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For me, Steins;Gate, Neon Genesis Evangelion, Berserk, Oyasumi Punpun, and Boys Abyss really blew my mind. What about you guys?

Audio version here: The assembled mourners sat frozen, their faces masks of disbelief and confusion. Minutes crawled by before anyone dared to move. Finally, a middle-aged man who appeared to be a relative approached Ayame with cautious steps. His face bore the strained expression of someone trying to manage an impossible situation. He leaned close to her ear, his voice barely audible as he whispered what seemed to be words of comfort and control. Ayame’s response was immediate and defiant. She pulled back from him, her grip tightening on the microphone that had become her weapon of truth. “I’m fine. I’m not tired at all. I don’t need more sleep,” she declared, her voice crackling through the speakers as the microphone caught every word of her protest. A woman, presumably another relative, hurried forward to join the intervention. She moved with practiced efficiency, placing her hand over the microphone to muffle any further outbursts before whispering urgently into Ayame’s other ear. Her movements suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d had to manage a family crisis. The male relative reached for the microphone, his fingers closing around it as he attempted to wrestle it from Ayame’s determined grasp. She fought back with surprising strength. The struggle was brief but intense. The female relative joined the effort, and together they managed to pry the microphone from Ayame’s hands. Victory came at a cost. Ayame remained visibly agitated, her eyes blazing with rage and frustration as the male relative placed a firm but gentle hand on her arm, guiding her away. The female relative quickly assumed control of the situation, bringing the microphone to her lips with the ease of someone accustomed to public speaking. “I’m sorry for that,” she began, her tone measured and diplomatic. She paused, choosing her next words with visible care. “Ayame hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Which is understandable. It’s still a shock what Makoto did.” She continued her damage control, weaving a narrative that would allow everyone to return to their comfortable assumptions. Ayame was simply a grieving mother, overwhelmed by loss and unable to accept the harsh reality of her son’s suicide. Her outburst was nothing more than the desperate denial of a broken heart. The crowd began to settle, their collective tension easing as they embraced the explanation offered to them. Heads nodded in understanding, and whispered conversations resumed. The normal rhythms of a wake gradually reasserted themselves. But not everyone was so easily convinced. Five pairs of eyes met in a moment of silent communication. Misao, Kiyoshi, Nara, Junichi, and Makiko exchanged glances that spoke volumes without uttering a single word. The quiet café that Misao had mentioned earlier provided a blunt contrast to the chaos they had just left behind. The wake had finally concluded, and the five friends now found themselves in the establishment’s warm embrace. The café enveloped them with its cozy atmosphere. Soft lighting cast golden pools across wooden tables and chairs that had been crafted by artisans. The ambiance was almost hypnotic in its tranquility, designed to lull visitors into a state of peaceful meditation. Through the large glass windows, trees and plants pressed closed to the glass, creating the illusion that the café existed in a magical ancient forest. “Are you kidding me? A thousand yen for a cup of coffee?!” Junichi exclaimed, his loud laugh boomed through the quiet café, and caused a few heads to turn. “I could buy a whole meal for my parents with that!” He slumped into his chair. Nara, seated across from him, gave a direct glance, her expression unamused. “It’s called inflation, Junichi. And quality. This is a premium café.” Misao, seated to Junichi’s right, merely observed them. She took a slow sip of her Gyokuro tea. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Nara in years. And though they used to be best friends, the tension also lingered between them from their senior high school days. Misao saw Junichi still as a big brother and appreciated his efforts. Makiko, sitting next to Misao on the same side of the table, gave a gentle giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. She always ran to Junichi when she was scared or nervous in high school. Knowing he was kind. But now, she seemed a little nervous around Kiyoshi, who was engrossed in his phone, and barely acknowledged their presence. Kiyoshi remained largely silent, slouched in his chair across Misao, fiddled with his phone, and avoided eye contact. “It’s good to see everyone, even under these circumstances,” Misao finally said, her words carefully chosen. “It’s been too long.” Junichi, still scanning the menu, sighed dramatically. “So