Chapter Text

Even at five in the morning—when the sun doesn’t shine through the windows, and there aren't any scientists in bulky orange get-up arguing about recess or purge or whatever (vaguely sketchy) thing they do here—the Horadori Institute of Genetics is noisy, with its bubbling tubs of colorful liquid and humming machines that Lien isn't going to touch if he can help it! Why did he agree to cover the early morning shift last minute…? Sure, he's never been asked before, but… this place is so spooky at night. All the beeps and buzzes make him feel like any moment one of the big doors is going to open and out comes a scary monster made of bones and rotten meat and robot parts and—

Whoosh. A cool breeze drifts from the side entrance to the main lab, and two footsteps shortly follow. Monster!! Lien screams. Does the security detail have to jump-scare him like this? But…Lien didn’t take them for the joking type, and they haven’t said anything, and actually, looking closer, that doesn’t look like a guard. None of the guys on patrol wear scarves, or big hats, or sunglasses indoors, especially in the middle of the night. “Who…?”

The Hat Guy (whoever this is) pauses and clears their throat. “I was not expecting you,” he says, finally, but he didn’t answer the question. At all.

“Me neither, buddy. Do you work here?”

Whatever Hat Guy says is impossible to understand with all the layers and the mumbling.

“Hey, can you speak up?”

“…Sorry. I don’t.”

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave—”

“Don’t worry; I have permission to be here.”

Hm…sounds pretty believable. The guys outside are pretty tough to beat—they almost didn’t let Lien clock in—so they must know this guy, or it’s my ass on the line! He’ll keep tabs on the weird intruder for now and check later. Worst comes to worst, I could take him in a fight easy!  

Satisfied, Lien turns back to Hat Guy now kneeling on the ground in front of one of the weird statues, not caring about the dust that Lien hasn’t swept up (yet) getting all over his expensive-looking suit. He twists the statue’s ankle.

“Hey, what are you—”

But the Hat Guy just hums a short tune, and the keypad copies him with every button he presses.

“What…?” Lien starts, but his question gets drowned out by the sound of thunk after thunk as secret stairs unroll someplace way below. Like…to a creepy basement or something? “Where…?” Maybe?  “How did you even—?”

“I’m well-acquainted with this place.”

“Yeah, but I work here and I’ve never seen this before.” Right? Right.

“Most people haven’t.” The Hat Guy rises to his feet. “I’ve been coming here for a long time.” Lien assumes he’s going to go down and see whatever secrets lie under their feet, but…he doesn’t; he waits at the top of the stairs. It’s difficult to read his expression, with the scarf, and the sunglasses, and the hat, so…

Lien prods. “Is what you came for down there?”

“Yes, but…” Once again, Lien can’t hear the rest. Hat Guy’s hand floats just above the dust on his pants, but doesn’t touch it.

“Hm?”

“It may be best if I not go after all.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine. Five AM is a weird time anyway, so send someone else another day—”

“It can’t wait another day.”

“What can’t?”

“You’ll see. The door past the metal plate,” says the Hat Guy. “I’m counting on you.”

Huh? Wait. “You want me to do it?” But I don’t even know what you’re trying to do! Or even who you are! This could cost Lien his job! He worked so hard to get this far, to crawl out of the hole he’d dug his way into, and now this rando with the weirdest fashion sense he’s ever seen is giving him mysterious missions? Why? No way. I don’t want to know what’s down there.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Nothing down there can be good news, and “I don’t even know what you—”

“Please.” It is the only thing Hat Guy says louder than a murmur. A deep breath. “It’s not for me.” As he turns to leave, he brushes that dirt off his knees, and with those cryptic last words, he disappears, leaving just Lien and a staircase that shouldn’t exist.

I’m not going. It’s too risky! So what if these stairs are suspicious as hell, with their secret keypad combination lock stashed on a movable statue? That doesn’t mean anything! Just because the rumor about the underground space is real, and probably dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s a big deal! Hat Guy was sus too! What does “it’s not for me” even mean? Who could it be for? Why’s he coming at five in the morning, anyway? Only thieves come at five in the morning! Lien would know; he used to be one! Whatever’s down there is probably just something he wants Lien to steal on his behalf, or worse! I don’t want to know! No! Forget that! He’s not going! If Hat Guy wanted a favor, he could have explained before he left!

And with that excuse, Lien bolts back into the main lab, broom in hand. The clock ticks, the glowing liquids gurgle and hiss, the machines beep and vibrate, his broom swishes across the floor, and everything is the same as before, meaning it’s scary, and a monster or a killer is going to come crawling up those stairs through that door to get him—No! Focus! He has shit to clean, so he’s just going to stay up here, with his broom, over in this corner that he’s swept like 17 times already, where it’s safe!

Tick. Tock.

Swish-swish. His eyes wander towards that door again, still hanging slightly open like he left it.

Tick. Tock.

It’s not his business. Doubt anything’s down there but empty space, but even if someone is…he’s just the janitor, anyway.

Tick. Tock.

His hands fumble around in his pocket, eventually finding his phone. Unlock. Messages. Quartz.

Tick. Tock.

‘Hey so when you said this job was bad news was it about—’ Swipe. Pocket. She’d never buy it.

Tick.

So he’s not going to bother her for this.

Tock.

He’ll just go himself.

I heard it. I know I did. Earlier. Exactly 20 minutes earlier I heard that rattling thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk that always sounds 3 minutes before someone comes through that false door, but it has been 20 and no one has arrived. Something is amiss. That bastard doesn’t play with his food for this long—he doesn’t have the patience—and Mom, wonderful Mom, would never make you wait! No, something is wrong. It’s someone else. One of the faceless men, in their swirling amorphous masks? Can’t be them. They don’t come alone; they come with him. They come with him, so you can’t leave, and you can’t kill him, it’d be so easy, you’re bigger than him now, stronger, it wouldn’t take much to knock him out drag him to the operating table and see how much he likes having his half his face peeled off using second-hand scalpels and anesthetics that don’t work—I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him I’ll kill him I’ll kill him I’ll kill Jin too how dare they do this to me they have to pay they have to pay they have pay in blood they have to they have to they have to I’ll kill them I’ll kill them I’ll kill them—

Knock-knock.

Who’s there?

What idiot is knocking? Where exactly do they think they are? Are they lost? Did they spawn here incorrectly like in Kusemon? It’s an underground torture facility somewhere in Tokyo, how does anyone get here by accident—wait. Someone…new…is here…? Can that possibly be true…?

Another knock. Between the thick walls of this prison and the thing that passes for your right ear, it’s hard to make out, but a voice calls—

“Whoa!! There’s space back there?”

A man. 

A way out?

Someone I’ve never heard before. 

A way out? 

Younger than me? 

A way out? 

Lost? 

A way out? A way out a way out a way out—there’s a way out? Mom! Mom! Look! It’s possible after all! See? See? Isn’t it great? We can finally break free together! Like you promised! I can’t wait to see you.

Your feet move on their own towards the door you cannot open, stopping right at the stairs.

“But this isn’t a door, so how do I—” 

HELL IF I KNOW! You haven’t been one foot outside this illusory prison since 1996! That door might as well not exist!

“What could they be hiding down here…?”

ME!

You open your mouth.

I’m here! 

You just have to say it.

I’ve been here this whole time!

It’s easy.

Exactly twenty-three years, eight months and nineteen days!

It’s just one word.

Twenty-three years, eight months and 19 days of waiting alone with nothing but time and books and games that Mom would bring until they’d come back with gloves and needles and knives and pin you to the shitty cot while that bastard grins at you and before the syringe has punctured your skin his blade pierces through your chest an entire inch and digs down in searing crimson it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—

Someone screams.

“Is that—OH SHIT!!!”

The screaming continues, and your lung can’t hold the air, so they burn.

“Dude, you good? You need help?”

They scream, though your throat is hoarse, and something drips down your mangled face.

“Should I call the cops? I’m gonna—actually, I don’t think there’s reception down here—”

Why is it wet? And who keeps screaming? Is it a glitch? Some computational error? A bug?

“Hang on! I just—I just gotta figure out how to open this door—”

A seam! It must be. I know better. I learned from Mom. 

“What kind of sick bastard—I’ve never seen a door work this way!”

So, this must be a sign! Proof the prophecy is at hand.

“I’m almost there! I just gotta get this—"

Your hand flicks away the last of those tears.

“There!”

The false door opens; my ticket out arrived. 

“The intersection between the warp and weft…that’s where the seam can occur.”

The man freezes in the doorframe; he wields his broom like a bat. 

“HUH?”

“The intersection between the warp and weft, that’s where the seam can occur.”

“What are you talking about?” Lien drops the broom, and takes a moment to stare at The Screaming Guy, who up until now was yelling like he was being mauled by one of the machines upstairs, but now with his mismatched face just looks at Lien like what he said is normal and doesn’t need explaining. 

“Do you not know the prophecy?”

“The what?”

Screaming Guy sighs. “I suppose everyone starts ignorant.”

Now he’s being insulted? Why do I keep meeting weird guys today? Quartz was right; I should have taken the other job. Well, he’s not sobbing anymore—talking about some kinda sci-fi VR video game thing—so he’s probably alright, but just in case, Lien asks, “Are you good?” stepping away from the door—

“Don’t move.”

“Eh?” 

Screaming Guy steps back. “Stop moving!”

“What’s the problem?”

“Look at the door.”

So, he does! Weird contraption aside, it’s just like a door, you grab the handle and—wait. Where’s the knob? Right where Lien rests his hand there should be one, but beneath his palm is only the flat black panels that make up the door. It doesn’t open this way. If he’d taken one more step out of frame, they’d both be stuck.

With one foot inside and one foot in the doorframe and his back firmly pressed against the cold metal door, Lien finally takes a good look at the room he just broke into.

“You’ll see. The door just past the metal plate.”

Like the room before it, it’s dark and windowless, relying on flickering light bulbs that reveal rusted railings, pipes, and a single poorly gated vent responsible for the overpowering stale air. Shoved into the corner—nearby one of the PCs with broken screens and scattered posters just past the training equipment—is a cot with lumpy mattress, a fraying blanket, and a pillow that could pass for just the case, and even if he could go down the stairs, where the old sheet with that hand-painted symbol hangs over all, he doesn’t think he’d find anything better. What the…

Fingers brush against the smooth surface where a handle should be once more. The question comes out like shaky hands tapping pins one by one by one in an amateur’s first practice lock: “How long have you been stuck here?”

“Twenty-three…” The Screaming Hostage wavers, a beat that lasts too long, “hours.”

Well! That’s pretty scary! No wonder he didn’t want Lien to drop the door! Could have been bad for both of us! And yet…it’s off. A key that doesn’t fit. How did he get down here? How could he know about the keypad with the music combo and the stairs? The only people who’d know are the ones who built it with the hidden switch and metal plates and made it so that it doesn't open from the inside, so this place could have been here for years! Why? Why would you even have a place like this? I don’t—

“It can’t wait any longer.”

Whoa! Slow down—but it’s impossible. Everything is wrong. Why…is his face like that? Where did the other half…go? There are dirty clothes in the corner in a tiny stack, and this room has a bed, a desk, a toilet, and a tub, and it’s built like someone is supposed to live here, but what’s the point living in a place you can’t get out of? He couldn’t leave! Someone needed to come here to open it! Lien needs to hold the door!

“I’m counting on you.”

“What the fuck!?” 

Loud! You wince, and the NotFoundNO Man keeps swearing and muttering to himself in disbelief and something about a pay grade(?), and isn’t he overdoing it a little? A day is nothing compared to your entire childhood and 20s and you’re missing several organs and you can feel their absence pull like black holes through the scars that rake your chest and stomach and back and—if I’m not pitching a fit there’s absolutely no reason he should be. How childish.

…Why am I wet again?

NotFoundNO Man pulls something out of his uniform pocket: a cell phone. “Tch.” He grimaces. He must want to call the police, but there is no reception down here. Once Mom gave me a PC, that bastard had to ensure I couldn’t use it to get help and set up some partial Faraday Cage. Once I’m finally, finally outside these four walls, he’s going to try to call again, and then…

“I uh…I don’t know where to begin in this situation, but…we should get out of here. I’d offer you a hug—” Don’t touch me. “—’cause you look like you need it, but leaving the door is a bad idea, and we just met, and—”

His words fizzle into background buzz. No matter how much you blow your nose into this second-hand sleeve, or scrub your eyes, that butchered face of yours remains drenched in snot and tears. With a loud sniffle that stings somewhere in the back of your throat, I nod. I just have to get something first. 

You have so little worth keeping, but with blurry vision you snatch a single book from under that shitty pillow; the nonuple-x on its cover still shines even with all the creases and stains throughout the years. The key to understanding everything that Mom gave me—it has to come with me. It’s how I can find her! I can’t wait to see you!

NotFoundNo Man cocks his head to the side, (I thought he’d be more like a lion than a dog with that hair), but he doesn’t say anything about it. “You first, man.”

The door he holds open is…cramped now, unlike before. Always a towering wall with a door’s face layered on top, where men threw you in or yanked you up and out, but now it's just a door. A threshold to be crossed. The first step to true freedom. Inhale. Exhale. Okay.

I step forward, left, right, left, right, and your legs might twitch and shake and wobble but you press forward past the NotFoundNo Man up against the wall and as far away from his unbearable bleach smell that makes you plug your nose and mouth and you won’t puke you wont you wont you wont keep walking keep walking keep walking there you’re free no more no more no more no more get out get out get out get out get out get out—

“Hey! Careful! It's dark down here!”

I blink. Right. Abandoning him won’t work. You have nowhere to go until I find Mom, or she finds me, and since you haven’t wandered the streets of Tokyo, or…anywhere, in twenty-three years eight months and nineteen days, at the bare minimum it’d be helpful to have a guide dog…man. He’ll have to do for now. Even if he smells he smells he smells through your clogged and running nose, so you linger three meters behind, and ignore the hand he offers when you trip from the dim, flickering lights on the endless twisting stairs. It’s enough to read the name on his uniform: Horadori Institute of Genetics.

No wonder he reeks; he works for that shithead. He’s a coding error. 

How did he find me by himself? I’ve been down there for twenty-three years, eight months and 19 days, and not once has anyone new ever found you. How could he have known? Who would have told him? He works here, but it can’t be them; that bastard would never allow this, and I don’t think anyone is this stupid. Was it…Mom? For a moment, your heart races like it’s going to clip out of your chest, but it stops. He didn’t know what the prophecy was. Mom would never send someone like that. But…who would? Even if he didn’t know about you, someone had to lead him to the basement, right? How else would he find me? 

My debugging efforts are interrupted when at the top of the stairs, the NotFoundNo Man stops talking to himself and turns to me. “I’m an idiot. I’m Lien. Lien Twining.”

And? What am I supposed to do with that information exactly? His name doesn’t mean anything to me, nor does the fact he’s apparently foreign, and it’s not like we’re classmates, or coworkers, or neighbors, so introducing himself is…it’s….

When was the last time anyone bothered telling you their name? Exactly how many years ago? Whenever someone new came to Aioen, Chieda-sensei made them introduce themselves, but you only remember his name! Who were your siblings? Your friends? When were they? When was the last time anyone wanted to know—?

Lien is waiting at the top of the stairs. Unlike his earlier monologue, the pause is a question for me. Hey. What’s your name?

You pry your first name from the phlegm lodged in your throat. “Uru.” Your surname stays behind. 

“You got a last name?”

“Sorry. Slipped my mind.” Since you can’t say yours, you come up with another one. It rolls off easily. “It’s Kubo. Kubo Uru.”

I wonder what Mom would think? I really want to see you!

Lights!! White, red, white, green, blue, white, white, yellow, white—everywhere I look there’s blinding light! Neon signs and ads and office buildings and 24/7 convenience stores and traffic signals and blinkers and on into forever with the interminable noise of engines and bicycle bells and crossing signs and drunken salarymen and cell phones and was Tokyo this suffocating when I was younger? The sun is threatening to rise, and your eyes are constantly blurry, and each and every second you fight the urge to shove your hands against your ears so hard you tear the chitin off the bad one, but you don’t. Kubo Uru has only been gone one day.

Bright. 

“Uh…Kubo-san…?”

It’s only been a day. 

Too bright! Too bright too bright too bright!!

“Where are you going….?”

It’s only been a day. It’s only been a day. It’s only been a day.

Everything is colors and sounds and shapes without definition you can’t see you can’t hear you can’t you can’t you can’t—!

“Dude!! Watch out!! Light’s red!”

A hand grabs the back of Jin’s ratty hand-me-down shirt they’re going to pull you onto the operating table no no no no no no no—you whirl around and knock them away. Hard. I’m not going back I’m not going back I’m not going back, you can’t take me back after letting me out—

Pause. 

That was Lien, wasn’t it? 

“Oww…” Lien groans, hefting himself off the glittering building he’d fallen against. “What was that for…?”

You wince. That’s…not ideal. Kubo Uru has no reason to shove people. “…Sorry. I am…averse to being grabbed.” Although they flicker at your side, I do not offer him a hand. Can’t repeat the risk.

“I tried talking to you, but you didn’t hear me.”

How could I? Every sound bounces in your ears at equal, deafening volume! How is Lien not bawling at the constant sensations from this hellish city? “Ah.” I say. “Sorry.” This is unbearable. “I’m…disoriented.” Everything is still too bright!

“No shit,” Lien agrees, having apparently shrugged off the shove. “You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”

“Yes.” We already talked about this before we went outside. He’s just going to drop me off at the police station, where I’ll “take care of it.” I don’t need a doctor. 

Your hands jerk again.

But Lien keeps pressing the issue. “Your hands are freaking out, dude, and your eyes keep watering—”

“No.” Let it go already.

“And we passed this exact FamiSto like three times—”

“No.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to run from, but—” 

“NO!” you shout, and another glitch keeps your feet rooted in place on the concrete instead of running off. I'm lucky. He already suspects. Running will make him call the cops.

After a far too long silence, Lien says, “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pushed.”

Horns blare. Billboards flicker. Stalemate. “…I suppose this makes us even?” Accept the offer.

You still can’t see anything, but you feel him stare. Or maybe that’s the city. I don’t need eyesight to know no one else in Tokyo looks like you.

“Heh, yeah, we’re good. You’ve had a bad day,” Lien laughs. Negotiation successful. 

Cars screech ahead alongside them, yet neither moves an inch. I was planning to follow him, make things easier, but he’s not going anywhere. “Lien.”

“Nah, sorry, I was just thinking.” What now? “I’m hungry. Wanna grab something?”

Really? Is this necessary? “Can it wait a little longer?”

“Nope! Let’s go!” As he brushes past you, he hisses, “We’re being tailed!” 

What? What does “tailed” mean? Slang? Ditching him is a risky gamble, so you follow him into the FamiSto. It’s quieter in here, even if the fluorescent lights burn your retinas, but it’s easier to think. To breathe. Though he claimed to be hungry, Lien speeds past the pastries and all the other snacks to the side entrance. Outside, a van with tinted windows and a small blue logo drives past the store. “Tch,” Lien says, crouching behind the shelves out of view and whipping out his phone. You do the same. 

I know that van. That bastard drugged you and tossed you in the back of one several years ago, drove off who knows where and left you inside for several weeks with half as much in food supplies and a barely cracked window for air! They already know you’re gone? How? We went out the back, didn’t we? I didn’t see any cameras or guards, or hear an alarm, how can he already know? Who the fuck told him? “How did you find me?” Debugging resumed.

“I went downstairs.”

“How.”

“A guy showed me. He got on the floor and put some code in a statue, and suddenly there were stairs. Seemed like he was going to head down himself, but then he left.”

The van circles the block again.

Another player? Limited people know about you: that bastard, a select handful of his men, Jin, and Mom. No one else. Where’s the error? “Who.”

“I dunno! He didn’t introduce himself, or if he did, I couldn’t hear with all the mumbling through the scarf—”

Lien checks his phone again. 

Mumbling…? Scarf…? …That can’t be right. “Did you see his face?”

“How could I? He was wearing sunglasses and a hat indoors!”

The van parks across the street, along the next block.

No. Only one person who “visits” fits that description, Furue Jin, but his actions don’t parse. Is Lien…lying? Possible. Jin’s allegedly famous, but if it’s a lie, it involves inside information, and throwing one of your own under the bus? Illogical. But so is Jin revealing your location, leaving, and calling his shitty father to take you back! What the fuck does he want? Is he mocking me? AGAIN? Has he not taken enough? Is this the latest cheap trick at your expense, pretend to free you to just throw you back in? Must he always rub it in your face how much better he is and take and take and take and take and take and take and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and apologize and I won’t forgive you I won’t forgive you I won’t forgive you never never never never never you took everything from me give it back give it back give it back give it back give it BACK I’LL KILL YOU! “He set this up.”

“Hat Guy? But he said he wanted—” Whatever Lien meant to say is cut off when he spots an ancient red car pull up in front of the FamiSto. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Help.”

A blond man steps out of the car, fidgets with his hair, and casually strolls into the store. Is he…whistling? He goes up to the counter and gets into an argument with the cashier, something about the vending machine outside being out of “the good stuff” and “you said you’d have it restocked!” This is help?

Lien snickers. “That’s Date-chi for you.”

The cashier runs into the storage room. We’re not making it out of this. 

Then “Date” spots you both crouching next to onigiri and pulls his hair and scalp over his head—what the—revealing the weary face of a much older, no longer blond man. A mask…? He gives you both a wry smile, and throws the mask at you. “This is not passing safety regs, but—”

I shove the mask over my head before he finishes. It chafes against the chitin, but that’s nothing. You’ve felt worse than poorly fitting clothes. 

Date blinks, and looks at Lien, who shrugs. After a pause, he returns the gesture. “Let’s get out of here.”

They end up driving around Tokyo for hours in silence, except for Date-chi muttering to himself sometimes, until they’re sure all the vans and unmarked cars have lost sight of them somewhere in the warehouse district. “So,” Date-chi starts, glancing at Kubo-san’s passed out figure in the rearview mirror as he makes a U-turn. Guess the stress got to him. “You want to explain what the hell is going on?”

“I have no idea, dude,” Lien says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever meant that sentence more in his whole life. None of this was in his plans for today! Where does he even begin? The basement? Hat Guy? Quartz’ warning to not take this job? All of it comes out a disjointed ramble he hopes Date-chi can make sense of.

When he finishes, Date-chi frowns. “That can’t be right. When you first messaged me, I checked the missing persons database. There’s no one who’s been gone as long as you said with that name.”

“He’s lying, isn’t he?” Lien says, careful to keep his voice low. “But I don’t—”

“There’s more. No matter how you spell it, I couldn’t find anyone named Kubo Uru reported missing for any length of time.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“I believe you, man! But him? He gave you a fake name.” 

Then who…? “Why?”

“…Beats me. We’ll see what Boss has to say when we get to HQ.”

Even at ten in the morning, when the sun hangs high in the sky, and crowds of people drift and chatter throughout Tokyo’s busy streets from school to work to who knows where, Date-chi’s car is eerily silent. 

His cell phone has not stopped ringing since six in the morning. Not the business phone (he answers that one). The other one. The one his many parents use to reach him, and it will not stop ringing for the rest of the day knowing them, knowing what must have occurred once he left his “Uncle’s” lab, but whatever befalls them isn’t his problem. It’s twenty-three years, eight months and 19 days too late for their reckoning. If only you could have been faster, but that would never have worked; that he can sit in his leather office chair and browse his notes while ignoring the spam emails and calls is a miracle he never dreamed of.

When he went to the “lab” this morning, he imagined he’d go down those stairs, achieve the most important part of his goal, and be sliced in half like another experiment for his efforts, but that was not what fate had in store. Among the familiar faces of institute staff—the night shift guards that blocked all escape attempts for one—was an unexpected encounter with a new face: a man with a broom and lion’s mane. Fitting for a potential predator. So…he gambled yet again. Uru would never follow him, but if there were someone else, no matter who it was—

The phone rings again, a blaring radiation alert noise. “Uncle” again, or one of his lackeys; he left most of the (29) voicemails, and “Auntie” hasn’t called in years, which he prefers. He could shut the phone off—go back to sleep for the first time in twenty-three years—but he likes the way it screeches. The calls are proof of the collapsing Genja tower.

With a yawn, he scrolls through his Concord messages. A bet… Perhaps if he waited in the car to bring them both to the station—no, that would never have worked. Uru would never get in a car with your name attached to it, and he can’t blame him; he doesn’t like getting in cars or his name either. Better to let Lien Twining-san take care of Uru, and he can handle anything from a distance until he is no longer needed for anything anymore. That was always the plan, wasn’t it? All that remains is the investigation and the approaching exposé, though he should confirm the date for the latter once the chaos settles enough to use his phone without being disrupted. Back to waiting, it seems. He’s good at that; he has done nothing but wait for twenty-three years, eight months, and nineteen days to return himself to Uru where it belongs. The whole of him is the least Uru deserves. Uru should take everything back and more. 

Collecting information about Twining-san is interrupted when the phone rings again, but it’s not “Uncle’s” radiation alert, or “Auntie’s” electronic beeps. It’s the sound of an old rotary phone: Father. His hand hovers over the screen; the call goes to voicemail. He swipes open his voicemail inbox and presses play.

“…I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t wish to answer, yet…” Father says. Did he always sound like that? It’s been years since they last spoke. “Though it can’t be fixed…” The silence lasts for several seconds, interrupted by the static and rustling, before he finally speaks again. “I am sorry, Jin.”

Liar. Even if Father meant it, You are not the one owed an apology; Uru is, but has Uru gotten one? No. Of course not. Will he ever? Doubtful. How dare Father call now to pretend he's ever cared about Uru or Mother or—that is enough phone calls for today. Jin deletes the message and turns his phone off, stashing it in some drawer that doesn’t matter, and rubs his eyes. As tempting as it is to return to bed and forget, he can’t afford to. Focus on the task at hand.

Lien Twining does not know what he has begun. Good. Somewhere in Tokyo, Jin’s more deserving half is graced by sunlight for the first time in twenty-three years, eight months, and nineteen days. Now to keep it that way.

Chapter Text

Tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock… The clock on the monitor reads 10:47. Flipping through the pages of a worn-out notebook, Jin scans the monitor again, but it says nothing new. Annoying.

“Then don’t waste time on stupid crap.”

It’s not a waste, but Uru wouldn’t—

Bzzt. A notification. Jin glances at his phone, the business one, but it’s nothing important—just the marketing head asking about the latest twitter storm he started—so he dismisses it. Now, where were you…?

“Who cares? It makes no difference!”

Maybe so, but at least it keeps Jin occupied in the interim, so…he traces fading letters with his finger stroke by stroke then shoves the book back on the shelf. Must be the next one.

“Try doing something for once, dumbass!”

Does earlier not count…? What else should—

A foghorn blasts. Not the right ringtone, but Jin should take that; that will be useful later down the line, even if it does nothing for him now. Fifteen minutes of negotiating that would bore Sagane-san to death later and he’s one step closer to majority shareholder, but in the meantime…

A glance at a slightly ajar desk drawer. What if…

Jin shakes his head. Can’t afford the distraction, so he leafs through another notebook, skimming its yellowing pages. This one’s a mess—There it is.

“What, you’d rather keep anxiously wheel-spinning?”

No. That’s not—Uru should be in police custody by now, so—

Birdsong whistles past Jin’s ear, and that’s really not important! Didn’t he put this phone on Do Not Disturb so that the only notifications he gets are from a list with exactly five numbers—seems he misclicked. Too distracted. That phone call has you out of sorts...

“Fretting won’t make them call faster.”

It’s a fair point. Frankly, with what happened this morning, it would be stranger if the police didn’t call, so…Jin shuts his old journal and turns back to the screen; it wouldn’t make sense otherwise. He corrects his typo, and watches the time below the pinboard pass. Slowly. It’ll be fine.

“How much of your life do you want to spend waiting?”

Tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock… The clock on the monitor reads 11:13. Right now, trapped with the MPD, unable to leave, Uru must be seething as he’s forced to bide his time until he can run off to “Auntie.” Jin smiles wryly to an audience of no one; time always moves so slowly when he’s stuck waiting, but when compared to the past twenty-three years…? He’ll never forgive you.

How long are they going to keep me here? All day? Overnight? Longer? Twenty-three years, eight months and nineteen days in this claustrophobic den of junk the Threat in the lab coat sitting on the electric bike insisted was Kuranushi’s office? You find it difficult to breathe; you always find that a challenge, what with the space where your right lung should be, but if I have to keep sitting here waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting it won’t be a Merry Halloween any longer! What holiday is it supposed to be anyway? You thought you miscalculated how many days had passed in that basement, but it seems that this office doubles as a storage closet, with the dartboard, the bust, the thousands of evidence bags with nothing in them yet—I have to get out of here. If you had the strength to tear a hole in these walls…

Fidgeting with his hands and standing stock still in the middle of the room is Lien Twining. Traitor. This is his fault for calling his cop friend with his itchy mask that they already took away from you and now you’re feeling so exposed even in this closed off underground why must everything in your life go back underground—I’ll kill that worthless cop! Once I get out of here I’ll use his stupid mask and wig like a rope and strangle him until he’s purple like his shirt—can’t do that. That will put me back in here in less accommodating circumstances, and you will never be allowed to leave.

The door taps against the wall and in comes the Awful Officer who damned me to this misery. You sit on your hands; they have minds of their own lately. “Pewter, you’re up,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder to the door. Is that an eyepatch…? 

“What happened to your eye?” Lien asks.

“Confiscated by Boss.” 

What. 

Lien nods in understanding. Given where he works, he’s likely used to things like that, but still!

“Don’t worry about it.” As he takes a seat, the Threat in the lab coat leaves. “We’re not here for me today. Mind if I ask some follow-up questions?”

Even with only one eye on you, his gaze is sharper than a scalpel.

“I will be your partner for this week, Kuranushi Mizuki,” a familiar yet generally new voice says from within her head.

Whoa! When Mizuki opens her eyes (two!) the world is wider than she’s ever known it for the last 20 years. The Psync Machine Control Room was always littered with papers and monitors and chairs and not-so-secret BL—it’s the same samey mess—but she doesn’t have to crane her neck so much to see it all, and is it just her or maybe those ceiling tiles are a little-lot more HD than before? Is that Aiba or are these just the benefits of having two eyes?

“It is both.”

Right! Aiba can hear that! I don’t remember all the controls... Maybe Mizuki should have paid more attention to Pewter, but it was hard to hear anything over her racing repetitive thoughts.

Aiba chuckles. “It is a privilege to work with you.”

“Likewise,” Mizuki answers.

“Oh, you both should be linked already,” Pewter says from his usual chair in his de-facto office. Thankfully, he missed Mizuki’s earlier mishap. 

“See? I told you it’d be juuuuust fine!” Mama (Boss? Is this a work or home scene?) slaps her on the back one, two, three times like the liar she is. She’d been more worried than Mizuki had; now she’s just overcompensating. Can’t let anyone know she’s a biiig softie.

Mizuki rolls her eyes, and when her eyelids cave to blink without her permission the wider world is still there. Tch. She resumes her staring contest with the overcrowded table that now looks as solid and 3D as it is to ram against her thigh when she walks into it by accident; her eyes can water forever because it’s real it’s real it’s real! “It’s only been two minutes. Who knows what could go wrong?”

“Don’t be such a downer! You’ll be fine!” Boss says, as if everyone can’t see the threatening glance she gives Pewter. Is anyone convinced by this?

“Yes, you’ll be fine, Mizuki-chan,” Pewter sighs. “Aiba is going to report to me this week, but make sure you check in if something happens, okay?”

“Got it!” Mizuki says. Seems easy enough. She can handle that, assuming she doesn’t get put on some overly complicated case. Well, luckily the incident with Sejima Saito’s been over a while… Speaking of… 

“Where is Date?” She’d assumed he’d whine his way into meeting her based on all she’s heard about the guy. Boss could never say no to him.

“Babysitting duty,” Boss says. Huh?  “Someone has to watch…whoever that is in my office while Pewter is in here.”

“Who?” Could a girl get some context please? Since when did ABIS babysit? 

Aiba says, “Mizuki has not been informed of the man Lien discovered in the basement at the Horadori Institute.”

“WHAT.” 

“I’ll let you handle this one, Boss.”

LIEN DID WHAT NOW?

“Tell Date-kun—”

AND HE DIDN’T TELL ME?

“Where to go, yes, I know,” Pewter says—That idiotic too-trusting—and slides out of the room. “Good luck.” I told him not to take that job! “Mizuki-chan, you have my number.”

And now he’s—“Where is he?”

“Also babysitting, but—”

“Let me see him—”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Your heart rate is—"

“I don’t care!” A person discovered at the Horadori Institute? Something happened? He didn’t tell me?  Lien found something? Someone? I know I never told him, but—what’s going on? They’re still doing experiments—What kind of man? Is he a researcher, or another victim, like me? Who is he? Who am I? How could anyone know? Why would anyone know? Why would anyone care? Everything is a secret in that basement where they trap little unwanted rodents every week to run tests where they strap their arms under an industrial soldering iron and see how fast it takes for the burns to heal or they’ll do it to her Rabbit self and she has to tell Chieda-sensei that the tiny scar that’s left behind was just an accident with a match in science class yes just an accident an accident I promise, don’t worry, Big Sis is always fine—

“Mizuki,” In that voice with all the solid warmth of a mug of hot chocolate, Mama calls her name. “Take a deep breath. In…”

Inhale. Is she at home? No. She’s at work.

“Release.”

Exhale. She’s at work because she’s an adult with a job and a mother, not an orphan unpermitted her name. Mama guides her through breathing one, two, three more times, and when she next blinks, the cluttered, gigantic monitor room returns to clear focus. 

“Need me to keep going?” Mama asks.

“I’m fine.” She’s okay. She’s safe. 

“You sure…?” Concern oozes from every inch of Mama’s face. Really not fooling anyone…

“Yeah.” Kuranushi Mizuki is already free. 

Beat.

“Now what’s this about a man Lien found at the Horadori Institute?!” Don’t think I forgot!

Mama sighs. “Are you trying to work yourself into another panic?"

Yeah, okay, freaking out into another flashback? Bad idea. Another deep breath. “Sorry. I just—”

“Boss, I think waiting may be detrimental. Perhaps you should just begin.”

“Yeah, okay,” Boss says, and starts flipping through files on one of the monitors. 

“I can guide you through breathing exercises if you need them,” Aiba says, and Mizuki automatically looks at Boss, who’s too busy grumbling to herself. “Boss doesn’t need to know.”

Right, we have a private channel. “Okay.”

Just then, Boss presents a face that Mizuki recognizes, but has never seen like this. “Huh…?”

Case Notes

“Your name is…?”

“Kubo Uru.”

“And you said you were stuck down there for…?”

“One day.”

A groan. 

Silence. Kubo Uru has only been gone for one day, and that’s who is in this room being questioned. One day is all that’s needed. One day, one day, one day, you haven’t even been free for a full day—

“Date-chi, maybe you could hold off for now…?” Lien asks. Right. He’s here also. At least he’s in a chair now, though I’m surprised they didn’t send him home.

