247 Iesp 458 Risa Murakami Apart Page

“Level 247s don’t manifest physically,” I muttered, recording into my wrist mic. “Something’s off.”

Then the microwave door swung open, and inside, where the turntable should have been, was a single photograph. A young woman. Same sharp bob. Same librarian glasses. But this one was smiling—a real smile, unforced, warm.

That’s when the lights flickered and the numbers on the microwave changed. Not to 0:00. To . The apartment number. Then to 247 . Then to 11 —the months she’d been dead.

“You’re not here to document me,” Risa said. Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere, like a radio tuned between stations. “You’re here because IESP sent you to clean up their mistake.” 247 IESP 458 Risa Murakami Apart

I turned.

That’s how I ended up in Risa Murakami’s apartment at 3:00 AM.

She pointed at the microwave. At the numbers. 458. 247. 11. Same sharp bob

Today was Wednesday.

“What mistake?”

And from the bedroom, a woman’s voice—warm, smiling, wrong—called out: That’s when the lights flickered and the numbers

I followed the sound. The apartment was pristine. Her books were alphabetized. Her single teacup sat on a cork coaster. On the fridge, a sticky note in neat handwriting: “Milk expires Tuesday.” Tuesday was three days ago.

Nothing. Then the kitchen faucet turned on. Drip. Drip. Drip-silence-drip.

I heard breathing behind me. Not a whisper. Not a wind. The wet, rhythmic inhale-exhale of someone standing too close.

Written on the back in pen: “Yuki. 458. Don’t trust the apart.”