long that coffee prices shot through the roof, it seems.” He looked up at Misao, a faint admiration in his eyes. “So, what are we going to do? Just catch up?” The question stirred something in Misao’s memory. She paused, her gaze drifted past the polished glass walls of the café, lost for a moment in the echo of a younger voice. “Misao, what are we going to do?” The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the Hiroo Senior High School’s Detective club room. Casting long shadows across the overflowing bookshelves and cluttered table. It was their first meeting of the year, a new beginning after spring break. As was their tradition, Misao, club president, stood by the board. “Misao, what are we going to do?” Asked Junichi, already sprawled in his chair, half-eaten snack in hand. Misao gives him a gentle smile, “Welcome back, everyone. First meeting of the year! You know the drill,” she announced, her voice soft but clear. “Let’s go around. Tell us about your spring break. Anything interesting happen? Any exciting plans for the school year?” Junichi was the first to practically burst forward. “Oh, me, me! I went to watch the Spring Koshien baseball tournament! Man, the energy was insane! I almost cried during the final match, but don’t tell anyone,” he said, letting out a loud, full-body laugh that vibrated through the room causing the dust motes in the sunlight to dance. “For this year, I’m gonna hit the weights even harder! Gotta keep this body in shape!” He flexed an arm, grinning widely. Next was Nara, already organized, her notes laid out on the table like a battle plan. Her expression was precise. “My break was efficiently utilized. I completed a deep dive into the latest advancements in quantum computing ethics. As for the school year, my goal is to maintain academic perfection and prepare for university entrance exams, specifically focusing on advanced logic and AI modules.” She offered no further anecdotes, her words as clipped and direct as ever. Makiko, looked up, a faint blush on her cheeks. Her movements were light and quick. “Oh, um, I mostly stayed home. I re-read some of my favorite poetry collections, and tried out some new herb tea blends,” she said, her voice soft and polite, a slight nervous tremor making her speak a little faster. “I… I also visited a few new cafes. For the school year, I just hope to… to understand people better. And maybe not cry so much,” she added, giving a gentle giggle, as she covered her mouth with her hand. Kiyoshi, perpetually hunched over his handheld console, barely looked up. “Spring break… upgraded the firmware of my PSP. Optimized my home network,” he mumbled, his voice monotone. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Planning to… make more software this year”. Misao listened to each of them, a warmth spreading through her chest. This was her favorite part. The clatter of a coffee cup brought Misao back to the present. The café hummed around them. She looked at Junichi, his earlier liveliness now softened by a rare, quiet moment. “What are we going to do?” A faint, quiet laugh escaped Misao, almost under her breath. “You know,” she said, her voice deliberate, cutting through the lingering tension. “We used to do this at our first club meeting every year.” She looked around at each of them, a knowing glint in her eye. “Let’s go around. Update everyone. What have you all been doing these past fifteen years?” Junichi exhaled loudly, a playful grimace on his face. “You’re still pulling that trick, Misao?” He then reached for a croissant on the table, tearing into it with gusto, crumbs scattering onto his shirt. “Alright, alright. Fair enough. Since you asked… I’m a private body guard now. Travel a bit for work, mostly in the port cities. Still sending most of my earnings home to the folks, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, the faint scent of cheap body spray wafting across the table. “Still trying to make ends meet, but hey, at least I get to, uh, protect people. Like the big brother I always was,” he winked, in the direction of Misao and Nara. Nara, adjusted her smart watch, her gaze direct as she spoke. “I am a logic university professor at Hanakaze University. My work primarily involves advanced AI and computational ethics. It’s intellectually stimulating.” She took a measured sip from her matcha milkshake and offered no further details. Makiko, gave another gentle giggle. “Oh, um, I’m a freelancer interpreter and translator. Japanese, English, Korean. It’s… it’s a lot of work, and sometimes I get a little anxious about money,” she admitted, her voice polite. She brought a small cup of Sencha tea to her lips, inhaling the aroma before taking a slow, mindful sip. “But I also get to read a lot, and try new herb teas! I even found a new café recently that has the most wonderful jasmine blend.” Her eyes sparkled a little. Kiyoshi, still hunched over his phone, finally mumbled, almost under his