The Aggravating Officer shows Lien something on his phone, leaning further back when he suspects you’re trying to peek. Damn him. He returns to you with another line of questioning. “Anything happen while you were stuck?” 

“No. It was quite boring.” Nothing to do but wait and wait and wait and wait and wait until the bastard brought his son for a “play-date.” No one to talk to. Guess that makes this new! You can’t help but smirk.

“How’d you get down there?”

“Got lost drinking after work. Couldn’t tell you what time it was. Not good with alcohol.” Probably. Can’t imagine your liver works well after regrowing. Thrice. 

“How’d you get past security?” Did the third time even go to Jin…? 

“No idea.” You didn’t see him… They had to bring him for transplants like that… “They must have changed shifts by chance.” What did that bastard do with my liver? Once I get out of this underground prison, I’ll find him and—No. Can’t go back. The police might prevent him from trying anything, but they can’t be allowed to know. No being followed. Damn it! You really want to kill that fucking cop! 

Piece of Shit Police Pig glances at Lien, who shrugs. Another heavy sigh. Story must check out. Good. 

Enemy Interrogator eyes the book in your lap, still clutched tightly in your hands. “What’s that book?”

The only thing they didn’t take, and I won’t let them. Not ever. “Mine.” Your hands block the cover; no one but Mom and I are allowed to touch this.

“Yeah, I know, but what is it? Can I see it?”

“Cover is pretty unique!” Lien must have seen it when you picked it up. “Not something I’ve seen around before.”

“You wouldn’t have.” He didn’t know the prophecy. That’s how I knew Mom didn’t send him. “It’s not something you get in bookstores.”

“So, how’d you get it?” Bastard Cop asks.

“It was a gift from long ago.” Mom gave it to you 20 years ago; it still has scribbles in it.

“Why are you bringing old gifts to work parties?”

“It’s very important to me.” It’s the key to finding her. It is still my only way out.

“Why was it under a pillow…?” Lien asks. 

“Drunk, remember?”

“Ah, yeah, okay.”

The Ruthless Cop is not so easily satiated. “Can I see it?”

Canheseeit? Can-he-see-it? Can he see it? Can he seeit? CAN he see-it? CANheseeit? CAN-he-SEE-it? CaN-He-sEe—

The door to Kuranushi’s office swings open again, and the threat in the lab coat returns. “Any progress?” he asks.

“Nope,” your Newfound Nemesis answers. “Just more questions, but I’m overdue for my vacation.” 

He can't see it. You exhale.

Why is everyone staring now? Go back to looking at the jackass with the eye-patch!

The Irritating Imbecile asks, “Ryuki back yet?”

“Boss told him to wait in the interrogation room,” the Threat answers. Another pig. Wonderful.

“None of this makes any sense…” The Foul Detective bemoans. “Not that it’s my problem anymore.”

Click. The door closes, and everything is quiet. Neither Lien nor the Threat speak once their Conniving Comrade leaves, content to sip their drinks and fiddle with their phones. The most important book is bunched up under a threadbare shirt; it’s both cold and warm against the chest. The clock on the floor is broken, but you can still hear it tick. I have to get out of here.

“Tama, I didn’t do something horrible last night, right?”

“Get a grip! If you fucked up, you’d be in handcuffs bawling for forgiveness and not in the way you like! Sheesh…”

“Right. Sorry.” But, Kuruto can’t help but worry! Why is he waiting in the interrogation room? Isn’t that for suspects? And last night Date-san took him bar-hopping, and he might have had one too many at Marble, because he tends to get a little carried away this time of year, so he doesn’t have to go back to his empty house where Yukuto hasn’t been for six years—not the point! It just…doesn’t make a lot of sense! What happened to Boss’ perfectly good office? Why is he alone in here? “What could have happened?”

“Info channels aren’t giving me much. Some guy Lien Twining found a man at a lab? The Horadori Institute of Genetics?”

New case? “What else?”

Tama sighs, and hums to herself. “Not much. There isn’t an allegation…or a name for the man…and this picture…”

Huh? “Picture? What about it?”

A new voice asks, “Mystery guy, right?” 

Kuruto would know that voice anywhere. “Date-san!” Eyepatch? “Where is Aiba…?”

“Just asked. She’s with Mizuki.” Ah, that time came then. 

“Sorry, I’m late,” Date-san says, plopping across from him and kicking his feet on top of the table without a care in the world. He fiddles with one of the earpieces Boss uses for AI-balls. “Busy around here.”

“Tama was just telling me—”

“Yeah, nothing about him makes sense, and he's not cooperative. At all.” 

“Suspects don’t normally cooperate, right?” They just evade capture until Yukuto gets smashed in half, and now Kuruto lives alone in an empty house that’s still, always, too big for him. 

“He’s not a suspect, just blatantly covering up what happened to him down there. If he was a suspect, he’d be in here whether he liked it or not.” 

A victim? But—Kuruto shakes his head. Not everyone thinks clearly after an injustice, something he knows very well. They’ll figure it out eventually, with enough patience. His teeth grind. “Any leads?”

“Tama, can you show Ryuki Furue Jin’s To-Witter account?”

Kuruto expects Tama to quip something dirty while pulling it up, but she says nothing. She does nothing for 10 long, painful seconds, then says, “Date, Ryuki hasn’t seen the picture yet.”

Yeah, but what does that have to do with—Date-san frowns, pulls himself up into a proper sitting posture, and says nothing as he scrutinizes Kuruto’s face. Does everyone know something he doesn’t? Why does he have to wait? Why is he always waiting? Always frozen, stuck, useless—“Please don’t keep secrets from me!” 

Two sighs—one from across and one within his mind—with synchronized timing to be one. Then, Date-san says, “Show him. I’ll handle it.”

“Okay,” Tama says, and the image of a blond businessman flicks into Kuruto’s AI-sight. Has he seen this man before…?

“This is Furue Jin, CEO of music streaming platform Music Food, author, known recluse, and To-Witter ‘Protag’ every week according to Iris,” Date-san says. That description sounds familiar too, but when would it have come up…? “He should be the guy in Boss’ office right now, but Furue tweeted when our mystery man should have been locked underground without cellphone service.”

“He’s trending again,” Tama says. Nope. Kuruto’s got nothing; Tama does say you live under a rock. “Uproar about some change in his bio he made about two hours ago.”

“Impossible for Mystery Guy, who was in my car without a phone. Furue doesn’t have any relatives, but they look half identical.”

“Half…?” Kuruto asks. 

Date nods, and Tama presents another image of Furue Jin, except—No… His left half matches perfectly, but his right… Time crunches under the wheels to nothing. I should have stopped him. The blood rushing through Kuruto’s ears—splattered on the pavement in a gooey silhouette—is deafening. I’ll stop him. This time, I’ll—

The picture vanishes, replaced by Tama. “Date, maybe someone else should take this—"

“No!” The case is his! Kuruto can’t let it slip away. Oxygen floods his veins, and as carbon dioxide escapes laboriously through his lips, his jaw finally unclenches. “Give the case to me.”

With a clenched riding crop and furrowed brows, Tama looks unconvinced. “But…”

“I’m fine. I was just surprised.” Kuruto says. “Show me the picture again? I’ll prove it.”

“I can tell Boss this was a bad idea—”

Kuruto doesn’t let Date-san finish. “Tama. Please?”

It’s quiet in the interrogation room. Dark. Although she hesitates for several painful seconds, Tama relents, projecting the image in front of her. Time marches steadily onward. I’m not frozen, or powerless. This man, though half scarred, is not dead, laid flat against the street; he can be saved, and no one should be crushed under the weight of that truck. Tama finally relaxes her grip. “Don’t scare me like that.”  

“Sorry…” Did it look that bad? “I appreciate the concern. Thank you.”

Date-san waves him off. 

“I’m taking you off this case if anything happens, got it?”

“Yes ma’am!”

“And you have to do every check-in task, no matter what!”

“Yes ma’am…”

“Hah?!”

“Yes, almighty Tama-sama!!!”

She cracks a tiny smile. “Good.”

“If you need my help, let me know,” Date-san says. 

“Aren’t you supposed to go on vacation?” Kuruto asks. 

“Oh, I’ll just drag you to Ohmiya or something.” 

Normally, Kuruto would sigh, exasperated, and he still does, but with a laugh. I could not ask for a better partner and superior. Now to get real justice. “If that’s not Furue-san, then….”

“Right,” Date-san says, back to business mode. “Your first order of business is to find Furue and get him to come in.”

Case Notes

Why are they keeping me here? They must suspect me, but of what? You can debug this. Think. This room is unbearable— Focus . What went wrong? Your trembling hands? Your twitching eyes? Not remembering where a police station is anymore? That gave away your victim status, but that wouldn’t prompt an interrogation, even if they don’t believe it was just one day, and they definitely don’t, with those questions they must know, but how much? What do they know? What can they see? Kubo Uru’s story checks out, it must, that’s why Lien’s Fraudulent Friend was so frustrated every time he got an answer—good! Let him tear his actual hair off! He wanted to see, to touch Mom’s gift? The audacity! That could never be allowed, it could never be forgiven, no one gets to see it, no one— 

“Uh, Kubo-san?” 

Your lung is acting up again, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing tight enough to burn, mirroring the walls around you. There’s a name they keep saying, keep calling, but it's impossible to hear when they’re all white noise drowning in buggy code—They must already know. What else could it be? They checked to see if someone matching that name’s gone missing, and now—

“Kubo-san.”

The life preserver against the wall would not save you. No one could save you. No one did. It was impossible, right, Mom? Right?

“Kubo-san!”

There are voices you cannot hear. Seams I cannot tear. 

Thoughts that can never be touched. 

The simulation rattles. No, it bangs, and the staticky gurgling racket raises—unintelligible—but there are three sources now. Four? Does the loud heaving deep within your chest count as a voice as you gasp for air that isn't real in this prison underground? You’ll never escape this cell, not for another twenty three years, eight months, and nineteen days, but you have to I have to there has to be a way someone help me help me help me help me help me Mom—

“Uru,” A woman calls your name. She is too young to be Mom, too blue, but the word said in her voice is crisp. Buoyant. A lifesaver in the water. “You hear me?” 

You nod. What sort of tone is that? It almost reminds me of Chieda-sensei… 

“Good. Deep breaths, okay? Here we go, inhale…two…three…” 

Almost. Something… Ragged breaths still. Something is different, but… Searing pain in your lung falls slack. I can’t place what it is. Four feet away, the girl that called your name keeps her mismatched gaze trained on you; you force yourself to meet it. I must have been hearing things.

“Kuranushi Mizuki, most talented member of ABIS, at your service.” She offers an outstretched hand to you, but doesn’t seem bothered when you don’t take it. “Nice to meet you, Uru-san.”

“First name? Really?” Is everyone who works here so informal? 

“Call me Mizuki then. Win for both of us.” 

How is that a win—I give up. You’ll let Mizuki-kun have this for pulling you ashore. The name tugs a different cord; you couldn’t know anyone this young, and yet…

“What you have seen and heard cannot be shared with anyone. If you do…I will kill her.”

She gasped in recognition.

…Whatever update the simulation received recently clearly broke it, because you weren’t free to go anywhere until a few hours ago, so that hallucinatory cutscene isn’t my business. Why her name is familiar is not important anyway. I have bigger concerns. “Do you want to question me, Mizuki-kun?” 

“Nope~” she says. “Think you’ve been here for long enough, today.” You don’t miss the “today,” but you’ll take any out offered. 

“Did Boss approve that…?” The Threat in the lab coat asks, once again reminding you that other people are present in this room.

“I’m in charge,” Mizuki-kun says. Wasn’t there a Ryuki mentioned earlier? How does anyone keep track of so many names? “We’ve got enough for now.”

The Threat shrugs.

“Where am I sending the car?” Mizuki-kun asks. “So you can go home?”

The buoy pops. You don’t know! You haven’t had the chance to look in the book still stuffed under your shirt, searing, freezing, unseen, known, where are you supposed to go, what are you supposed to say, think, think, think—

“Uh, actually…” Lien pops in, and he’s still here? Get him a car instead! “I got that one.”

Mizuki-kun finally turns from you. “You can’t drive. You failed that test twice and then gave up.” Does everyone here know each other already?

“It was only once!” 

“Lien.”

“Come on, Qu—you see it, right?” 

I’ve had it with people staring at me, just put me out of my misery!

“I’ll take care of him.” Lien straightens out his shoulders with a confident grin. “Just trust me.” 

Their silent staring contest—at least they aren’t looking at you anymore—lasts for several seconds, until eventually—"You better call me later.”

“Obviously.”

“Where to?” 

“Brahman.”

“Got it,” Mizuki-kun strolls out the door. “Say hi to Gen-chan for me.”

“Sure thing!”

What…just happened…? Was I supposed to understand any of that…?

“You hungry?” Lien looks like he’s about to nudge you with his elbow, but stops himself. “‘Cause it’s like 1pm.”

“Where are we…?”

“The best restaurant in town, and the perfect place to hide out.”

Tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock… The clock on the monitor reads 13:09. A default ringtone plays. Click. On the other end, a young man asks him, “This is Furue Jin-san, correct?”

“It is,” Jin says—

“I’m Ryuki Kuruto of the Metropolitan Police. We found an unknown man we believe you can identify. Do you mind coming in?” 

—and checks another off the list.

Chapter Text

“I’m Ryuki Kuruto of the MPD. We found an unknown man we believe you can identify. Do you mind coming in?”

“What kind of request is that? You’re a police officer!”

Kuruto ignores her.

Furue-san hums. He has to think about it? It’s just a yes or no question, and if he says no, I have to struggle for a warrant… What feels like minutes but is likely only a couple seconds passes, given what he says next. “You will be identifying him by photograph, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In that case…” 

Furue-san goes on to say something more, but Tama cuts him off with a “Why is he giving his home address?”

“Tama!” It’s hard for Kuruto to hear Furue-san even when the receiver is connected right to his brain; he doesn’t need Tama’s interference. Luckily, she acquiesces. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Furue-san gives him an address on the border of the Minato and Chiyoda districts. “I’m available at 2:00pm. Is that acceptable?”

That’s in less than an hour. Kuruto can work with that, but why is Furue-san avoiding coming in? Is it the reclusiveness, or… “Yes, that’s fine.”

After Kuruto finishes checking the address to be safe—it really was an apartment complex—Furue-san says, “Please don’t be late, Ryuki-san,” and the line falls silent. 

Case Notes

“Is there something you need here?” Aiba asks. “I believe Boss is in a meeting.”

She’s probably threatening some higher-ups for a warrant into the institute or something, but for once her regularly rejected efforts make no difference to Mizuki. They’ll probably be able to secure it easier now that they’ve found Uru. “I just have to borrow the desk.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see!” Or maybe ‘We’ll see.’ She snorts. Speaking of Uru, they do have one lead now, don’t they? Perhaps they should check that first. “Are there any missing guys named Uru?” 

“You wish to check just his first name?”

“Yep! We don’t have a last name or a time-frame to narrow things down further, but…”

“He appears to be around 30. I’ll add that to the filter.” It’s so convenient having the entire police database hooked up right to her brain. Aiba sifts through all the information much faster than Mizuki can get to 2 on her “count all of Mama’s stolen advertisements on the wall” side quest. “I cannot find anyone who matches Uru.”

Tch. That’s definitely his name though! Why else would he respond to it that far into a dissociative episode? Ah. It could be… “Did you check missing children?” 

“That would have been at least two decades ago.”

“Yeah. I know. But knowing where Lien found him…” Horadori’s test subjects run young.

“Understood.” A weird shrimp lady pops up in her vision, but only on the left, and Mizuki jerks. That’s Aiba, but it’s weird to see her like this, or to see anything through Mizuki’s left eye after a lifetime of being blind that side, almost like a dream. “Surprised?”

“Only a little.”

“At least you do not scream.” Date sounds like a real weirdo.  “Regardless, I cannot confirm any matches, however…there is something curious.”

“A lead?”

“Unclear. Somezuki Uru, then six years old, disappeared in 1996.” He would be almost 30 now. So far so good, but there’s a catch, isn’t there? “Most missing persons, even children, have an image in the database, so the police can see who they are looking for, however the orphanage could not provide any photos of him.”

Mizuki was wondering why Aiba wasn’t showing her the thumbnail. “Not one?”

“It was against policy, as most orphans still have legal ties to their parents who forbid it. All we can go off is his description.”

That tracks. Some of the girls in Mizuki’s unit were abandoned by their parents. “Anything useful?”

“Most of what’s written would have greatly shifted during puberty, not to mention the accuracy is questionable, but a few factors such as eye color and hair color match.” 

Tch. Not enough. “No one else?”

“All other possible leads were either discovered, or the image reference did not match in the slightest.”

Damn! Annoying, but she’ll make it work for now. “What’s the name of the orphanage?”

“One you are quite familiar with: Aioen.”

The chair squeals loudly from being thrust back, ramming into the dartboard. Mizuki’s journal is going to have to wait.

Case Notes

Although it’s open for lunch hours, Brahman is not very crowded, as Gen had closed for break earlier than usual after he got a text; right now, only one very drunk regular is here, asleep on his bar counter. I reminded him he was a lightweight, and yet…Well, the taxi should be here any minute, so he won’t be a potential issue for long. 

The door flies open, banging against the oil drum. “Yo!” 

“Ah, Lien,” Gen greets mid-stir. He was expecting this. Not every day Lien sends a text with the subject line “Emergency! Help!” and the body of the message is just a picture of MPD headquarters. I was worried he got arrested again, as Gen would not be able to help very much at that point, but he had soon clarified he “found a guy” and they “need somewhere to crash man.” The texts were…concerning, but no matter the circumstances, he’d accept. Their friendship means a lot to him. “You’re alone?”

“Nah, he’s just shy.” Lien turns to the silhouette lurking outside the door. “Gen-chan is the last person who would say anything. Promise.”

Gen thinks he hears sputtering from his doorframe, but it’s hard to tell over the fans. Soon, Lien’s mysterious ‘guy he found’ trudges through the door. Ah…The bell jingles as it closes. Eyeing him from next to the oil drum with folded arms and a small frown is a disfigured man. He’s another… “Welcome. Take a seat.”

The stranger stares at him, not quite gaping like the fish in his freezer, but a strange, slack-jawed frown. It doesn’t bother Gen; the costume throws off most people who aren’t expecting it. Then his eyes meet the bar counter. “Is he…” a gesture to the sleeping man, “necessary?”

Interesting phrasing. “He’ll be out shortly. I believe the taxi just pulled up. Lien, if you could—”

“Yeah, no problem. Come on, Furue.”

“It’s Furue-sama to you…!” 

“Right, sorry, Furue-sama, we’re on our way,” Lien says with an eye roll and heaves the drunk patron onto his back, carrying him out the door.

Lien’s companion watches the commotion with narrowed brows. “Furue…?” 

Lien reenters this colorful—why is everywhere I go covered wall to wall in things—establishment within a couple minutes, grumbling to himself about how ‘Furue’ is a pain in the ass. 

They know him. “That man…”

“Oh, Furue? Don’t worry about him. I don’t think he saw anything. Guy’s plastered,” Lien says. 

“Who was he?” You only know one Furue personally, and it would be better if I didn’t.

“Furue Toshimune-san,” the massive cartoon chef, ‘Gen-chan’, answers, not bothering with the requested -sama either. “He’s a regular here.”

That shithead is always boasting about his detestable son, and Mom doesn’t share that name either—

“Talks about math a lot.” Lien falls into the seat next to me. “Kind of a weird guy, though I’ve only met him a couple times.”

Why is Jin a Furue? Why would any of this happen to you if he is no longer their son?

“It’s better that way. The crowd he runs with is a detestable sort.” 

Memory murmurs the answer.

“Huh. I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks buddy!”

All the more reason to hit mute.

“Anyway,” Lien says. “This is Kubo Uru, the guy I found in the basement at work.”

“Ishiyagane Gen. Don’t worry about lunch. It’s on the house.”

Convenient Lien has so many friends, because paying wasn’t going to happen.

“Gen-chan!!!” He looks like he’s going to cry. “I’d be so lost and alone without you, man!”

All your friends are lost. 

“The lunch special as usual?”

“Hell yeah!”

“And since I don’t know your tastes,” Ishiyagane says, “What would you like for lunch?”

Good question! The menu has been sitting on the table in front of your eyes this whole time, but you haven’t read it at all. I scan the stand; what even is any of this? Lien said this was an Indo-fusion restaurant? I think I ate curry rice as a child, although at this point you only remember the taste of freeze-dried pizza and jerky. That's all Horadori bothered with once he didn’t need you for his darling bastard's worthless life. Won’t have it for much longer. Why the fuck did Jin even–

Great, they’re staring at you again. I must be taking too long—

“You like fish?” Lien asks. 

Do you? The reheated frozen crap fish fillets the orange-wearing goons tossed your way tasted worse than can be put to any human language but if you tried you’d say festering carcass of a beached whale caked in sand, but… In the warmly lit shared dining room/kitchen between me and my pseudo-siblings, they made taiyaki, and my roommate thought for sure it was going to have REAL fish no matter how many times I explained it’s just a pastry with red bean paste in it, and eventually Chieda-sensei agreed to make real fish too so he could see the difference because my word wasn’t good enough and he elbowed me in the ribs when I said ‘told you!’ We had…cod…? Not that you remember much about it. Mostly you remember Atsushi-kun pestering me to get Chieda-sensei to make taiyaki for the next three weeks.

Oh. You remembered a name. “Yes.”

“Make that two specials!” Lien says. 

“I'll have them ready shortly.”

“You prepared for this?”

“Yeah.” Why wouldn’t Kuruto be ready? He just drafted a list of questions with Tama.

“I meant emotionally, asshole! You know there’s a chance he could look like Uru, right?”

He’s aware—they did have to take that into account for potential questions after all—and while that possibility sends thrums through his nervous system and twitches in every vessel and bone, he’s confident enough it won’t throw him into a complete panic like earlier. Probably. 

… “Walk me through the usual?”

“Not convincing me you can handle the case like that!” 

“I’m fine! It’s just good to play things safe.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Tama says. “Five things you see?”

“Glass double door,” that he just walked through, “mailboxes, elevators, university students…?” 

“One more!”

“Call elevator button.” Pressed by one of many college students.

Tama walks him through the sensory countdown and all the while Kuruto makes note of all the peculiar details. The paint is chipped in small ways, the elevator rumbles past flimsy soundproofing, there’s no reception desk, the air is permeated by a bleach smell, the floors creak—This place is…cheap. Enough for dozens of students to live here. “This is how elites live?”

“Don’t make me read out your bank balance,” Tama says. 

“Yeah, but I’m not the president of a company,” Kuruto says as he makes his way down the second-floor hall. It’s not even a penthouse apartment.

“Probably how he avoids the public eye. Pseudo-college dorm isn’t where you expect business execs to live, even when they aren’t showy about it.”

Maybe! Up ahead the deep gray door reads 29. Only one way to find out. He knocks. 

No response.

Again.

Nothing.

Once more? Kuruto is about to bang even louder even if it means apologizing to the neighbors when he hears a heavy click. The door must have unlocked. 

“This guy is so sketchy…” Tama says. Kuruto twists the knob and opens the door.

Inside is as unimpressive as outside, if perhaps refurbished. At first, he assumed it was the fresh paint job and fluorescent lighting, but even though the sofas and the dining table are at best two steps up from the ones in Date-san’s apartment, they are eight whole flights cleaner. It’s spotless, like they haven’t been used in years. Furue-san must not get out much, but where…?

The light flickers off, a second passes, then turns back on. “Turning it off defeats the purpose…” The same barely audible voice from Kuruto’s earlier call. Lingering in front of the room on the left is… “Take a seat.” 

His face is… Kuruto releases a shaky breath and does exactly that.

“No wonder he doesn’t go outside.”

“Furue Jin, 29 years old, CEO of Music Food?”

“Yes.” Furue-san sits across from him. Although his eyes skitter in every direction, they land facing the floor. 

Kuruto bites back the urge to skip the identification and jump to the interrogation because it is a bad one; they still only have Uru’s first name. Sliding a photograph across the metal lined table, he asks, “Do you know this man?”

“Yes.” He only spares the image a passing glance. Strange. “His name is Somezuki Uru. He’s nearly 30 and an orphan.”

“Tama!”

“On it. Somezuki Uru, born 2/29/1990, vanished from an orphanage named Aioen when he was six years old. No one knows what happened to him. It was a big deal in the papers, but I can’t even find a picture of this kid.” 

So, a famous cold case with no leads or evidence. “How do you know him?”

Furue-san pauses. In silence he idly adjusts the photo still resting on the table, finally truly looking at it. Sometimes he opens his mouth, then closes it, and Kuruto wonders if perhaps he missed something yet again, but he hadn’t. When he finally speaks, it’s an answer for another question. “Over twenty-three years ago, Horadori Chikara and Shigure Tokiko kidnapped him.” 

That first name fits. Horadori’s name is on the lab, and with the evidence that makes up Furue-san’s right side they should know one another, but where did he get that second name? Insider information, or…? 

“They did it for me, their dying son.”

A metallic tang coats his tongue; Kuruto must have bit it.

Case Notes

I’m going to regret this later, I know you’ll rue being alive once more when your stomach turns inside out and half of the rice comes back up your throat before you can make it to a toilet, but this mackerel dish (What did Ishiyagane call it? Biryani?) is the best meal I’ve ever had! Smaller bites! Chew slowly! Avoid large chunks! Savoring the peppery taste—even as it burns your maladjusted tongue used to flavorless freeze-dried food—is impossible! 

“Slow down, buddy! You’re gonna choke!” Lien says.

Doesn’t matter! You’ve choked on less worthy meals before, and you have to get as much of this while you still can because you have no idea when the next time you’ll get a free meal will be you still haven’t figured out where you’re going to go—

“If you’d like, I can keep what’s left-over for later.” 

Pause. Your chopsticks clatter against the bowl and land against the table at Ishiyagane’s casual words. Later?

“I told you on the way here, didn’t I?” Lien asks. I don’t remember this, but focusing on anything in the blinding afternoon sun and the endless throngs of people is still a challenge for you. Whether he picks up on that or not, he explains, “You and I are gonna crash here for a while. Probably a couple weeks.”

The half-devoured Ayala Biryani grows cold but remains untouched. Forgotten. Burned into your senses. “Why…?”

He must think you’re asking a different question as his answer is only, “Well they chased both of us down, so going back to my place isn’t a safe bet. Those orange guys have my address since I worked there and I don’t wanna wake up to ‘em pointing surgical knives at me!”

You’ve woken up like that more times than you could count. Even when that shithead took nothing from you he loved to see you squirm to remind you that any day any day any day he could come and take whatever he wanted and what were you going to do what was I going to do where can I run where where where nowhere nowhere there’s nowhere to go there never was there never will be there never should be what could anyone stand to gain from keeping you what are they going to take from me what next what next what next? 

Inhale. Exhale. “Why did you include me?”

Lien does not answer me. With how he scratches his neck, he must be thrown off guard. What do they want from me? What is their plan? Should Lien pounce I’m certain I can dodge him, but were Ishiyagane to attack—

“Because,”—speak of the devil—“he's concerned about you.” Ishiyagane’s words have the same texture of the butter-knife against his counter.

Impossible. “We are utter strangers.”

“Perhaps, but that’s the kind of person he is, unable to abandon someone in trouble. I know that better than most.”

“Gen-chan….!” Why does he look ready to cry?

Irrelevant. “I know you even less.” Even if I buy into Lien being some kind of idiot altruist, which I don’t, the most dubious element of this is Ishiyagane himself, volunteering his home.

It's hard to read Ishiyagane's silence with that mask. “Have you wondered about this costume, Kubo-san?”

Changing the subject! “I fail to see—”

“Shall I show you what’s under it?”

Lien speaks up first, fish dangling from chopsticks in midair. “You don’t gotta do that if he doesn’t want to stay here—”

“It’s fine,” Ishiyagane says, and before you can give him an answer, he pulls the mask off his face. I assumed that the hunch was built into the costume, but now…seeing his face…. “You were found in Horadori’s basement, right?” His mouth is a stern line, his brows at a sharp angle. “That man’s crimes did not end with you.”

How could he—you don’t finish asking that idiotic question. All it takes is one look at your face to know something happened, but Ishiyagane is not like you. He is not marred by endless surgeries and procedures. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lien asks. Guess he didn’t know. “I’d have taken the other job if I knew…”

That bastard runs a genetics lab.

“I wanted you to have a stable job.”

“Yeah, but that means it’s his fault you get beat up, right? I don’t wanna work at a place like that.”

Sometimes children screamed outside that false door. 

“His actions are not a reflection of your integrity.” The blade in Ishiyagane’s voice sharpens. “Do not cast aspersions where they are undeserved.”

“Sorry…” It comes out of your mouth automatically, feebly. Since when was I this weak-willed?

“Don’t worry about it. We’re good.” Lien shovels the limply hanging bite into his mouth at long last. “I’m quitting even harder now though…”

Your will to protest quit as soon as you saw what was under the mask.

Ishiyagane slips the mask back on with practiced ease. “You may stay wherever you like, whether that’s here or your own home, Kubo-san.”

Your abandoned dish taunts you. “Perhaps…I will take up your offer.”

“Glad to hear it.” Ishiyagane says. The armistice has been signed. 

“If you said no, we’d just worry about you,” Lien says. 

You swallow another mouthful; despite sitting out, its flavor is stronger. 

“This place really takes me back…!” From the playground’s sunshiney sandy floor at every time of year, to the big tree they used to climb up all the way to the top, to the old swingset that would squeak from swinging too hard like she always did, and the clockslide she’d rule the castle’s keep from—Aioen is exactly like Mizuki remembers it, unaffected by the years. She spent over a decade of her life here… Are the walls in her old room still covered in haphazardly painted dragons? Maybe she can get a peek while looking for the director.

One step up and she’s through familiar doors. Guess they bought new shoe lockers. Again. She and Mizu broke it at least twice when wrestling matches got out of hand, but… “I wonder what happened…?”

“It is likely a case of wear and tear,” Aiba says. 

“Yeah, I’d buy it.” It’s been so long. Mizuki counts and categorizes the tiny shoes in each of the cubbyholes. One, two, three. Black, white, red. Sneakers, sandals, rain boots. In the third locker on the left where the entrance hall meets the corridor are purple Mary Janes. I never wore anything like that.

No time to dwell on a home that is no more! “Now, the director’s office was over—”

“Dear Sister?” 

Now that’s a name Mizuki hasn’t heard in a long time. I really should have prepared for this. I knew she worked here. "Yo, Kizuna," Mizuki turns and greets, as Kizuna flies over, pink plaid skirt fluttering behind her. “Been a while.”

“I see she calls you this as well,” Aiba says.

“Well, I came first.” Although she’s never been a big fan of the title, for a number of reasons. What part of Mizuki gives off the vibes of an elegant older sister? You’re older than me by a whole year…

“It has. It’s so wonderful to see you!” Kizuna looks like she wants to hug her, but her arms stay stiff at her sides. “What brings you to Aioen?”

“Was hoping to talk to your dad about a case.”

“Oh. I see.” Although she tries to hide it—she always tries to hide it—Kizuna’s shoulders slump slightly out of their usual perfect posture. Mizuki holds back an apology; Kizuna corrects her stance. “Father is currently out.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“The board meeting is scheduled to end at seven. Shall I tell him you asked to speak to him?”

“Sure. Text me when he’s out.” Those meetings can last a while. Time to go! “I should be off. New case has got me pretty busy.” Her nostalgia will have to wait indefinitely.

“Yes, I understand.” With the way she fiddles with her long-knit sleeves, it’s obvious Kizuna wants to say something; Mizuki knows what it is—that’s why she has to go—but her feet stay rooted to the linoleum floor. She waits for the question she cannot answer. “Dear Sister?”

“What’s up?”

“Will you come visit again?”

There it is. How does she answer this? Is the truth the right way to go, even if she won’t explain it? Does she even want to know the response? “Yeah. Call me and we’ll figure something out.”

“I will be sure to!” Kizuna smiles brighter than all the stars in the sky and waves goodbye, and Mizuki knows she’s made a mistake because seeing it made her think her lie should come true. 

Case Notes

Furue-san has an explanation for everything, from the who to the how to the why! He’s the product of an affair between Horadori and Shigure given to the Furue family like they gave birth to him, and when he got a rare form of cancer, they kidnapped a genetically compatible orphan and transplanted his organs for years in that basement. With how young he was, it’s not his fault surely—"I’m supposed to believe this?” Look at his face! It has to be a cover story, yet Kuruto kept thermo mode on for over 90% of it, and he did not once heat up! Are CEOs professional liars? “It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Focus, Ryuki. His bullshit soap opera story has a massive hole in need of an enema.”

Ignoring her unique phrasing, Tama is right. He has to be lying, and there’s still one glaring issue. “If you knew he was down there this whole time, why didn’t you tell the police? Or the press?” Tama dug up several articles exposing the institute for alleged human experimentation, and it was enough to have them shut down for several months! 

“I have no evidence. I used to keep records, but my Father took them from me, and without them I can’t prove the connection to ambiguous tertiary evidence.” He raises his gaze from the floor. “No one has ever believed me.”

Kuruto gnashes his teeth. “Who WOULD believe this?” He’s already squandered hours here!

“Frustration won’t help you crack this. Breathe.”

Inhale…2…3…4…5, exhale…2…3…4…5. 

“Thank you, Tama.” Can’t let his emotions carry him away like that or maybe even lose the case altogether. “It is difficult to accept without evidence, but I will take this testimony into account,” alongside a heaping serving of salt. 

Furue-san gives him a wry smile, appearing even more lopsided than it is thanks to the asymmetry of his face. “I know you will.” 

“We’ll have to dig up other leads.” Maybe the footage from this ‘interrogation’ will reveal something he didn’t notice, but he doubts it. “Thank you for your time. If we need anything else, I or one of my coworkers will call.” All this for unverifiable testimony, visual proof of a connection and dubious operation, and the name of a child who hasn’t been seen for over two decades. What a waste!

Case Notes

Up the stairs around the side of the restaurant lies Ishiyagane’s apartment. I take off Jin’s hand-me-down loafers in the entrance, Ishiyagane points out the bathroom, and we follow Lien through the door at the end of the short hallway. These living quarters are smaller than your prison, yet infinitely less cramped with the descending sun beaming over the balcony through square windows gazing on Golden Yokocho, illuminating the extensive home kitchen and shabby coffee table. He lacks a TV, and the cell might have a better couch, but along the walls are wooden shelves crammed packed with books that rival the ones you left behind, although I don’t need them anymore. Kept hidden this very moment is the only one worth saving.

“I only have one bedroom, so you or Lien will have to decide who uses it. The other can use the spare futon. I intend to sleep on the couch.”

“Nah man, I’ll take the couch. You take the spare futon,” Lien says. 

