Estimated reading time — 19 minutes

I don’t have long to write this, so I’m going to write it fast.

I keep smelling jasmine and camphor as I’m typing this on my phone. It started twenty minutes ago. It’s getting stronger.

I know what that means now. I wish I knew it earlier, when I smelled it for the first time. Back then, it was just a strange perfume in a strange room.

I wish it stayed that way.

My name isn’t important. Not because I’m trying to be mysterious. But because it is, genuinely and legally, not mine to give you anymore. I gave it up eight months ago, on purpose, for money I never got to spend and a life I never got to live.

On the bright side, I’ve finally learnt how to ‘disappear’ responsibly, albeit a little too late. To whoever is reading this- I hope you don’t make the same mistakes that I made, in case you ever want to be a Jōhatsu like me.

If you’ve never heard of Jōhatsu, look it up. It’s a real thing- a real Japanese phenomenon. The term refers to people who disappear from their lives, on purpose, and are never looked for again. I did the research myself, obsessively, before I signed anything. I was proud of how thorough I was. I want you to remember that later, when you get to the part where none of it mattered.

I’m writing this because someone should know what actually happens after you disappear. Not the version they tell you in the consultation room, but the real one.

Eight months ago, I was twenty-eight years old, and I didn’t have a single thing going right for me.

I’d been with Nadia for eleven years. We were supposed to get engaged that spring. I called it off, four days before the ring was even supposed to leave the shop. I won’t get into why. Just know that it was my fault, and that I knew it was my fault while I was doing it, and I did it anyway.

My mother died of cancer when I was twenty-four. My father and I stopped speaking around the same time. It had nothing to do with grief, and everything to do with the twenty-two years that came before it. I won’t get into those details either.

I dropped out of university in my second year, to put everything I had into a crypto project called Chacha Coin. It collapsed within a few months and took my savings with it, along with money I’d borrowed from people who cared about me. I ended up in a dead-end job at a logistics company, one I already knew wouldn’t renew my contract.

Somewhere in all of that, I picked up a drinking problem. Then I picked up something a little worse than a drinking problem. I’m not going to describe it in detail, but I was spending money I didn’t have, on things that were actively making my life shorter and smaller.

I was, in every sense that matters, a person with nothing left to protect.

I saw the ad at two in the morning, the way you see everything that ends up ruining your life- half-asleep, thumb moving on its own, scrolling past nothing in particular. The words were in bold, over a photo of an empty road at sunrise:

SOME PEOPLE DON’T NEED THERAPY. THEY NEED A NEW IDENTITY. TIME TO BE FREE. DISAPPEAR RESPONSIBLY…

No company name. No explanation. Just a number underneath it.

I should’ve asked myself why an ad like that would even exist, or what “responsibly” was supposed to mean in that sentence. I didn’t ask myself anything.

I just called the number.

A man named Rafiq picked up on the second ring, like he’d been expecting the call. He introduced himself as a senior manager for Aldermore & Associates. It was a name I recognized vaguely. It was a multinational consultancy that had been around for a while. He explained that the company was diversifying into a new market: “Jōhatsu services.” They were partnering with established operators in Japan, bringing the concept to the West for the first time, in a soft launch: limited clients, limited visibility, nothing public yet.

Then he told me the price. It was low. In fact, it was noticeably low, for what was being promised.

I didn’t want another Chacha Coin situation, so I spent four days confirming everything the ad had implied was true. It was. Japan has an existing subculture of ‘night-moving companies’, and the practice of Jōhatsu has decades of precedent. It was a quiet, legitimate industry, built on helping people vanish from debt and misery and shame. I found nothing connecting Aldermore to anything sinister- just a registered firm with years of clients, past and present.

I called Rafiq back and told him I wanted to proceed. He referred to me, from that call onwards, as Candidate 309. He said it was standard intake procedure, designed to make sure that no level of authority could trace me back to my old identity, once I ‘disappeared responsibly’ to assume a new one. I believed him, the way I believed most things back then.

He told me there was one final step: a mandatory consultation with the company physician, a certain Dr. Mollah. The aim of the consultation was to confirm that I had “ample reason” to leave my old life behind, and more importantly- that I wasn’t intending to end it altogether.