breath, “Freelance cybersecurity consultant. White hat hacking. Pays the bills. Keeps me… indoors.” He gave a rare, nasal chuckle. Embarrassed by the sound, he retreated back into his phone, shying away from eye contact. Misao smiled, a quiet, brief curve of her lips. “And me? I’m an NGO investigator, specializing in corruption in Asia.” She took another slow sip of her Gyokuro tea, observing her friends. “It involves a lot of travel, but it’s fulfilling. Chasing the truth, you know?” As they continued to talk, the initial awkwardness began to melt away. Junichi recounted a comical incident from a bodyguard assignment, eliciting a rare, amused glance from Nara, and Makiko’s gentle giggles turned into a full, heartfelt laughter, her hand still covering her mouth. Even Kiyoshi offered a dry, almost witty comment about the inefficiencies of corporate networks, earning a surprised, almost approving nod from Nara. Misao felt a warmth spread through her chest. A familiar yet forgotten feeling. Something she never knew she missed, until now, fifteen years later. The air lightened considerably, filled with chatter and laughter. Junichi, looked around the table, his earlier laughter fading. “So, what was that about, anyway?” he asked, his voice now serious. “Makoto’s mom… saying he was murdered? The police said it was suicide, right? No foul play involved?” He leaned forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. Nara, set down her shake with a soft clink. “That’s correct, Junichi. According to all public news reports and the official police investigation, Makoto Kure’s death was ruled a suicide. There was no foul play determined.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, simply relaying facts. Makiko, with a somber frown, leaned slightly forward, clutching her steaming cup of tea as if for comfort. “Yes, that’s what the news said. I… I remember reading about it. It was last August 5th, a concerned citizen called the police after seeing what looked like a corpse hanging from a tree in Momozono Park here in Kanezawa.” Her voice grew softer, a nervous tremor returning. “It turned out to be Makoto. They also found a suicide note. And… the autopsy confirmed he died from hanging.” She took a hurried, almost breathless sip of her tea, her eyes wide with the remembered details. Kiyoshi, who had been absently sipping his espresso and scrolling through his phone, finally looked up, his gaze darting between his friends before settling on the table. “Yeah, it’s all over social media right now. People are pretty divided,” he mumbled, his voice a low drone. “Some are just, like, factual. Thinking Makoto’s mom was just emotional, you know, couldn’t accept it. But then there are the conspiracy theorists. They started questioning everything. Saying it had to be murder.” He shrugged, taking another swig of his espresso. Nara scoffed. “Nowadays, conspiracy theories are abundant because of the world we live in. Flat earth and all that. That kind of stuff,” she stated, her tone dismissive. “So it’s not a surprise that people want to turn this into something else. Something more exciting. Human beings crave drama, even in tragedy.” Misao, however, remained quiet for a moment, her gaze distant, as if sifting through invisible threads of thought. “I… I think Makoto’s mom, was being sincere when she made that outrageous claim,” she finally said. “She really believes it. Whether it’s true or not, her conviction was absolute.” Makiko’s eyes, still reflecting a deep unease, locked onto Misao’s. Her politeness, seemed to crack slightly. “But… why? Why would Makoto do it? I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. What was he like, before all this? Before… before he died? What was he like back in senior high?” she asked, her voice gaining a desperate edge. “And what about now? He was a self-help influencer, right? Talking about overcoming trauma? It just doesn’t make sense.” She wrung her hands slightly, her anxiety evident. Junichi frowned, trying to remember. He finished a roll cake and reached for another, but stopped himself, his appetite momentarily forgotten. “Makoto… he was always a bit of a delinquent in senior high,” he mused, a thoughtful look on his face. “Friendly enough on the surface. But there was always something… beneath it. He was tight with Takehiro Takeshita, remember? They hung around a lot. I heard he became a big shot, talking about mental health stuff, but… it’s ironic, isn’t it?” His brow furrowed deeper, a rare moment of genuine introspection. Nara tapped on her smartwatch, a flicker of something almost like impatience crossing her precise features. “He had a public persona, Makiko. People construct narratives. His social media presence, as a self-help influencer, was designed to present a particular image of overcoming adversity. It’s not necessarily indicative of his true psychological state or private struggles.” She then turned her direct gaze to Makiko. “You are