While Lien and Ishiyagane engage in some worthless quarrel over who should righteously suffer the couch (so long as it’s not me!), I skim the titles of the reading material. Might as well get to know my options. Many of the nonfiction titles are ones I’ve read before, books on molecular biology and religion, although certainly not the marked-up cookbooks; you’ve never had a kitchen. You have no idea what you’d do with the one in Ishiyagane’s apartment, not much different from the one just downstairs. Skipping past the fiction—that was never your interest—you stop. My gaze hovers on black book binding. Without pulling it out, you know what it is. Did someone—no, it’s still under this tattered shirt. Ishiyagane has his own. Does he know Mom…? Is there any way to ask that isn’t exposing?

“What are you looking at?” Lien asks. They must have finished bickering. 

“Not important.” I step away from the shelves. You’ll worry about it later. “Just curious about what all he keeps besides recipes.”

“Figures you’re a bookworm too. I’ve been trying to sell Gen-chan on a TV for months and he still won’t get one.”

“We’ve been over this. Magazines have better material,” Ishiyagane explains.

“But they don’t move! They aren’t alive! How can you really appreciate boobs if they’re static?”

What. Are they. Are they talking about—Your face burns hot enough to cauterize itself.

“Spreads have a more artistic quality than a video ever could.”

Is this what adult friendship entails? How strange. 

“That’s what you always say. Hey Uru, what do you think?”

They think I care about pornography? Laughable. You only know about it from history books and allusions in the games they’d bring you. “I—I have no opinion on the matter.”

“What? But doesn’t every guy have an opinion about porn?” Lien asks.

“Not everyone is interested,” Ishiyagane says.

You nod. Pornography is beneath me.

“Yeah, true. Think I’m too used to hanging around Date-chi.” 

“Date-san is…certainly not the norm.” 

What’s all the fuss about anyway? 

“Well, if you get curious, Gen-chan keeps his ‘Artsy Porn’ stashed in his drawers, since you’re gonna be in there. Just don’t get carried away and make a mess!”

“I have zero interest in ‘making a mess….’” That forgotten knowledge engraves itself into your brain to be never acted upon at a later date. 

“Don’t tease him too much,” Ishiyagane says. “He’s had a long day.”

“Me too,” Lien collapses onto the couch and spreads his arms along the back. “I mean, not as long as Uru here, but…”

You decide to loiter along the shelves. Can’t be too strange if Ishiyagane seems comfortable standing at his counter. “I still don’t know why you followed the instructions of such a suspicious guy.” 

I would like to know that one myself. Didn’t get an answer at the convenience store. “What exactly did happen?”

“Right, you weren’t awake when I explained this to Date-chi. Okay, so,” Lien heaves a sigh. “I’m like barely a half hour into shift when this guy comes in wearing a hat and sunglasses and a scarf he like REALLY doesn’t want anyone to see his face—” 

Can’t imagine why. Asshole.

“—and I was going to get security, but he was like ‘It’s fine I’m allowed to be here,’ so I decided to just keep tabs on him just in case.”

“And then he unlocked a secret part of the lab…?” Ishiyagane asks. “That wasn’t a concern?”

“No shit it was! He put in a music passcode on some statue and out came secret stairs! I asked him how he knew about all that, ‘cause I sure didn’t, and he just said he’s come here a bunch. Which. What?”

None of this is new; if anything it’s treacherous territory with how it can be shifted back to you. “Did he explain himself at all?”

“I didn’t even get a name, which… might be my fault. Everything happened so fast it didn’t occur to me.”

“Not even a motive?” The one puzzle piece that eludes me, yet it’s the most crucial. 

“He didn’t really explain himself, but…so he was going to go down those stairs himself, but then he didn’t. He asked me to go instead ‘cause it would be better if he didn’t.”

Last-ditch effort to spare his own unearned undeserving stolen life I'll kill him I’ll kill him I’ll kill him!

But Lien keeps speaking. “Obviously I asked what he meant, ‘cause like, what is he even trying to do? Why do I have to do it? But he just said he’s counting on me. That it can’t wait any longer.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. What can’t wait…?

You will never accept the answer. No matter what.

It’s obvious. Furue Jin would only come here for one reason.

“‘It’s not for me.’”

Even if he’s 23 years 8 months and 19 days too late. 

“Do you know that guy?” Lien asks. 

The simulation glitches into a filter, watery and unfocused. Do I know him? Do I know him? Do I know him?

“No.” Not even his parents do. Dwelling on someone you plan to kill is a waste of time, isn’t it? “Why would I know anyone like that?”

“He appears to know you,” Ishiyagane says.

“I have no idea why that is.” I rise from my post leaning against the shelves. “Thank you for informing me regardless.” Even if it will be summarily discarded as fast as you blink. “I will be going to rest.” That filter refuses to clear.

What they say after doesn’t matter. Playing friends lost all appeal. 

An old green journal filled with entries dating back from Mizuki’s childhood lies against Mama’s desk as she flips through its slowly yellowing pages. Found one! The pen clicks in her hand. 

Date: 2/9/2020. 

No heart trouble. 

She’ll have to cross that out if that changes between now and midnight.

“You keep a health record,” Aiba says. “Although it’s quite sparse. Is it useful to record so little?”

“Chieda-sensei used to ask the same thing.” She’s been using it for well over a decade and yet she still has half it left! “But I don’t see much reason to fluff it up when it’s just to help with the doctors.”

Can see out of my left eye now. No issues.

”I suppose, although greater detail may help with accuracy.”

Can see out of my left eye now. No issues.  New eye talks too much.

“That was not what I meant by detail!” Aiba says.

Mizuki laughs, then her phone sings the adorabbit opening. That’s probably Kizuna.

Kizuna: Father has called to inform me he will not be back until late this evening, but he has availability tomorrow at 7:30am. Shall I put you in for then?

That’s early, but she’ll deal.

You: Yeah, thanks

Kizuna: Of course! :D

Mizuki is about to put the phone away when she spots typing. Kizuna pauses, then starts back up, then pauses, in an endless loop, a pattern she knows well. 

Kizuna: Father has informed me he would very much appreciate if you stayed for breakfast after your talk, as it’s been quite a while.
Is that also doable? 

Although Mizuki doesn’t doubt her former foster father would be overjoyed to have her for breakfast, it’s not his request. She’s still like this…always disguising her own feelings, even after being given permission to ask upfront. 

Mizuki’s fingers linger above the touchscreen, tapping nothing.

“Mizuki, if you don’t mind my asking, you and Kizuna were once sisters; did you have a falling out?” 

“Not exactly.” What part of the question Mizuki is answering isn’t clear even to her. “We lived together for a couple years, but…” They did everything together. They were inseparable. Kizuna’s hand would never leave her own no matter how warm or old she got. “Things just got awkward when I left.”

You: I’ll see what I can do, but I’m on a new case.

They weren’t exactly family to begin with.

Case Notes

The crisp rustle of turning pages as I reread Mom’s book fills the silence of Ishiyagane’s dark apartment. You didn’t understand Plato’s allegory of the cave at all when you scribbled all over this page, but you barely knew the kanji on the page so perhaps your feeble-mindedness can be excused. At the very least, it didn’t bother Mom. She would coolly explain her teachings to me until I finally understood them. Jin never did. He always said they were stupid and we were wrong, but what does he know? Mom stopped wasting time explaining things to him years ago. He could never be as smart as her because he’s never been worthy! No one compares to Mom. 

The analog clock hanging on the wall reads 8:53pm. Slipping out of the futon, I sidestep the scattered crumpled tissue bundles along the floor and head to the window overlooking the balcony, book in hand. Golden Yokocho’s street lights and bar signs glow, but they’re easier to look at filtered through the cartoony mask left on the dresser. 

Knock-knock. “Hey, it’s been a really long day, so I’m gonna pass out. If you need to go to the bathroom or something, try not to make a lot of noise, okay?” 

Brahman serves as a bar, so Ishiyagane won’t be back until around midnight. “Understood.” Why would you want to bother Lien anyway? 

I reopen my book and unfold the map taped to the back cover. You’ve only ever needed Mom. 

With a yawn, Jin tugs the tucked-in end of the sheets and comforter out from under the mattress. Has Uru gone to sleep yet? “Ha.” You know him better than anyone else. If he gets the chance, he’ll strive to win “Auntie’s” heart by defeating every enemy until there is no one left who has wronged him. The underdog always comes out on top, but he’s in over his head. Just like you are. Ryuki-san is just the latest in Jin’s long list of disappointments, and he will not be the last. Daydreams just don’t come true. 

In the face of monstrous machinations, Uru imagines himself the hero whose wit, ingenuity and determination will conquer all. He could never accept an unfair world that’s been so cruel to him. Who will show him kindness? Who will right those wrongs? You? No. 

Tomorrow, Jin will add to his string of countless failures. The villain deserves to be loathed.

Chapter Text

“Mama, I’ll take a bourbon. Go easy on him,” Date-san says, gesturing at Kuruto with his thumb from his stool at the bar. “We don’t need a repeat of last night.” 

“We really don’t,” Tama agrees. “I know you’re bummed out, but we have to hit the pavement tomorrow.” 

Kuruto sinks into a neighboring stool. “Yeah, I know….” After the interrogation, they spent hours digging into Furue-san; Tama searched every news outlet and tabloid for even the slightest bit of dirt on him, and nothing came up! He couldn’t believe it. The guy is so dubious! He just spontaneously appeared at twenty-two as a CEO, yet he has no known connections or history, and no one has ever seen him—including his major business partners—when he’s a public figure! How can that be true? How has he kept such a tight lid on his appearance? A guy like that should have more dirt on him, yet all there is in the news are his latest investments (TV networks), his published editorials, executive promotions, and gossip columns about his To-Witter—who cares about any of that? He’s keeping bigger secrets!

Is it just Kuruto, or does Marble look…different? Last night there weren’t any occult books... Are those even the same posters…? As Mama prepares Date-san's usual bourbon and a glass of ice water, he asks, “Did you redecorate?”

“Picked up a new hobby. Branch out the information gathering biz.”

“Need the spirits to keep you company?” Date-san asks more like a laugh. “I should visit more.”

“They’re just like you.” Mama twirls something in her hands, not her usual bonito: a pen. Otherwise, she looks the same as always. “Every stroke from a beautiful lady has them oozing onto the sheets.”

Tama cackles. 

“I can’t imagine they know something you don’t,” Kuruto says. She probably already knows about Uru; he is down the block after all. “Nothing escapes you.”

“You flatter me!” Mama says. “But there have been a lot of weird goings-on lately, and you boys know me. I’m a very nosy girl.”

“Like what?” Date-san asks.

“You got into an hours-long car chase for one, honey. All of Tokyo saw that,” Mama says. “Then there are the strange folks lurking around Brahman, whatever the hell’s happening with Furue Jin’s To-Witter—”

Date-san groans, “You too…?” 

Kuruto agrees. “What’s so special about Furue Jin’s To-Witter?”

“Oh, I don’t really care about his To-Weets.” Mama waves her hand dismissively. “I think he’s just bored with too much money, but the people who follow him? There’s a different story.”

“Aren’t they all conspiracy theorists with terrible hobbies like reading too much into a CEO’s anime opinions…?” Date-san asks. That’s…specific. With every passing moment he leans closer to the purple countertop, like he wants to pass out.

“No, I’m not talking about the likes of A-Set’s groupies,” Mama says. “Those guys are relatively normal as far as his reply guys go. I mean the real weirdos: the cultists.”

“Cultists?” Kuruto asks. Just maybe…

Now Date-san’s fully on the counter. “Why me…”

Mama ignores him. “Scroll through the replies on any of his To-Weets for long enough and you’ll stumble across some fresh account with a default avatar saying something like ‘praise to the creator’ or ‘this world is a simulation’ or some nonsense like that.”

“I just wanted to drink…” Everyone ignores him.

“What else can you tell me?” Kuruto asks.

“Don’t get your hopes up. We already checked Furue’s claim about the Order of %, and there are no records of him ever contributing to any religious movement.”

“Not much else. Learned this watching them online, but their accounts disappear as quickly as they make them,” Mama says. “Seems to me though they worship Furue as their god.”

“Or Mama’s just taking bored teenagers too seriously…”

“But if you want more information about them—” Mama pulls out a pad of paper and drops it on the table; her pen clicks—“maybe we can ask a real god? I should warn you though, the answers are going to be bizarre.”

“Giving yourself an out already?” Date-san says.

“The spirits move in mysterious ways.”

Kuruto swishes his glass, once, then twice; crushed ice dissolves into the water. There has to be something to this, right? “Sure. I’ll try it.” 

Date-san sits up straight just to give him a look. “Really? You’re letting Mama scam you?”

“Excuse you! This first one is on the house.”

“What, is she running a free trial period?”

If it doesn’t work—and Kuruto’s not expecting it to—“What do I have to lose?” It’s not like he has any better leads right now. “What connection does Furue Jin have with the Order of %?”

“Oh, mighty spirits, let your wisdom flow from my gentle grasp.” The pen hovers over the pad, but does not touch it. “What ties Furue Jin to the Order of %?” Mama’s eyes fall shut. Her hand moves quickly, pen scribbling across the page in tiny jagged bursts. Marble is silent, save for the sensual jazz crooning softly on the radio. 

The pen falls from her hand; Mama opens her eyes, and squints at the page. Brows scrunched together, she lifts the page. Something…wrong? A frown. “I can’t read this.”

“What Mama did, automatic writing, is unconscious muscular activity that generates scribbles the diviner tries to interpret. There’s nothing to ‘read.’”

“What, you’re backing out now?” Date-san says. “Answer too weird for—”

“Date-chan, I’m being completely serious.” Mama tears the page from the pad and slaps it down on the purple counter in front of Date-san, pivoting it in his direction. “What does this say?”

While he was smirking at first, once he looks at the page it falls away as he repeats the exact same steps Mama did. “Was your handwriting always this bad?” 

“If I knew the results were going to be this messy, I would have picked the crystal balls!” More than one….?

“You mean this is your first attempt….?” Date-san asks.

“Hush!” Mama slides the page to Kuruto next. “Doesn’t this look like words?”

Since he asked for this, he might as well look at the results. The page is littered with uneven lettering. Based on the shape of the few letters he can decipher, it was written in the Latin alphabet. “It does,” but he can’t understand this scrawl without help. “Tama, can you analyze this?”

“If you insist…Huh?” 

“What’s wrong?” Tama superimposes her ‘translation’^A/N underneath the writing; “Let’s see…” Kuruto reads it out to the room. Mama was right; the answer is an enigma.

“Wow, Mama, your English is pretty good,” Date-san says.

“That’s not my English!” Mama says, and he believes her. How else can she know the impossible? “Anyway, was it helpful?”

“It was, thank you.” What she wrote raised more questions than it answered. So much of this is still beyond him, but it seems like one thing Furue-san had to say was real. ”You put a copy of this in the database, right?”

“Who do you take me for, idiot?” 

Tomorrow, they dig deeper.

Case Notes

As to be expected at just after 11pm, all the lights are off save for the blinking of an ignored phone face-up next to the futon. A snore muffled by a pillow. Lien probably drools too, but it doesn’t matter. One step, two, around the carpet, careful not to bang into the accursed coffee table again like during the late dinner fiasco. Luckily, although the building is antiquated, neither the floors nor the hallway door creak or squeal when stepped on or pushed with even the slightest pressure. Got it. As the door closes, Lien snores yet again. Safe. Now for the objective.

I grab the knob for the front door. Twist and—thump. Another jostle, but it only rattles in my hand—damn it! No matter how much I turn the knob, the door doesn’t budge an inch. Nothing inserted into the keyhole, so that Ishiyagane must have locked it from the outside. He doesn’t trust me, not that you can blame him, but these were not the circumstances I anticipated! Mom always said to come straight to her once that false door came down, and she’s sure to see me the next morning, and yet—

Nothing to be done. I’ll have to figure it out tomorrow. At least I can take off this itchy mask…no idea how he tolerates this all day… As I pivot and remove the mask, a light peeks through the hallway door. It’s open. I stash the book inside the mask and let it hang limply against your right. 

A voiced, heavy sigh rings from the frame. “That’s the exit, not the bathroom.” Lien says. “Didn’t I ask you to keep it down…? It’s like eleven-something.” 

“….Sorry.” It appears he didn’t put it together. Perhaps he can’t see that accursed mask because he’s blocking all the light. “I was wondering why it was locked.”

Lien taps the bathroom door open with the back of his hand. “There you go. Enjoy,” he says, stumbling back into the main room all while grumbling to himself. You only manage to catch the words ‘pain’ and ‘call.’

Guess you’ll pretend to use it, or you’ll cast even more suspicion on myself, which isn’t something I can afford. As tedious as it may be, earning their trust appears to be a prerequisite to being allowed to leave. How do you even go about doing that? Talk about porn? Must I? Is that really the mechanic by which adult men establish their bonds, or just the ones associated with that Atrocious Agent? There are probably other ways, but you don’t know any of those. Somehow, I doubt that Nonary Game is the answer. The joke should be funny, but it doesn’t land. 

Tap-tap-tap—your heel vibrates in place against the tile floor. How much longer will I have to wait to see you, Mom? Why didn’t…

“She doesn’t know anything!”

Shut up! You don’t know anything! Worthless bastard bastard bastard bastard bastard I’ll kill you! 

The door slams, and Lien grunts. “You good…?”

The second slam answers his question.

“Mizuki, it is nearing 7:30. Should you not press the buzzer?”

“Yeah, I know, give me a minute!” She hasn’t been to the Chieda mansion in years, and it’s still just as massive as she remembers, dark khaki brick walls stretching seemingly forever down this quiet block in Shibuya. She used to live here with Kizuna, in one of their too-many bedrooms, and they could have had their own rooms, separate, but instead they both moved into the “two” that’s really just one with two doors split by a partition wall, so they could spend the nights up late talking and sharing secrets. Does Kizuna still use that room, or has she moved into another one far less lonely, like the one next door? Is she still worried that room is haunted? Okay, not that last one. They were stupid kids back then.

Right now, though, she’s loitering at the top of the stairs in front of the gated entrance, hand hovering by the buzzer she hasn’t pressed. Was ringing the bell always so daunting? Maybe, but during her stay she often just entered through the garage where Chieda-sensei keeps his fancy cars he likes fixing up. This place makes Mama’s 2LDK apartment look quaint. “Something tells me this is not going to be the end of my nostalgia this case.”

“It may perhaps end sooner if you ring the bell. You have something to do after this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mizuki taps the button. Sooner she gets this done the sooner she can check in with their Uru guards. Can’t catch a break around here!

Only a couple seconds pass, when the crackly and coarse voice of her former foster father plays from the small speaker, “Who is it?”

The intercom button is…ah! “It's Mizuki. Who else would it be?”

“A great many people, unfortunately,” he answers, and a loud click indicates the gate has unlocked. “Come in.”

Stepping past the threshold and through the front door, Mizuki is greeted by walls covered in framed family photos and original artworks, and cupboards filled with unused books and games and old family possessions, and the same Persian rug, but no people. She slides her shoes off and onto her old shelf in the shoe cupboard. The halls at the Chieda mansion were always the loneliest place to be; Mizuki’s face is still on them. “Can’t even greet me at the door, huh?”

“He is quite the busy man as the investor of several large corporations, a foundation runner, a professor emeritus, and the chairman of an Aioen.”

“Yeah, I know.” She did grow up with him around for most of her life, but it never stops annoying her just a little. Sometimes, when they were both younger, he would be home for dinner and then right back out the door! How busy can investors even be, anyway? Awake this early just to handle money?

Right as Mizuki finishes yawning her way down the stairs to the lower level, the classical wooden door to the home office opens inward. His stern expression softens when he sees her. “It’s wonderful to see you, my dear.”

“You too, sir.” It’s difficult not to grin in return, but she pulls it off. “Sucks that it has to be on business like this.” 

“Indeed.” Chieda-sensei returns to his antique desk decorated with glass statues and books and pens, much like the walls of shelves around them. “What is it the police need my help with? I’m afraid that I don’t know as much about current events in the criminal sphere as I should.”

These chairs are just as fake-cushy as I remember them. Like in the halls, Mizuki’s in some of the pictures on the shelves. The photo on his desk has three smiling faces, Mizuki and Kizuna sitting on the swings at Aioen and Kizuna’s dad standing right behind them. Some things really don’t change. 

Now isn’t the time to reminisce. “I wanted to ask about a kid that went missing. Happened a long time ago, but we might have a lead.” Before she can ask the question, Chieda-sensei’s eyes widen a fraction, then just as quickly revert to normal. “He already knows?”

“After Chieda took over in 1995, Aioen has had few missing children cases. The other one was resolved in short order.”

“Thought it would be higher.” Sneaking out was popular with the older kids because it was so easy; Mizuki sometimes saw them slipping out around the back from her window, but then again, those teenagers always made it back before wake-up call.  “What can you tell me about Somezuki Uru?”

“I’m afraid nothing that wasn’t reported in the papers,” Chieda-sensei says with a heavy sigh. “That night he went to bed the same as every small child in our care, and the next morning he was gone.”

“8pm bedtime?”

“Yes, although getting you to sleep at that age was much more of a challenge than it was for him, as was waking you for class the next morning.” 

What can Mizuki say? She’s always been a night owl. “Fairy stories just didn’t really do it for me.” His vintage comic collection was better. 

He chuckles. “I am aware. You can have the rest of the manga, if you ever ask.”

So, he did notice! All that time thieving with Lien, and Mizuki couldn’t sneak out a couple of old manga and American comics… “Sorry…” Embarrassing! 

He smiles at her the way he always used to, even though he was never her father. 

Back on topic. Recent orphans, the ones taken away from living family, would talk about running away to go back home—a long shot for a 6-year-old, but… “No chance he escaped, right, like by crawling out the window?” She did that one once or twice just to swing her way to the stars.

“It was raining that night, but there weren’t any footprints coming from his window. None of the night staff, myself included, saw him or anyone near the entrances.” Aioen doesn’t have security, but someone has to make sure the kids don’t hurt themselves in the dark, or calm them down when they wake up at 3 in the morning crying from a nightmare, and when she has trouble breathing they can rush her to the hospital. “There was nowhere for him to go; he was in our care since his birth.”

“His parents are dead?”

“His mother, yes. She tragically took her life after leaving him with us. His father has never reached out to us, although we did try for quite some time.”

“Based on his records, no one has ever claimed paternity over Somezuki. He has no known living relatives.”

Damn. No one else she can talk to! 

Chieda-sensei speaks up once more. “Uru-kun was almost adopted once, a couple months before he vanished.” 

“Fell through?”

“Yes, for many reasons, most of which are too complicated to delve into, but he was hesitant about the prospect. He liked that couple, but…” There’s a long pause; the fog in the framed painting of Mt. Kita hanging on the neighboring wall traps itself in her old dad’s his wrinkled gaze. “If I had pushed harder…”

“He’d still be around?”

He doesn’t answer, only watches the ceiling in search of a time no longer possible. Boxes and boxes of drawings and gifts from children once in his care sit by his desk; they’re scattered throughout the cabinets and garage and unused bedrooms. Maybe the house is a monument to that, with all the sentimental objects from family and friends no longer. Why else would I still be on the shelves?

Eventually, he says, “You mentioned a possible lead?”

“I did…” She did, but dredging up the memories just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Based on Uru’s track record, if he is Somezuki, he won’t come here to prove it. “But it’s kind of a long shot, so I was hoping for more information.” 

“I am sorry I cannot help you more. If the case progresses further than it did all those years ago, please let me know.”

Mizuki shouldn’t promise him a reunion with someone who may only be a ghost—it’d be cruel to even suggest she could—and yet… “If I find him, I’ll bring him home.”

The fog is even thicker now. “Thank you, Mizuki.”

Don’t look at me like that, Da—Sensei. He was never her dad. “Thanks for your time.”

“Leaving already?” Chieda-sensei asks. “We were looking forward to having you for breakfast.”

“I know, I’m really sorry, but—” She really has to get out of here. “—I have to check in with a key witness ASAP. Rain check!”

Case Notes

Instead of the usual alarm, Lien awakes to his phone ringing. Rolling over onto his side, he slides to accept the call without reading the caller ID, presses the phone against his ear and yawns, “What’s up….?”

“Uru is still there, right?!"

“It’s too early to be this intense, Quartz…” 

“It’s 8:30, now is he there or not, Master of Unlocking!” 

Oh, it’s really bad, huh? He should probably get up for this. Maybe even move to another room. “One sec.” Lien hauls his ass off the ground and slogs over to the front entrance, stopping briefly to check the master bedroom. As expected, Uru is out cold. “Yeah, he’s still there. Fast asleep.”

Quartz heaves a sigh so loud it feels like it could burst Lien’s eardrums. “I’m coming over.”

“Barging in and hounding him is just gonna scare him off.” Even on difficult missions she wasn’t this heated; what’s got unflappable Quartz all worked up? “You good?”

“I’m fine.” Yep, she’s upset. 

“Don’t sound fine to me, kiddo.” 

Quartz huffs in that way she always does when she’s grumpy her lie got busted. Also when—“You’re not that much older than me.” …That.

“Any junior high student is a snot-nosed brat to a 16-year-old. I remember changing your diapers—”

“It’s only two years, asshole!”

“You’ve gotten so big! Big Bro is so proud of you—”

“Ugh, cut that out! I regret calling you!”

“And yet you’re still—”

Right on cue, Quartz hangs up. Lien snorts, leaving his phone in his hand and stays sitting right where he is next to the discarded shoes. Might as well kill a couple seconds by counting the speckles on the ceiling. He gets to about ten when it rings again. 

“You forgot to call me yesterday, and your misspelled texts barely explain shit.”

“My bad.” Knew I forgot something. “Kinda had a long day though.” Especially with what happened last night, but he keeps that one to himself. “Plus, it’s hard to talk about the guy when he’s awake.”

“It’s fine. Works out better now anyway,” Quartz says. “Date already asked you a lot of this stuff, but I want to check something quickly myself. Uru gave you his last name and how long he was down there back at the Institute, right?” 

“Yeah. Said his name was Kubo and he’d been down there for twenty…no, twenty-three hours.”

“And did he hesitate giving those answers?”

“I think…yeah, he did. For both. He told me Uru first thing then Kubo when I asked about his last name, and he paused for like a minute before saying ‘hours.’”

Through the phone static, something gets shuffled around, and Quartz asks him, “You know anything about Somezuki Uru?”

“Who…?”

“Kid who went missing from where I grew up back in ’96. He’d be like thirty now.”

Quartz grew up in an orphanage, pretty sure, so I guess that makes Uru an orphan too…? “Wait,” Lien’s never been very good at math, or anything really, but, “you saying you think he backpedaled on the amount of time too?”

“Mm. Although I can’t prove it. I just get this feeling…”

Lien’s not a cop, but vibe-checking a criminal case seems like a no-go, doesn’t it? Like, sure, she did that for the entire Institute when he first took the stupid, evil, job, but—

Click.

“You were found in Horadori’s basement, right?”

Back when they would run “errands” for the Kumakuras, sometimes they’d have to reschedule jobs last minute because Quartz had an emergency. On the job, normally she would just hop the entire fence, but every once and a while, she waited for him to pick the gate open because she didn’t think she could “show off” today. One time, while he was unlocking the hidden safe, she ran into the empty treasurer’s office cheering “security defeated! you’re welcome, by the way,” and collapsed when taking a bow; he had to rush her out of the building to leave her in Yoyagi park because she didn’t want him to take her home or to a doctor. Until yesterday, he’s only ever seen her with an eyepatch. 

“That man’s crimes did not end with you.”

Something unlocked. 

If you just told me upfront, I would’ve… “Well, I believe you.” She still hasn’t. He’ll keep it to himself. “You’ve always been smarter than me, so…”

“Thanks, Lien.” The heat she was stoking earlier has long since been snuffed. That’s good, at least. “Keep me posted if he says anything else, okay? I’ll check in again later.” 

“Got it.” Even if he had nothing to do with that. “See ya!”

When Quartz hangs up for good, Lien remains slumped against the floor in front of the bathroom door, counting nothing. Does no one in his life trust him? Am I that useless….?

Written on the blackboard is a single quote: “And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer: warm, beautiful summer,” but it's winter, and along the edges of the outer windowsill are thin, fragile icicles. Right now, in her seat by the window overlooking Hiden University’s icy sports fields, waiting for the clock for her morning class to run out, Kizuna has never felt more like a wistful manga protagonist, and she knows this to be true because that’s not her analogy, but one said to her many years ago by the source of her melancholy. She expected her Dear Sister to abandon her promises again, and yet she was foolish enough to hope that maybe this time would be different; “Father would be there too.” How silly. Dear Sister wants to avoid her at all costs; that much is obvious. I have always been far too childish. Is that not why everyone leaves her? 

Were she truly mature, she would find it within herself to pay attention to her professor explaining the differences between Nordic and German princess stories—this is a class she wanted to take!—and not pull out her phone as soon as it buzzes, but she does just that. Oh, Iris-san. Might as well read this.

Iris-san: please don’t be mad! (ד ྊ ד  )

As she’s about to ask “What happened?” another text comes in.

Iris-san: last night i was streaming
only 4 a lil bit! {{ (>_<) }}
and u kno how i like to close my streams by hitting shuffle on my Lemniscate Promotion Playlist™ and dancing

You: Yes…?

Iris-san: so i might have
ACCIDENTALLY 〣( ºΔº )〣
put Half to Whole in that playlist
bc we recorded it there so it has the same record label now
even if its not official
bc u wont sign on even w/ my puppy dog face

She has a strong idea where this is going…

Iris-san: ANYWAY
when it came on
i got so caught up in the dancing 2 the whole thing played b4 i noticed what song it was and now its viral!!!!! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
like super viral!!!!!

There it is. 

Iris-san: im sorry!!!! .·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·.
i know u it wrote 4 urself
and u didnt want anyone 2 know
and we only made a recording because i begged for 3h
bc its a 10000000000000/10 bop and would top the charts 4 months if released jsyk
NOT THE POINT
°.°·(((p(≧□≦)q)))·°.°
i feel really bad
i messed up
i’m supersupersupersuperduper sorry!!!!!
_:(´□`」 ∠):_

How does she type so fast…? When is Kizuna supposed to be able to get a word in? True, she doesn’t long to be an idol or famous, and she wrote the song on a whim after listening to Iris-san info-dump about her most recent fixation (Furue Jin’s To-Witter account, apparently), but…accidents happen. Once. Twice. Fifty times. She shakes her head; that’s not Iris-san's fault.

You: it’s quite alright. So long as my name isn’t out there, it is not an issue.

Iris-san: 。。。(ノ＿　＿)ノ
um
well
about that

Oh dear. It’s never simple, is it?

Iris-san: (ノωヽ)
the chat started asking me who the singer is
because theyve never heard the song b4
and i didnt wanna lie 〜(＞＜)〜

As Iris-san is typing away, another message notification floats at the top of the screen. Kizuna clicks it.

Amame-san: Iris-chan is absolutely playing it up to you right now. Last night, right after the stream ended, she texted me about her galaxy-brain “win Kizuna-chi’s forgiveness and love back” strat
Those emojis are scripted!
[A gif of Phoenix Wright pointing an objection]

You: How did you know she was texting me right now…?

Iris-san is currently a high school student, unlike Amame-san who has no reason to be in one, so it’s not like she could just look over her shoulder.

Amame-san: Psychic intuition.
Meaning she told me she was gonna wait until you were in class that way you couldn’t call her
I mean, girl can cry on command like no one’s business but she has a recording session later, so y’know
Would prefer not to

Kizuna exhales out of her nose, halfway to amusement but not quite there. 

Amame-san: I can send the stream footage, if you want
She has a shift later I’ll bully it out of her

You: No, that is quite alright. I will get it from her myself

Iris-san, for her part, must have realized she’s been betrayed, because her explanatory texts about how not giving credit to the artist is inherently scummy and against her principles, and the chat wouldn’t hear her requests to keep it private completely change tune to begging her for forgiveness:

Iris-san: please forgive meeee!!!!! (人ゝд∩)
°.°·(((p(≧□≦)q)))·°.°
ヾ((●＞□＜)ﾉ*:..｡o○ＳＯЯЯЧ○o。..:*ヽ(＞□＜●))ﾉｼ
i’ll buy u 100000000000000 strawberry crepes later!!!（人･ω･)
i promise!!!!!!

Her story is definitely not true. 

Iris-san: |_・)
r u still mad
|_・)  |_・)  |_・)
( >﹏<。)

Although the mirror shards are tiny, too small for the eye to see, much less pull out of her own heart with her adult hands. The Snow Queen cannot save herself, but whose heart would not melt ever so slightly in the presence of childish mischief? Who is Kizuna to condemn Iris-san for her backhanded ploys when she’s guilty of the same? 

You: I will hold you to that promise.
All one-hundred quadrillion crepes at my doorstep by 9pm sharp or else (o˘◡˘o)

Iris-san: Σ(ﾟ口ﾟ;)//
that wasnt a literal number!!!

When you behave like this it is endearing, yet for me… She quashes that line of thought beneath the earth.

You: Then perhaps I will not forgive you after all! (´～ヾ )

Iris-san: noooooooo
（Ω Д Ω）
please ill do anything!!!
ANYTHING!!!!
Σ(°Д°；≡；°д°)

You: I will however settle for two if you send me the unedited stream footage (๑˘︶˘๑)

Iris-san: （☆ω☆*）
DEAL ✧ ─=≡Σ((( つ•̀ω•́)つ
I was getting ready 2 crowdsource them from ur new stans
ur @s gotta b crazy on 2wit rn
also u gotta b in 2morros stream or the fans will riot thx in advance (｡╹ω╹｡)

The ice along the edge is the same as it was before. The day grows ever longer.

You: Make that 5

Iris-san: YES MAAM ✧∑d(ỗ ω ỗ)

At least she gets crepes out of it.

Yesterday was eventful—going to “Uncle’s” lab, the phone calls, the “interrogation”—but this morning everything is still, as though none of it had happened. After the resetting of the world, as “Auntie” would say, Jin is back to his day-to-day mundane life of investments, voice-only board meetings, and more phone-calls, but you shouldn’t be getting one of those today… Probably? That meeting with Ryuki-san went as badly as he expected, and all of his parents seem to have given up on calling him… he should probably check that; he never did turn his personal phone back on. 

Sliding open the middle drawer, Jin grabs the phone and powers it on. Voicemails…There. “Uncle” stopped calling at noon; he must have decided to bother "Father" instead. Or “Auntie,” if she even picks up his calls anymore. …Or—doesn’t matter. Who cares about any of them? Not listening to any of these. On instinct he selects all and is about to hit delete, when he stops. Sagane-san…? He doesn’t normally call…especially not like this, but yesterday he left three voicemails. And he’s sick too… Jin deselects those, deletes the others, and hits play. 

11:25am: “They keep—” Sagane-san hacks into the receiver, like he’s about to cough up his lungs—“They keep asking me about a break-in or something—Did you go anyway? Is that why my phone’s buzzing up a storm? …Ugh, he’s calling again, I just wanna sleep—!” The line cuts off. 

11:44am: “Can’t stand talking to that sack of shit…” Sagane-san sighs, heavy with the telltale rasp of phlegm. “Look, I’m not mad. I get it. I just wish you waited one more day so I wouldn’t be dying of influenza, ‘cause I do not have it in me to field all these calls today.” A distorted, nasal honk. “You’re probably getting more calls than me so you turned your phone off, and I don’t remember your business number, so just—” Another one. “—get back to me when you finally get this. Thanks.”