I met Dr. Mollah two days later, in a small, clean office with nothing personal in it. He took a long history first: Nadia, my mother, my father, Chacha Coin, the job, the drinking. He asked, more than once, in different phrasings, whether I wanted to disappear because I wanted to die, or because I wanted to live differently. I told him the truth. I did want to live. I just didn’t want to live like a man with hope in a life with no meaning.

He nodded and typed. He never once used my name. To him, I was Candidate 309, and nothing else.

Then he asked something that caught me off guard, mostly because it didn’t feel clinical at all.

“Describe your new life to me, Candidate 309,” he said. “What does it actually look like?”

I gave him something generic at first. A fresh start. A clean slate.

He waited. He didn’t write anything down. He just waited, patiently, until the silence made me keep talking.

So I did.

“…someone who actually loved me, for a change, instead of leaving…”

“…parents who were actually present…”

“…money that actually existed, and didn’t just disappear into a bad decision…”

And lastly, something I was almost embarrassed to say out loud-

“I wanted a life where drugs and alcohol were no longer an option. Never again.”

He typed all of it in. Then he closed the laptop, looked at me, and smiled.

“You’ve passed the evaluation, Candidate 309,” he said.

I remember feeling relieved, like I’d cleared some hurdle that mattered. I think about that smile a lot now. At the time I read it as warmth. It wasn’t.

I signed the paperwork three days later, in the same office, at the same desk. Rafiq handled it personally. At the top of the first page, in bold, sat the company’s own branding for the product I was buying:

DISAPPEAR RESPONSIBLY™ – Client Terms of Service
Section 4: Candidate Obligations
Beneath it, were five rules:
1. Candidate shall cease all contact, direct or indirect, with persons known to them prior to the effective date of their planned disappearance.
2. Candidate shall accept their new identity in full, and shall raise no dispute, inquiry, or claim regarding any matter preceding the disappearance.
3. Candidate shall make no attempt, physical or otherwise, to contact, locate, or return to any party or identity connected to the disappearance.
4. Candidate acknowledges that Aldermore & Associates bears no liability for outcomes arising from the Candidate’s breach of any term herein.
5. This agreement, once executed, is irrevocable, and severs all prior legal identity in full.

I read all five twice. They read like every other contract I’d ever signed and not read closely. It was the kind of language you skim because you assume someone smarter than you has already checked it.

I signed at the bottom.

That’s when Rafiq slid a second document across the desk.

It wasn’t a legal document, not by any definition I understood. It was a scroll: handmade paper, rolled and tied with a thin cord. It was written, from top to bottom, in characters I couldn’t read a single word of, bordered with symbols I didn’t recognize. It smelled strongly of something floral and something medicinal at once. I recognized it as jasmine, and underneath it, was camphor.

I asked him what it was.

“A translation of the same terms,” he said. “The Japanese partners insist on it. Just a ceremonial formality that came from the East. It was a condition for using their original Jōhatsu methodology. I assure you- it carries no legal binding. Purely custom.”

I remember looking at it and thinking it was almost funny. In all honesty, it was too decorated to be taken seriously. Real contracts don’t come tied with cord and smelling of a temple. It looked like a prop, something a company hands you to make an old idea feel authentic, not something with any actual teeth. I told myself it was a respectful gesture toward wherever this practice originally came from.

I told myself a lot of things back then.

I signed it too, beneath characters I couldn’t read, under a scent I couldn’t forget.

Two nights later, a black taxi pulled up outside my apartment, at exactly the time Rafiq had specified. The driver didn’t say a single word to me the entire ride. I tried to make conversation twice, mostly out of nerves. I got nothing back both times, not even a glance in the mirror.

He dropped me outside a building I didn’t recognize, somewhere on the edge of the city I’d never had a reason to visit. It looked abandoned, with broken windows, and a chain-link fence with a gap pulled wide enough to walk through. There were no lights anywhere, except one, far in the back, small and flickering.

I asked the driver if this was the right address.

“Just follow the light,” he said. The only words he spoke to me all night.

Then he drove off, and I walked into the building, following the light as instructed.

The light got brighter as I got closer to it, the way a lamp does when you walk toward it in a dark room. But this light didn’t feel like electricity. It felt warmer than that, and somehow heavier. And underneath it, was the same smell from the scroll. It was faint at first, then unmistakable- a mixture of jasmine and camphor.

