The early bird gets the w— I paused mid-thought, letting out a long, groggy yawn, my eyes heavy-lidded. "Ugh, I need caffeine," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. It was barely 4 AM. There was hardly any light as if the world too was sleepy-eyed, squinting as to not allow the spotlight to shine through yet. Even Akashi Station was still dark and empty—as it should be.

The only sign of life, with the exception of “Tyson”—the pigeon I just jabbed with the front tire of my bike, was the unagi shop just down the street. I parked my bike near the Lawson by the market’s east entrance and made the last thirty meters to work on foot.

The air here was thick with the scent of sizzling fish oil and soy sauce, the kind of smell that works its way into your clothes and hair, clings to your skin, and doesn’t let go.

Yesterday was a Sunday so the garbage was yet to be collected, leaving the market brimming with piles of the previous days trash which reeked of stale beer and discarded fish guts, a harsh contrast to the sharp sweetness and the earthy richness of grilled eel that filled the market air.

I’d greeted them with a good morning call, and as usual, received nothing more than some grunts and mostly moans, almost inaudible over the crackling above the fire and the sound of Bruno Mars’ honey voice singing That’s What I Like. No champagne here, no diamonds, and definitely no women—at least not for several hours, certainly none like the song was hinting at. Just a bunch of men, young and old, trying to get through another day.

The Whodunit Diaries