He’s right. That was inconsiderate. You’ll have to apologize to him. He’ll make that call in a minute, but Jin should check the last message first.

11:50pm: “You won. Again.” In a sleepy haze, Sagane-san mumbles to himself, “Why do I keep be—” before finally managing to hang up.

Though the pages may be stuck together, their contents nearly forgotten, a giggle escapes Jin’s lips.

“You don’t deserve that life! It’s mine! No! Let go of me—I’m going to kill you, Furue Jin!” 

The book is glued shut. 

Chapter Text

As the morning sun peers through the sheer drapes to shine a light on an eternally vacant orange bed and cluttered desk full of awards, books and action figures, Kuruto—the one left behind—sits at the foot of his bed in and gazes through one eye at one of the many blank areas of wall designated for him. Plugged into the nearby wall, Tama hums a song as she finishes charging. She’s the only decoration he has. Unlike Yukuto, he never cared much for anime, or movies, or TV shows to collect merchandise. His awards belong to a ghost. The line of detective movie posters demarks the boundary he cannot look past but always sees beyond. 

Tama hops off her perch and trots onto his lap. “Ready to go? You were going to dig for leads.”

Actually, he has one he can follow up on right now. “Tama, can you replay the footage?”

“Again?” She looks up at him in disbelief. “Didn’t you comb through it yesterday like 10 times?”

“Not the whole thing. Just what Furue-san said about the Order of %.” There must be something in there, right? 

“Right now?”

Kuruto nods.

Tama sighs, “Fine,” and crawls up his suit, popping herself back into his eye socket, and his half-and-half room frozen in time transforms into an infrared rendering of Furue-san’s pristine college dorm apartment.

“Eh? How—”

“It’s VR,” Tama says, fast-forwarding through the footage that now surrounds him. “We’ve done this before.” 

“We have, but…why?” They didn’t do this yesterday. 

“I wanted to try something different!”

Then again, yesterday they were at HQ… Ah, Kuruto realizes, and warmth more real than the thermal footage blooms from his heart onto his face. 

“What are you smiling for, idiot?” Tama mutters, and the footage plays.

“I see.” It’s always so strange to hear his own voice played back to him. “How involved are your relatives, legal or otherwise?”

“Many of my family members, whether by blood or through paperwork, are or were involved in the ‘ideological society’ Naixatloz. You have heard of them, correct?” 

“I have.” It comes up in the reports on the incident with Sejima Saito back in November, but the organization registered under that name is nothing like that. 

“’Aunt’ Shigure is the president of the Japan branch, a rank she was able to build through a deal with ‘Uncle’ Horadori to give up on raising me, but shortly after my birth, a faction of their membership splintered away and formed the Order of %. Naixatloz was already dealing with infighting and power struggles before; my birth sped up the process.”

“Why is that?”

“Both believe this world is a simulation, such as the world is actually a video game, and as a result both place heavy significance on the % symbol, but the Order of % is a religious movement.” The Furue-san of yesterday explains his outlandish story unflinchingly, not once breaking eye-contact. His tone carries an edge of derision. “The percent symbol is divine to the Order of %; it is the ‘Mark of the Creator.’ Those with the percent sign on their body—” he points to the birthmark on his face rendered invisible by the infrared, “—are the reincarnation of the maker of this fictional world.” Here is one of the few and far between moments that Furue-san’s body temperature rises from green to yellow, as he scoffs under his breath. “By controlling access to ‘The Creator,’ they rule over the entire group.” 

“So, if I’m following this correctly, because of your family’s involvement with the foundation of this religion, they need you to survive to ensure their power. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Furue-san nodded. “The Order of % would collapse, yes.”

Tama pauses the footage. “I know I said this yesterday, but this guy really has an ego on him.” 

Kuruto doesn’t disagree. “We couldn’t find a religious group registered with that name yesterday, but…” 

“Nope. Hard to find members of an unregistered religion. What happened with Mama last night was bizarre, but unless you can figure out where their members are hiding, I’m not sure where you can take this.”

“Didn’t Mama mention something about A-Set’s fans…? She might know something, right?” 

“Maybe, but it’ll have to wait until school is out.” Tama shuts off the virtual recreation, and Kuruto rises from his seat and heads for the garage. “Ryuki, you have an incoming call from your beloved ‘Date-san’.”

“Answer it.” 

Date-san starts the call by saying, “So, about last night—”

“Oh no, what did I do…?” Kuruto whines. He never remembers anything after they start drinking!

“What?” Date-san asks. “No, not like that. I meant what you were talking about with Mama. About the Order of Ampersand.”

“Percent.”

“Right, that. It was nagging at me this morning, and I remembered I heard that phrase at Brahman.”

Jackpot!

“I couldn’t tell you who said it, or when, the boys and I get real hammered when we hang out, but—”

“Got it. I should be able to talk to Gen-san then. Thank you!”

“No problem,” Date-san says, and hangs up.

“Gen’s over at Tsukuji Outer Market in Chuo Ward.”

Kuruto jumps into the limo. “Let’s go.”

“Aaaargggghhh!!” These old newspapers are useless! “How can none of these articles turn up anything that proves Somezuki Uru is our Uru?” 

“Because they were not written with Kuranushi Mizuki’s investigation predicament twenty years later in mind,” Aiba deadpans.

“Oh, shush you.” Let a girl complain! Mizuki flops back on Mama’s desk, her legs dangling over the edge, and looks past the digital newspaper archives and old staff roster at the ceiling. “It really just…doesn’t make any sense.” As soon as she got to the office, she pulled up every single newspaper and police record she could find about the “Aioen Missing Child,” but they all confirm what Chieda-sensei said this morning. He went to bed like all the other little kids, perfectly cheerful and normal, and the next morning he was gone without a trace! All the on-duty staff members said they didn’t see anyone or hear anything the entire night; even the kid who was rooming with him told the police he doesn’t know anything ‘cause he went to bed early and was fast asleep… Even if I questioned them about it now, they might not remember much…

In the corner of her eye, up near the top of the staff roster, is a name she’s only half familiar with: Chieda Tomoyo. “Kizuna’s mom…” They never met—she died years before Mizuki was adopted—but a few pictures of her still hung on the walls, although Mizuki was the only one who ever looked at her; neither of the Chiedas could bear to. And I bailed on them this morning…  

She pulls her phone from the pocket of her red skirt.

You: Sorry I couldn’t stay earlier. Something came up.

When Mizuki was first taken in, back in June all those years ago, Kizuna was still depressed, a husk of her usual self. A week into her adoption, Mizuki asked Kizuna what was wrong, but got a fake “Nothing” in response, so she kept pushing, and they got into a massive fight ending with Kizuna running into the bathroom and locking the door. When Chieda-sensei heard all this, he pulled her aside to his office, placed his hands on her shoulders and patiently explained that this time of year a few years ago, Kizuna’s mother passed away. “Please be gentle with her, okay Mizuki-kun?”  

Her phone buzzes.

Kizuna: It’s quite alright. 

Liar. Mizuki’s phone falls to her chest.

“You would feel less guilt if you explained yourself to her,” Aiba says.

“Don’t remind me…” It’s impossible. Even if I explained myself, I…

“I will drop the issue.” Aiba closes the digital papers. For a few minutes, all is still. Mizuki maps the streets of Tokyo across the ceiling tiles. 1…2…3…4…5.

“Alright!” Mizuki rolls off the desk onto her feet and stretches. “We’re going to the Horadori Institute.”

“We do not have a warrant.”

“Won’t be a problem.”

Plush…? Since when was this miserable cot this warm or comfortable…? The blankets are thick.  Suffocating. Throwing them off me, I blink, the hazy, low ceiling slowly coming into focus. Right… Yesterday I managed to… Sunlight streams unfiltered through the windows; too bright! Up from the futon, I stumble to the windows, blindly fumbling against the wall until the scratchy curtains graze my fingertips and yank them closed. That’s going to be irritating to adjust to; you’ll have to remember to keep them closed for however long you’re imprisoned here. Day one.

What time is it anyway? Quick glance to the analog clock—9:30?! Have you ever slept that much in your entire life? (You disqualified passing out from too much blood drawn or the record would be 3 days). There’s a dull throb in your temples, not the usual migraine; it seems those biology books were right when they said sleeping too much is possible. That or you’re just unused to it, in the same way you’re unused to the sun, and muted sounds of Golden Yokocho in the morning from the second floor, or people asking your name. How are you meant to fix that? Exposure? Your head still hurts. At the bare minimum, I can use that as an avoidance tactic, but not too much. Should I go out? Say hello, or something? Is that what people…do? I think I did that as a kid, with Chieda-sensei. You’ll start there.

It takes a second to notice, muffled by the thing you call your right ear, but layered above the low hum of the heater is a high-pitched beeping. A phone? Folded blankets and a single pillow rest in a pile at one end of the couch; a futon is strewn haphazardly across the wooden floor. A memo rests on the kitchen counter. A ringing phone grates against your temples. Is this my chance—where is it that awful noise coming from? Stop calling!

“Go away…” Lien groans from the hall; I am not alone. The phone goes silent.

At least that ringing has stopped. Now I can think straight; how am I getting out of here? What are the rules of this game? Sneaking out would be—damn it! Marching out into the hallway makes the chiptune music clearer but not any more tolerable.

“I’m not answering that…” Lien sits on the floor meddling with his phone as he grumbles “Just take a hint already…”

“It would be simpler if you turned your phone off .”

“You’re not wrong,” Lien agrees, and the ringing finally, finally stops, though based on how he’s still fiddling with it, it must be on silent. Makes no difference to me, so long as I don’t have to hear it. “Maybe I just need to block everyone…”

Must be that bastard looking for me. “Your job?”

 “Yeah. These guys are such a pain,” Lien says. That’s an understatement. “You’re lucky you don’t have a phone….”

What…is the right response to that? Lie? Say it’s at home? What home? You’re here because you couldn’t point to one back in that claustrophobic office, aren’t you? The list of all you don’t have is far longer than a cellphone.

Lien shoves his phone in his pocket. “Sorry. That hit too close to home, didn’t it?”

That’s slang, but... you don’t recognize it. Is asking revealing? Does everyone know this phrase? What’s the right way to respond—

“Means what I said reminded you of something that makes you feel bad. Made you anxious.”

“I know that.”

Lien shrugs. “Cool.” He isn’t looking at you.

What am I supposed to say? “You didn’t ‘hit too close to home’ either.” How are you supposed to win?

“I wasn’t going to push.” Can you win?

“These is nothing to push—" Without looking your way—

“Yeah, there is.” He sees right through you. “That’s why I said sorry.”

There are no windows, only walls. The door Lien sits before is false.

Tokyo is cold in February. Even on sunny days spotted with a handful of clouds, like this one, it’s best to wear a sweater and hope for little wind. Kuruto’s never had a good cold tolerance. How are all these people just walking about right now? Groups of people—shopkeepers, families, tourists—stream up and down the alleys of Tsukuji Outer Market, stopping at stalls with fish and fruit and even more fish, and under a yellow awning a mascot suited man. When he spots Kuruto, Gen-san says, “Surprising to run into you here, Ryuki-san.”

“I didn’t think you’d shop for ingredients here,” Kuruto says. “Isn’t it out of the way?” Also crowded? He always took Gen-san as someone who preferred to stay out of sight.

“If I’m already in the area, I’ll check what’s here.” His mask is always smiling, but the way he put down that pepper sure suggests otherwise. “Although, I think I’ve arrived too late today. All the good quality ingredients are out.”

“It just looks like a regular pepper to me.”

“You aren’t a chef. I order dinner for you all the time.”

Touche. “I had a few questions for you. Can we move somewhere a little quieter?”

“I don’t mind,” Gen-san abandons the disappointing produce. After a short bit wandering to a more isolated area, he says, “How can I help?”

I have to uncover what Furue-san is hiding. “Have you heard of the Order of %?”

“Their members patron Brahman.” Tokyo is cold in February. “They’re a despicable group. They lure people in who are down on their luck and uncertain about their futures with promises of personal liberation through absolute knowledge only they can provide, and once they have you…” Even on sunny days spotted with a handful of clouds, like this one, it’s best to wear a sweater and hope for little wind, but the breeze bites Kuruto’s ears without a care. “They take until nothing is left.”

“Tama, turn on thermo mode.”

“Is that how you ask people for favors?”

“Please turn on Thermo mode, All-Powerful Tama!”

“Much better.”

Request granted. “Were you a member?”

“No,” Gen-san says. “But I’ve seen them sink their teeth into people, or try to. Customers have told me about losing their homes after only a few months with them.”

“He’s definitely agitated, but he’s describing a cult. I’d get heated too.”

Kuruto can’t argue with that, but, “Why not ban them?”

“Once they start proselytizing, I kick them out. Three strikes, and they’re banned from returning; most of them give up after getting one.” Kuruto would probably do the exact same if he were them. “Some of them escape after enough time.”

“Banning them from social spaces will only make them more entrenched in their beliefs, because only the Order understands and accepts them. It’s classic cult behavior.”

All the more reason they can’t be allowed to exist. “Do you know where they meet?”

Gen-san nods and gives an address only 6 minutes away, still in Chuo ward. Should be easy to check. Kuruto is about to thank him for his time, when he says something else: “If you’re investigating that group, be careful.”

“Even Gen-san is worried about me…”  

“I don’t blame him one bit. People who think they aren’t susceptible to manipulation are exactly the type to get conned.”

Kuruto does remember reading something like that. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And to stay on the lookout… “Are there particular names I should be wary of?”

“Furue. Furue Toshimune-san.”

With Mom having left for work, the single-bedroom apartment the Dois call home is close to silent, save for the low hum of the ancient space heater. She has to get ready for work soon, but until then Amame might as well kill her spare minutes online! She grabs her phone from its resting spot—the charger on the aging hardwood near her futon—and scrolls through To-Witter lying on her back. Iris-chan wasn’t kidding; Kizuna-chan’s name is on the trending list. Her timeline is filled with song opinions, Iris-chan’s professional explanation (for real this time) about last night’s events , Matsushita-san arguing with his sockpuppets about who’s cuter and losing, Furue Jin’s pretentious—

A long buzz plays as the To-Witter app is soon overtaken by an incoming call. This again? Propping herself up on one of her elbows, she answers it. “Hi Dad.”

“Ah, Amame.” He sounds frazzled, maybe even haggard, like when he dashed all the way across Tokyo, block after block because she forgot her lunch at home before leaving for school and he forgot he could take a train too, only this time it wasn’t for her. “Is Shouma with you right now? His teacher said he didn’t show up to class...” 

Called it! “No, sorry. Do you want me to call him?” 

“He probably just turned his phone off…” he mumbles. Doubt it. Amame would bet everything in her savings—all 2000 yen in her pocket—that Shouma isn’t picking up because he’s mad about some stupid thing or another Dad may or may not have actually done. “I’ll keep trying.”

“I can help you look, if you want,” she offers, even though she knows it’s pointless.

“No, I’m sure he’ll turn up—oh, he’s calling right now! How do I switch—” and then Dad hangs up. 

Amame falls back against the pillow. You’re such a bad liar, she thinks as opens up Messages. 

You: Please tell Dad you’re alive before he gives himself a heart attack sprinting around Tokyo
Also you should go to school.
Sagan-sensei worries about you all the time

Shouma’s been skipping school or faking sickness for close to a year now. He used to show up at her job, or at this apartment, and she or Mom would tell Dad to pick him up, but lately… Where is he even going? Why is Dad always so panicked when he calls?

Shouma: Fine. 

Not gonna worry about it! She has to save every minute of her dwindling free time.

You’ll never be free. The game is rigged so you can’t win, so why even play it? Why waste time? You could kill him and run, but they’d know it was you and find you. They know what you look like, and you can’t get rid of the evidence. They’re not going to let you out. Ever. You’ve traded out your underground prison for one with windows.

“Move.”

“You want to leave?” With a heaving breath, Lien pushes himself off the floor and steps out of the way. “Go ahead.”

He just…moved? That’s too easy. He wants to humiliate me. Watch as I attempt to open a locked door again.

“You don’t have to be suspicious of it,” he says. “The door’s unlocked, look—” he twists the knob and the door creaks open bit by bit, revealing the stairs down to the street. “See?”

Rising from the floor is the chatter of neighboring shop owners, and cold air brushes against your skin, but you do not move. He will follow you. That or they have another means of tracking you. This is a trick.

“I’ll tell Mizuki you slipped out while Gen-chan was out shopping and I was in the shower so I didn’t hear. She’d buy it. I’m sure of it.”

What is the point of this exercise? Mockery? Cruelty? A reminder of what no one has allowed you for 23 years 8 months and 20 days? How dare he! Why can’t anyone ever just let you go? Must they all make a sick joke out of your torment?

“You don’t buy it, huh?”

Who would?!

“Can’t blame you.” Lien leans against the wall. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

What sort of ploy is this? It doesn’t make sense! I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!

“I was a thief.” Lien’s mouth is a straight line, and his delivery is just as even. “My family was flat broke.” Why is he telling me this? “No money means no good clothes, junk food, tiny apartment—” He had nothing. I don’t care! “—we couldn’t always pay rent, so instead of high school, I stole to help pay the bills.” We’re strangers! All he’s done is open a door!  “Breaking into places felt like an escape, but…” Time to go! “All I did was convince people to lock their doors for good.” Your feet clipped into the floor and are stuck. “I don’t have the right to keep you here.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll get out of your way.” Thump, thump, thump.

Don’t meet his eyes. Ignore them and he can’t see what lies beyond. If they bore past this broken model to that core of ones and zeroes—I nod—deny Lien the ability to read them.

Click—thunk.

He’s gone. The door is still open. I can leave. He's letting you go. No one can stop you! He’s not paying attention! I can go see Mom! You’re free!

You take two steps forward. The sun is bright, glaring at the streets of Golden Yokocho; residents of the area open their shops. They’ll be able to see you. All of them. You shrink back.

…What was that thud? Why did it happen after Lien closed the door?

Wait, Mom’s book! How could I forget it? It has the map! Not to mention, one of those masks would be useful outside, and I should eat something.

Click. The hall is no longer bright.

Lien's futon is still abandoned and askew atop the hardwood floor, and he's not in it. He’s not in a stool at the counter, or on the couch either. Did he just go to the bathroom…? No. The bathroom was open, and no one was in there. In the corner of your eye, I spot another pair of legs by my feet. “Forget something?” It’s as if he teleported in his starting position in the hall to the main room. “Oh, you can take one of Gen-chan’s masks if you want. I’m sure he’ll understand. He has like 20, anyway.” Slumped against the wall, his arms slack on his knees, Lien analyzes the creases in the pants he’s worn and slept in for over 24 hours.

It’s a belated question, yet I ask, “Why are you on the floor…?”

“Why not?”

“…There’s a couch.” I point to the heap. “You have a futon. Over there.”

He shrugs. “I’m in a floor kinda mood.”

“Okay.” If he wants to be uncomfortable, that’s his prerogative; I’m going to eat.

Now what is Ishiyagane hiding in his upstairs, slightly less impressive kitchen? Actually, wasn’t there a memo on the counter…? Sidestepping around the mess, you read it, rifle through the small wooden contraption Ishiyagane calls a “breadbox,” and grab some convenience store melonpan. Guess even chefs have lazy days. Works for me; when was the last time I had anything sweet? You slide onto a stool. Now to just get it out of the packaging—were these always so annoying to open? It’s just plastic! I am not this frail! Now just open already—!

“Give me that.” Lien holds out his hand. I oblige, and he tears it open then hands it back.

He makes it look so easy… “Thanks.” For opening it. The first time. The second time.

“Don’t worry about it.” Lien grabs a waffle from the breadbox and plops into the other stool. “You’d do the same for me.”

“I still do not think you should be doing this.” 

“Am I breaking any laws, Aiba?” Mizuki asks, watching who enters and exits the main entrance of the Horadori Institute of Genetics from a branch in a tree of the neighboring park. Anyone different from the regular employees and experiment subjects, she takes a picture of. 

“You are skirting a very fine line,” says her extremely unhappy eye-socket camera. “If these pictures ever got out—”

“But they won’t now, will they?”

No response. I win! They’ve had this conversation at least three other times in the hour or so Mizuki has been up here, but still! Back to people-watching! 

Not that anything interesting has happened. She’s only seen the usual suspects, like the supply truck that comes every Monday, and the security guards changing between their shifts, and the kid Mizu befriended at her school, Enda Shouma, on his way out. School started well over an hour ago, but that means nothing to the Horadori Institute; they just fake their doctor’s notes like they fake their checkups for genetic diseases (the ones they didn’t give her). Although he was still in there for a lot longer than usual today, presumably because of the chaos Mizuki would bet broke loose now that the laboratory kidnapping victim has escaped. All the interesting stuff is happening inside. If only Lien could go to work right now! Having an inside man would be—

“Who is that?!” Mizuki asks. An older woman with a lilac bed head speeds through the gate. Although she catches the attention of the delivery guys, the lab tech checking the list of equipment, and a janitor on the way out, the security guards don’t stop her. They don’t pay her any heed at all, but I’ve never seen her before. Not even in the years she was forced to come here as a little girl has she ever seen anyone like that. “You got a picture, right?” Aiba displays the picture. That woman was moving at a breakneck clip, so it’s too blurry to make out the details. “Tch.”

“How much longer do you plan to linger here?”

“Not much longer. I planned on—”

Someone clears their throat. “You might want a better tree for that,” says the bored janitor at the foot of her tree. “The guards are already leery.”

They can see me? Wait, not the point! Mizuki hangs from the branch she sat on and drops the remaining meter, landing perfectly on her feet. The janitor with the off-white hoodie and sneakers is already walking off. “Why would they care?” she asks. 

“You’re owning up to spying?” he asks, without even turning around. “Interesting strategy.”

“He’s not wrong. You’ve done better.”

“Whatever!” Dashing in front of him—not talking to his half-assed ponytail!—Mizuki shows him her badge and says, “Kuranushi Mizuki, Metropolitan Police Detective.”

“Peering through the windows of the laboratory across the way…? Doesn’t sound legal.” 

“Can I book him?”

“Frustrating you is not a crime,” Aiba says.

It should be! “You know Lien Twining, right?”

“Yeah, why? Is he wanted by the police too?” 

Does this guy have any other expression besides disinterest? Wait. “He’s in trouble at work?”

The janitor runs a hand through his disheveled dark coral bangs. “I don’t know if it’s trouble, but they definitely want to grill him. They’re making all of us grunts call him.”

“I better tell him to turn his phone off...” Mizuki grumbles.

“You know him?” he asks.

“He’s an old friend.”

Something shifts and the ice of apathy melts from sky blue eyes. Then, he says, “Shouldn’t you be asking him about this then?”

 Mizuki growls.

He laughs. “Easy there, Kura-ninja-chan.” This guy—!!! Just as quickly, he clears his throat again. “But if you know him, can you pass along a message for me?”

“Is it harassment.” 

“No, I’m off duty,” he replies. Wasn’t the kind of harassment I was thinking of! “But since he’s ignoring me because of the spam, can you tell him if he opts to lay low, I’ll cover his shifts and send him the cash.”

That’s…shockingly considerate for such an aggravating guy, but… “Who am I passing the message along for?” He never introduced himself.

“It’s from Shinkai.” 

Mizuki pulls out her phone and starts typing a message, but stops at his name. “Your first name is…?” she asks, but when she looks up, Shinkai is gone, disappeared somewhere down the streets of Chuo Ward. Whatever. Not important.

You: Went to your job. The institute is looking for you. I’m sure you know this, but don’t answer their calls while Uru’s around.
Your coworker, Shinkai, also said he’ll cover your shifts and send you the wages if you wanna lay low for a bit, but
I want to talk to you about your job moving forward later. Can you meet me at HQ in a half hour? Bring Uru also I need to pick his brain.

Beat.

You: also, Shinkai sucks.

Though it was most certainly a foolish idea, as her To-Witter notifications and dm requests are utterly drowned in the opinions and comments of strangers, once she got the news of Iris-san’s “accidental” stream with “Half to Whole,” Kizuna has done nothing but read through each one for the past hour. Plunging into the sea of comments is a good distraction from her own pointlessly spurned hopes in the absence of class she couldn’t focus on, but she’s not going to dwell on Dear Sister any longer! She is in a perfectly lovely mood, without even one whit of lingering resentment in her room that still has two beds in it but the desk and the bed and the walls are completely empty and Dear Sister did NOT mean her apology whatsoever—She’s wonderful. Truly.  

How could she be anything but when—although there have been many exceptions she’s added to her blocklist—the swathes of people vying for her attention or flooding the tides of To-Witter with her name or her song have been quite kind, if expressed in the typical internet manner. As much as she didn’t want her song to be broadcast to the world, Iris-san’s unsubtle machinations have their upsides too.

Fragile Monochrome Sword (@infinity_zset): That song from last night’s stream is REALLY catchy!! Can’t get it out of my head (❤ω❤) #lonelygirlsletsgo

Stream Half to Whole (@invisible22): chieda kizuna is so right I DO need to be whole #lonelygirlsletsgo

A-Set’s #2 Fan (@asetual69): HOW is kizuna-chan so lonely when she is SO cute i SAW the pictures!!! cuteness clearly is NOT justice

Mato (@Ota_Matsushita): We can make it happen if we work together! Join us! #lonelygirlsletsgo 

Matsushita-san never changes, does he? How many of the accounts in #lonelygirlsletsgo are just him? Twenty? More? Is it everyone? It's rather strange she went viral to begin with; even if a popular net idol streams her song, she’s not an exceptional singer, nor does she have an extant following who would be interested… However real or fake they may be, the result is the same: it’s all saltwater. Just when Kizuna is about to close the app, on her timeline a reply from one of her dear one-sided friends pops up: 

Half-Truthers DNI (@mermaidqueen666): can’t believe this guy is trying to capitalize off Kizuna-chan. Like he needs the attention. Girls, I know who we’re fighting. Finish him! #lonelygirlsletsgo 

He…? Given Amame-san’s handle, and how her conversations with Iris-san about her special interest often devolve into playfully heated bickering about the correct way to interpret a To-Weet, Kizuna can intuit who she is responding to. She might as well check it; “Half to Whole” was, if indirectly, inspired by his words. 

Furue Jin (@jinf_uru3): “Without you, I am only half…” Is that such a terrible thing to be? Must we all become whole?

Hm…I don’t think I’m ever catching up, but if anyone can beat fate, it’s you.

Kizuna snorts, or maybe sighs through her nose. Why would Furue Jin, a self-made CEO, understand the plight of young women like her? Maybe he is content to remain alone—she vaguely recalls hearing he's a recluse—but he chose to live in an ocean cave. Has he seen the majesty of land before? Has he tried to run barefoot, unsteady, across the sand that sticks between the gaps of his unfamiliar toes? Has a raucous princess picked him and pulled him off the beach, dragged him to the highest mountain peaks, down the rainbow into flowery meadows just as colorful, and led him into the forest just to vanish? If he knew the freedom afforded by legs, he’d never choose the sea. If anyone can beat fate, it’s not the mermaid slowly dissolving into her own sea, and yet… if she holds onto her human form for as long as she can… Dear Sister will come back for her. 

“I see why he has Amame-san’s internet enmity.” A giggle escapes from the depths of Kizuna’s heart; she gives the to-weet a like and closes out the app.

“Yo, Uru-san! How’s it going?” Mizuki-kun greets with a half wave, half salute, in a room six stories underground cluttered with monitors and file cabinets. You were not in this room yesterday.

“What’s that over there?” Lien asks, pointing at the towering mass of metal, and cables, and operating chairs surrounded by blinding sterile walls through the windows. 

“The psync machine,” Mizuki-kun explains. “It lets psyncers, like myself, explore the brains of key witnesses or suspects.”

Hidden in a far-off corner, The Threat in the Lab Coat flips through a manga. No doubt that mechanical nightmare is his work. 

“How does it…work?” Lien asks.

They’re not putting me in that. No. Absolutely not. It will expose you.

“The short version is the subject takes a sedative and a nap on that chair over there, and the psyncer sits in the other one, and through those weird visors and techno-magic the psyncer explores the subject’s mental world which is projected on all these screens. Did I get that right, Pewter?”

The Threat sighs, and you did not escape that bastard’s clutches just so his younger, eccentrically dressed police department counterpart can drug you and operate on your brain fishing for clues in holes surrounded in pulsing red where your missing organs should be, it will expose you, it will expose her , that can’t be allowed to happen, you won’t allow it, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO—

“Hey, wait—" You rocket towards the exit before you can think “run”, but Mizuki-kun skids between you and the door; several short strands of sky blue slip out from her hair-tie. “Hear me out.” 

You stop. I don’t want to go in there. Running was a mistake. I don’t want to go in there. You’re not supposed to have anything to hide. I don’t want to go in there.

“Look, I knew you weren’t going to like this, but it was either this, or I have to question you, and I don’t want to do that,” Mizuki-kun says. “ You don’t want me to do that even more.”

“So, a strange machine—” that can’t hurt you— “is your brilliant solution?”

“Do you want to be interrogated?” she asks. “Do you want me to take you down to the interrogation room, lock you inside, and grill you with hundreds of humiliating questions—”

“I’ve already answered your questions—”

“Where do you live?” Mizuki-kun asks. 

Lien starts, “Mizuki, don’t—”

She continues, not even looking his way. “Where do you work? What bank do you use? What happened to your phone? Do you have any relatives? Any friends? A home?”

“Mizuki—"

She sees through you.

“Why does Furue Jin look like you?”

She doesn’t need an x-ray to do it.

Mizuki-kun reaches up, inch by painstaking inch, stopping once her left-hand hovers inches away from what they took from you. “Who did this to you?”

You’re full of so many holes you ooze what remains of your guts everywhere you dare to go.

“I don’t want to make you answer those.” Her long white sleeve flutters when her arm drops to her side. “If you’re not ready to say it, forcing it out will only make it worse for you long term.” She was grinning and carefree when you first came in, but that façade has long since dropped, leaving nothing but excruciating… pity? “But you wouldn’t be awake to psync.” No, not pity. “No one remembers their dreams, right?” Mizuki-kun gifts something far worse, and to accept it would be to give up all control. “Wouldn’t it just be better to show me?”

There is only one correct answer, one you’ve known since you arrived: “It’s…a dream…?” No.

“Mhmm,” Mizuki-kun says. “Surreal little settings that rarely make a whole lotta sense.”

There is only one correct answer, one you’ve known since you arrived: “And if you don’t find the answers you seek in the psync…” No.

“Then I still won’t interrogate you,” Mizuki-kun says. “I’ll have to check in with you every once in a while until the case is solved or closed, but you’ll get to decide what, if anything, you tell me.”

There is only one correct answer, one you’ve known since you arrived: No.

A shivering breath escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

While St. Lucas’ Skyscraper is distinct in the skyline of the Sumida River, with its twin towers of unequal size connected by a bridge 32 stories above ground, and its construction was planned in part by the Ryuki business group (if he recalls correctly), Kuruto has never had any reason to visit it until now. Small groups of visitors and office workers congregate by the elevators, but most of the expansive lobby floor is occupied by the natural light beaming from the untouchable series of triangular windows; the heel on his shoes taps against the white and blue tiled floor. Perhaps the late morning hour explains the stillness, but it doesn’t seem like the place for a cult to meet. Not to mention, “Isn’t this building connected to the hospital with the same name?” a place which is notably not Central Hospital in Minato Ward, where Furue-san alleges to have been hospitalized even if there are no records even in the archives?

“It is. Most of the smaller building is part of the hospital, but the larger building rents out office space,” Tama says. “Though it was constructed by the Gishou Corporation run by Furue Toshimune.”

Coheres more than he expected, and just to hammer it in the top few floors are listed as Gishou offices too. “Does Furue-san—" he should distinguish between the two— “Furue Toshimune-san work out of this office?” 

“Gishou’s headquarters are in Osaka, and even Tokyo’s main office is in Shinjuku, but…I checked the CCTV footage. He comes here a lot, and should be here today.”

 Perfect. Kuruto presses the call elevator button. Let’s see if Furue-san backs up the testimony of his son.

The miniature speakers resting on the limited counter space sing, “Step in gum on my way to the station~” and Jin hums along washing the last few grains of rice off the sudsy black plate. The mess his family made won’t scrub off so easily, though...they’re certain to try, as is Uru. Has he internalized what position he’s in yet, or is he still searching for a rulebook? No, he must see it, as resilient and clever as he is; he cannot win a game that doesn’t exist. The hand-me-down clothes on his back and the scars that shape his body outline the truth, and his rescuers will flesh it out, no matter how long it takes, or how little he likes it. 

The miniature speakers resting on the limited counter space sing, “Oh my Prince Charming, where can I find you?” Uru would hate being compared to Cinderella, but he can take solace knowing Lien is Prince Charming, not you. It’s better that way. If anything, Jin is the evil stepsister, and if he’s lucky Cinderella will be kind enough to forgive him.

A cracking, rusted tenor joins the choir: “But dreams are just for dreamers~” This song had perfect timing; someone should tell his charming, one-sided duet partner that .

Mizuki flops into the psyncer’s seat. As she adjusts her helmet, the psync machine whirrs into motion. 

“Mizuki-chan,” Pewter says, and although he’s on an intercom, it’s quieter than normal. What’s up with that? “I administered the highest allowed dose, but the sedative’s current efficacy is abysmal.”

“Meaning…?” 

“He will wake any minute now,” Pewter says. “At best, you have four minutes.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The repetitive drone of marketing director Nimiya-san complaining yet again to Jin’s publicist-in-name-only Ichimaru-san about the alleged scandal he kickstarted on To-Witter when everyone in the call already knows they’ll both find a way to capitalize on this later could not be any less dull if it tried. It would be bad form to fall asleep at your desk… but his office chair is leather suited to nap in, as he discovers just how far it reclines, so the temptation grows with every passing minute. This is what his life is, Uru freed or not, and it’s not changing for another…18 days? Maybe he should confirm that… Might wake him up.

The twang of an acoustic guitar does the job instead, a jarring mix of mellow and abrasive no matter how many times Jin hears it ring from his not-business phone. Which is often. The chord sounds a second time. Good thing you’ve gotten into the habit of using push-to-talk. 

Sagane-san: you’re never convincing me you know where the mics are on your phone

Sagane-san: had to hook my phone up to the speakers just to make out your messages

You: I was not that quiet.

He’s had a lot of practice talking to Sagane-san in particular with every interview, real or excuse. Not to mention the speech therapy. Speaking is far easier now than it ever was as a child before he underwent surgery for macroglossia.

Sagane-san: [audio attachment, 1:14]

Sagane-san: [audio attachment, 1:29]

Sagane-san: [audio attachment, 1:25]

Is that how it is? Jin removes one headphone of board directors bickering over something that will resolve itself and holds his phone to his ear, hitting play on the first one. He only taps the raise volume button twice! “…sorry. That was inconsiderate. You’ve been more understanding than I could have hoped, and I…I’m sorry.”

Pause.

You: It’s audible as it is. You did not need speakers.