My head started to feel wrong before my body did. I felt dizzy, but not the kind of dizzy that makes you want to sit down. The kind that makes you want to keep walking toward whatever’s causing it, if that even makes sense.

The light kept growing, until it was the only thing left in the room.

Then it was the only thing left, period.

And then, it wasn’t anything at all…

I woke up to warmth. That’s the first thing I remember. There was a heaviness in my limbs that felt less like waking up, and more like surfacing from underwater.

The room was unfamiliar. Soft light came in through thick curtains, landing on expensive-looking furniture. My whole body ached in ways I didn’t have words for.

A woman walked in before I could sit up. She moved toward the bed like she’d done it a thousand times before, adjusting a pillow behind me without asking, checking my forehead with the back of her hand. She was maybe in her late forties. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and gentle in a way that felt completely foreign to me.

She called me by a name I didn’t recognize.

“Omar, sweetheart. Let’s get some food in you.”

I didn’t correct her. For some reason, my mouth felt like it belonged to someone else.

She fed me soup, slow spoonfuls, patient with every sip. She gave me some pills after, laid out in a small dish. I swallowed them without question, because something told me that I was supposed to trust her completely. She kissed my forehead before she left the room, the way you’d kiss someone you’d loved for a very long time.

It felt surreal. And to be honest, it also felt good, in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Like something, that I didn’t know I’d been missing my whole life, had just been handed to me without asking.

That feeling didn’t survive when I walked to the bathroom.

I don’t know how to describe the moment you see a stranger in the mirror where your own face should be. I looked into the glass. The man who looked back at me was someone I had never seen before in my life. He had grey hair, thin at the crown. Deep lines across the forehead and around the eyes, that clearly took decades to carve. Loose, papery skin along the jaw and neck. I was looking at a man who had, undeniably, lived at least for fifty years, and none of them were mine.

I don’t remember deciding to scream. I just remember the sound bouncing back at me off the tile, and the woman’s footsteps rushing toward the door a second later. I swallowed the second scream before it came out, because some instinct in me understood immediately that screaming would raise questions, ones that I had no way of answering.

She asked if I was alright. I told her I was fine. Just dizzy, I said. Still recovering, I said.

She believed me instantly. That’s the part that unsettled me, more than the mirror did.

Over the days that followed, I learned more about who I was supposed to be. My name was now Omar. I was fifty-two years old. I was a man who had built a small startup decades ago, and sold it for an amount of money two years back. I won’t put the exact amount here. I just want you to know that it was enough money to spend at least a few decades enjoying life. And it was enough money for him to retire at fifty.

As Omar, I lived in a joint household with my wife and parents. Yes, my parents. They were, remarkably, still alive and living under the same roof, well into their nineties, doted on daily by an army of staff. I was a man with, by every visible measure, absolutely nothing left to want.

My wife’s name was Zara. I learned it properly by the second day. She treated me like the center of a life she’d built her entire self around. She spoke to me the way you speak to someone you’ve loved for a lifetime. She brought my parents in to see me. They held my hand, Omar’s hand, and told me stories about a childhood I had never lived. I nodded and smiled, in all the places that felt right, because I had no other choice.

I was told that the man named Omar had disappeared for a handful of days. One night, he was found disoriented near the house, as if following something that couldn’t be seen by anyone else. He was brought home safely, needing a gentle reminder of who he was. A minor medical episode, they called it. Something to be careful about, not alarmed by.

Nobody in that house knew that the man who came back wasn’t the same man who left.

I certainly didn’t understand it yet either.

I just knew that I’d been given exactly what I asked for- someone who actually loved me, parents who were actually present, and money that actually existed.

I hadn’t asked what body it would come in…

The first few weeks were, strangely, the closest thing to peace I’d had in years.

I learned to walk through Omar’s life. I studied photographs on the walls, memorized names the staff used without thinking, listened more than I spoke. Zara filled in gaps for me without knowing she was doing it, the way spouses do when they think their partner is simply distracted, or tired, or still recovering an episode that brought him home disoriented.

I told myself that the aching in my joints was just age. I thought it was something that my body- Omar’s body- would have to adjust to. I was wrong about that, but I didn’t know it yet.

