As the wheels struck the rails, the hand straps trembled and swayed with a metallic shriek like a missed step. The morning's slanted light beat down upon the surging crowd of heads. Every time the angular iron box was swallowed by the platform, the stale stench of sweat mingled with the cool breeze.

It was a dark brown paper carton. An inexpensive, glossy sheen with brown and white patterns, and the words "Coffee Milk" in a yellow, tacky font.

A worn-out man. His name is Kotaro Toraya. Thirty-two years old. The edge of a straw was caught between his cracked lips. The fragrant aroma and the thick, somewhat silly sweetness were sucked into the tension of his Adam's apple.

A black suit, a dress shirt with an open collar, a backpack-style business bag... only the crescent-shaped plastic sticking out of its edge was strikingly yellow.

A banana case. A faint tropical scent wove through the stale stench of the train, stroking the nostrils.

If he cleaned himself up, he might look like he was in his late twenties. While Kotaro's gaze followed the overpass outside the window blankly, the black-pearl cores of his eyes were so deep that even the sunlight seemed to sink into them. Beneath his dry tear bags, the dark circles looked as if they had been boiled and encrusted.

The shadows of the overpass and the morning-cold light dyed the messy, pale yellow tips of his hair in a mottled pattern. The gaps in his stubble wavered with the rhythm of the wheels.

When the flat voice of the conductor dropped from the ceiling, it drowned out the sweet, silly flavor of the coffee milk and banana. At the bottom of the paper carton, the emptiness rang as it was sucked up.

For just a moment, the depths of those black eyes swept over the crowd inside the car.

Whatever was reflected in those slipping round glasses... his stooped back began to drift away, riding the surge of the crowd.