Sagane-san: [audio attachment, 1:10]

Sagane-san: [audio attachment, 1:27]

Jin didn’t leave five voicemails this morning; he knows that for a fact. Is he hoarding them? Why? His thumb lingers over the play button but does not touch it. Finally, Sagane-san stops spamming his inscrutable collection and sends an actual text.

Sagane-san: we call that hyperbole

Ichimaru-san directs a question at Jin about purchasing exclusive streaming rights for all Lemniscate music, which he vetoes. They always have such short-sighted ideas…

His idle distraction strums once more.

Sagane-san: anyway I forgive you even if you didn’t have to apologize

Yes, he did. He always does. Your past should not be his to suffer. Savor his kindness while it’s still present, because in 18 days when they make everything public—

You: Thank you. You’ve been exceedingly patient with me.

—Sagane-san will no longer force himself to offer it. 

…That was quick. Of course, I knew about the time limit (six minutes) but you can’t help but feel less time than that had passed. Maybe I should be grateful—if you were out for even another 10 minutes that headache would have graduated from dull pulse to annoying throb—but instead as your eyes readjust to the atrocious too-white walls of this torture room, you think it’s too quiet in here. Did they just leave me here? No, I still see the Threat in the Lab-Coat through the windows, and a few paces to the opposite chair reveal Mizuki-kun is still sleeping. Great. If you woke up before her then at best I was disconnected before she finished because sedatives do not work on you and at worst it did not work at all so she’ll want to interrogate you and this was all for nothing for nothing for nothing—

“Damn.” Mizuki-kun rubs the last vestiges of sleep out of her painfully red-rimmed eyes. “You beat me. I was going to help you out of there.” 

“I managed.” It wasn’t that hard to take off the helmet.

“Glad to hear it.” Why does she sound like she has a cold? “You can head up. Lien should be there.”

“Are you not also coming…?”

“I’ll be there in a bit.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve, and the streaks off her face. “I just need a minute.”

The door opens and the older Kuranushi enters, and it’s evident I cannot press her further, but one question hasn’t dried up: what did she see?

If Kuruto were going to describe the office he finds himself in, the first word he would use is plain, much like the apartment Furue Jin-san lives in. Standard grey carpeting, neat rows of rectangular fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling, a metallic bureau lined with balsawood he could order from Azamon and build himself within a day and a similarly humble black office chair… Even the rounded white accent chair Kuruto waits in is one he’s seen at his doctor’s office. “ For some reason, I always expect more from the rich, though my parents weren’t all that ostentatious either.”

“You definitely have a pricier desk than this though.”

That’s true. Maybe the modest design preference runs in the Furue Family, although unlike his son, his father hasn’t covered his unused chairs and shelves in white sheets to keep them clean. Germophobia must not be inherited. Neither, apparently, is timeliness. Kuruto knows he didn’t book an appointment in advance, but the receptionist said, “He’ll be with you in 20 minutes,” and it’s been at least double that! 

“Terribly sorry for the delay, Ryuki-san,” says Furue Toshimune-san, his voice as slick as the gel in his greying champagne-blond hair. Unlike his office, his fashion sense screams wealth: a double-breasted pinstriped suit in dried-seaweed black, a golden silk tie, and lining his front pocket a matching kerchief and black fountain pen. “The other suits just can’t get enough of me.” He laughs like he came straight from a TV drama as he slides into his seat with a subtle spin. “I was surprised to hear your name when I got the call. Your father helped design this building.” 

“Is that so?” Kuruto asks. 

“The man was brilliant, not to mention fast, so much so I wanted to poach him! Though he never took me up on it.” There’s that professional laugh again, just as short as the last. “Such a shame what happened,” Toshimune-san says with a straight face. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

“ Thank you.” Brilliant and fast…? What remains of Dad in Kuruto’s memory is a giant shadow with glasses who’d sit on the couch with a pad of paper and take case notes on Detective Doyle for Yukuto, only for Yukuto to correct him when he solves it wrong. “You learn something new every day.”

“It’s way too early for you to get derailed, Ryuki.”

“I’m not. I promise.” This isn’t what he came here for. “I’m here to ask you a few questions for an ongoing investigation.”

“Yes, I’d heard you became a police officer,” Toshimune-san says. “What can I help you with? I’m afraid I haven’t caught up on the news today.”

“That’s alright. I’m here to learn more about your son.” 

“I was afraid of that…” Toshimune-san falls against the back of his chair. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

Kuruto does his best to offer a reassuring smile he does not believe in the premise of. “That has yet to be determined, but we suspect he’s connected to a missing persons case.”

“Missing persons…?” Toshimune sits on the topic for a while, and then he asks, “Could it be…?”

“I’m sorry? I couldn’t catch the rest of what you said,” Kuruto says. Maybe mumbling is genetic. 

The ceiling heater whirs. Footsteps tap outside the office. Toshimune-san straightens out his position, one vertebra at a time. “Please forgive this old man’s sorrowful ramblings, though it may not be relevant to your investigation, but with what little you’ve said just now, I fear…. My wife and I—” Outside the infrared filter, his eyes are wet. “We failed him.”

Sagan-sensei scolded him first—“Please make sure to call next time you have a doctor’s appointment!”—and then with a softer tone said, “If you need to catch up, Mizuki will be glad to share her notes.” Tch. Sagan-sensei hasn’t learned anything since she became their teacher! As if Shouma wants help from a pig-faced brat like her! She always asks him to explain half the science and math stuff she wrote down anyway because she falls asleep, and only losers ignore people who ask for help, so he says yes, because he’s not a loser, and that’s all there is to it! He’s not! Dad’s a loser, not me… Why did he run all over town? It’s not like this is the first time he’s been late for class…

Now that lunch has rolled around, Mizuki drags her chair across the linoleum floor to his desk at the back by the door and slaps her notes on top of it. No words are spoken. Squinting, she stares him down. She’s going to ask something annoying, isn’t she? “This is the third time you were at some clinic this month,” she says.

“Mhm.”

“It’s only February 10th.”

“So?”

“Are you dying?” Mizuki asks.

“No,” Shouma says, and it’s not a lie. Nothing is wrong; Horadori and his henchmen just needed an excuse to mess with him.

Of course, Mizuki isn’t satisfied with this answer at all. “Then why do you keep going to the doctor?”

Shouma wishes he could wear his headphones, but they’re at home, yet an excuse out of this conversation comes anyway. “Just leave him alone, Mizuki-chan. Why do you bother with emo weirdo Enda, anyway?” Not that it’s a better one.

Mizuki whirls around so fast her hair nearly whips Shouma’s face. “Was I talking to you, Ondo?”

Once friend and now “classmate,” Ondo Masuyuki flinches from the intensity of her glare; it probably reminds him of when she punched him. “You do this every time, but okay…”

“I’ll do what I want, thanks,” she says, and everyone knows that without her saying it. That trait is what makes her so cool obnoxious.

“He’s not wrong.” Not about Dad either, not that Shouma will tell Masuyuki that.

She spins back to him. “Why are you defending him? He makes fun of you!”

“‘Cause you keep bothering me with stupid questions.” 

Mizuki flicks his arm.

“Ow!” That’s going to bruise for weeks.

“I’ll stop asking when you finally answer them.”

Not going to happen. Shouma glances at the clock; lunch will end before they know it. “Can you explain your notes first?” 

“Fine,” Mizuki says. “Maybe you can make sense out of today’s algebra.”

Shouma wants to keep scowling, to keep his mouth yanked down at a harsh angle with an equally squished brow for hours and days and years, but despite his stubborn wish, he can’t control his avatar. Maybe later, Shigure-san will teach me again…

“Failed him how?”

“This isn’t public knowledge, as it’s a sensitive topic for our family, but Jin was deathly ill as a boy,” Toshimune-san says. “Hemihyperplasia. It developed into a myriad of cancers that afflicted his right side. Half-body tumors, they called them.”

“That’s in alignment.”

“You claimed that your biological parents, who are not the ones who raised you, kidnapped him on your behalf, as you were dying. Can you elaborate further?” Kuruto asked.

Seconds passed in irritated silence with only the hum of the radiator before Jin-san answered. “Yes. I was born with hemihyperplasia. Children with the condition are prone to cancers, and when I was close to five, I started developing tumors on the right side of my body.”

“He grew up in the hospital, even taking classes there, which is an utterly isolating and maddening experience for any child, never mind one as anxious as he was,” Toshimune-san continues. “When he initially started pleading for us to take him home, anywhere else, we thought his nightmares were flaring up again.”

“Nightmares?” Like the ones Kuruto had every night for years of traffic and sirens and crushed bone and blood spattered across the pavement where half of his brother once stood?

“Before Jin was hospitalized, he was already all nerves, uneasy about everything,” Toshimune-san says. “You’re a bit too young to have your own family, but most children do not cry for their mother twice per week from nightmares, and he certainly didn’t stop having them once he left home. If anything, they became more frequent, and consistent in content.” 

“What were they about?” What did Kuruto have nightmares about as a child? He hardly remembers anymore.

“A myriad of things—his mother dying, his family forgetting him entirely, mad scientists or doctors—that last one became extremely frequent after he turned eight, coupled with a growing preoccupation with his own treatment, and most important to your inquiry, the Aioen Missing Child case.”

“Do you know this man?”

“Yes.” Jin-san only spared the image a passing glance. “His name is Somezuki Uru. He’s nearly 30 and an orphan.”

Kuruto shakes his head. Focus! “Fear over his treatment and the types of people that carry it out is one thing, but a disappearance?”

“It’s a strange thing for a child to fixate on, right? As far as we were concerned, he should hardly have been exposed to the story. At the time of the incident—when it was all over the papers—he was only five years old, and often so tired he could barely focus on the cartoons they let him watch on TV. Who would have told him?”

A good question, one that Kuruto would love the answer to himself, because if it’s anything like what Jin-san said… “What were the contents of these ‘nightmares’, the ones related to the Aioen Missing Child case?” Their nightmares might not be so different after all.

“Take a deep breath, Ryuki,” Tama says. He does.

“I’ll never forget what he said. For every major transplant, hospital staff transferred him to the Horadori Institute of Genetics, where Horadori or Dr. Houzen operated on him.” Toshimune-san takes in a long, shuddering breath. “They kidnapped a child to serve as his organ donor: Somezuki Uru.”

“Back to the subject of the transplants. Horadori-san forged papers with the help of a distant uncle to bring the organs they harvested to you without drawing suspicion, but does this mean you were kept at the hospital full time?”

“No. That was originally the plan, but ‘Uncle’ botched preserving part of Uru’s liver on purpose, in a scheme to have direct access to me—to power—which he has long since been denied. They would transfer me to and from the Institute for any big procedures.” 

Right, this was preposterous on principle, no matter who is saying it! He knows better than this. Didn’t Gen-san warn him? Don’t let him crawl under your skin. Kuruto will solve this case. 

“Still in the room?” Mama asks. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Mizuki says. Still on this earth. Outside the basement of the Horadori Institute. Safe. Free. “Somnia can't beat me!”

“It almost did,” Aiba says. 

Mama must be wearing her earpiece because she says, “Losing your touch already?”

“As if!” That would never happen! “If I fail, ABIS is doomed, and Mama will be out of a job forever.”

“Really overselling yourself, kiddo.” Mama rolls her eyes in too gentle a curve to be understood as mocking. Then she switches to serious. “Was it worth it?”

“Yeah.” ‘Course it was. Yeah, a lot of it was too abstract to know what to do with, but Mizuki can confidently say one thing: “Lien found Somezuki Uru.”

“There is no other way to interpret that final clue.”

“Never expected a decades-old cold case to be brought to my office... Sure hope it’s not like the last one…” Boss glances at the looming windows, searching for someone that isn’t monitoring them right now.

“You think Ondo will approve the warrant for the Horadori Institute now?” Mizuki asks. 

“Not in a million years,” Boss says. “Even without him, nothing you find during a Psync is admissible evidence for anything.”

Boo…! What was the point of all that then? Why did Mizuki subject herself to her reskinned past if the one concrete thing she learned won’t get her inside the most important place? God damn Ondo! “Where the hell do I take this then?” The rest of that Psync was too esoteric to work with!

“You could go back to Chieda,” Boss says. “Uru was his orphan after all.” 

Must she?

“Plus, you promised you’d bring him home if it turned out you found him.”

“You promised that…?” Mama asks. “What were you going to do if it wasn’t… ?”

“Wasn’t expecting that to be this soon! And I said if!” It’s only been a couple hours since Mizuki ran away had to do very important case work, and Kizuna is definitely going to be home, and she’ll be silently seething behind a perfect smile—No! Not today! Maybe tomorrow, but definitely not returning today! “Besides, I don’t think he’s going to have anything new we didn’t talk about earlier.”

Neither Aiba nor Mama speak, but Mizuki can hear their judgment. 

She tunes it out. “It’s fine! I already came up with a plan!”

There Uru goes, squinting at Lien again, like he really wants to ask a hundred questions, but can’t find a good way to do it. That, or the guy reading manga in the corner—Pewter, he thinks—makes him nervous. Or both! Probably both. He has a pretty good guess what Uru wants to ask him, but Lien’s answer is going to disappoint him. The awkward air sticks as Quartz and her mom that Lien only met yesterday—Kuranushi-san—reenter the monitor room. Kuranushi-san joins Pewter in the corner, and whatever they discuss is too quiet to make out. Quartz does the same squinting thing as Uru, and he has no idea why she’s putting him under the microscope, until eventually she says, “I need to talk to Lien for a bit, but before I send you to the car, I’ve got one question for you.” 

“You said you weren’t going to interrogate me,” Uru says, with clenched fists.

“Not that kind of question, I promise.” Quartz says. “You need clothes though, right? What size do I get?”

“I’m not…” Uru trails off, then starts pulling at the collar of the ratty shirt he’s in. 

“I can take care of it,” Lien says. Doesn’t she have an investigation to run? 

“It’s okay. I’ll eyeball it,” Quartz says. Beat. “Done. Okay, you can wait in the office, or in the car. Lien will join you soon.” 

“What do you need Lien for…?” Uru asks.

“I have a job for him,” Quartz says. 

Uru adds to his list of questions and doesn’t budge an inch. Lien is pretty sure if these two got into a staring contest the universe would collapse in on itself before a winner was called, so he says, “I’ll catch you up at Gen-chan’s, okay buddy?”

Another beat, and Uru shrugs and heads out. Soon after, Pewter follows him, keeping ample distance between them. Quartz watches them go and says, “Man, Uru really likes you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lien says. Clunky and stiff as his social skills are, Uru is easy to read. Earlier, he had the chance to disappear into Tokyo never to be seen or heard from again, but he didn’t. That was for me, right? Or maybe that’s just what he wants to think. What does Lien know anyway? He thought he knew Quartz pretty well, and the past day and a half has really shattered that belief, but… “He trusts me, anyway.” 

Kuranushi-san plays back footage on a monitor in the corner of the room. Once again, they can’t hear it. Probably headphones.

“You didn’t see the somnium, huh?” Quartz asks.

“Nope.” Didn’t feel right to pry, so he waited in the hall.

Quartz exhales, to herself, yet Lien hears it. Another thing she doesn’t want to tell him. Still focused on the exit, she says, “I get it.”

They probably shouldn’t keep Uru waiting. He gets antsy over the tiniest things. “So, what’s this about my job?” The one Lien wants to quit.

“Right, yeah.” Quartz pulls something out of her pocket through a shoulder bag perched on one of the tables, and hands him a small, white audio transmitter, like the kind their old boss equipped them with for special missions, and he likes it even less now. “I need you to spy at your job for me.”

“Is that legal…?” Does he have to? Is this all he’s good for? Thieving and dubiously legal spying?

“Yep.” Quartz asks. “Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t, and I need information.”

“Can’t you talk to my coworkers?”

“Never again.” She must really hate Shinkai’s nickname for her. Can’t be weirder than Shi-shi though… “And I don’t have approval to go inside to look around and talk right now, because someone— ”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go plead with Ondo again,” Kuranushi-san says and returns to whatever she’s watching.

Everything is squared away, except for Lien. This job sucks, who knows what other shit went on in that basement with those weird machines, but his work as a janitor was clean, right? …Right? Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he just wiped away the evidence. 

Quartz offers him the round device. Lien takes it.

“Oh, one more thing,” she says, and hands him a familiar looking phone. “Remember these?”

“Yeah, it’s a Kumakura burner phone.” They used to use them all the time.

Quartz nods. “Akiko still had a few lingering around, so when I got that transmitter, I told her I know a guy who needs a phone, and—”

“She gave you everything?” Nowadays, she spoils Quartz.

“Yeah.” Quartz says. “Wouldn’t let go of me for five whole minutes.” 

He takes the phone. “I’ll pass it to Uru.”

“Cool,” Quartz says. “When’s your shift start?”

“Like two hours from now.” In the end, Lien will always be a thief.

“That’s a rather specific story,” Kuruto says.

Toshimune-san says, “Indeed, although looking into it, we found nothing.”

“Can’t find any signs of a case like this in the MPD’s records.”

“Did you call the police?” He knows the answer to this, but that’s why he has to ask.

“The police only turned us down. Not enough evidence of wrongdoing, they said.”

Tch!

“ Breathe ,” Tama says. “I know he hasn’t flared up on thermo, but losing your patience won’t help.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Good boy.”

“Thus, we tried private investigators,” Toshimune-san says. “This was all before the Premier Incident, so they had a great deal more authority.”

“The Premier Incident was a series of scandals involving private investigating firms that led to a serious crackdown on the industry from 2011 to 2013. Those laws are still on the books, but Furue Jr was allegedly discharged in 2009.”

“We went through a handful of detectives, but collectively their searches through the hospital records yielded nothing. On paper, Jin was never transferred.” 

“You were hospitalized, so how did Horadori-san and Shigure-san arrange the transplants?”

“For small transplants, like bone marrow, I didn't leave the hospital. All the paperwork was falsified by my primary doctor.”

“Name?”

“Dr. Houzen Mitsuyo.”

“Following Institute vans or hospital ambulances on days he was scheduled for a procedure went nowhere. They never stopped at the Horadori Institute.” Why would they? “After years and years of trying, we eventually had no choice but to give up. I convinced myself that his isolation, fear, and exhaustion made his nightmares real to him, as he eventually stopped talking about it altogether.” Strangers chatter outside, muffled by the walls. Twirling the pen between his fingers, Toshimune-san says, “Jin has never trusted us since. We haven’t spoken in years.”

Something about this testimony is bothering him, but what is it? “When was the last time?”

Toshimune-san drags out an audible sigh, watching the space above Kuruto’s head with a far-off expression. “A decade ago, in that apartment. Around when he started his business. He reached out and asked if I knew a judicial scrivener willing to notarize his paperwork.”

He’s so close to figuring it out! 

“That would be seven years ago, after Jin claims his ‘treatment’ ended,” Tama says. “As an aside, Gishou Realty owns the apartment complex Jin lives in. His father arranged the rental terms, as Jin was still underage in 2009.”

Like it’s right there! “He didn’t move once?”  

“Nope. Can’t be appealing with that face.”

Staring him in the face. “What would I do without you, Tama?”

“Get tangled in your own shibari ropes—wait, h-huh? What did I do?”

Thus far, Jin-san and Toshimune-san are in consensus about the following: his illness, the settings, the involvement of Horadori Chikara and Dr. Houzen Mitsuyo, and most critically, the victim. The problem starts where they differ. As Toshimune-san has been telling it, he was in the dark, unable to find any evidence, and it led to their family’s estrangement, but that’s not how Jin-san tells it. 

The phone rings, a shrill alert piercing through the silence, but it goes ignored.

“I have no evidence. I used to keep records, but my Father took them from me, and without them I can’t prove the connection to ambiguous tertiary evidence.” He raised his gaze from the floor. “No one has ever believed me.”

According to Jin-san, his father was complicit, even taking evidence to cover it up. They can’t both be true, yet neither of them change temperature when looked at through thermo-mode. How is that possible? Kuruto explains it to Tama, and asks, “Which one of them is lying?”

“My instinct is Sr, because Gen tossed suspicion on him earlier for unrelated reasons, but that assumption makes things strange. Say Jr’s convoluted story is true,” Tama says. “If Sr is lying to save his own ass, this is a wild lie to spin unprompted.” 

That’s where the problem continues, as Kuruto has avoided saying or confirming which missing persons case it was. “ Yesterday Jin-san already threw Toshimune-san to the wolves. They’re not collaborating, even if they mostly agree.”

Toshimune-san’s phone rings again.

“Thermo-mode detects stress the same way it detects lies. This applies to Jr. too. If either of them is worried about going to prison, they’re doing a great job containing it.”

It rings.

“Both testimonies are suspicious on the face of it because they’re convoluted and lack evidence.”

It rings.

“Missing evidence is critical to both of their narratives, whether it’s for a terminally ill child, or his equally hapless father.” 

It rings. Toshimune-san picks up. “I’m currently busy. I’ll call you back later.” he says, then hangs up. He’s still waiting for Kuruto to continue. I’d have kicked me out by now. What does he want? What is he hoping for? Information? Answers? Closure? 

Inspiration strikes. “I’m sorry to eat up most of your time, when you’re this busy,” Kuruto says. “Is now a good time, or should I come back later?” 

 “Dear boy, don’t worry about that. They can wait, I assure you.” There goes that stage-ready laugh once more. “If anything, I’ve wasted your time by rambling this long.”

“Thank you,” Kuruto says. “And please don’t worry. I’m certain I have use for your testimony.” 

“You have an idea?” Tama asks.

“I do, but I have to get us there first.”

The bell chimes—a triplet of G notes—and a short, blockheaded man enters Brahman with a weak wave. Normally, Komeji-san comes with his family in tow and spends the entire meal cracking bad jokes as Gen mediates their trivia tournament, but at this hour, Shouma is at school, and Amame is working her first job at Sunfish Pocket, so he’s alone, resting his hands against his knees, out of breath. This has been a common occurrence as of late. “Good afternoon, Komeji-san,” Gen greets. “Glass of water?”

He nods, pulling himself uptight and heaving himself to a barstool to collapse on. He gulps half the glass as soon as he falls into the seat. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Anything else?” The answer will be “no,” and Komeji-san shakes his head right on cue. The Endas can’t afford to eat out often; Gen only charges members of that cult for water. The restaurant isn't crowded just yet—peak lunch rush starts in a half hour, and the two customers on the stools in the back have been chattering amongst himself—so he says, “You’ve been running around a lot lately.” He’s not expecting him to talk this time either.

“Ahah, is that so?” Komeji-san says. “It’s good exercise.”

That may be the case, but the circumstances, like the scent coming off his pan, stink strongly of fish, and Gen isn’t naïve enough to swallow that line. Last week, Komeji-san arrived at the wrong time, and a trio of cultists whiffed his financial hardship and invited him to “drink” with them; naturally, Gen stopped them with just the turn of his head—no proselytizing at his establishment—but Komeji-san shrank back at the sight of their leader. He knows them. Why? “You should be careful not to overexert yourself, or you’ll risk straining something. Amame worries about you.”

“Haha, I’m not that old just yet. God of energy, Inti Inti, Pachaka-max!” He does not rise to make the pose. Komeji-san swirls the ice slowly melting in the glass. “But I’ll keep your advice in mind.” Clink. Clink-clink. “Wouldn’t want her to worry…”

When Komeji-san stands up, he “accidentally” drops ¥400 on the stool’s red cushion; Gen adds it to the envelope with Amame’s next paycheck. 

Everything comes back to the Horadori Institute, so that’s where Kuruto starts. “From what I understand, you used to sponsor the Horadori Institute, although you stopped investing nine years ago.” The first question is a precursor to the test: “If you believed your son at any point, why did you keep investing for so long?” 

“Jin was born with a congenital condition, so naturally I had an interest in furthering research on the topic. Since Horadori was an associate of mine, when he came to me with ambitions of starting a laboratory in the field, I agreed to back his venture out of my own pocket.” 

“The Horadori Institute was founded in 1994, but its construction history is a bit messy,” Tama says. “At the time, this company was under the Chieda Group with their branding. While they started construction, Furue Sr. isn’t recorded as involved, and it was handed off to an unrelated company in ’95.”

“Once Jin had started accusing Horadori, I hoped to leverage that for insight into their operation, but I learned very little,” Toshimune-san says. “The human experimentation scandal shocked me to my core. I pulled out immediately, haunted by what Jin said, although once again, no investigation could prove it.” 

“Once I was ‘cured,’ so to speak, they changed security protocol in several ways. Upon allegations of human experiments, the Horadori Institute was demolished, and when they rebuilt it on top of the original foundation, they changed every passcode several times.”

“The Horadori Institute was demolished in 2010 and rebuilt in 2011,” Tama says. “No one from the first project was involved with the reconstruction, other than Chieda Riichi resuming his investments.”

“You called Horadori-san an associate. How did you become acquainted?” 

“When I graduated university, back in the ‘80s, I was in something of a depressive slump.” Toshimune-san says. “My family ran a business for generations—construction, hotels, real estate, etc—but within the family, and the company tensions were high, which eventually led to splintering and finally collapse while I was in university.”

“Archives of newspapers from the 70s confirm this,” Tama says. “His uncle stepped down, and mismanagement coupled with a financial scandal ousted his father. Thus, the original Gishou Group was dissolved and split up by 1983.”

“I was raised with the expectation I would follow in their footsteps, but suddenly…there was nothing to follow. What was I supposed to do with myself? Ridiculous, right?” Toshimune-san chuckles weakly, then continues. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but the whole affair drew me into a secret society—really a new religious movement—named Naixatloz.” 

“Many of my family members, whether by blood or through paperwork, are or were involved in the ‘ideological society’ Naixatloz. You have heard of them, correct?” 

“I have.” 

“Horadori was already a member, higher in the ranks, but he often mingled with newcomers,” Toshimune-san says. “Even at the time, he was an eccentric fellow, but he took a liking to me, and his ideas were interesting.”

“Are you still a member?” Kuruto asks.

“Not at all. Starting in 1990, I became quite busy! Raising a child will do that. I stopped attending their meetings in the mid ‘90s, but Horadori and I remained in contact through business, at least…until the allegations broke.” 

“Did the allegations break before or after your son was discharged?”

“After,” Toshimune-san says. “The last big procedure he underwent was for his face, when he was 18, so late 2008. He was released in March the following year.”

Jin-san’s eyes did not once waver from the photo under his fingertips. “I’ve spent days, sometimes weeks at a time down in the basement of that institute, up until I was discharged almost 11 years ago now.”

“Did that affect his appearance at all?”

“Treatment required grafts, several even, so the skin and hair on the right side of his face matches the donor. As I'm sure you can imagine, the hospital provided us with different names than Jin did for the donors.” Toshimune-san gives the name of a young man whose sudden stroke led to brain death, a patient at St. Lucas’, and certainly not the donor. The rest of the list is much the same.

In his pocket, there’s a mugshot of a scowling man desperately trying to escape from the camera lens’ sight. Kuruto slides it across the desk and says nothing. Everything leads up to this final test.

Toshimune-san gingerly takes the photo in his hands. The clock ticks—tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—until he places it back on the table. “Is that…?” It’s not a question, but a wobbling gasp for air, desperate to escape from a nightmare. 

“Somezuki Uru.” And just like Kuruto, his nightmare has already come to pass. “He was found yesterday morning, in the basement of the Horadori Institute of Genetics.”

The infrared lights up red. Holding his head in shuddering hands, Toshimune-san passes with rising colors as he unleashes the sob he was holding onto since Kuruto arrived. 

Father raps at Kizuna’s door, the right side entrance: once, twice, thrice. 

“Come in,” she says.

The floorboards creak another two times under heavy footsteps, and he’s come to announce that he won’t be home until late this evening again. Frankly, she’s surprised he was able to work at home for this long, as it’s already afternoon. He must have been working since early this morning; the bags under his eyes are deeper by the day.

“What time do you expect to return?” Kizuna asks.

“It’s uncertain,” Father says. “It depends on how in order this board of directors has their affairs today. Yesterday, as you know, the Horadori Institute was in complete disarray.”

Yes, Kizuna did hear something about a car chase involving their vans yesterday, although little else. “I can imagine. What could have happened?”

“Wish I knew, but they were rather cagey about the whole affair when asked. They lost investors as a result,” Father says, and Kizuna feigns interest.

“Anything you require of me?”

“Just for you to take precautions on your way into work,” Father says. Though his lips are tugged upward, they come nowhere close to the eyebags. “I’ll try to make it back for dinner, though it might be later than you’re used to. Closer to 8:00.” 

“Alright,” Kizuna says, with no hopes left to raise.  

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap sounds the endless beat of your fingers against rough leather armrest built into the car door, again and again and again and again and again for minutes and minutes and minutes and minutes and minutes and minutes on end until the opposing door pops open. “Sorry to make you wait,” Lien says. What the hell took him so long? Does he have any idea how dull it gets waiting in a pig-mobile trying to avoid the gaze of the officer driving it? Sliding inside, he says, “I got something for you though.” 

Once the door closes, Lien offers a smartphone to you. Really? Do they think I’m stupid? As if the police would give me anything out of kindness. This isn’t even subtle.

“You can take it apart if you’re that skeptical. I doubt it’s bugged though.”

I’ll be the judge of that. “Where does Ishiyagane hide his toolbox?” You turn the phone on. I see it’s been factory reset.

“Better question to ask him than me,” Lien says. “You can take apart a phone?”

“Obviously.” Why else would I have said it? I may not have owned one, but I’ve had plenty of experience using them. It’ll be easier to hack if once hooked up to a PC of some sort, but these apps appear standard. “PCs too.” 

“Didn’t take you for a tech repair guy.”

Not that Lien saw it, but the workbench wasn’t for show! “I’m well versed in using tools.” Who else was going to repair anything that broke in that prison? Once I became strong and dexterous enough to use a hammer, that bastard stopped fixing anything essential too.

“That’s pretty cool,” Lien says. “I have no idea how to do any of that.”

“You can watch when we get back.”

“Sure, if it’ll take less than two hours.” The car pulls up to the restaurant, and Lien groans as he exits it. “‘Cause apparently, I gotta go to work.”

You follow him out. “Why?” Did Mizuki-kun put him up to this? Is that her play? I can work investigating them —the sooner that bastard gets executed by the state the better—but she’s a detective, isn’t she? She can do it herself!

Lien peers through Brahman’s window; it’s lunchtime so it’s crowded, but he waves at Ishiyagane anyway, and trudges down the small alley up the stairs.  “‘Cause Mizuki can’t get a warrant or something, and she’s putting me up to spy duty.”

“Are you…qualified for that?”

“You are the only guy I know who’d ask that question.”

“…Sorry?” But he’s a janitor! Just because he’s good with unlocking doors—

“Don’t be.” He flops onto the couch and gives you a sheepish grin. “You asking makes me feel better.”

You understand even less, but so long as he’s not offended. If he was upset, he’d be sitting on the floor again for no reason, and that’s a nuisance. Even if I can walk around him. You’d prefer not to. He doesn’t belong on the floor. “Okay.” 

…That came out too quiet.

Forget that! You’ve answered the lesser of your questions, ask him the urgent one! “Did you…see it?”

“See what?” Lien asks. Beat. “Oh, the sominum thing?”

“Somnium. It comes from the Latin god of sleep.”

Lien looks impressed. “You read a lot, huh?”

What else was I meant to do?

“Anyway, sorry, I didn’t see any of it,” Lien says. “l was out in the hall.”

Tch! He’s left me completely in the dark on what they found out! It’s not his job to spy for you either. I already said he isn’t qualified; he doesn’t want to be asked that anyway. 

In fact, although I would much prefer to have specifics about what they gleaned from your memory, he provided one major key earlier: they can’t get a warrant into the Horadori Institute. Of course, that bastard and his shitty lab were already on their list of investigative targets, but if they uncovered her from that somnium, would they take such desperate measures? There would be more leads to follow. Far better options. She’s safe. She should be. Most likely. Probably. If only Lien could tell me for certain!

“I understand,” you say. He was not made to witness what happens beneath his feet. The basement should not be his to suffer. 

They leave the office without saying a word, although crying can still be heard from beyond the closed door as they walk away. Kuruto takes plodding steps across the carpeted  floor—left, right, left, right, left—until Tama finally speaks up: “So what was all that? Feel like explaining?”

Yeah, he probably should. “Remember how you said that Thermo can detect distress? I thought I could set it off.”

“Well, you did, but…” Tama flickers into only his vision and walks backwards into the elevator with him; she must be worried. “What did that prove, exactly?”

“Nothing. Both testimonies are unverifiable without evidence.”

“HAH?!” Crack! Her riding crop snaps the button but can’t actually press it. “That’s what you said earlier!”

“I have a theory!” Kuruto pushes the button, and the elevator makes its slow descent. “Thinking about their testimonies while Toshimune-san waited for me to speak, I wondered if…” What if it’s not a contradiction but a misunderstanding? If they take what aligns in both statements as true, no matter how dubious it sounds, then isn’t it possible that “ Jin-san believes his father is guilty because Toshimune-san couldn’t stop his ‘treatment?’”

“He would look guilty under those circumstances, sure,” Tama agrees, “but that’s only if they both told the truth. Not to mention Gen called Sr a dangerous cultist earlier, and there are other points we’ll have to contrast another time.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kuruto says. He still hasn’t figured out anything about the Order of %, but it’s only 1:30 or so; he has time. “I’m skeptical of both Furues either way, but in case every conversation goes like this, I thought I’d test to see if its possible.”

“Hmmmm,” Tama hums to herself, her riding crop vanished into nothing once more. “We’ll need to collect more statements to see. The Doc up next?”

The elevator dings. “Yep.”

As soon as his “colleagues” break for lunch and hang up, ending this boring meeting for the next hour until they check on him again, Jin makes a phone call with his family phone. It rings for three seconds. 

“You escaped,” says “Auntie,” her voice light yet crisp, a knife concealed under layers and layers of practiced politeness. 

“You won’t.” 

“Auntie” hangs up.

…his to suffer.

Chapter Text

When Jin next checks the clock in the bottom corner of his monitor (a frankly too common behavior) it reads 13:41, February 10th, 2020, a not particularly noteworthy time, or date, for the most part. Today is uneventful, like most days are meant to be to most anyone, and yet… After yesterday, you can’t help but long for something worthwhile to do. The investigation is in full swing, Uru will go find “Auntie” as soon as he can, his family is scrambling to clean up what can never be wiped away, and Sagane-san…well, he’ll probably write after he makes that delivery and takes his midday nap, and Jin thinks about doing the same, but he can’t. Today, he has an endless amount of nothing he is obligated to fulfill. Might as well start with this bland salad; at least Uru should be eating something better than this. He must be. Good.

Lien returns to Ishiyagane’s upstairs apartment that is my temporary housing arrangement with two to-go plates of some foreign fusion dish you’ve most likely never had before and sets them on the counter. “Lunch time! Also, Gen-chan says tools are in a box under the sink.”

You want to make some pithy remark about how that’s a bizarre location to put a toolbox, but maybe it isn’t. Not like you’ve ever had a kitchen sink. “Good to know.” Seated side by side at the counter, as was the case for breakfast this morning, Lien slides one of the boxes my way, and before I’ve even opened it spices you cannot name waft through the air along with wisps of steam; the lid pops open far easier than the wrapper this morning, unveiling what looks like yakitori but probably isn’t. “Chicken?”