It caught up with me on a Thursday afternoon. I remember the day specifically, because it was the day everything else started catching up with me too.

Zara scheduled a routine check-up with Dr. Khan, the family physician. He’d apparently been treating Omar for over a decade.

He examined me the way doctors do when they already suspect the answer, and are just confirming it. He pressed along my abdomen. He asked me about fatigue, about appetite, and whether I’d noticed any yellowing in my eyes lately.

Then he said something that stopped my breathing for a second.

“I told you about this three months ago, remember?” he said, “Since it’s gotten this severe, shouldn’t we tell the family?”

I didn’t know what to say. I simply replied with something vague. That I hadn’t been sleeping well. That I’d rather wait a bit longer before worrying everyone. He accepted it, but I could tell that he wasn’t happy with my decision.

He left me with a diagnosis I already half-suspected from the way he’d phrased everything. Liver cirrhosis, advanced stage. The kind that doesn’t happen quickly. The kind that takes years of damage to reach this point.

Years that I hadn’t lived.

Dr. Khan kept talking about how it all came down to this. I learned that the man named Omar had a secret life- a life of drinks, drugs, and women. He maintained this lifestyle for close to a decade, unbeknownst to his wife and parents. Dr. Khan had often warned him about the long-term effects of his short-term vices, but Omar never took it seriously. That was until three months back, when Dr. Khan informed him that his liver had finally given out. Omar had been sober since that day, and the diagnosis has not been revealed to the family yet.

On the drive back home, I thought about the man who used to be Omar before me. He’d known exactly how sick he was, and had chosen, deliberately, to say nothing to his wife, his parents, or anyone else in that house.

I thought about the scroll, the light, and the building on the edge of the city.

I thought about the last thing I told Dr. Mollah, when describing what a new life means to me-

“A life where drugs and alcohol were no longer an option, never again.”

I had thought, at the time, that it was a gift.

Sitting there, with a diagnosis that predated my arrival in this body, I saw it differently.

While I was given exactly what I asked for, it wasn’t built to protect me.

It was built to protect the liver I’d been given…

The diagnosis changed things quickly. Within a month, walking any real distance had become difficult. I began spending most of my time in house, lying on my bed. I was clearly in a bad shape, and things were about to get worse.

The call came on a Wednesday morning, from a man who introduced himself as Elias, Omar’s accountant. I’d never spoken to this man personally before, but I’ve heard about him from Zara. He apparently handled the family’s finances quarterly, and had been doing so for the past five years.

Elias sounded uncomfortable, in a way accountants usually aren’t. He said he’d noticed irregular activity across two of the accounts. There were small withdrawals at first, easy to miss individually. But it had been consistent over the past four months, adding up to something he couldn’t explain through any normal transaction category.

He asked if I’d authorized any of it. I told him no, because I genuinely hadn’t. I only knew that I had a ‘lot of money’, but I never actually looked at any of the actual accounts in detail.

He said he’d send over a full breakdown that afternoon, and that he strongly recommended looping in the bank’s fraud department sooner rather than later.

I didn’t loop in the bank. I want to be honest about why. Bringing in a bank meant a formal investigation, which meant scrutiny on an identity I was still learning how to perform convincingly. I couldn’t risk that level of attention. So instead, I told Elias to investigate the matter privately, and report to me regarding who the culprit really was.

Elias worked fast and quiet, which was exactly what I needed. Within two weeks, he’d traced the login activity on both drained accounts to a single device fingerprint, along with a residential address of the potential thief.

He sent it to me over email, along with a short note saying he could go further if I wanted. But given how sensitive this clearly was, he thought I’d want to see the address myself first before deciding how to proceed.

I opened the attachment, expecting a name I didn’t recognize. I expected a hacker- someone running scripts against an old man’s forgotten security habits.

Instead, I got an address I recognized immediately, because I used to live there myself.

It was my old apartment. The one I’d walked out of the night the taxi picked me up…

I didn’t tell Zara where I was going. I told her that Elias needed me to sign something in person. It wasn’t a lie, technically, since I’d asked Elias to meet me two streets away, and wait in his car while I went in alone.

Getting there took more out of me than I expected. My legs had started shaking on stairs by then. The apartment was on the third floor of a building with no working elevator, the same building I’d chosen four years earlier because the rent was cheap. I stood outside my old door for a while, catching my breath, before I knocked.