allowing emotion to cloud your judgment. This is not logical. We are discussing facts.” Makiko flinched slightly at Nara’s bluntness, her polite demeanor struggling. “But… it’s not just facts, Nara. People don’t just disappear without reasons!” She insisted, her voice rising slightly, a burst of faster talking as her nervousness took over. “There’s always a reason for someone to give up. To… to commit suicide. I just want to understand why he would choose that. What led him there? I want to understand what Makoto was like inside.” Her quiet tears, threatened to surface. She was right, Misao thought to herself, a quiet throbbing beneath her ribs. People don’t just disappear without reasons. Especially not Makoto, with a past like his, and a mother so fiercely convinced of foul play. There was something here, something being hidden. The familiar urge, the pull towards truth and justice, began to stir within her. But then, a subtle stab in her chest, a faint wave of fatigue, reminded her. The debate raged internally, a silent conflict between her drive and the fragile reality. The other debate between Nara and Makiko continued, Nara trying to pull Makiko back to logic, Makiko insisting on empathy and understanding the human element. Kiyoshi, meanwhile, had retreated back to his phone. Junichi was now just listening, his usual energy subdued by the gravity of the discussion. Misao’s eyes, however, sharpened. The external debate, the internal one, all coalesced into a singular, undeniable conviction. She set her teacup down with a faint, decisive sound, interrupting the rising tension. Her voice, though still soft, cut through the air with an unexpected clarity, capturing everyone’s attention. “I feel Makoto’s mom is not lying,” Misao stated, her gaze sweeping across each of her friends, holding their eyes. “And investigating a little wouldn’t hurt.” A smile touched her lips, a spark igniting in her usually reserved demeanor. “Hiroo Detective Club… the game is afoot.”

Audio version here: A woman dressed in all black, stepped out, her movements graceful and calm, despite the quiet hum of anxiety beneath her. Her long, golden-blonde hair fell in gentle waves past her shoulders, framing a face that spoke of quiet contemplation and hidden depths. The building itself was a study in modern solemnity: sleek, minimalist, and expensive, its expansive glass facade reflecting the overcast Kanezawa sky like a somber mirror. The air carried a faint chill, a prelude to deeper discomfort. Approaching the grand entrance, the woman was met by a female attendant, whose smile was practiced and polite. The attendant offered a respectfully bowed greeting before presenting a heavy, leather-bound registry book. The pages within were stark white, waiting to be filled with the names of the grieving. "If you would, please," the attendant murmured, her voice soft as velvet, gesturing towards the open page. The woman took the pen, its cool metal a small anchor in her hand. She filled in her full name: Misao Takano. Her script was careful, deliberate, a reflection of her meticulous nature. Then her address: 3-12-8 Sakura Heights, Churo Ward, Hanakaze City. When her gaze fell upon the "Affiliation" column, she paused, a fleeting moment of hesitation that rippled through her otherwise composed demeanor. Makoto Kure. The name felt both distant and unsettlingly familiar. She tried to recall their interactions, searching for a bond that might justify a closer connection, a more intimate category, but found only fragmented memories of senior high school days. They weren't close, not truly. He was a classmate, yes, a former schoolmate. That was it. She wrote "Classmate" in the “Affiliation” column. The attendant nodded, then gestured towards the main hall. The sheer size of the funeral hall for Makoto Kure was startling. Misao had expected a gathering, a respectable number of mourners, but this was a multitude. The space was vast, filled with hushed murmurs and the subtle, cloying scent of lilies that hung heavy in the air. It was far grander than she would have imagined for the Makoto she remembered. The sheer volume of people, a silent, sorrowful sea, spoke of a life that had touched far more than a handful of old school friends. An usher, noting her solitary presence amidst the groups of conversing attendees, gently guided her towards the back row, a section seemingly reserved for acquaintances, colleagues, and distant relations – those who perhaps knew the public persona more than the private man. As she settled into the plush seat, the truth dawned on her with a quiet certainty. The Makoto she knew, the unkempt, boisterous delinquent from senior high, was not the Makoto being mourned by this sea of people. This was a public figure, a famous self-help influencer, and these sorrowful faces belonged to his fans, his followers, not necessarily his intimate circle of friends and family. The transformation was profound, almost