“Mhm,” Lien says. “Gen-chan’s experimenting with his Paneer Tikka, and you wanted chicken, so…”

Works for me. Anything is better than another jerky stick, as far as I’m concerned. You shovel a skewer into your mouth; it’s not as spicy as I expected, but still packs heat—why must the simulation become blurry at the smallest of things! Just because all anyone bothered to feed you for the past 10 years was astronaut food doesn’t mean—

Lien offers a paper napkin. “Don’t eat spicy food often, huh?”

You take it and blow your nose. “No.”

“Takes a bit of getting used to, but you build up a tolerance after a while,” Lien says, and takes a bite of his own. He makes it look so easy. “Huh. It’s sweeter than normal.”

A part of it was sweet? “How long have you been coming here?”

“Basically, since it’s existed,” Lien says. “Back when Brahman was in Yotsuya, 3-4 years ago?”

Not worth thinking about what you were doing at that point, watching the flag for days go up and up and up.

“Gen-chan is one of my oldest friends,” Lien says. He’s not that young, is he? “The only one I’ve known longer is… Mizuki. They’re why I went clean.”

“Went…clean?”

“Stopped stealing,” Lien says. “Gen-chan kept giving me free meals even when preparing to move, and Mizuki became a secret agent cop, and I was still a low-life thief. I didn’t want to be one anymore, so…turned myself in. Tried starting fresh, but…” With the semi-eaten skewer, he draws patterns that mean something only to him on the black bottom of the takeout container. “Seems like everyone wants me to sneak around and break into places forever. Even strangers.”

Add that to Jin’s list of sins. Bastard. Always too late and forcing his own failings onto everyone around him, even when it’s not their business or their fault and Lien doesn’t deserve it even if it was to let me out! Which it wasn’t. Because Jin’s a liar.

“Maybe that’s all I’m good for.” Lien says. “Good-for-nothing.”

“That’s wrong.” The words launch from your mouth faster than the supercomputer we reside in can process their input; you nearly choke swallowing the bite I just took. Was that an error? Wouldn’t be the only one that occurred in Lien’s presence. I spent most of yesterday wet... A quivering breath. He can’t say that. Not him. The model shakes. He can’t say that. Not when he did what no one else could. A loud sniff. “You can’t…” say that!

“Sorry. That was a pretty stupid thing to say, huh?” Lien offers another paper napkin, and it’s snatched out from his hand, torn at the corner still trapped between his fingers. “I had help, but…you’re here, and that’s something.”

Honk! You clear your sinuses. “He left. You didn’t. Don’t give him any credit.” I’ll never let you lie to me again, Furue Jin!

“Do you think he’d like this?” Mizuki asks, holding up a T-shirt with a garish logo for a band she’s never heard of on it and turning it from front to back.

“Given his history, I'm uncertain he knows who that is,” Aiba says. “Would it not be easier to buy a few articles of plain clothing to wear and let Uru shop for himself?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have any money.” This one is no good…Back on the rack! What else have they got? “Or a job, or the ability to get a job, or—

“Arranging for his new, unimprisoned life will take a long time, yes, however, Lien can take him when he's free. That or you could ask your former foster father, who I am certain would be glad to help.”

Sifting through the next rack turns up nothing too. Mizuki’s stumped. “I guess…” But that answer sucks!! They grew up in the same orphanage, were tortured by the same monster, he knows her he heard her he was not saved—she was not able to do anything for him then; why can’t she do something now?

“Fancy seeing you here, Kura-ninja-chan,” someone drawls from behind her, jarring her from one source of frustration to a new one. “Creeping on strangers in Misetan now?”

Ugh! Mizuki wheels around and asks, “Why are you here?”

“This is the men’s building,” Shinkai says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and he waves the bag in his hand. Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. “Why do you think?”

“If you’re finished here, leave.” What does he even want? To piss her off? “Or are you trying to hit on me?”

Perpetually disinterested Shinkai hums to himself, half-sitting against the nearby table loaded with button ups and gives Mizuki a once over. Or…pretends to. “Nah.” Tracing his line of sight leads to the rack to her left. “You’re not my type.”

“He didn’t even look!

“That is your issue?” Aiba asks. 

“Plus, if we ignore the stalking—big ask—you’re just too brash,” Shinkai says. “Charming to some, I’m sure, but me? I’m into poise. Dragging a reaction out of someone with normally perfect composure? Nothing better.”

Mizuki growls. “Did I ask?” Like this jackass could land someone like Kizuna!

“Can you? ‘Cause that’s a much more fun conversation than the one I approached you for.”

“You had a reason…?”

“You clearly did not pick up what I put down this morning, so I’m taking this opportunity to correct my mistake, so you don’t make an even bigger one.”

“Meaning…?”

“You are sending Shi-shi blind into a pit of vipers you know are out for his blood without considering what’s actually in store for him.”

“Huh?” Why does he—

“You asked me what’s unfolding inside the Horadori Institute, then about Shi-shi, and not that long after, Shi-shi told me he decided to go to work today after all,” Shinkai says. All traces of amusement have vanished. “Doesn’t take a genius to put two-and-two together, Detective.”

Is he mocking me? Is this a threat? A boast? Both? Something else? “What’s his angle right now?

“I have a brand-new feature perfect for finding out,” Aiba says.

Mama mentioned something like this… Mini Somnia on the go— “Wink-Psync! Let’s do this!"

In the black void of his own thoughts, Shinkai paces back and forth. “As soon as that investor conference ends, that egomaniac is going to wield what they dug up to threaten Shi-shi, and if that doesn’t work… I can prevent that, right?” He chews on his lower lip. “Right…?”

Mizuki says, “Why didn’t he say all this earlier?"

“You were right outside the Institute, and security was monitoring you both.” He did say something like that this morning… Was that a warning? Did he have to be such a snarky shithead about it just now?

Someone clears their throat. “Is now the best time to check me out, Kura-ninja-chan?”

Mizuki swallows her instinct to yell “Shut up!” Shinkai’s personality is not the biggest issue here! “Horadori has put Lien in danger, so you don’t want him to go in to work. Do I have that right?”

Shinkai's eyes widen for just a moment, and then fall back to a neutral position. “Some info-broker walked straight into the boss’ office this morning, and with how heated everyone’s been about yesterday’s break-in…”

What would they use? His criminal record? She can picture Horadori firing him like “A person who falls to those depths can never rise again,” but they can’t get rid of him when they don’t know where Uru is, right? No, it’ll be basic, like—“Aiba, put in a request for protection for Lien’s family. Also, can we find the informant on their CCTV—”

“You’re gawking again. Starting to think you want me to hit on you…”

“You’re not my type either!!” Oops! Couldn’t keep it in! Okay, Mizuki, focus! There was something else this asshole was worried about! “That’s not the only danger Lien’s in, is it?” 

Shinkai shakes his head. “If Shi-shi can’t be bribed or threatened then the Boss will just abduct him.”

“How would he—” No. Don’t even finish that question; it’s stupid. Mizuki knows exactly how, with metal plates and unopenable doors. “Ah…” But she can get him out of there, can’t she? Once she’s able to get inside, all she’ll have to do is find that remote he’d always use when she and Mizu were kids, even if she has to rip it off his person—but how many days will that take? Until Ondo approves, they can’t go into the Horadori Institute, and those fuckers might tie him up or refuse to feed him until he talks, Lien doesn’t have any idea how low Horadori will sink, but she does, all little rats do—

“You’re too brash, Detective.” Rising from his pseudo-perch, Shinkai leaves something small wrapped in plastic behind on the table. “But there’s still time to change your investigative strategy.” An unopened tissue pack. “Make the most of it, okay?” With a wave, he’s gone.

When Mizuki inhales, the sound it makes is thick and wet; she rips the tissue pack open and blows. “Aiba, when is Boss’ meeting with Ondo?"

“15:00.”

“Tell her I’m coming to it.”

Central Hospital is busy. Seated in a chair next to an empty bed in a vacant room in the pediatrics ward, Kuruto waits, with only the bustle of stretchers and wheelchairs and beeping monitors through the walls of the neighboring room to amuse him. The clock ticks. It ticks unlike his brother’s watch six years ago.

Whoosh, the door opens. “Terribly sorry, Ryuki-san,” says the nurse who just walked in, a petite woman with short brown hair; her name tag reads Nasu Hanayo. She hands him a slip of paper. “Dr. Houzen is currently unavailable, but this is her contact information.”

“I checked her schedule,” Tama says. “She should be out of work at 5:30 today, barring any emergencies.”

“I’ll visit her later,” Kuruto says, but right now he needs another lead. Who else can he talk—

“Um, excuse me,” the nurse says. “Dr. Houzen asked me to answer your questions in her stead. She was more involved in his case, but I was Jin-kun’s nurse for three years. Is there something I can help you with?”

Perfect timing. “Yes,” Kuruto says. Didn’t expect it with how young she looks. Tama turns thermo on automatically; they’re building a habit. “What can you tell me about his time here?”

“He’d been admitted for hemihyperplasia—half body tumors—when he was young.” The nurse confirms testimony the hospital’s records do not. “Jin-kun was despondent, especially when we first met. He rarely spoke, not even to his father, except to ask to be discharged.”

“Did he ever say why?” Kuruto asks.

“Not at first. When he wasn’t depressed, he was fearful. Everyone has a hard time in the hospital, especially children who have been here for that long, but he was old enough to be my little brother, so it was easy to win him over.” She laughs, or maybe barks, or maybe shivers, and then her professional composure returns. “A week before one transplant, he said he wanted to postpone it.”

“For how long?”

“Indefinitely,” the nurse says. The word lingers, weighing down the air they breathe. The bed in the room is vacant; what remains of Yukuto lies there, staring blankly at nothing through him, speaking a language only the two of them understood, an unspeakable plea to join him. Time stopped then—no. It stopped with Yukuto’s shattered wristwatch, and every February time returns to the halt it never moved past in 2014. “He did not want to live at the cost of someone else’s life.”

Tama flickers into his vision, taking the infrared with her.

“I’m still here.” Because the nurse can’t see her, with the current topic of conversation, Kuruto can’t show Tama the hands of the pristine ticking clock she keeps in motion, only carry it in his heart as he tells her, “That won’t change.”

“You’re taking a break after this.”

“But—”

“Not up for negotiation! ” Her tone is not as harsh as she means for it to sound. “Talking with Furue Sr. took a lot out of you. You need this.”

No argument can be made against that. “Okay.”

“It felt condescending to explain his donor was already deceased knowing how many times he’d already been through it, but I tried anyway. It didn’t work,” the nurse says. “All he said is he knew I didn’t understand; that’s why he told me. ‘You lack the authority to stop it anyway, right, Hanayo-san?’”

“It’s true. She’d need approval from the doctor, in this case Dr. Houzen.”

“Just one more question,” Kuruto says. At least for now. “Do you know what happened to the records of his stay?”

“They should be archived,” the nurse says. “I can get the ward clerk for you.” 

He shakes his head. “No, that’s alright. I’ll find them myself. Thank you.” After he takes that break. Like everyone else Kuruto has spoken to, she didn’t change color for even a split second. The only lie Kuruto can disprove is his brother watching him from the bed.

Okay, so, maybe Mizuki’s expectations were ridiculous—she was expecting Kumakura Rohan except a government official—but with how much of a pain in the ass Ondo has been for ABIS since he was given supervising authority over them a few months ago, he should be more imposing, not hunched over his meticulously organized desk on HQ’s sixth floor above ground. Doesn’t that wrinkle his crisp, neutral lilac suit? Stand up and face me, coward, but he doesn’t spare a glance from whatever he’s preoccupied reading. In bass without menace, he says, “My schedule lists only one Kuranushi-kun. You’re dismissed, Detective.”

Boss’ face says, “Told you.”

Not accepting that! “I want an arrest warrant for Horadori Chikara and permission to search the Institute.”

“On what grounds?”

“Today’s somnium—”

“Somnia aren’t admissible as evidence, so why would one be valid warrant criteria?” How is a guy this scrawny and frail-looking that sturdy of a brick wall in her investigation?

“Ryuki’s investigation has turned up similar accusations…” Boss says, stance more rigid than Mizuki’s ever seen, and yet it doesn’t carry over to her words!

“Yes, I’ve read,” Ondo says. “As of yet, those allegations are unsubstantiated and contradictory.”

“That basement is illegal…!”

“No such area is found on construction records, however…” Aiba says.

“Rest assured, I’ve requested a building inspection be performed by a surveyor certified by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport,” Ondo says. “You are not qualified for that.” 

“But if we wait…!” That was not meant to be a snarl. 

“If the man you’ve identified as ‘Somezuki Uru’ were to accuse Horadori Chikara of kidnapping and injuring him, you would already have those warrants, but he has not.” Ondo straightens his back and leans back into his leather desk chair. “Your grievances do not lie with me, Detective.” It’d be so easy to kick his shiny desk with its neat array of pens and papers right into his frowning face, but Mizuki doesn’t. It’s apparent she’s been dismissed, yet once she turns her back to him, he says, “I have not finished.” 

Mizuki stops and wrenches herself back in his direction.

“That AI-ball recorded footage of Horadori Institute vans pursuing Date-kun, correct?”

“Yes, it’s in the cloud,” Boss says. “The witness, Lien Twining, has also stated he’s being badgered by staff.” Mizuki would add what she got from Shinkai, but Ondo won’t accept that without a full name attached to it. Damn!

“That’s intimidation…” Ondo taps his knuckles against the shiny desk-top without rhythm, brown eyes flickering back and forth between the footage or some report and Mizuki for seconds that last ages. “Permission granted to search the premises for the vans.”

“This guy doesn’t give a shit about Uru…!”

“Perhaps, but Uru was not the one who brought you to this meeting today,” Aiba says. 

“Yeah.” Lien needs her protection now, and this is that. Besides, she’s getting inside, so… Mizuki closes her eyes, clenches every muscle she has, and counts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. As her eyes open, she releases the built-up tension. “Thank you.”

Ondo waves her off. “You’re dismissed, Detective Kuranushi. Please show yourself out before this meeting goes further behind schedule.”

Gladly. 

Taking apart the phone was child’s play; there were no out-of-place wires or suspicious components, so it appears Lien was correct. Lien—who has been diligently studying from his stool—closes out the notes app on his phone and asks another question: “So if I wanted to be 100% sure my job can’t track me down, I have to settle for turning off location, because the GPS is built into the main chip used for everything.” 

“That’s correct,” I say. Warmth like a rash infects and floods your veins, but not like when that bastard improperly sterilized the needle before stabbing it into your arm and you spent the night screaming and screaming and screaming because everything everything everything is puffy and aching and red and they took your liver they took my liver he took my liver—no not like that! “You could take out the SoC but then you would stop having a functioning phone.” 

“Well, hopefully they don’t have tech savvy guys like you working for ‘em…” Lien groans. This strange plague has been with me since I first popped the back off this device. “You teach yourself all this?”

“For the most part.” I scan every inch of me that you can see but there are no scaly bumps or searing red anywhere on my body, and yet…it’s so familiar.  “In my free time.”

“You good with computers too?”

“Better. They’re more versatile so I use them more often.” PCs are vastly superior to smartphones that lack keyboards which makes all coding exercises extremely annoying and you weren’t able to make phone calls anyway so what would having one even be good for—what is wrong with me?

“Your gaming rig has to be insane…”

What is it? “Gaming rig?” This warmth that does not hurt?

“Y’know, the set up for your computer to play that VR game,” Lien says. “The one you were telling me about yesterday.”

“Oh.” That’s it, isn’t it? When Mom would come to visit, with a delivery of books or a newer monitor, and she would sit in a folding chair five feet away across the bed and read from her thesis, taking questions at the end of every section, your favorite day of the week, then the month, then the year, then the years, she was always so busy, but I can go see her now this sensation is like that one! “No, that wasn’t…” Except swollen. 

No. “It wasn’t?” Not swollen. 

Like eating taiyaki seated around the round table in the yellow tinged kitchen with Chieda-sensei and Atsushi-kun, this is what it means to be full. 

“That wasn’t important,” I say.

“You sure?” Lien asks.

“Yes.”

Three seconds pass without change, and then Lien shrugs. You trap the sigh of relief within your remaining lung.

Why couldn’t this feeling be shared with Mom?

The concrete chamber beneath the Horadori Institute—beneath the simulated earth, a Platonic cave built of concrete and industrial piping as the embodiment of artificial stasis since its completion 24 years ago—is still. No, “lifeless” is the appropriate verbiage, as the room has been cleared of the clothes heap, the PCs have been dragged into other parts of the lab and reset, and every scribbled sheet of paper has been torn from the walls and incinerated, because the one who should be here, dutifully returned to his only home to plot and kill and die, has torn the seams of this facsimile of reality and slipped beyond its grasp. Its sight. Where is he? Naixatloz’s symbol still pinned against the wall—a pedestal of truth—offers no answers. It will not be there for much longer. Footsteps echo at deafening volumes onto the desk. RIP! Off the wall and down the middle just as that boy will be, once he returns to his place. 

Something thuds. A journal fell from the desk; he must have left it behind. How foolish. When the bugs are patched out, this will be essential, so it will be kept safe from being turned to ash at the office until the time is right. He will carve the path to salvation. It is inevitable.

The door to the concrete chamber closes, and the phone rings once more. Surprising. How long has it been…?

It rings and rings and rings; no reason to find out. 

The children dashing about the sandy playground or bobbing up and down on the see-saws or pushing each other higher higher higher on the swings must not feel the relentless chill carried by the breeze, and Kizuna wishes she could turn back the tower’s clock to her youth so she could join them without shivering with every step she takes, but she can’t. Instead, she watches them through the window of Father’s office from the desk and reminisces. When she was very little, she thinks sometimes Mother would drop her off to play with the children, and before she could leave all the kids would run up to them and tug at her sundress and ask if she would read to them. She always said yes, no matter how late it made her. What stories did she tell? I no longer remember… Childhood is so fleeting, and so…fragmented.

Out of habit, Kizuna pulls out her old journal still habitually kept in her purse and idly flips through its pages. She’s had this book for many many years now, since her mother passed, although…she doesn’t typically read those early entries. They are…unbecoming. Her fingers pause on a random entry. 

June 1st , 2010

Near the great forest lived a little girl, Gretel. Since her mother died, her father spends all his time away, working and working and working, leaving Gretel all alone. When her father would return from his long days with his woodcutters, he’d feed Gretel lots of sweets and tuck her to bed and read her stories like her mother used to, but Gretel hardly felt a thing. It was not the same.

One day, after her father came home, he sat down at Gretel’s bedside and said, “Gretel, there is a girl in town in need of a home. Would you like to come with me and meet your future step-sister Hansel Hannah, tomorrow?”

Gretel said, “Maybe another time. I have a lot of schoolwork,” but it was a lie. Gretel did not have any work at all, just a hole inside her heart her father fills with candied promises.

Kizuna closes the journal and puts it away. What an unfortunate entry to read, but aren’t most of them? She hardly ever writes in here except for when she wants to cry; what did she expect? Perhaps it’s better not to remember her youth after all.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock-knock-knock-knock, knock-knock! “Kizuna-chiii!!! I come bearing gifts!!” Iris-san throws the door open and sings Half to Whole to herself; as she twirls into the room, a massive bag spins in her hands. 

Those must be the crepes. She is earlier than I anticipated. “Do you not have work?”

“I did, but I had to cancel my shift, because I was asked to appear on this quiz show since the duo originally scheduled had to cancel last second and wait ACTUALLY!” Iris-san’s eyes twinkle from the mischievous spell she intends to cast as she presents the bag of crepes with a twirl. “Come onto the show with me!”

Kizuna contains a sigh as she takes the bag from Iris-san’s outstretched hand. “I am not signed up with Lemniscate. I cannot assist with promoting them.”

“Well, you should be,” Iris-san says. “You’re already a massive hit!”

And whose fault is that? “I do not wish to be famous, Iris-san.”

“Yeah, I know…” Iris-san says. She slumps into the chair opposite the desk, glint gone from her gaze now turned to the wooden bureau; this is not the well-practiced puppy dog face she uses to have her way. “I have coworkers I could ask, but I don’t really…”

“Is something the matter?” Kizuna doesn’t recall hearing that Iris-san had a bad relationship with her fellow idols…

“Promise you won't judge?”

“Dance club alum’s honor.”

“I just feel like something bad is going to happen, and last time…” She trails off. Iris-san has always been a fan of the occult, but it does not often frighten her…. “I’d feel better going with someone I know, but Mizuki-chan has plans with Uncle, and I don’t want to take those from her. I asked Mame-chan too, because she's been on streams with me a bunch, but her dad is the host, so there’s a conflict of interest…”

That leaves only Kizuna. It would be simple to say “No, I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself today” and it would be as true as it was when Iris-san first asked, and yet… “What time is it and where does it take place?” I am not so heartless as to reject a friend in need of comfort. Besides, what waits for her at home other than a house filled with trinkets and shards of memories she does not want?

“Thank you…!” Iris-san flies around the desk and squeezes Kizuna, nearly crushing the bag of crepes seated in her lap.

“Careful!!” Kizuna scolds half-heartedly as she hugs Iris-san back just as tight; they stay like that for minutes that pass far too quickly, until—

“Let’s eat!!” Iris-san chomps the chocolate and banana crepe she bought for herself and beams, without regard for the whipped cream on her nose. Kizuna joins her, although her bites are smaller and neater. “So did you check To-Witter?”

“Yes.” It was…a lot, to put it mildly. 

“Isn’t this great?” Iris-san says. “Makes me want to run outside and climb up to the tippy-top of that tree!”

Kizuna giggles; Iris-san is far more excited about this than she is. “You have always said it would be a hit.”

“And I was right!”

“Indeed you were!” Kizuna had never had that kind of faith, but then again, she had not planned for it to go public. Half to Whole was a silly exercise in lyric writing she took to while listening to Iris-san talk about Furue Jin’s To-Witter that composed itself the longer she spent on it. “I was surprised to see Furue-san commented on it, but you must be thrilled.”

“It’s so cool though, right? It’d be better if he liked the video I posted, but that was never going to happen.”

Really? “Why not?”

“Right, you don’t even hate-follow him like Mame-chan. Okay, hold on!” Iris-san hastily drops her crepe onto one of the paper plates grabbed from Aioen’s communal kitchen and unlocks her phone. Soon, she thrusts Furue Jin’s To-Witter profile before Kizuna’s eyes. “See?”

No…? What is Kizuna meant to be looking for, exactly? That is an…interesting banner image, she thinks, trying to identify every article in his eclectic collage: an unfamiliar pamphlet with a criss-cross emblem, a Blu-Ray release of Blade Works VR, three different textbooks (biology, coding, and family law), a torn sheet of notebook paper, a butterfly, his profile picture ripped in half and on opposite sides of the hardwood, a newspaper clipping she cannot make out on a phone screen, “Have you seen this man?”—

“You’re super sidetracked right now, look at his likes!”  

Is that really Kizuna’s fault? There’s too much to look at! But okay, his likes…. Unlike that crammed, chaotic collage, it takes no effort to notice what Iris-san’s referring to. “Not one?” 

“Nope! I’ve checked web-archives too for even like a misclick, something, anything, and he has never liked anything in his entire life. Not even before he was famous, or articles about him, or official Music Food To-Weets.”

“He is not following anyone either...” Not that Kizuna is a businesswoman, but don’t most executives follow their own products' official accounts at minimum? Suddenly it makes far more sense that Iris-san would fixate on a random CEO. “How bizarre.”

“Tell me about it!” Iris-san takes her phone back. “Some days, I’m not convinced he’s a real person.”

“Well, you do think he’s running an ARG…”

“Hey, you just saw that banner image! What else could it be?” Point taken. “Like, Music Food is real, my stuff’s on there, but he’s such a cryptid of a guy! Really makes you think!” 

As Iris-san chatters away about a location change between bites of banana, Kizuna hums a giggle. Maybe this wasn’t true when she was little, but sometimes…sugar is exactly the thing to fill the hole in her heart. 

The melancholic strumming of an acoustic guitar jolts Jin out of his dreary daze. Apparently, today does have a phone call in store for him. In lieu of a greeting, Sagane-san says, still somewhat hoarse from the flu, “Great, you picked up.” 

As if you would ignore him. “Has something…happened?” So many ways things could go wrong—

“Relax. Except for this lingering flu, I’m fine.” 

“Is there something I can do for you…?”

Sagane-san hums, indecipherable. “I know I’ve said it before, but your interview game sucks. You ask terrible questions.”

“It is a good thing I am not a journalist then.” Why is he calling, anyway? “You, however, are.” Isn’t he busy? “You do remember you have an exposé to publish at the end of the month, right?”

Sagane-san murmurs something, and Jin catches the notes before he understands the words: “That answers my question.”

“Question…?” About what?

A melody of bubbly gasps interspersed with the intermittent snort that could just as easily be lingering congestion as it is…nervousness? Relief? Are you…missing something? Sagane-san asks fine-tuned questions, but he never answers any of Jin’s with lyrics he understands, so he waits. 

Until that airy laughter peters out, Jin listens, the phone held close to his ear.

As his snickers fade out, Sagane-san says, “Don’t worry.” Impossible. “I figured it out.” You never will. “The 28th, right?”

“Yes, and I imagine you’ll be quite busy once it’s out.” Likely sooner, although Jin can’t know for sure. When it comes to Sagane-san, the only thing he’s certain of is—“Your time is better spent elsewhere.”

“Busy, huh…?” The song has stopped. “You’re not wrong.” All songs do. “I started another project I should get back to.” 

That’s good. He has something else to pursue after Jin releases him in eighteen days; No reason for Sagane-san’s life to fall apart along with yours. That’s good. 

Seconds pass accompanied by breaths of dead air. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Four. 

Five. 

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

“Please do.”

“If you need anything, you know how to reach me.” Click.

Jin skims a spreadsheet he lacks the motivation to read with his phone pressed tight to his left ear, as if pressure will record that lilting riddle, like pain will replay music sung in a language he does not speak. 

The wind does not whistle through the trees of Yoyagi Park so much as intermittently chirp after bouts of solemn meditation. Not that it makes it any less cold outside, but there’s nowhere else Kuruto would rather be to clear his head. Since he arrived here a half hour ago, he’s seen approximately zero people throughout the entire park grounds. Whatever meditative loners there may be must be spread out far and wide, never to meet one another, which is fine. He can settle his racing thoughts far easier alo—Music?

Ringing from behind the stone monument, a lush soprano wordlessly sings a tune he doesn’t recognize. Someone else is here? Since when? Original objective forgotten, Kuruto draws towards the voice; he finds a teenager clad only in white and red, down to the myriad shades of red streaked through rose gold hair. They either have not noticed him, or they do not care, meandering around the monument like a child navigating a mirror maze. 

“You are not supposed to touch that,” Tama says. Eh, it’ll be fine. Probably. 

The music cuts out. “Need something?”

“Oh, sorry!” Kuruto says. Maybe thoughtlessly trailing behind them was a little creepy. “I was just surprised to see someone else.”

“Why?” They do not stop their circular journey. “It’s a public park.”

“Well, it’s cold.” 

“You’re here.” 

“Kid’s got a point.”

“I think they’re at least in high school…” The Park Singer returns to singing that unrecognizable melody to themselves. Kuruto’s never heard it before, he’s sure of that, yet somehow… “It reminds me of the lullabies my Mom used to sing to Yukuto and I when we couldn’t sleep.” How nostalgic. “What song is that?”

“Untitled.”

“It must be an original composition; I can’t find it anywhere either.”

“It doesn’t have a name?”

“It's a work in progress.” The Park Singer finally stops making Kuruto dizzy secondhand and faces him. “I haven’t finished the lyrics, so the title has to wait.” Only then does he notice the symbol on the front of their sweater, a contortion of yin and yang divided in a perfect diagonal line and starting to separate from itself; what’s with the…handles? No, not handles, buttons. Like those on a wristwatch that’s already broken, shattered glass watch face on the asphalt. “Can you write lyrics?”

“Huh?’ Kuruto pulls his gaze up from the unpleasant mark.

The Park Singer repeats the question—“Do you know how to write lyrics?”—missing the source of his confusion entirely.

“I don’t, sorry.”

“You’d have better luck asking a writer and not a total stranger…”

Kuruto agrees. 

“Then what’s the point of our meeting?” 

What kind of question is that? “Does it…need to serve one…?”

“Yes.” A gust of cold air; the Park Singer’s wheat-field eyes glow without warmth. “All who behold the Almighty are imbued with providential purpose.”

The question stumbles past his lips: “The…Almighty…?”

“He who forsook his divinity to walk this fabricated world and aid the Chosen,” they say. “The one who carries the sign.” 

“Ryuki, their clothes! They have the mark!”

Against his better judgment, Kuruto glances at the ghastly red splotch built into their cloak. Though extravagantly distorted, the Park Singer wears… “Is it…that symbol…?”

“Yes!” For the first time in this exchange, a grin fractures the Park Singer’s face. “The Mark of % is a holy sign of the creator.”

Kuruto shudders.

Now where is he—there! Tap-tap. 

“AAAHHHH!!!!” Lien jumps, a burst of detergent spritzing the air—his scream is somehow not as loud as the indiscernible shouting coming from the room down the hall—then turns around. “Mizuki? Why are you here?”

“Bullied the big boss into signing off on a warrant,” Mizuki says. 

“To put it charitably,” Aiba quips.

“Hush!” Mizuki says. Security already gave her a hard time; she doesn’t need this! “You still have what I gave you earlier, right?” Lien nods, shifting his head to the side, showing her the piercing-disguised earpiece. “Good. Keep that on while I look around, and if anything happens, I’ll know,” she says. “Like old times, right?”

Whatever Lien just said is suffocated by the increasing clamor in the other room; they both wince. Isn’t that the boardroom? That shareholder meeting must be a mess… When it dies down a little, he says, “It’s going to be like that for hours, isn’t it…?”

“Why’s it so loud…?” 

“Apparently the one yesterday was such a trainwreck they had to reschedule, so now…”

Yikes. Horadori is definitely busy with that then, because he’s the director, so questioning him will have to wait ‘for hours.’ Boo! “Tell me when they get out. Now which of these doors leads to the garage?”

It was frustrating to navigate Tokyo alone, when you haven’t done it in 23 years, eight months, and 20 days, and this map is so worn-out it’s hard to make out the fine print even with Mom’s perfect script detailing the directions, and despite how cold it is even with the brand new non-holey sweater the sun’s glare reflects off every pane of glass and burns without covering your eyes with mom’s important book that you almost threw into the sewer drain because of the looks people kept giving you in spite of or perhaps because of Ishiyagane’s mask, but I made it! I’m home! Babbling water pours from atop the wall and rushes beneath the black walkway to the windows; it glistens in the light of the late afternoon sun. How tranquil. It suits her, as does the marbled desk in front of Naixatloz’ stately logo, but…where is she? Is she busy? Or…is it because I’m late….? 

“Stupid!” I kick the desk. Your toes ache and you deserve it. This is your fault! You let Lien and his cohort of inquisitors distract me from my mission! My duty!! You failed to be on time and now who knows when she’ll return? Will she return? Will she…? She must be so disappointed… That’s why she’s not here.

Is that why she stopped coming to visit…?

Another kick! “Idiot!!” Your shin screams and you deserve it. You’ve let Lien’s stupid glitching code infect me by hanging around for too long because you’re a moron and a failure who’s late!! You betrayed Mom when she believed in me!! That’s why she’s disappointed and is making you wait!! Forever!! As punishment!! You deserve it! How could you do that to her…? You have to atone. By any means necessary. Whatever Mom asks.

A voice that belongs to someone else, yet doesn’t, asks, Even if it means getting rid of Lien?

She won’t ask for that. Mom is fair. She’s kind. 

I slump against the side of the desk.

The voice that wears two faces as one for two asks, Are you sure?

“Traitor…” 

Whoosh. The door opens. Mom? I jump to my feet. Mom!!

But it’s not her. Just one of Mom’s pupils. The boy with headphones blinks, squints a little, then with a shrug he takes a seat against a nearby wall and puts his headphones on. 

As the gurgling water flows by our feet, we wait together alone.

“Do you have the money for this….?” Amame asks for like the thirtieth time this year while Dad reads Sunfish Pocket’s overpriced menu desperately searching for a menu item that won’t break the bank and failing to hide that fact. “We can meet somewhere else…” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine!!” Dad says, then orders a glass of water and a sweet-potato roll.

“Brahman would be better.” Gen-chan doesn’t charge for water.

“You’re here more often though, right?” Only because it’s easier to wrangle high tips out of customers in a stupid fish outfit to help pay the bills. If she could, she’d work with Gen-chan full time. “And I don’t remember what days you work there…”

Liar. “I’m sending you my schedule.” Sunfish Pocket’s exorbitant tipping standards are why he comes here; he tips her the money she sent to him, and then she has to give it to Shouma so he can sneak it into Dad’s wallet a handful of bills at a time until Dad suspects he has too much cash and blows it all to her again. Rinse. Repeat. “Don’t lose it.”

“I’ll do my best!” Dad calls after her as she leaves to put in his order. When she returns five minutes later, he’s drumming the table with the cheap disposable chopsticks in an erratic rhythm. He has no musical talent, but that’s never why he does this. “Maybe I shouldn’t go…”

“Go where?”

“Oh!” Dad drops the chopsticks. When he rebounds, he says, “God of jumpfrights, spooky scary…!”

“Close, but it’s jump-scares,” Amame says, but Dad’s endearing quirks won’t distract her for long! “Worried about tonight’s show?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Iris-chan’s been antsy about it too.” She’s not alone, either. 

“Hahaha! Guess idols also get stage fright!”

“It’s not that.” As the hours tick down, Amame finds it hard to stand still. “She’s worried something terrible will happen.” Her bones buzz with calls that must be answered correctly, because if they’re not… 

“I see…” he says, quietly. 

She and Dad are the same. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yes, honey?”

“When the show ends, stop by Brahman, okay?” Please. “I’ll be working late.”

Dad guffaws his jitters. “I’m sure you’ll be sick of me by the time it’s over!”

“As if.” Amame could never. “Besides, if something bad happens, Gen-chan can fix you right up!” No alcohol. No next-day calls. Nothing to hide.

“Then I’ll be there no matter what,” Dad says, then he jumps out of his chair and poses: “God of promises, no take backs!” 

Amame laughs her nerves away. 

Brahman’s bell chimes a series of G notes, and on instinct, still focused on the pan he scrubs as gently as possible with the third sponge this month, Gen says, “Sorry, we’re not open for dinner yet.” Did he not lock the door?

“I know, I know,” a mellow tenor says, or maybe chuckles, sheepish. Standing in the doorway is a spry man in his fifties wearing a cashmere sweater the same shade of blue-grey as this pan. “I’m only here to ask if you’ve seen Kanon today. Also,” he raises a rectangular cardboard box in the air, “noticed you have a package, so I brought it in.”

