coffee, and an extra toast, please," Ren said.

"That will be ¥650. How are you paying?"

Ren lifted his phone, opening the PayPay barcode screen containing the System funds. "PayPay."

The clerk lifted the scanner and beeped the screen.

Ping.

The terminal chimed, and the receipt printer fed out a narrow slip.

"Thank you. Please take a seat, we’ll call your number."

Ren took his tray to a small corner table near the window. He sat down heavily, resting his sore side against the wooden backrest. He looked at the warm ceramic mug, the extra slice of golden toast slick with melted butter, and the neatly cut ham-and-egg salad sandwich.

He picked up the toast first. The rich, salty butter and crisp, warm bread filled his mouth. He chewed slowly, closing his eyes as the warmth spread through his chest.

For months, he had chosen meals by discount stickers and expiry times, skipping meals whenever rent, medicine, or school costs arrived together. Now he could eat while the food was still hot, without calculating his remaining change.

He drank the bitter coffee, letting the heat wash away the metallic taste of fear and the cold interview room. The payment had gone through. His PayPay reward balance now showed ¥4,350.

By 11:30 a.m., Ren was back in his six-mat apartment.

The physical relief of the meal faded as he sat at his low folding table and pulled out his accordion file of legal notices and bank statements. The truth of his family’s destruction required no supernatural interface; it was laid out in black ink across dozens of official documents.

His father, Masato, hadn’t just made a bad investment. Driven by pride and aggressive speculative pitches, Masato had leveraged everything, his investment accounts, the family savings, and finally the family home itself as collateral. When the market turned, the debt spiraled out of control.

Ren opened the thickest group of notices. One recorded verified claims of more than ¥60 million. Another documented the liquidation of family assets and the forced sale of their home. Ren’s tuition fund had disappeared with them.

After Masato vanished, Ren left university during his second year. He had borrowed approximately ¥1.8 million. Accumulated across consumer loans to cover rent deposits and arrears, his mother’s medical follow-ups after her back injury, and Mei’s education costs.

Ren set the papers down, his jaw tight. Masato’s ¥60 million collapse had destroyed their foundation. Ren’s ¥1.8 million debt was his own desperate attempt to build a temporary floor under the wreckage. The reward did not even scratch the surface of that debt, but for the first time in two years, Ren had a toehold.

At 2:15 p.m., a knock sounded at his apartment door.

Ren stood carefully, wincing as pain pulled across his bruised ribs, and opened the door.

A standard courier in a blue-and-yellow uniform stood in the narrow hallway holding a small, padded cardboard box. The courier looked ordinary, from his scuffed shoes to the delivery scanner clipped to his belt.

"Kisaragi Ren-san?" the courier asked politely.

"Yes."

"Same-day local delivery for you. Please sign here."

Ren signed the digital pad. The courier handed over the parcel, bowed, and walked down the exterior stairs.

Ren carried the box inside and set it on his table. He cut the tape with a utility knife and opened the flaps. Inside lay a small dark-glass wellness-drink bottle sealed with a thick foil cap, accompanied by a folded Legacy Reserve estate receipt bearing a QR code.

His phone vibrated beside the box.

[Minor Recovery Potion delivered.]

Ren picked up the bottle. Printed on the label was:

Minor Recovery Potion

Batch: GLR-REC-01

Ren had never submitted his medical history, height, weight, or physical tolerance to the Legacy System, or to anything connected to the Legacy Reserve. Yet the final line beneath the instructions remained:

Formulated for the candidate’s recorded tolerance.