2:17 a.m., Tokyo. The train station is empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the air thick with the low pulse of night, everything washed in greenish light. The vending machine hums softly.
I press my face to the glass. Behind rows of tea and energy drinks, there it is: a tuxedo cat. Its yellow eyes gleam like headlights. Its tail flicks lazily against a row of Boss Coffee cans. I blink. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe it’s in my head. But no. It’s real. A living cat, breathing inside the machine.
“Hello, kitty,” I whisper.
It doesn’t move. Just watches me, its gaze unyielding. A tightness pulls in my chest.
I press the button for green tea. The bottle thunks down. The cat doesn’t stir, just stays there, as if it belongs.
“How did you get in there?” I ask. It sounds foolish, but I’m still asking.
The cat licks its paw, slow and deliberate. The pause stretches.
“Same way you did,” it says.
I step back, dry-mouthed. “I walked.”
The cat stares, narrowing its eyes. Deciding whether to bother.
“Exactly,” it says.
I don’t understand. Why is it speaking? My stomach tightens. The hum of the machine deepens and vibrates in my bones. I can’t look away. Its eyes are too knowing, too patient.
The machine hums. The night hums. The station holds its breath.
“Be careful which buttons you press,” the cat says, voice low, rough.
I shiver. A warning? A joke?
Something coils tight inside me. I press my hand to the glass, watching the cat lick its paw again. “What do you mean?” I ask.
Its eyes flick to the button I pressed, the one that dropped the bottle. Then back to me—hard, unreadable.
“You might not get what you think you’ll get,” it says. Then, as if offering something else, “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
My heart races. The hum grows louder. It presses into my ribcage and urges to leave this place.
I pull my hand back from the glass. The cold from the machine lingers.
I leave the bottle behind, turn and walk away, my footsteps echoing. The hum follows, quiet but persistent, buzzing in my head. I know the cat is still watching.
I don’t look back. But just before I leave the station, I hear it—a soft click. Something unlocked.
I don’t know what it means, but I’m certain I don’t want to find out.