“Ah, Uncle Yasunori, thank you. You can place it on the bar,” Gen greets with a nod towards the counter. It still feels incorrect to call him that… “No, I haven’t seen her.”

“What am I going to do with them…?”

“Isn’t Kanon old enough to attend university?” Not that they are attending , but that’s a different matter. “They’re hardly a child.” 

“Spoken like a true 20-something. You’re only a handful of years older than her.” Uncle Yasunori says. Difficult to believe most days. After leaving the box off to the side of the bar, he wipes his fogged-up glasses with the ends of his gimlet green scarf and sighs, “Now is a bad time for them to run off like that…”

He and Komeji-san have a surprising amount in common, though…for different reasons. “Trouble?”

A laugh like convenience store beef jerky: dry, tough, and bland. “Indeed.” Uncle Yasunori bows his head, short black olive bangs blocking his face, then slides his glasses back up his nose. “I am sorry to saddle you with this.”

“No need. If I see them, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Gen-kun,” With one hand on the door, Uncle Yasunori pauses and says, “Make sure you look out for yourself too.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

Brahman’s bell chimes a series of G notes, and as Gen grinds the sudsy sponge against the pan he thinks about the man upstairs and eyes the box left on his counter.

The world is tinted in shades of blue and green. So as not to taint the Park Singer’s answers, Kuruto chooses his words carefully. “So this…‘Almighty’...do you know him?” He tries not to sound sarcastic; he fails. 

Sarcasm doesn’t seem to have fazed them one bit, that smile still splintered across their face. “Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“The Almighty is the Almighty.”

“His name?”

“Are you worthy of knowing it?”

“Yes…?” At least, Kuruto would like to.

“Is that so?” The Park Singer giggles, bubbles trapped in ice. 

“For real…?” Tama asks.

Whatever! New line of questioning, go! “What does he look like?”

“Top secret.”

“Okayyy…” Why is it so difficult for them to just confirm whether they’re talking about Furue Jin? “But have you seen him?”

“Not yet.” Not…yet…? “I will when the promised time comes.”

“Then why are you certain this ‘Almighty’ has a percent marking?”

“Because he’s the Almighty, so he must have it!” Their smile slices their face in two.

“What is happening?” Kuruto’s skull is equally split, pain ripping from temple to temple. That didn’t answer the question one bit. Was there any point in turning on thermo when nothing they have to say makes sense? Maybe he’s still dizzy from watching them run around the monument because his head is spinning trying to wrap his mind around this brand of circular logic. 

“This is a thoroughly brainwashed true believer,” Tama says. “I doubt their worldview will ever add up.”

The sun beams through the static trees directly onto the monument, yet in its shadow the Park Singer’s eyes gleam. “Are you sure you’ve been Chosen?” No, because I don’t know what that means! “For your sake, I hope that isn’t true. The unblessed are the most wretched of all fictitious folk, as they can never be saved.”

“I can think of one person more pitiable,” Tama says, and every word grows heavier in weight. “A teenager raving about a god they have not met but have been conned into believing.” 

A new voice, yet another Kuruto doesn’t recognize, calls from somewhere in the distance, “Kanon!”

“Tch.” The Park Singer’s painful grin collapses into an irritated frown, and Kanon grumbles, “Piss off already!” as they scamper through the trees out of sight.

When the door opens, the boy in headphones yanks them off and jumps to his feet to greet “Shigure-san!” She’s here!

The door rattles shut; the simulation must be acting up again. With classy, windswept lilac hair, Mom strides across the bridge and searches for the one who addressed her. Her face wrenches toward the boy. “Ah, Enda-kun.” Her voice is as crisp as her gaze. “I was not expecting to meet you in my office today.”

“I know.” The boy, Enda, fidgets with the headset in his hand. “I was hoping for another lesson today…” I can’t blame him, Mom is brilliant, but you’ve been waiting far longer! He can handle another hour! Or four! Or days, or months, or years, and years and years and years and—

“I will meet you in the cathedral once this appointment ends,” Mom tells him. Enda makes as if to nod vigorously, then corrects himself into a restrained jerk of the head. Once he’s gone, I take off the mask. Mom's head swivels your way; her expression recalibrates into one you do not recognize, with brows sloped into steep wrinkles and serrated teeth. “You finally arrived. Though it is not how we planned, I’m sure it can be…salvaged.” In her hands she carries your journal, and places it in a drawer under lock and key. “We have much to discuss.”

You do not flinch when your eyes meet because it’s Mom, wonderful, perfect Mom, in the flesh—in this simulated world, with you, like she promised, and now we’re going to break out of it together! It’s just what we planned! That time has finally come! Rejoice!

“Yes.”

No one smiles. 

When Jin next checks the clock in the bottom corner of his monitor (a frankly too common behavior) it reads 17:37, February 10th, 2020, a not particularly noteworthy time, or date, for the most part. Today is uneventful, like most days are meant to be to most anyone, and why should it be anything else? The detectives, his family, Sagane-san, and Uru dig for clues beneath the earth, or question witnesses hiding in plain sight, or spin words on blank pages, or lie to one another, or lie to themselves, but he doesn’t, and that’s okay.

A voice that belongs to someone else, yet doesn’t, says, You’re such a liar! That’s all you ever do!

How so?

His phone falls to his lap.

The voice that wears half a face for two says, You’re not full!

Jin rubs his eyes and wills away the ridiculous distortion he conjured in his mind. You must be out of sorts… This is how it is meant to be, and the real Uru would agree with him. Nothing can fill someone born of holes. 

No one calls.

Chapter Text

A package sits on the bar countertop at Brahman in Golden Yokocho. Taped to it instead of the usual waybill is an envelope with a return address penned in tidy script that Gen does not need to recognize to understand. Only one person would have delivered this by hand: Furue Jin. He takes a paring knife and cuts the envelope cleanly from the brown box. The letter reads:

For the upkeep of your houseguests, as well as a thank you. It is also for Lien Twining-san. I owe you both a debt that I can never truly repay, but I hope this suffices as a start.

As he makes to call the detectives, the paper falls from his hand and flips and flutters from the blowing kitchen vent until it lands on the counter backside face up. This note was scrawled in pencil, not pen, and although it is not signed, Gen identifies the hasty handwriting on sight. It reads:

It’s legitimate. Use discretion.

Gen returns his phone to his apron pocket along with the note and the envelope; the box is stashed under the counter. “Trouble” indeed. 

Mom descends into her minimalist chair with poise and dignity and drums her nails against her desk to the pendulum swing of a grandfather clock. “You must have met with the police.”

“Yes,” I say. Mom jots something down in angular script on a torn-up piece of notebook paper. You've prepared a lengthy explanation for your delay, one carefully curated recollection of how I escaped, but there’s no time to say it.

“The Advanced Brain Investigation Squad?”

How…? No. It’s Mom. She knows everything; she’s a genius. “…Yes.”  

Mom notes another sentence on the page. “They must have also spoken to Jin.”

“Most likely,” I say, but who cares? Who cares about Jin he’s an idiot he doesn’t know anything—

Mom’s question bisects the air and heart: “Have you?”

Why? Why Jin? Jin’s an idiot he doesn’t know anything he kept denying the rules of the world no matter how often she tries to teach him he’s always said Mom’s teachings are stupid because he’s stupid and a liar and a traitor he doesn’t respect Mom at all he doesn’t even like her he doesn’t deserve her he doesn’t deserve her he doesn’t deserve her—

Mom asks again, “Have you?”

A swallowed growl. “No.”

Mom's nails clack. “Yet he released you.”

“He didn’t.” Another. “He left.” 

Clack. Clack. Clack. “How unlike him to leave you behind.” 

A third. She’s too generous with Jin! He didn’t do anything! Lien did! A fourth. Jin abandoned you downstairs like he always does because he always leaves and apologizes and leaves while apologizing and leaves you with nothing but empty promises he always breaks and fails to keep and fails to stay—gone and fails to leave and leaves to fail everyone else he’s useless useless useless I hate him I hate him I hate him!!!! The fifth is not swallowed.

Mom writes one last line across the bottom of the page and rips it off. “My son is essential for the plan.” She slides it across the desk. An address. After she taps a handful of keys on her laptop, she rises from her seat, and Naix’s emblem splits in two, the halves crawling further and further and further apart and Mom smiles for Jin. “Bring him here once we’re finished.” 

I’ll kill him.

Inhale as Mom leads me into an elevator where there isn’t enough air for your sole remaining lung and it descends down down down down down down down beneath the lines of code that make up the earth’s surface and I follow her you follow her underground this time the second time still awake wide awake and it can’t surprise you it can’t hurt you this time Mom would never hurt you Mom would never she’d never she’d never it’s all all all Jin’s fault I’m going to kill him!

The elevator doors open once more to stone pillars and vaulted ceilings so high in the darkness they’re almost nonexistent. One shaking step. Two. Three. Naixatloz’ emblem looms over us. “Is this…the cathedral?”

“Yes,” Mom says. 

“it’s…” not suffocating. It’s not. It’s not. “It’s magnificent.” 

“Quite.” Seems that Enda kid has not arrived yet, a result of taking the long way to get here. “This is the eastern half, but what you require is set up on west.” 

“What I…require?”

Mom passes the altar and presses a handful of stones and splits the corner open as she did the wall upstairs. On the other side is a mirror image of where I stand. Your legs are not still quaking as you tread behind her heels not dragging against the cavern floor. Why would they? Closer inspection of the West Cathedral now that you’re swallowed whole by it, I discover this altar has been converted into a makeshift workbench, not unlike the one back in that bastard’s cage for you. “This is for you.”

“This is for the plan?”

“Indeed,” Mom says. 

“What should I…?” Is that a stupid question? I don’t think so. If breaking the structure of reality was as simple as creating a bomb to blow a hole open in the world, I could have done that ages ago, but…Mom gave this to me. It has to be useful, right?

“Whatever you wish.” Mom’s teeth glisten. “So long as it can tear every seam in two.”

“I understand.” Do you? Well, I have a few ideas.

“Do not forget about Jin,” Mom says as she leaves, and the passage is sealed shut behind her.

I’ll kill Jin. 

17:50. Showtime in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Although he’s already checked the rafters at least 20 times since he arrived on set an hour ago, Yoneharu finds himself doing it again. Like before, it’s nothing but steel beams and lighting rigs. No one is up there. Why would they be? 

17:51. Yoneharu glances at the rafters again. What’s gotten into him? Why would anyone be up there? They’d fall, and probably break something, and then the show would be delayed to rush them to the hospital, assuming they weren’t already dead.

17:52. The contestants’ eyes flicker towards the ceiling; at least Yoneharu is not alone, even though they all know nothing is up there, because they’ve all checked at least 22 times, and yet…someone is going to fall, aren’t they? Someone already long dead.

17:53. Wagai-san opens NILE on his phone after he too looks up at the beams again. Like Yoneharu, he’s been here since 5 pm, repeating that exact routine in-between adjusting the cameras and fixing the backdrop positions. No one is up there. No one has died. 

17:54. Everyone pries their eyes away from the rafters, at least physically. Emotionally, not so much. Yoneharu will be fine. Nothing will happen, and after the show ends at midnight, he’ll meet Amame at Brahman, and they’ll be happy, because he won’t have done anything stupid! 

17:55. At least, not anything stupider than what Yoneharu has already done, which he won’t do because he can’t because there’s nothing up there and he won’t be going to Misetan and he won’t be drunk, that was a bad, terrible idea, but—

17:56. Yoneharu still needs money. A lot of it. Enda Yoneharu needs a lot of money as soon as possible, because if he doesn’t get it then they’re going to take Shouma and ship him off somewhere Yoneharu will never be able to get him back! 

17:57. What if they take Shouma in the hours he’s not home? Should he even be doing this show? No, he has to, it pays and he needs the money, he needs it he needs it he needs it or else, but not knowing if Shouma is safe right now…

17:58. Is it even safe for him to meet with Amame? Maybe Yoneharu should call that off—no. He can’t do that. Earlier at Sunfish Pocket, she was bouncing one leg and clutching the tray in her hands. He needs to go, for her. But Shouma…

17:59. Yoneharu’s too-blocky fingers stumble over the keys of his flip phone, correcting typos as often as he types a character properly.

You: Meet with Amame for dinner
At Brahman

Sent.

18:00. Showtime!

“Tama, what time is it?”

“18:05. Dr. Houzen said she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

While Kuruto waits, he can pull the files for Furue Jin. It doesn’t take too long to find the ward clerk. “Furue…?” she asks, then takes a seat at one of the PCs in the central hub of the pediatrics ward and begins her search. Kuruto can’t see the screen from here, but Tama traces her every digital action. No results. She tries again, manually filtering the files alphabetically, but still nothing. 

“The files are corrupted,” Tama says. 

“Jin-san’s?”

“Presumably, but I can’t read any of these. Thousands of closed patient cases across all departments are scrambled beyond recognition and it would take several days at best to recover them.” 

“Back-ups?”

“Also corrupted. You’ll have to call in a specialist to handle this unless you want to live here for a stint.”

“Ryuki Kuruto-kun?” a chipper voice calls, high enough to be mistaken for a young woman were it not for the slight crackle of age. She’s…pink, from the faded undertones of her short straight hair to her near-red round-framed glasses to the punch that fills the negative space of her polka-dotted pants.

“Polka dots?” Tama asks. “In 2020?”

“Maybe the kids like it?” 

“They better not!”

“I’m Doctor Houzen.” The doctor offers a hand; Kuruto shakes it. “You’re here about Jin-kun, right?”

“Yes, I was just asking to see his files, although they appear to be corrupted,” Kuruto says. Tama turns thermo on, but is there any point? 

The ward clerk says what Kuruto already knows with an apology, and Dr. Houzen frowns. “Really?” Soon, they swap places at the PC, and she clicks a handful more times to the exact same result: nothing. “I’m sorry. Something is wrong with our system, and I’m not the most tech-savvy woman, so I don’t know how to fix it…”

“That’s alright. I’ll call someone to repair the data,” Kuruto says. 

“Thank you,” Dr. Houzen says, as cool as he’s come to expect. They leave the ward clerk for one of the empty private patient rooms. “I’m sure this makes things harder, but can I help you with anything else?”

“Yes, I was hoping you’d clarify something about his many transplants while he was here—specifically his donors.” He presents an image of Somezuki-san. “Who is this?”

Dr. Houzen leans forward, twiddling the pastel-pink chain around her neck between her fingers, then shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that. This man looks to be about 30—far too old to be any of the options I selected for Jin-kun, who had all died young around his age. I take it you thought this was the donor for his face?”

Kuruto nods. 

Dr. Houzen gives the same name and cause of death as Toshimune-san did, a name that can’t be true. “He was interned at St. Lucas’. I remember viewing his file and visiting the hospital to verify his viability before the transplant. Standard procedure.” Her temperature is cool, because of course it is! “He was only 17. A boy. The man in your photo can’t be him.”

Take a deep breath and count to five. “What about after?”

“Well…no. Once the tissue is provided, and the operation is finished, it is the responsibility of the donor’s care team to oversee their recovery, or in this case turn them over to their families.” Dr. Houzen says. “Even if it weren’t, I was far too busy here with all my patients, including Jin-kun.”

“Was he ever transferred over the course of his treatment?” Like to a genetics lab?

A headshake. “He never left my care.” She remains ice-cold.

“Ryuki, I have an idea. I just finished downloading an update: Wink Psyncs,” Tama says. “Want to test it?”

So he could look directly into a witness’ head…. “Absolutely.”

Dr. Houzen’s thoughts reside in a hospital room, one much larger than the one they’re in right now; Kuruto can’t see her, so this must be a memory. Humming a nostalgic tune while laid in the bed is a young man with bandages covering half his face and a flat grey one-eyed stare that Kuruto has only seen once before. With a face wholly his own, Jin-san stares at Dr. Houzen. At Kuruto. Six seconds have never passed slower.

“That looks like one of Central Hospital’s private suites, which supports the idea he was here…” Tama says. “But it’s not evidence or a lead.”

Why is the best lead Kuruto has gotten the entire investigation thus far been Mama’s new occult shtick at Marble? At least that got him to Toshimune-san, even if Toshimune-san also had nothing for him! “What’s wrong with this case?”

“Take another breath.”

Two more breaths, ten seconds each. It’s too soon for this. Another angle. Kuruto’s questioning only just began. “When did your involvement with his case start?”

“When he was first admitted, I had only just started my required three-year pediatrician training, so I wasn’t placed in charge of his case until 1998, after his first doctor retired.”

“Were you picked or assigned?”

“Both? I shadowed Jin-kun’s pediatric oncologist, so I was familiar with his case,” Dr. Houzen says. “I wasn’t the only one, of course, but his parents asked for me because in addition to a medical license, I have a PhD and specialize in genetics. Hemihyperplasia is a congenital condition.”

“Didn’t hurt she graduated from one of the top universities in this country. If she didn’t have some severe allegations against her, I’d be licking her boots.” Leave it to Tama to express admiration as thirst. 

“Do you also work as a laboratory researcher?”

“I do, though now I mainly support other researchers’ studies and don’t run them. I’ve only gotten busier over the years.”

“Have you ever worked with Horadori Chikara?”

“A handful of times, but I can’t say I enjoyed it.” Finally! A color change! Kuruto was starting to assume thermo-mode was broken—even if the trigger is just annoyance. “He loves to take charge, but most of his ideas are…”

“Questionable?”

“Oh, I was about to say childish,” Dr. Houzen says with a wry laugh. “He’s less mature than my patients, and he’s uninterested in anything realistic because it bores him. The Horadori Institute’s crowning achievement is PERGE, and his name is only on the paper because he named the lab after himself.”

“PERGE is a genome editing process invented last year. It has the potential to cure all sorts of congenital conditions, including half-body tumors.” 

“It’s a revolution in genomics and medicine as a whole, but he didn’t care until every news outlet was raving about it, and now he can’t wait to tell you about his genius invention,” Dr. Houzen continues, getting hotter with every word. “He’s been like that for decades. I stopped working with him a long time ago.”

“What an asshole!”

Kuruto didn’t think that up for debate, with the human experimentation allegations, and the child he appears to have trapped in the basement for 24 years, but what does he know? “Did your work as a doctor and a researcher at the Horadori Institute ever overlap, like a patient visiting the lab, or something similar?”

“Not often, but yes.” The warmth dissipates; Dr. Houzen tugs on her necklace again. Back to the same impossible testimony as before! “The Horadori Institute analyzes genetic samples for nearby hospitals, like this one, and there were times I assisted with that. That’s about it.”

Kuruto scowls. Thirty-six hours working a case with no leads, no evidence, not even a lie to show for himself! Damn it! Damn it damn it damn it all! Why isn’t there proof of anything?

“Ryuki…”

Yet another breath, fifteen seconds long. The hospital air tastes like blood. Kuruto’s tongue hurts. “I'm sure that felt like a tangent to what I called you here for, but I spoke to both Furue Toshimune and his son prior to meeting you, and they accused you of operating on the man in that picture.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dr. Houzen says, her voice clipped; her temperature is still the same. “I’ve been questioned about Jin-kun’s case before, although this is the first time I’ve ever been shown a photograph by an investigator, but as I’ve already said…”

Yes. Kuruto was there. And irritated. 

“Ask about the private investigators,” Tama says. 

Toshimune-san already told him they didn’t find anything, but sure! Why not? “Can you tell me more about those investigations?”

“They’d come in, ask me and the staff a hundred questions each, check all our files, follow our ambulances and Horadori Institute vans, and in most cases give up within the span of a few weeks,” Dr. Houzen says. “They never found anything.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“Oh, there were so many of them,” Dr. Houzen sighs. She sounds exhausted, the same as Kuruto feels. “After a while, they all start to blur together. I’m sorry. You’d be better off asking Furue-san. His family was the one paying for them, after all.”

“We can get the list some other time.”

Fine. It’s fine. It’s. Fine. Everything about this investigation is. Fine. And he’s. Fine. He’s fine. Ryuki Kuruto is…fine. There’s one potential in left, even if it’s the most tangential one. “Have you ever heard of the Order of %?”

Doctor Houzen stifles a laugh into her fist, her white lab coat sleeve slipping down her arm. “That’s a Jin-kun classic! As a kid, he watched too much Detective Doyle when his father wasn’t around, which always spooked him, and soon he’s warning me about an evil cult that wants to brainwash me!”

“Dr. Houzen was employed at Central Hospital at the time, and as a doctor she specializes in pediatric oncology and congenital issues, but as mentioned earlier, there are no records of Jin ever being hospitalized,” Tama said. “She's also a researcher who has worked with members of the Horadori Institute, so there is a connection there.”

“Why did she falsify the paperwork?”

“Much of this is tied up in…’religion’, so a relative brainwashed her,’” Furue-san’s temperature flickered just a hue hotter. “She’s a devout cultist who obeys the ‘High Priest’s’ every word.”

 “You’re not a member?”

“I’m a researcher. If it were simply philosophical rhetoric, that would be one thing, but when the hypothesis about the laws of the universe is ‘the world is a lie,’ it needs to be tested and peer-reviewed,” Still chuckling softly, Dr. Houzen walks over to the window and pulls back the curtains as far as they can go, revealing Tokyo’s glittering streets at night. She beckons him over; he obliges. “Tell me, Ryuki-kun, does this look fake to you?”

The texture layered on the floor, the walls, the ceiling high above your head is cool, clammy stone unlike the dry falling sand animation that loops at random intervals and is spaced every few meters throughout Mom’s magnificent cathedral. I’ve explored every inch of its beauty—banged against each stone brick that Mom hides behind—for minutes days seconds hours, and even if it’s virtual, and you’re not as well-versed in construction as I’d like to be, it’s without fault. It’s impossible to tear the seam Mom closed. That’s fine. Mom has entrusted you with a critical part of Naix’s mission so we can reach Moksha, and all you have to do is build…something—see? Mom’s even letting me decide!—and then kill Jin with it! She left you…with everything you need! That’s why you had to wait, right? Mom wouldn’t punish you because you’re her favorite son once Jin’s out of the way when you kill Jin and you will kill Jin you’ll kill him you’ll kill him you’ll kill him and Mom will understand! She will, because it's to reach Moksha, and Moksha can’t wait, unlike you who always waits for her—etics like Jin to finally finally finally finally finally finally finally finally finally get what's coming to him I’m going to kill him! I saw those machines his bastard father built! They cut people in half, like you, bisected perfectly at the molecular level—I can see it now! His corpse laid split and bleeding on the circular platform until today when you take the half he stole from you across town to a studio and prop it on the rafters so when rigor mortis transitions out he’ll fall and then explode because fuck him he corrupted that half of me I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him—

“I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done.”

Who…said that? You know who said it; he’s said it thousands of times because the developers programmed that stupid thieving NPC so badly that not only must his model be repaired with yours but he repeats the same 6 lines thousands and thousands and thousands of times in slightly different iterations he said it but when? When did he say this next to that bastard’s slicers? When did Jin let you out yesterday when he left he left he left he left you again again again like always how dare you corrupt what’s left of me get your glitch-ridden code out of my head I won’t forgive you I wont I wont never never never never never I’ll kill you!

He will die another way. Not one line of Jin’s dogshit broken programming can be allowed to remain, because he, more than anything else, proves that the world is a simulation.

The world is a simulation. The world is a simulation. The world is a simulation, meaning it’s fake, and so Dad’s text from an hour ago isn’t real and doesn’t matter, so why is Shouma still thinking about it? He didn’t even have to send it… He would have gone to Big Sis for dinner anyway since Dad’s doing that livestream, and he emptied out the leftovers for lunch. Weirdo. What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with Shouma? It’s a stupid text telling him the obvious it’s not worth thinking about so why—

“Something troubles you,” Shigure-san says, the crowd of fellow students she had been lecturing—all way older than he is—have cleared out of the cathedral. It’s just the two of them. 

The world is a simulation. The world is a simulation. The world is a simulation, and Shouma doesn’t want Shigure-san to see him fail to practice her teachings, because nothing bothers him. Because it shouldn’t. Dad is fine, and he'll be fine, and he’ll come home super late and sober and fall asleep under the kotatsu instead of taking his futon out of the closet because he’s lazy and Dad is stupid so who even cares what he does anyway? If something bad happens to him, Shouma won’t care at all, he won’t even cry, he’ll just stand there, unable to say anything, and Dad won’t say anything either, because Dad won’t be—

“In my youth, I was very much like you.” 

“You were?” Pay attention! You came here to learn from her, not think about a guy who still takes 10 minutes to type out three words on a flip phone older than Shouma is.

“Oh, but I was,” Shigure-san chuckles. “I fretted over trivial concerns—my studies, my home, my peers—and kept it to myself.”

…Maybe that does sound like him. Just maybe though! Shouma isn’t worried about his blockhead dad at all, Dad isn’t worth the energy, but sometimes he might be a little bothered by stuff. Only sometimes. “What did you do…?”

“Preoccupied myself with idle distractions: taking on extra chores, writing poetry, studying with a friend.”

“That can’t have worked though, right?” It goes against every one of her lessons! Back when he stumbled down into this Cathedral the very first time, the first lesson Shigure-san taught him was “Treating the simulation like its real blocks understanding it.”

“Correct. One can ignore their suffering in innumerable ways, but the tools to forget it are the same that cause heartache,” Shigure-san says. “You understand far more than I did at your age, but you have yet to master applying it.” 

Hiding the truth from her was naïve after all; she always spots Shouma’s missing screws, rusty joints, and badly wired circuits. Where does that leave him? “What should I do?” Teach me. If he could be as cool-headed as she is, everything would finally be good.

“Detachment takes time to master. It took me a great many years, but the best method to settle your mind at your disposal is meditation,” Shigure-san says. “Shall we practice together?”

“Yes.” By the end of their meditation sessions, Shouma always feels clear in ways he can’t at school with stupid Masuyuki or at home and stupider Dad with his stupid choices he won’t make. Shigure-san has a patient hand, the kind good for polishing Robota, and that’s the guidance he needs.

They sit on the floor, Shigure-san in full-lotus position and Shouma only half. Although he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have been earlier, he remembers a quote from a Tibetan Buddhist monk: "In a real sense, all the visions that we see in our lifetime are like a big dream...” Maybe he’ll center himself on that phrase today; after all, no matter how tangible the body in the bag left in the middle of Studio Dvaita looks, how the metallic stench within he can’t have smelled embeds itself in his nose, or how the looping regret he did not say—“You should just die already…”—echoes at deafening volume in his head, it’s just a bad dream, right?

When acoustic guitar strums from his phone speaker, Jin rouses from the half-asleep state the bland bestseller put him in and answers the incoming call mumbling, “You have called me by phone more times the past two days than you have the past two years.” Normally, Sagane-san prefers Concord.

Beat. “It’s not against contract.”

“The one whose renewal you’ve procrastinated signing…?” Jin yawns.

“Au contraire! I agreed in full,” Sagane-san says. “New terms and everything!”

What remained of Jin’s lingering drowsiness is flushed out of his body. “Updated terms?”

“Yeah, I know you don’t remember.” Is that what you were missing…? “You have a record of it, but I'll tell you what: if, after checking, you change your mind, I’ll renew the original. Promise.”

While it’s concerning Jin doesn’t remember updating the terms, it shouldn’t be an issue; Sagane-san hasn’t broken his word before. “What changed, exactly?”

“Made writing this exposé less challenging for me,” Sagane-san says. “Tonal freedom. That kind of thing.”

So it was trivial then. No wonder he doesn’t remember. “I’ll check my email later.”

“Ahaha, hold on!” What’s so funny now? “One more thing,” Sagane-san says, still cracking up; Jin can’t decide if it’s a lullaby or an alarm. “I added one last wager to the contract as a bonus.”

Ah. It was an alarm. “It’s the last …?” In eighteen days, their contract will end, terminating their working relationship; Sagane-san will not call—neither the family phone nor on Concord—again. 

“Yeah.” The word is soft yet lacks comfort. “Aren’t you sick of this, anyway?”

“It merely confounds me.” Jin can hardly hear himself over his buzzing pulse. “What do you hope to gain?” 

“It won’t once I win.” Sagane-san’s words sink like a weighted blanket, yet Jin is cold. “I hope.”

“And if you lose again…?” Pathetic.

The alarm blares. “This is my best play, so if I still eat shit…” Louder. “Cross that bridge if we end up there, but don’t count on it.” Louder. “I plan to win it all. Make or break, right?” Louder. 

In eighteen days, Jin will release him. You’ve kept him by your side for too long. “Alright. I’ll humor you, one last time.” That is the way it should be. What more could you possibly want? 

“Glad to hear it, ‘cause I’d be fucked six ways ‘til Sunday if you said no.” That would never happen. “You feel like cashing in your excessively long tab of victor’s demands yet?”

If Jin asked him…Could he forgive you? Should he? “I cannot think of anything to request.”

Sagane-san snorts. “Liar, but it’s fine. I’ll wait.”

The researchers not trapped in the deafening ongoing director's meeting with shareholders are full of shit.

“Director Horadori wanted to catch the culprit who broke in immediately so ordered everyone to follow.”

“Security pursued the suspect ‘cause they’re overconfident in their ability. No one asked them to.”

“The Director and his inner circle thought Lien might have stolen something too, and they went running.”

That is, when they bother to talk to Mizuki at all. 

“Can’t you see I’m busy? Come back later.”

“Aren’t you the detective? Figuring out who broke in is your job!”

“Wasn’t here yesterday. Can’t help you.”

Disregarding the facts—as Mizuki expected the researchers to contradict those—their stories don’t line up, but the couriers’? 

“When I clocked in yesterday, the vans were already gone.”

“I asked the boss why the garage is empty, and I was straight-up sent home.”

“Look, no matter what those assholes say, I know I saw Director Horadori yell at security when they pulled into the garage!”

As for what caused it, they think Lien was around for some kind of break-in, but that’s true of every low-level grunt.

“I think someone broke in and stole something? Not sure. Just know that solo-cleaning yesterday was a huge pain, ‘cause they made a huge mess…”

“Overheard the inner circle guys decide Lien stole something from downstairs, and I was like, ‘the underground is real?!’ They ignored me though.”

“They just want me to punch in fishy data for eight hours a day without question; they’re not going to tell me what was stolen.”

What they do know is useful, even if it’s bad news.

“They closed the main lab to everyone except the inner circle yesterday, until like 18:00?”

“Supposedly they were getting rid of junk they don’t need, but it wasn’t on the schedule. Where did all that stuff even come from…?”

“Kept seeing Director Horadori and his lackeys drag out trash from that weird door in the garage. I’ve never seen anyone open it until yesterday.”

Mizuki already checked the trash, but she should probably check in with Lien before making her way to that door. “Hey, where you at?” 

In the supply closet, Mizuki finds Lien sorting through the bottles on the disorganized shelves. Packs of disposable cleaning wipes are strewn all over the floor. “Is that puddle…bleach…?”

“Yes.”

Better watch my step. “They really did a number on this joint, huh?”

Lien groans, “Why’d they ransack the closet to trash shit…?” 

“Wipe prints, probably?” Mizuki says, though when put that way, it sounds like they’re trying to cover up a murder, and one of those hasn’t happened yet. Probably. Feels like it could have though, right? Like someone went into the basement and got sliced in half or something…? That’s kind of specific, isn’t it? Whatever. Not important. At least Horadori can’t destroy the whole building… “A break-in sure is a cheap excuse when they didn’t report it.”

“It’s definitely sus, but I don’t think the break-in is total bullshit.”

Oh? “I thought ‘Hat Guy’ told you he had the okay.”

“I got the vibe he came for Uru, and well…” Lien gestures at the war-torn shelves. “Stuff like this doesn’t happen if it was supposed to.”

“I’m inclined to agree, but with that in mind, it is still possible he breached past the permissions he may have had.”

“Yeah.” When it comes to Hat Guy, all Mizuki has is what Lien said, although she gets the feeling it was Furue, even if she couldn't tell you why. Will Ryuki ever upload the footage or is he just going to hoard it forever? “Hat Guy didn’t do anything or go anywhere else, right?”

“Not that I saw. Can’t speak for what he did before coming into the main lab, but once he got there, he went straight for that statue, and you know the rest.”

“Can you show me the statue?”

“Can’t,” Lien says. “They got rid of it. I already checked.”

The central lab was weirdly asymmetrical whenever Mizuki went in there, but they got rid of a whole statue and no one noticed? “Don’t you have to call someone when you’re disposing of stuff that big?”

“Yes, but I do not think they took it off premises. Most likely, it was hidden while they were cleaning.”

“Damn, they’re thorough.” Based on how Horadori and his goons were going in and out of it while clearing out evidence, it leads to the basement, but somehow Mizuki doubts she can get in without help. “You know anything about that door in the garage? They were using it for clean-up.”

“Not much. No one has ever opened it when I’m around, and everyone I talk to is in the same boat,” Lien says. “It’s like 90% of the reason people spread rumors about this place having a hidden underground level, which…”

Yeah, it definitely leads downstairs. “Show me?”

“Sure, but you’re going to be disappointed.”

Once again, Mizuki finds herself in the Horadori Institute’s garage, with its neon vomit yellow pillars and present-as-of-today vehicles. Lien leads her around a van she checked the license of earlier, past the gross pillars it’s parked between, to a hidden-away hallway. Following it right around the corner takes her to the door. “That’s a looooooot of locks.” Three to be exact, embedded in the metal.

“Yeah,” Lien agrees. “I could pick the first easy enough with some pins, but I don’t know the code for the second, and I sure as hell don’t have the right prints for that last one.” 

Guess Mizuki isn’t getting downstairs today without Horadori’s help—that or lifting his prints and sticking them on some gloves, but that still involves getting something he definitely touched with both hands and hoping she guesses right before the alarm goes off. “It really is disappointing.”

“There will be other opportunities later.”

Yeah, like hopefully now! “Let’s head back.” But Mizuki’s dreams are immediately crushed because—“That board meeting is still going on?!” How long can boring old dudes in suits argue about genes and money? It’s been like three hours! Just let me at that shitty old man already! 

“I did warn you…” Lien says.

She peers through the long rectangular window, but she can’t catch a glimpse of that balding tuft of blond over the horde of 20-something bros in T-Shirts and jeans.

“Not the make-up I expected,” Aiba remarks. “Young investors exist, but I did not anticipate they would occupy this much stock in the Horadori Institute.”

“Or that they’d be this underdressed.” Seriously, these guys look like they’d blend right in with the couriers she spoke to earlier. Minimum wage workers. Where the heck are they getting the money? Whatever! Beyond the point! “Horadori is still here, right?”

“Should be. I saw him return to that meeting after taking five before you showed up.”

“Server data indicates he is signed into a PC in his office.”

Now there’s an idea! “You got keys as part of your job, right?”

“Why…?” Lien asks.

“’Cause I want in his office, and he definitely leaves it locked.”

The bell rings as Kuruto walks in, and the rich, homey scent of curry rice wafts past his nose into the chilly nighttime air. I’m starving. During dinner rush hours, even towards the tail end on a Monday, Brahman should be swamped, the counter perpetually caked in crumbs Gen-san wipes down that are set to come back in seconds, but it seems that the usual crowds of people have already emptied out; only two people are still at the counter—a boy with headphones who looks to be elementary school aged, and a young woman in an apron (a waitress?)—watching something on a smartphone. The waitress (probably) jumps to her feet, and Kuruto asks, “I didn’t know you hired help, Gen-san.”