unbelievable. A memory, sharp and vivid, unspooled in Misao's mind, pulling her back to a different Makoto. It was a warm afternoon during senior high. The air, thick and heavy with the promise of summer, clung to everything, making uniforms feel stifling and movements languid. The shrill, insistent ring of the school bell had just signaled the end of lunch break, its echo fading as streams of students, their chatter slowly dissolving, began to flow back towards their classrooms. Misao, heading towards her classroom, had passed by the gymnasium. The back doors were slightly ajar, letting out a sliver of noise and scent into the otherwise orderly hallway. From within, she heard boisterous laughter and the unmistakable, acrid scent of cigarette smoke, thick and stale in the enclosed space. Peeking inside, driven by a flicker of curiosity, she saw him: Makoto, his uniform disheveled, surrounded by other delinquents. They weren't even attempting to hide their smoking, exhaling plumes of smoke into the stale gym air as if daring anyone to challenge them. Their voices were loud, their laughter echoing, raw and uninhibited, a stark contrast to the quiet hallways outside, a defiant rebellion against the school's strictures. He had been so different then, so unrestrained, so unlike the polished, confident image now gracing the altar. The contrast struck Misao, a testament to the complexities of human transformation. It made her wonder which Makoto truly existed, or if both were merely facets of a man she barely knew. After a few moments of quiet reflection, the vivid image of the past Makoto lingering in her mind, Misao decided to pay her respects directly. She rose from her seat, her usual graceful and calm stride carrying her purposefully towards the altar, a quiet island in the sea of murmuring mourners. There, draped in a tasteful cloth, sat the closed casket, a solemn vessel containing the final remnants of a life. Above it, dominating the altar space with an almost theatrical presence, was a large, illuminated photograph of Makoto. In the photo, he was the very picture of success: well-styled hair, a neatly trimmed face, an engaging, confident smile as he looked directly into the camera, radiating an aura of polished charisma. The altar itself was a lavish display, overflowing with an array of vibrant flowers—lilies, chrysanthemums, and roses in profusion—alongside a discreet microphone and several copies of Makoto’s glossy self-help books, prominently arranged as a testament to his worldly impact. Misao bowed deeply to the photograph, a respectful acknowledgment of the man, or at least the image, that had once been Makoto Kure. She then approached the casket, her hand hovering for a moment, a moment of hesitation before connecting with the finality of death, before gently resting upon its cool, smooth surface. The polished wood felt surprisingly inert beneath her palm. "You look peaceful, Makoto," she murmured, almost to herself, her soft-spoken voice barely a whisper in the vast hall. "It's… weird, isn't it? Seeing a batch mate gone so soon. We're only in our early thirties". A sudden, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her fingers as they rested on the casket, a faint shiver that was not of cold. Her heart skipped, a jolt of panic, sharp and unexpected, coursing through her. She quickly, almost imperceptibly, withdrew her hand, trying to hide the slight trembling that had betrayed her composure. She glanced around, a quick, furtive scan, her eyes darting through the somber crowd. Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed. Only the still, unseeing presence of the deceased Makoto Kure was there to witness her fleeting moment of vulnerability. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, barely audible, a release of held breath. She clasped her hands together and offered a silent prayer for Makoto, a brief, heartfelt moment of farewell, before turning and making her way back to her seat with renewed composure. Back in her seat, Misao’s thoughts drifted, it was just fatigue, she told herself, a consequence of overworking, her well-known vice. Her quiet contemplation was abruptly interrupted by a voice, dry and slightly nasally, from behind her. "They say funerals bring people together. Weird. He's dead, so we hang out." Misao turned to see Kiyoshi Shijo, his lean, wiry frame with shoulders slightly slouched, and his gaze fixed on his phone rather than her. He had just arrived, disheveled brown hair fell across his forehead in unruly strands. Behind thick eyeglasses, his usual air of social awkwardness preceding him like a faint aura. She offered a small, knowing smile. He still showed up, even if he didn't have to. Before Misao could respond, another voice, precise and direct, cut in, carrying an undeniable edge of authority. "Kiyoshi, must you always be so… blunt?" Nara Hiruma stepped into the row, her brisk and efficient walk a stark contrast to Kiyoshi's shuffling gait. Her striking blue hair fell in sleek strands to her shoulders, with precise bangs. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes, sharp and analytical, held a familiar glint when they met Misao's. Behind her, Junichi Kai lumbered forward, his imposing frame filling the aisle with a comfortable, if slightly clumsy, confidence.... A mountain of muscle. Dark, tousled hair crowned his head in unruly waves. He offered Misao a warm, almost shy smile. “Misao-chan! It’s been too long,” he boomed, his casual, friendly tone momentarily forgetting the solemn setting, then quickly softened his voice, remembering where they were. Then, Makiko Handa appeared, her light, quick steps almost silent. Her petite frame seemed almost delicate. Soft purple hair fell in gentle waves just past her shoulders. Her eyes were red-rimmed, betraying recent tears. She offered a soft, almost apologetic giggle, a common nervous habit that Misao remembered well. "I'm so sorry, everyone," she whispered, her voice soft-spoken. "It's just… so sad." The four of them – the remnants of the Hiroo senior high school detective club – now sat awkwardly together in the back row, a strange reunion brought about by death. Junichi, trying to lighten the mood, attempted to break the ice. "Well, since we're all here, might as well make the most of it, right? Maybe grab some coffee after this?" Kiyoshi, still engrossed in his phone, gave a noncommittal grunt. Nara, considered the proposal with her usual analytical precision. “A cafe would provide a more suitable environment for discussion than a funeral hall,” she stated, her words clipped and efficient. Makiko, nodded enthusiastically, a small, hopeful smile breaking through her grief-stricken expression. Misao, observing them all, felt a strange mix of emotions – a nostalgic pull for the past, a quiet apprehension for the uncertain future that seemed to be drawing them back together, and a flicker of hope that perhaps this unexpected reunion held a purpose beyond mere mourning. "A cafe sounds good," Misao agreed, her voice soft but deliberate, cementing the plan. "There's a quiet one a few blocks from here." As the group silently settled back into their seats, Makoto’s mother, Ayame Kure, made her way to the altar. A staff member, with a somber expression appropriate to the occasion, handed her the microphone. Ayame's presence commanded attention, her black hair, now touched with elegant silver streaks at the temples, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. In her mid-fifties, she carried herself with a refined poise. Her grief a palpable weight in the hushed hall, drawing all eyes to her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes sweeping over the assembled faces, a fragile dignity clinging to her despite her evident pain. "My son, Makoto…" she began, her voice trembling but clear, filled with a raw, maternal sorrow, "he was my world. From the moment he was a small, boisterous boy, full of an irrepressible energy that often got him into mischief, to the confident, inspiring man he became, he filled my life with joy and sometimes, with a pain that only a mother can know". Her voice faltered slightly, catching in her throat, but she pressed on, a fierce love burning in her eyes, unwavering even in the face of immense loss. "He was so kind. So dedicated. He touched so many lives, more than I could ever have imagined, more than he probably knew himself." A tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek, a shining testament to her sorrow. "I want to thank all of you for coming today. For showing your love for Makoto, for honoring his memory. Your presence here, it truly means the world to me. He would have been so proud… so touched to see you all here." The silence that followed was thick with shared sorrow, broken only by a few sniffles from the rows of fans, a collective sigh of grief. Ayame's gaze hardened slightly, a subtle shift that caught Misao's keen eye, an underlying tension replacing the outward sorrow. Her hands, gripping the microphone, began to tremble, no longer from grief but from a rising intensity. Her expression twisted, contorted by a raw, unbridled emotion bubbling to the surface, startling everyone in the hall, pulling them from their solemn reflections. "But he wouldn't want this," she cried out, her voice rising, cracking with a sudden, searing fury that shattered the funeral's solemn peace, echoing through the vast hall. Her eyes, wild with grief and conviction, glared at the closed casket, as if daring it to contradict her. "He wouldn't leave me like this! My son… Makoto… he didn’t commit suicide! He was murdered!" The declaration hung in the air, a shocking, desperate cry that silenced every whisper, every rustle, every breath in the vast hall, leaving behind only a stunned, horrifying silence that pulsed with disbelief and a chilling revelation.

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