In a quiet corner of Tokyo, there’s a business that offers something so surreal it sounds like a movie plot: the chance to disappear from your life completely — legally, silently, and without leaving a trace. Known as “johatsu”, which literally translates to “evaporation,” it’s an industry built on secrecy and heartbreak — and in Japan, it’s not only possible, but perfectly legal.
For the right price, private “disappearance agencies” will help you pack up your belongings, erase your digital footprint, and start a new identity somewhere else in the country. “We call it life reset,” one company owner told BBC News. “No police, no questions — just a clean break.”
One such agency, Night Movers, operates discreetly out of a small Tokyo office, answering calls from desperate clients — debt-ridden salarymen, domestic abuse victims, students crushed by failure, and even elderly people who simply want to disappear quietly. “Every day, we get calls from people who say, ‘I can’t live this life anymore,’” said company director Shō Hatori. “They want to vanish — not die, just vanish.”
“Japan’s ‘johatsu’ industry helps thousands of people vanish from their lives — no laws broken, no questions asked.” @BBCWorld
Under Japanese law, adults have the right to relocate freely without notifying family or employers, as long as they aren’t wanted by police or involved in a crime. That legal gray area has created an entire underground industry of “disappearance brokers” who will, for a fee, stage your escape with surgical precision — removing personal records, forwarding mail, and even wiping digital data to make you untraceable.
“It’s not like witness protection,” Hatori explained in an interview with The New York Times. “This is voluntary. Our clients want to disappear. We simply make it possible.”
The reasons people choose to vanish are often deeply personal. Some are fleeing abusive relationships or toxic workplaces. Others are overwhelmed by debt or social shame — a powerful force in Japan’s culture of conformity. “You fail an exam, lose a job, or get divorced, and suddenly you feel like you’ve disgraced your entire family,” sociologist Yumiko Suzuki told reporters. “For many, johatsu feels like the only way out.”
“They don’t want to die — they just don’t want to be found. Japan’s invisible epidemic of ‘chosen disappearances.’” @guardian
These disappearances are not rare. According to data shared by NHK, more than 80,000 people are reported missing in Japan each year — but experts estimate the real number of voluntary disappearances is much higher. Some estimates suggest as many as 100,000 Japanese people have chosen to “evaporate” since the 1990s. Most never return.
Former clients describe it as both liberation and loss. “It’s like dying while still alive,” said one woman who vanished from Osaka in 2015 after escaping an abusive marriage. Speaking anonymously to VICE, she said, “I changed my name, my number, my job. I even avoid mirrors because I don’t want to see the person I used to be.”
Her new life, she said, came with rules: no social media, no credit cards, no contact with family. “If they find you, it’s over,” she said. “You start again or you disappear again.”
Despite the eerie premise, many see the johatsu industry as a kind of social service — a way for people in crisis to reclaim control in a culture that often stigmatizes vulnerability. “For someone drowning in shame, disappearing feels like survival,” psychologist Dr. Aya Matsumoto explained. “It’s not about escape — it’s about rebirth.”
“In Japan, ‘vanishing’ has become an act of quiet rebellion — not crime, but self-preservation.” @Reuters
The cost of disappearing depends on how far you want to go. Basic packages can start at around ¥200,000 (roughly $1,300) — covering transportation and new housing — while full “identity resets” can exceed ¥1 million ($6,700), including new documentation and employment assistance in another prefecture. “The deeper the life, the deeper the price,” Hatori said. “Some clients want to erase every trace. We can make that happen.”
Yet, critics warn that the industry can also be exploited. In recent years, police have linked certain “vanishing” agencies to organized crime, with some charging clients exorbitant fees or using disappearances to launder money. Others argue that johatsu enables people to evade legal responsibility — abandoning families, debts, or even criminal charges. “Disappearing shouldn’t mean escaping accountability,” said attorney Kei Tanaka. “It’s freedom, but with a dark side.”
Social workers have also raised concerns about the emotional toll of cutting off all ties. “People think they can start fresh,” said counselor Mari Okada. “But loneliness follows you, no matter how far you run.”
“Experts warn that Japan’s ‘disappearing’ industry is growing — driven by isolation, debt, and silent despair.” @nytimes
Still, for many, the allure of vanishing remains irresistible. The phenomenon even inspired documentaries and books, including The Vanished: The Evaporated People of Japan, which chronicled families searching for loved ones who walked out of their lives overnight. One haunting passage reads: “In Japan, to disappear is not rebellion — it’s etiquette. A way to spare others your failure.”
Outside a narrow alley in Shinjuku, a flickering neon sign marks one of Tokyo’s oldest johatsu agencies. Inside, the air smells faintly of cigarettes and secrecy. “We don’t judge,” said the man behind the counter, who declined to give his name. “We help people disappear. That’s all.”
When asked how often clients return to their old lives, he shook his head. “Almost never,” he said. “Once you vanish, you belong to silence.”