When it opened, I was looking at myself. My own face, thinner than I remembered, dressed in clothes I didn’t recognize. He looked well. That was the first thing I noticed, and it turned my stomach, more than anything else could have. He looked rested, and healthy, and entirely at peace, standing in a body that used to carry every one of my worst nights, wearing none of the weight I used to wear in it.

“Jeez, talk about dodging a bullet,” he said, “You’re dying faster than I expected.”

His voice was a little too mild, like I’d shown up for a meeting he’d half-forgotten about.

“You knew it, didn’t you?” I asked.

He looked at with me with amusement.

“You knew about the liver,” I said, “You knew before any of this, and you handed it to me anyway !”

He didn’t deny it. He stepped back and let me in, gesturing at a chair like this was a courtesy call, He sat down across from me, with an ease I hadn’t felt in my own body in months.

“Look, I’ve known for a decade what that lifestyle’s gonna to cost me,” he said. “I just didn’t expect the bill to come due this fast. When the diagnosis came in, I signed up for the exchange as fast as I could.”

He said it plainly, without a trace of apology.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, “What exchange?”

He seemed to be confused at my reaction.

“Oh, come on !” he exclaimed, “You signed the scroll, didn’t you? The one that explained the Jōhatsu deal? The agreement of exchanging realities? Wait, hold on a second…”

His expression changed. His earlier confusion was replaced by a tinge of mischief.

“You can’t read Japanese, can you?” he asked, before bursting into laughter, “Fuck, man ! You signed off your entire existence without reading the FUCKING contract !”

His laughter was almost hysterical, like he was listening to his favorite joke, over and over again. It was a full minute before he got a hold of himself.

“Okay, hear me out, boy,” he continued, “Let me guess what you told Dr. Mollah. You probably asked for a wife, a family, and a shit ton of money, am I right?”

He didn’t give me a chance to respond, but kept talking instead.

“And me? I asked for the life of a young man. I wanted to be a man without any responsibilities or obligations. A man that could drink and use and fuck, for years and years and YEARS to come. And guess what? We both got the life we wanted !”

He got up from his chair, and put a hand on my shoulders.

“Listen kid, you get to keep my body, what’s left of it anyways. You get to keep Zara. You get to keep my dinosaur parents that just refuse to die. Hell, you even get to keep my money… well, most of it. Because that money is a fortune that was earned by ME. So I’m gonna withdraw what I want, whenever I want. I’m gonna spend it however the hell I want, and there is nothing you can fucking do about it…”

I don’t remember deciding to move. I remember the chair scraping. I remember my hands closing around the collar of the shirt he was wearing. I remember hitting him once, then again, with whatever strength my failing arms still had left in them.

He didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise his hands to block me. He just laughed. There was blood starting at a corner of the mouth that used to be mine. He let me hit him a third time before he finally spoke again. His voice was quiet, and almost gentle, like he was breaking bad news to a child.

“Oh dear, you shouldn’t have done that,” he said, “You’re finished !”

Something in the way he said it made me stop. Not because I understood it. But because, for the first time since he’d opened that door, he sounded certain of something I wasn’t.

I left the house without uttering a word…

I was back in Omar’s bed by midnight, chest aching from the little strength I’d spent, staring at a ceiling I still didn’t think of as mine, when the phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I almost didn’t answer. Some part of me already knew who it would be.

“Candidate 309?”

It was Rafiq’s voice, using my real name for the first time since the night I’d signed everything away.

“I’ve been told you went to see him,” he continued, calm and unhurried. “You made physical contact. Rule number three was explicit on this point- no attempt, physical or otherwise, to contact, locate, or return to any party connected to the disappearance.”

“I couldn’t read the scroll,” I said. “I never knew what it said. You told me it was a ceremonial formality!”

“That’s unfortunate,” he said, “But comprehension was never a condition of enforcement. Only the signature was.”

“So… what happens now?” I asked. I remember my voice cracking on the word “now,” which embarrassed me even as it was happening.

“The entity will not be pleased with your actions. After all, the entity does not take violations lightly,” he said.

I was genuinely surprised by what I heard.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I asked, my voice expressing the shock I was feeling in real time, “What entity? Who is this entity?”

He sighed.

