Not in a long time had Chikao Iwasaki felt so defeated. Even amid the thick smoke covering Downtown Manhattan, the pain in his ears from the terrible sounds of Boeing 767 airliners striking monoliths of steel and concrete, the fires breaking out around him, what stung most was knowing he would have to live with what had happened for the rest of his days.
"Koga-san was still up there."
His wife consoled him, told him in no uncertain terms what happened wasn't his fault and that nobody could see it coming. But the guilt consumed his very soul nonetheless.
Chikao and his coworker, Hotaru Koga, were among the Japanese staff at their bank's office in the south tower. There, alongside a healthy mix of Japanese and American employees, they managed the company's affairs in the United States. It was a busy time; they were in the process of merging with several other banks into a single financial group, which meant lots of complex documentation and paperwork to be filled out and statements to be given to both American and Japanese authorities.
When the north tower was hit, the evacuation of their office in the south tower began immediately. Managers rushed to get their employees to safety as the tower opposite them burned. Chikao wanted Hotaru to head down first with a box of vital documents and electronic backups while he helped with the evacuation and made sure no-one was left behind, but as the more physically active of the two, Hotaru insisted he be the one to perform the sweep while Chikao left with the documents. Seeing the logic in that decision and not wanting to stand around debating it for lack of time, he agreed, picked up the box and reluctantly began his trip down eighty-two flights of stairs.
If he'd had the backbone to insist Hotaru take those boxes down the stairs, he'd have been out of danger. Maybe he'd die, leaving his wife a widow and his daughter to grow up without a father. But now someone would have to explain to a pair of four-year-old twins why daddy isn't coming home. Chikao wanted for all the world to cry, but no tears came. He felt empty.
He had very little to say to Honoka on the phone after the plane hit. Words escaped him, the world now feeling cold and distant. If it were an option, he'd just hang up and take some time to collect his thoughts. But his wife knew his mind was going dark places and she didn't want to leave him alone with his swelling guilt. Deep down, he truly liked and appreciated that. But he couldn't help but feel he was being treated with kid gloves for letting someone die just because of the relationship between them. He could only pray, futile as felt to him, that by some miracle Koga and the others up there might have survived the impact. But seeing at least a dozen bodies of those who had jumped in desperation from the smouldering offices high above the street, somehow he didn't think it likely anyone up there was coming down any differently.