“You would’ve known it,” he said, “if you’d read the scroll before signing it. The English terms were ours to offer. The scroll was never ours to write, and its terms were never ours to explain. It carried no legal binding- not in this world, anyway. It binds you to the one who arranged the exchange, and it always has.”

There was a silence, papers shifting somewhere on his end.

“You did disappear, Candidate 309,” he said, finally. “But you weren’t responsible about it. As per the agreement, Aldermore and Associates will not be liable for what happens next, since you willingly broke one of the rules, of your own volition.”

I didn’t know how to respond, not at that moment.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, “I do wish you well. It was nice doing business with you.”

He hung up before I could answer, which I suppose was a sort of mercy, since I don’t know what I would have said.

********************************************************************
That was two hours ago.

I’ve spent most of it sitting on the edge of Omar’s bed, in a room that still doesn’t feel like mine. I got up once and did a full circuit of the house- every window latch, every door, even the ones on the second floor you couldn’t realistically reach. Zara was asleep the whole time. I stood outside her door longer than I meant to, listening to her breathe, thinking about how she still doesn’t know any of this, and how she never will.

I noticed the smell about an hour ago. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would fade away eventually. It didn’t. If anything, it’s gotten clearer.

The room smells faintly of jasmine.

And underneath it, growing stronger with every breath I take, I smell camphor.

I can hear them throughout the whole house, a house that isn’t mine.

That’s the thing I keep coming back to tonight. None of this was ever mine. Not the house, not the furniture, not the photographs on the walls of a childhood I never lived. I asked for a life, and I was handed one, and I haven’t earned a single hour of it.

I think about Zara. I think about the two people asleep down the hall, well into their nineties, who held my hand and told me about a boy I’ve never been. Their love is genuine, but it isn’t for me. It’s for the man whose face I’m wearing, and they’ll never know the difference, because I never once found the courage to look at them and say the truth out loud.

That’s what all this money could never buy. Not one day of it.

So I’ll say it here instead, to whoever ends up reading this, because it’s the only place left where saying it costs me nothing…

I am not Omar. I never was. I’m a different person entirely, and I wasn’t even a good one. I owed Nadia eleven years and an explanation, and I gave her a closed door instead. I owed money to people, who handed it over because they cared about me. I owed my own body the time and the work it would’ve taken to get clean, and I never gave it that either.

I’m not Candidate 309 either. I do have an identity- one I tried to desperately leave behind eight months ago:

My name is Zayn. I’m twenty-eight years old. My mother used to call me by a nickname that embarrassed me by the time I was nine. I can’t sleep without a fan running. I’m allergic to peanuts. I have a scar on my left knee, from a bicycle I wasn’t supposed to be riding.

None of that dies with me tonight. That’s the part I can’t get past. There’s a man across the city right now with my face, sleeping in my bed, answering to my name. He’ll keep answering to it for years. He’ll drink in the places I used to drink. He’ll pick up the phone if Nadia ever calls.

Nobody is going to notice I’m gone. There’s nothing to notice. Everyone who ever knew me will go on believing that I’m alive and doing badly, because there I am, still standing, still not returning their messages.

That’s what I actually bought.

If you are reading this, you’re the only one who knows the difference.

The footsteps have stopped outside my door now.

I don’t know who’s going to walk through it. Maybe it’s the thing that Rafiq wouldn’t name. Maybe it’s something that the scroll described in detail, on a line I couldn’t read, under a signature I couldn’t take back.

Whoever it is, they’ve come for me. Not for the man named Omar, who settled his account eight months ago, in a third-floor apartment, in a body that can still climb the stairs. This one’s mine. I signed up for it myself. I broke one of the rules myself, and I knew exactly what I was doing when I put my hands on him.

So whoever this entity is, I’ll let them take the house. I’ll let them take the money that was never mine, and the wife who was never mine, and whatever’s left of a liver that had already given out before I ever got here.

They can have all of it.

But when they write this up, in whatever file Rafiq keeps, when they close it and move on to the next name on the list, I want it recorded properly.

The handle is turning.

If a man dies in this room tonight, his name wasn’t Omar.

His name was Zayn. He was twenty-eight years old.

Please remember that name.

Please, just remember that fucking name.

Because no one else will…

Credit: Dr_AK_Myst

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