“Can’t blame him. I’d spend money for a cute girl in an apron too.”

“Really…?”

“Yes~! It’s the dream~!”

“Not what I meant…”

“Ah, Ryuki-san, we meet again today,” Gen-san says. “Yes, I did some time ago, but I don’t think you’ve met.”

“Nice to meet you.” The waitress bows and waves. “My name is Doi Amame, but most people call me Mame. I’m here when I’m not at my other gig. The little guy is my brother.”

Mame-chan elbows the boy who hasn’t looked up from the phone screen, once, twice, a third time, until he turns around. They seem close. Without making eye contact, the boy says, “…Enda Shouma.”

“Their parents got divorced and they were split up. It’s rare, but it’s not unheard of.”

“Ryuki Kuruto. I’m a detective with the MPD.” He returns the gesture. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Mame-chan gives a bright smile; Shouma-kun grunts and goes back to his phone. Kuruto takes his usual seat at the table by the window, and Gen-san—while loading two to-go boxes—asks, “Would you like the dinner special today, Ryuki-san? It’s curry rice.” The scent that’s making Kuruto drool? 

Tama says, “’Aww...I wish I got three free meals from Gen every day…’”

“You don’t need to eat....” Kuruto says. “Yes please!” 

“No, but you were thinking it.” 

Busted. Kuruto needed a meal break though. If he went back searching for evidence after another unsuccessful interrogation, well…he doubts he would do better. If anything, he’d just get in his own way. For just a bit, he needs to relax. 

A tinny voice from a cellphone speaker asks, “In Greek mythology, the deity of inevitability mothered the Moirai, AKA the fates; what is her name?”

“Finally, hardball!” Mame-chan says. “Too easy for me though. Ananke.” 

That was easy??? Is the average Japanese person supposed to know about obscure Greek goddesses? “….Yeah,” Shouma-kun says. 

At least he’s on the same page as Kuruto. “Trivia?” 

“Yep. Dad’s hosting, so…” Mame-chan trails off. Shifting her balance right-left-right-left-right, she asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be on in like two hours, give or take?”

Huh? “No, I’m not a quiz show contestant.” Probably. Though it does sound like something Boss would volunteer Kuruto for an hour before she’s set to be on air because her date ditched her…Doesn’t seem likely today; he has a case to work. “Why?”

“I could have sworn—" Mame-chan shakes her head. “Nah. Think a friend of mine is just rubbing off on me, but if you were on Faith to Face tonight, you’d know.”

Faith to Face…? 

“Funny. Boss is supposed to be on that at 21:00. Not you, though.”

But he might be if Boss texts in an hour about her date bailing, and right when he’s about to fall back asleep on the air at the contestant stand the literal lights go out in his stead and when they come back on, there laid flat on the colorful tile floor will be the corpse of Furue Jin—No. That’s impossible. 

“Ryuki?”

Impossible though it may be, the image is already coded into his thoughts. On the colorful tile tabletop it smells like metallic curry. 

“Ryuki-san?” Mame-chan asks.

One lifeless stone eye pierces through Kuruto. It’s only one because—

“Ah, this again…” Gen-san says. 

Only half of Yukuto is left.

“Ryuki!”

The studio crashes into darkness.

Mom left minutes, days, seconds, hours ago. How many hours was it? How long is an hour? Sixty minutes. How long is a minute? Sixty seconds. How long is a second? One thousand milliseconds. What is a millisecond? The same as a millennium a minute a decade a second a day an hour because time is an illusion of perception is an illusion of the mind is an illusion of the self, so what is the self? Is it the body that shudders in the stale underground air? No, the body is an animated object that experiences the world in the form of sensations, so is it sensation, the left lung expanding and contracting unsteady as hands in heat-resistant gloves raise silicon-carbide casing? Can’t be, that ties back to perception, which ties back to the mind, and since those elements are intrinsically tied, they are all equally false. Then is it consciousness? Only a fool would say yes. Consciousness is a state of being that holds no meaning alone; meaning is derived by the body and the senses and the mind that perceives, and with this the proper conclusion is that there is no self. You are not “you” but the aggregate sum of cells made of atom made of protons, neutrons and electrons made of quarks and leptons, the same as everything else and it is only through the interplay of everything that anything exists, or in other words, nothing has self, so nothing exists; “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.” “This world” is “a simulation.”

I’ll kill Jin.

But if nothing is “real,” then what is “experience?” “You” are not “you”, “the stone walls” are not “stone walls,” “thermite” is not “thermite,” none of “these things” exist, yet “they” are observed and interacted with. How can “that” be? Take “the bomb” laid “on the altar,” “the thermite” is “a 1:3 mixture of” “aluminum” and “iron-oxide” “powders” cased in “repurposed industrial silicon-carbide tubes,” “but those components” are not “a bomb,” yet “it” became “one” once “these quivering hands” built “it,” “but” was “that moment” “real?” Can “it” be proven “that” “this simulation” existed while “the bomb” was being constructed? “Of course” not. “Perhaps” “it” did, “or” “perhaps” “it” was created “now,” “in the present,” during “the precise millisecond” “you” take “yet another stuttering breath.” “Now” is “all there” is, and “now” isn’t “because” nothing “that” can be “observed” “now” is. “This world” “is” “a simulation.”

I’ll kill Jin.

“Having” “proven” “that” nothing “is,” “there” “is” “only one” “question” “remaining:” “does” “anything” “lie” “beyond” “this fictional world?” “Will” “you” “find” “anything but more” nothing? “Is” “it” “possible” “to be” “real?” “Isn’t” nothing “begotten from” nothing”?” “What” “is” “Moksha?” “Is” “there” “such a place?” “Ask” “a” “better” “question:”

I’ll kill Jin.

“Does” “it” “matter?”

I’LL KILL JIN!

“I’ll take care of him. Just trust me.”

I’ll kill Jin.

“You want to leave? Go ahead.”

“You don’t have to be suspicious of it. The door’s unlocked, look. See?”

“I’ll tell Mizuki you slipped out while Gen-chan was out shopping and I was in the shower so I didn’t hear. She’d buy it. I’m sure of it.”

I’ll kill Jin. 

“Because he's concerned about you.”

“We are utter strangers.”

“Perhaps, but that’s the kind of person he is, unable to abandon someone in trouble.”

I’ll kill Jin.

“I had help, but…you’re here, and that’s something.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’d do the same for me.”

“I’m an idiot. I’m Lien. Lien Twining.”

……………..

“Could” “you” “justify” “this” “to” Lien“?”

…………………………………..

Would he forgive “you?”

……………………………………………………….

 “The” “bomb” “will” not “be” “anymore.”

“It’s like a typhoon tore through this hellhole,” Mizuki says. Honestly Lien would buy it if they told him something exploded as soon as he left yesterday and that’s why the suits are yelling two rooms down. The boss’ office is always a disaster, especially because he won’t let Lien take all the old research papers and documents off the guest chairs next to his cheap plastic bureau—but it’s way worse today if the trophy cabinet is open and his framed grad school diploma and two of his awards are knocked over. What could he have wanted in there? I’m not fixing that. He probably should get back to work, but…helping them hide more shit isn’t on his chore list.

Mizuki plops into his discount fake-leather office chair, and Lien ambles around behind her, watching the monitor screen from over her head. Click, click, whoa. “How’d you do that?”

“He’s still signed in,” Mizuki says. “Apparently he only logs out when he leaves.”

“You’d think he’d try to protect his data better.” What with all the crime he gets up to.

“Well, some of these files are encrypted…” Mizuki presses what looks like a bunch of random keys, but probably aren’t. Hacking must be easy for her. “Damn. No dice.”

“Can’t break them?”

“No, they’re broken, but most of it is genetic research I don’t understand,” Mizuki says. “Like, what the heck is TC-PERGE?”

Wait, hasn’t Lien heard that before? “I think that’s some kind of brain virus? Makes you hallucinate and do a bunch of crazy stuff over and over.” The boss has always had weird rumors around him, but Lien never saw anything, and the orange lab guys don't talk to guys like him who didn’t go to college, and he really needed money, but…that’s a cheap excuse. Lien wanted to be clean so bad he ignored every rumor he heard behind locked doors. He’s covered in dirt. Blood.

“Why does that…?” Mizuki doesn’t finish that question and asks another one. “Couldn’t something like that…kill everyone?”

“Probably? I don’t think it’s finished yet.” Would take like 6 years, pretty sure. “Plus they’d have to launch it—"

“Launch…?” Mizuki asks, and though Lien can’t see it, he’s pretty sure she’s tugging on the strings of her hood. She must be bothered by what he said; he used a scary word, but…it felt true? Like, it’ll be loaded onto a missile to infect the whole world as part of Uru’s evil plan—

The hubbub from the board room rumbles away, Mizuki bolts from her chair shouting, “I’ll be back!” and the chair knocks loudly into the overstuffed file cabinet, but all that noise is scrubbed silent by a single word: Uru…?

The Boss’ office is covered in junk, papers falling onto the floor, awards knocked out of position, a chair rebounding from the wall, but Lien is too busy sorting through the chaos in his head. Uru? That doesn’t… Yes it does. Uru is a tech guy, he tried sneaking out last night, and that’s not even the only secret he’s keeping. But…why? That’s a stupid question. Lien saw Uru’s “home,” didn’t he? Right under his feet is a prison locked by a door with no knob and metal plates controlled by hidden switches that used to have a stack of ratty clothes like what Lien wore on the streets, but he hasn’t been on the streets for years, maybe decades ‘cause he couldn’t find the police station on his own—why wouldn’t he lose it? Lien stole for less; Lien worked here for less. But...will he…?

“He left. You didn’t. Don’t give him any credit.”

Step, step, step—Lien grabs the chair and rolls it from the window it drifted towards back to the desk. Nah. Who even is that? Recognizing someone isn’t the same as knowing them, and he never knew that day-mare stranger. That’s a different Uru. His Uru tears up all the time, says everything either as a demand or with the same energy as a rusty key being shoved into a long-abandoned lock, and attempts to comfort people the exact same way—he’s all over the place, but any mess can be cleaned up.

Where the hell is he? Doesn’t matter how short he is, or how crowded the halls of the institute are as the minimum-wage investors file out the main entrance, Mizuki would spot that greasy tuft of blond glued to his balding scalp from 100 meters away with no light, so Where the FUCK did he go? Home? She pushes her way through the horde, without apology even as people chide and yell behind her. How the hell did he get through these guys so fast? Did he just stand at the board room exit waiting for the meeting to end and then run? Why the hell are so many people here anyway? Can’t they hold these virtually now or something? “Do you have to attend every single meeting if you’re a shareholder?” Another shove.

“If you’d like to vote, yes, but I am surprised at the turnout,” Aiba says right as Mizuki slides into the main lab. “From what I could gather from the minutes of prior meetings, they do not normally have such strong attendance.”

So they’re all just here to get in my way! Not in the lab! Next! Mizuki was just in his office, so maybe the garage? The rubber soles of her combat boots slap against tiles and then concrete—“Move!”—and she slips between the pillars to the door, hoping to catch it open just a crack—nope! The slab of metal looks as it did when she saw it earlier, locked. He left! Hid away somewhere! Maybe even here! Damn it! Bang! The metal door thunders after Mizuki kicks it, but it’s not enough to knock it off its hinges. Can’t go downstairs, can’t grill Horadori, can’t check on Uru—another kick! What the hell can she do? She’s here until midnight! Bang! “What the hell is this made of?”

“Steel. Moreover, it is a pocket door. It is not on hinges.”

“Ugh!” Mizuki parks on the pavement with a thud. “I should have waited outside the boardroom exit…”

“That would not have been a productive use of your time.”

“Neither is this! I’m stuck here until tomorrow…”

“I’ve sent notice out to patrol officers to bring him in for questioning if they see him,” Aiba says. “The testimony from the staff is enough justification, and if he’s spotted, you can either station someone else here, or send Ryuki your questions he can ask in your stead.”

Mizuki groans, “I guess…” Isn’t much of an option left, is there? 

“I suggest you go back to Lien and finish searching his office. You had only just unlocked his files.”

“Yeah, I will. In a bit.” She has four hours until Lien’s shift ends. Won’t hurt to sulk alone for a while. 

Chronos spins the wheel of time 1/2419200^th the way round per second: one, two, three. 

To assist in wasting it, after giving up on that terrible novel, Jin reopens his trusty pinboard app which greets him with a familiar display of digital strings tying together typed index cards with scanned sloppy pencil doodles the same as it did this morning. Exactly the same, even. It hasn’t been edited at all. Odd. Not in character for Sagane-san—right, his email. Almost forgot. Click, filter by address—Yet stranger. Perhaps he didn’t send it today…? Nope. All of his emails from Sagane-san are already read, and the last email about their contract was a reminder Sagane-san replied to with a thumbs up emoji...a month ago.

You: Check to make sure the contract went through when you can. Thank you.

Chronos spins the wheel of time 1/2419200^th the way round per second: one, two, three, four, five. 

Sagane-san: 👍

He’s not going to, is he...? Typical. A sigh that becomes a yawn. Seems Jin will just nag him tomorrow if he must, but admittedly it’s not a high priority for him either, especially after that quick glance at the board. Things will only get more challenging by the day, won’t they…? Maybe he should rest for a bit, even if he doesn’t expect to sleep. 

Chronos spins the wheel of time 1/2419200^th the way round per second: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 

Without unfolding the immaculately tucked-in navy blue blankets or putting on his pajamas, Jin lies atop the bed and closes his eyes. Father would hate this, and despite himself, so does Jin, because it will muss up the bedding he made this morning for no justifiable reason and he’ll just have to look at it later and feel disgusted, because if the childhood and adolescence shuffling from the hospital to “Uncle’s” basement where Uru would mock him for straightening out the sheets didn’t rid him of this quirk, nothing will. Change of topic! Father hasn’t earned this amount of thought to begin with, after what he did to Jin. To Uru. 

Chronos spins the wheel of time 1/2419200^th the way round per second: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. 

Jin’s lung and Uru’s rise and fall at the same pace as one another set by the speed Chronos steers. In the pitch black abyss behind his eyelids, it slowly dawns on Jin, a truth he knows like the earth the sun, one that Uru has not seen from the shadowy walls of the cave Jin allowed him to dig deeper. Will he climb to the light?

Chronos spins the wheel of time 1/2419200^th the way round per second: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. 

Who will lead him out? 

“For” “days” “seconds” “minutes” “hours” “you” “have” “stared” “at” “the” “hallowed” “stone” “walls” “of” “this” empty “cathedral” “sitting” “surrounded” “by” “repackaged” “aluminum” “and” “iron-oxide” “powder” “that” “coats” “the” “hands” “that” “bashed” “the” “silicon-carbide” “casing” “at” “your” “feet” “with” “a” “hammer” “and” “disposed” “of” “the” “so” “there” “is” no “bomb” “anymore” “and” ““ignitor” “has” not “been” “for” “hours” “minutes” “seconds” “days” “it” “is” “just” “you” “alone” “—" 

“Clunk!” “Something” “clatters” “to” “the” “ground.” 「“Damn it!”」

“A” “voice?”

「“Should have waited until I was on the ground…”」 “an” “unknown” “man” “grumbles” “from” “the” “shadows” “on” “the” “western” “wall.” 

“Thud.” 

「“Whatever.”」

“Your” “legs” “carry” “you” “there” “automatically,” hijacked “by” the developers “where you” find “a man” clad “in grey” “from top to bottom” grabbing “whatever” “he” dropped “on the floor” “(a phone?)” while descending “the infinite ladder.” “You” don’t speak, “only” watch “in silence.” “Naix” “members” dress “like” “this?”

“The stranger” lifts “his head,” “and only” then do “you” see “the black helmet” covering “his face.” “He” does not speak “for one” “two” “three” “four” “five” seconds “and you” wonder “if it” is “your disgusting mangled face” until “he” says, 「“That outfit looks good on you.”」

It…does? You didn’t think about how it looked on you when you threw it on after Lien left with Mizuki-kun…All you cared about was that it looked warm and unlikely to irritate your skin from scratchy material, even if the white wool is a little speckled with rust after creating and dismantling thermite. Isn’t it just a cable-knit sweater and brown slacks? Suppose it can be washed, so long as you figure out how to do that; it's not what you envisioned wearing once you left that prison, and this looks like something Jin would wear, but Jin makes anything look terrible because he’s Jin and he’s the worst and should die even if you can’t kill him, and also maybe the Zero inspired look would cause trouble during grocery shopping. Don’t need that.

The Masked Man snorts, or maybe hacks, likely getting whatever horrible plague he has all over the inside of his motorcycle helmet. “Well, I’m sure you avoid mirrors—” he sounds like mucus—"so just take my word for it, okay buddy?”

“……Okay.” Like the Masked Man’s opinion on fashion is all that valuable, but sure. Fine. You’ll keep it in mind. Indefinitely. What else do you have to do while not-waiting?

“You should go home. It’s getting late,” he says, doing some odd gun-pointing gesture with his gloved hands, and heads towards the stairs to the altar where your workbench is in disarray with all the materials needed to make thermite bombs—

I scramble up three steps at a time, no matter how much your legs throb because you already walked for two hours just to find Mom which is more walking than you’ve done in 23 years eight months and 20 days, but to your surprise he zipped past the mess you left behind straight to the eastern wall. What is he waiting for…? You plod after him. Once you’re within three meters, you catch him muttering to himself, “No, not that…”

“You don’t remember how to open it?”

“Listen, I can’t read what I wrote about this anymore,” the Masked Man says. Held in his gloved hands is a beat-up persimmon journal with some kind of emblem engraved in the leather binding you can’t make out with his gloves in the way. Soon, he thrusts its pages in your face. “Any ideas?”

Etched in pencil is an atrocious diagram rendition of what I presume is this corner, and right above it is a numbered list of scribbled kanji. “Why didn’t you label the diagram?”

“Give me a break here, I’m getting over the flu…!”

“I can hear that.” Hm, that should be… After a bit more analysis, you approach the corner. “Move.”

“You really—” The Masked Man cuts himself off with an exhausted chuckle. “You’re something else.” As I press the stone bricks in what you presume is the right order—his handwriting is worse than yours is—he says, “I’m impressed.” 

The passage opens. “Don’t take such important notes while sick.” Idiot. How did this guy ever learn the true nature of this world…? Maybe Mom took pity on him. 

“Sure thing, bro.” Bro…? “Now, get a move on.”

“No, I'm not—” Besides, you can see Mom's not in there, so what’s the point?

The Masked Man sighs or…trills? Both? Lien probably knows whatever slang term they coined for that horse-like sigh… “What, you plan to sleep here while snuggling the shrapnel?”

“Obviously I won’t.” If it can be helped.

“Uh-huh.” You can’t see his face, but you imagine it’s not impressed. “Do you know what time it is right now?” 

Don’t answer that.

“It’s almost 21:00. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No—” Your traitorous stomach gurgles for all to hear. Damn it!

“That’s a yes, and you’re not scaling that ladder either, ‘cause it sucks ass,” the Masked Man says, and sidesteps around you. Another sniff. “Now, let’s go!”

Your growling stomach and throbbing legs win this argument that just happens to also include some helmet-wearing weirdo. Two sets of footsteps approach the elevator: thump, thump, thump. “Why are you here, anyway?”

The Masked Man pushes the call elevator button, and when the door opens, he answers with, “Thought I’d find someone.”

The hinges on the front door squeak in both A5 and C6 whenever it’s opened or closed, and tonight isn’t an exception to that, so why would Kanon bother attempting to slink the short distance down the hall to their room like she was home the whole time when they both know that’s a lie and Pops already heard them come in? It smells like udon. Her stomach burbles, but that’s why they’re here, isn’t it? They crawl under the pine green kotatsu and curl up as far under it as they can fit.

“Welcome home,” Pops says from somewhere by the stove a yard or so away. They didn’t look over there walking in and now her eyes are shut. Naptime. Two clinks against the wooden tabletop. “Save any space for me under there?”

“No,” Kanon says as they push themselves more upright. “Eat earlier.”

“I could,” Pops says as he scoots into position across from her, “but then I’d be lonely.”

“That’s what Big Bother is for.” Dumbass should just move out already, but he won’t, because pissing Kanon off is the only thing he’s good for, and the Creator should delete him out of existence once they remember making him. “Problem solved.” She cups the bowl in their hands, happy for the heat, and slurps the broth with whatever noodles end up in her mouth in the process.

“Chopsticks,” Pops says with a click of his own and a stern frown. Ugh, fine. “To your point however, I’d prefer to eat with you both.”

“Not happening.”

“True now, but I refuse to give up on this humble dream.” Pops’ mouth is a slur spanning three notes—A4 to F4 to C5, and with just this chord they can’t tell if the key is C major or A minor—smudged by a hair that fell out of his ponytail and attempted to sneak into his stomach with the noodles only to be spit back out.

“Probably should.” It’s a waste of time.

Pops swallows another neatly rolled bundle of noodles with another stern look. 

“What?” Another slurp out of the bowl. “It’s not my fault he—"

“Would you rather repeat this argument or enjoy dinner?” 

Kanon stabs the beef with their chopsticks; Pops takes his bowl in his hands. The dining area plays a rhythmless percussion track of plastic chopsticks clinking against the porcelain bowls knocking on the wooden table, and in between staccato sips of soup Kanon plays a melody against the table in (C major | A minor). 

Mustard yellow walls and a rainbow array of hanging lanterns scroll into sight with a blink; although his eyes were always open, Kuruto blinks like he’d just woken from a midday nap. Right, I went to Brahman for dinner… His stomach squeals as he asks, “What time is it…?”

Gen-san prepares a plate of curry rice from the pot warming on the stove, hands it off to Mame-chan, and answers, “Around 21:30.” Really? Mame-chan leaves the plate in front of him and retreats to her stool next to Shouma-kun, where both are still watching that quiz show like they were two hours ago. 

I feel like days have passed, but that’s always how these episodes go; centuries pass in minutes when sleeping wide awake. “Thanks for watching over me.” Kuruto bows and digs into his delayed dinner and lets the redolent blend of spices soothe his recovering nerves. Yep. Needed this. 

“Of course,” Gen-san says, and doesn’t say anything more. 

In the seat across from him, Tama manifests with her arms folded over the table and a worried frown. “What happened?” she asks. “I’d like to think I know your triggers by now, but…”

How does Kuruto explain…whatever that vision was? Actually, maybe he should check—”Did Boss try to reach out to me while I was out?”

“No, why?”

“And is Jin-san alive?”

“Well, since he’s a recluse the best way to confirm that is going to his apartment, but his phone’s GPS places him there, and he did To-Weet this morning.” 

Then…what was that memory? A dream? Was it a dream? What he remembered couldn’t have happened—he wasn’t approached by Boss for anything today, and Jin-san wasn’t murdered the day before—yet the thud in the dark rang in his ears, and when the set’s white lights came on, Iris-chan’s scream was the last thing he heard when the world went white like it did just now in Brahman. 

“Teleportation…. The body teleported here from a parallel world!”

Kuruto shakes his head. Ridiculous. Harder to swallow than a definitely-still-living Jin-san's tales, and not anywhere close to this curry. 

“Feel like explaining what that was about?” Tama asks.

“I wish I could, but…” He’s as at a loss about this as she is. “For some reason, hearing about that quiz show made me hallucinate the impossible.”

“One where Jr. died on that quiz show?”

“Something like that. It doesn’t really matter.” It’s not real. It can’t be real.

Tama scrutinizes him for a few seconds and then says, “If this happens again, I’m getting to the bottom of it better than your toy collection at home.”

Kuruto almost chokes on a piece of chicken in his attempt to swallow his exasperated snort along with it. “Okay.” 

Mame-chan and Shouma-kun continue watching that quiz show he can’t have remembered; as Kuruto eats, he listens to the near-mute broadcast and waits to hear that thump.

21:45. “Which Taoist Symbol, shaped like interlocking black and white commas—” Yoneharu’s words are squeezed out of his throat as he finishes the sentence—“represents the origin of all things?”

A sound cue is supposed to play, a tick-tick-tick-tick-ticking timer, but the girl in the sound station is too busy staring at the lights above the set. Their director, Wagai-san is doing the same, as are the contestants, although both Kizuna-chan and Amanoma-san are slower to raise their heads. Yoneharu follows their gazes for the last time today; the lights sear his retinas. No one, not Furue Jin nor anyone else, falls from the metal rafters. All the air in the studio is circulated at once as every person in the studio exhales air they did not know they had locked inside their lungs.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick—ding! “Yes, Team Idol! What’s your answer?”

“The taijitu,” Kizuna-chan says.

Iris-chan adds. “AKA, the yinyang!”

21:46. The bell rings. “Correct!” Yoneharu cheers, because no one was up there. Tonight, if for only this night, he’ll be alright.

In front of the taxi he must have ordered inside through some app with money you’ve never had, the Masked Man had asked you, “Need a ride?”

Of course, I asked him, “Why…?” but you were leaning against the glass panes of the building to support those quivering legs, and he noticed.

“‘Cause your legs look like they’re about to give out, and I realized I have one more thing to do while I’m here,” The Masked Man shrugged. “Can’t make you take it, but if you opt not to, make sure you tell the cabbie you don’t need one.” Then he waved and sauntered back into the building, and rejecting a free trip back when you no longer have the will to stand upright is foolish—who knows if the chance would have come later—so I took the opportunity to return to Ishiyagane’s restaurant.

From the window, three people besides Ishiyagane himself are in view; suppose I’m not the only one eating late. When he spots you lurking by the window, Ishiyagane dismisses himself from his customers, and you scurry around the corner and up the stairs directly onto the same stool you ate lunch on. The lights are left off. It is too late; it was always too late. 

When the front door opens, Ishiyagane too makes for his kitchen. He does not turn the lights on nor speak while he takes a to-go box he left here who-knows-when and dumps its contents—curry rice—onto a plate. Beep, beep, beep. The microwave whirs, counting down from 2:00, 1:59, 1:58, 1:57, 1:56, 1:55…. Ishiyagane leaves for his bedroom where you’ve resided; it will not take him long to find what he seeks, but seconds pass the same as centuries, marked only by the plate revolving in circles under the microwave’s yellow orange light. At 1:37 Ishiyagane reenters; at 1:29, he plops the smartphone you stashed under a pillow onto the marble. “It does not have to be me, but next time, tell someone when you intend to leave, or otherwise I’ll tell the detectives I can’t find you.” 

No response. The microwave counts down the years: 0:05, 0:04, 0:03, 0:02, 0:01…

Beep! Ishiyagane slides the reheated plate next to his evidence. “Be more considerate of the people responsible for you.” 

So okay—even though the cement is not nearly as comfortable as the bunk bed in her room, and also, she’s supposed to be keeping a look out for Lien’s safety—Mizuki might have started nodding off in the garage because she’s been awake since 6:00 this morning and now it’s after 22:00. You know. Maybe. Luckily, regardless of any naps she may or may not have taken, Aiba has been monitoring the comms equipment, and nothing happened. Back to work!

At this hour, the Horadori Institute is close to empty—only one or two researcher stragglers are in the main laboratory packing up for the day, and the only other employees present are security in their station and the two janitors (Lien included) on duty—so of course no one is in Horadori’s office now either. Works for her, now where was she? Right, the PC, still on and signed in like she left it. “Horadori must love wasting electricity.”

“He truly has no regard for cyber-security,” Aiba says, getting right back to decrypting those files from earlier. “Even this encryption is bare minimum. A five-year-old could come up with a more secure password. They’d even think to use more than one.”

“Wait, one password?” Just one? “What is it?”

“Almighty.”

“That’s cringe.” Sure, Mizuki knew the bastard had an oversized ego, but this level of God-complex is embarrassing. “What’s he hiding so terribly anyway?” Besides whatever that TC-Perge thing is that Uru might use to try to kill everyone on earth except she won’t let that happen because not one of her own can be allowed to go down that path no matter how tempting and easy it is? “Anything about Uru in there?”

“Potentially. I have brute forced the encryption on what appears to be a food shipment log, but all files on their servers are no older than 2011, and the metadata has not been edited.” That’s when the Horadori Institute reopened. Aggravating, but expected. “He has a proclivity for animal code names. Based off this log, Uru is ‘Pig.’” 

That piece of shit has been allowed to walk around free for too long. “See any human names?”

“No. Outside this log, there’s mention of a “Hamster,” and a myriad of other animals commonly used in testing, but no names.” 

Mizuki’s mouth tastes like acid, and every time she swallows it it comes right back up, because they both know there are no animals here; the test subjects are children like she was, but “Mouse” and “Rabbit” no longer exist even as records. Is that a good thing? No one will ever know what happened to them unless she shares it, and yet… Horadori will never be made to pay for what he did to her. “The evidence was destroyed…” The same as it is right now. 

“In the interest of preventing more of that, I have cloned the files to the cloud.” Aiba says. “It will be easier to sort through the data not confined to this location.”

“Cool, thanks.”

“That said, there has been odd activity on this network.”

“What do you mean?”

“On 2/9, a PC that has never accessed the Institute’s Wi-Fi or its servers connected to both for about three hours before disconnecting again. It did the same early this morning, before most other staff were here.” Before Mizuki could ask if it’s maybe one of Uru’s PCs being repurposed, Aiba continues, “The device’s name is Shelbird_001.”

Wait…hold on… “That’s what they used to call this place, isn’t it?” Something like the Shelbird Institute of Life Sciences? “One of their old PCs is still here?” And working?! That’s where the records are!! If she can just find it—No, if Mizuki was Horadori—“He’s hiding it downstairs, isn’t he?” 

“Most likely, yes.”

“Damn it!” Everything is the one place she can’t get to!! “Whatever. I’ll catch him tomorrow morning, when I meet with the morning shift.” In the meantime however—Mizuki flops on Horadori’s cheap office chair and closes her eyes—“I’m going back to bed.”

“Tama, can we go over everything we have?” Kuruto asks.

“Boo. Was hoping you’d ask to do something fun.” Tama—who while driving decided to also project herself lounging across the full length of the limo reading a porn magazine—rolls to her side and says, “Where do you want to start?”

“Dr. Houzen’s testimony. It’d be good to see how it fits in with the others.”

“You mean how it doesn’t…?” Yes, that, but if Kuruto phrases it like that he’s at risk of bursting a blood vessel, and he’s pretty sure Tama can’t fix that. “She's denied the charges from both Furues single-handedly, and right now her claims are as true as anyone else's with no evidence and perfect scans.”

“Yeah, I know.” She also denied the allegations of being a member of the Order of %, for whatever little that means. His encounter this afternoon did prove once and for all they’re real, but they aren’t documented, much like literally everything else Jin-san has claimed, but that’s why Kuruto is comparing claims now. “She did know Horadori, as did Toshimune-san.”

“Shame Mizuki lost him earlier.” Is it wrong Kuruto feels relieved they’re both having a hard time on this case? Tama continues, “We should talk to him once he turns up. Also, to be thorough, Shigure Tokiko.”

“Right, and I wanted to ask Toshimune-san about her and Jin’s parentage by extension.” And maybe also the Order of %, which is still somehow his best lead on account of being provably real. 

“It’d be good to get the list of private investigators from him too.”

Kuruto nods. What else is there..? Dr. Houzen might be the most out of step with the others thus far, but even her testimony aligns just enough; she knows and worked with Horadori, she has heard of the Order of %, and most importantly, “Everyone we’ve spoken to is in agreement about his illness, where he was at least supposed to be hospitalized, and who was responsible for his care while he stayed there. I think we can safely conclude that part is real,” even if nothing else is. Those records can’t be repaired fast enough! 

“That’s definitely the biggest point of agreement, but Dr. Houzen’s testimony picks a throbbing boner with the others.”

Really…? Either way, Kuruto knows what she’s talking about: “She didn’t recognize Uru.” 

“Right, and she should have if the Furues are telling the truth.” 

“Maybe we should change our approach.” 

“Go on.” 

“We’ve been taking it as a given that Uru is in fact Somezuki Uru, but what if he’s not?” 

“Mizuki also thinks that he is.”

“Yeah, that’s how she interpreted the psync she did earlier today, but he hasn’t actually said that, right?” The one thing they know about Uru is that he is determined to hide who he is at all costs, for some reason. “Mizuki-chan could still be right, but what happens if she’s wrong?” 

Tama rolls onto her arms and pushes herself up, eyes wide. “Then we found our liar.”

“Right.” Everyone he has spoken to agrees that Jin-san was sick, and what with, and where he was supposed to be. The records have yet to be found, but even when they were available, private investigators were not able to find anything. Dr. Houzen has denied the charges, the nurse directed him to her, Toshimune-san believes that Uru is Somezuki Uru because of what he was already primed to believe, but who told him that? Who told Kuruto that the man they found was Somezuki Uru before anyone had that idea? “I think we should pay Jin-san another visit.”

“Added to tomorrow’s—”

“No. Tonight.” Kuruto refuses to wait that long for a solid lead; I should have done this yesterday. “I’m psyncing with him tonight.”

If today were to be summarized in a single question, without a doubt that question would have to be Where is he? The western cathedral is silent save the footsteps echoing off the stone walls as the altar draws closer into view. It is clean, eerily so, as if Jin was brought down here, but that’s impossible, and yet Uru—even one who failed once again to follow through on his part of the plan—would never dispose of the unused casing and metal powders so thoroughly as though they had never existed, nor would he abandon his post waiting for further instruction despite how apprehensive he must be about the consequences of his failure because he did betray expectations as if he had not then an explosion at the edge of Minato ward would dominate tonight news, yet it doesn’t. The next time he returns he will be retrained. Thoroughly. 

However, his absence and the spotless state of the altar raise a much more critical question: Who disturbed the plan? It was not Jin. Had he shown his face before Uru, he would be remains seeping through the crevices in the floor and staining it, and thus the new plan could be salvaged, so it could not have been him, yet who then was it? An ally? In that case, it may be worth reporting this and letting the Order of % take care of this pest; after all, it is their business to know everything about Jin and his associates.

Left in place of the thermite bomb materials is a single torn sheet of notebook paper. It reads: 

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if after you read this you sabotaged your own plans even worse than I did? Think I’d die laughing. How would you prefer to lose, a drawn out battle or in one fell swoop?

Your move.

The page is torn to shreds.

Quietly, as if on pointe shoes, Kizuna glides through the garage door entrance into her home’s basement and down the hall where the door to Father’s office is open just a crack—creeeaaak. Oops, she accidentally landed on the floorboard wrong, yet Father does not leave his office to greet her as she assumed he would. Surely he’s home, as he called her back about Faith to Face tonight as soon as he left the meeting… Where is he…? No longer concerned with disturbing him, Kizuna taps on the office door, letting it slowly swing open into darkness. He must be upstairs; she should probably head up herself, yet…the dark office calls to her. Despite living here all her life, Kizuna has spent little time in this room. The few times she has been inside it’s because Dear Sister snuck in while playing hide and seek, counting on Kizuna’s reluctance to violate Father’s privacy to win, at least until Father told her she’s cheating. As for why she wouldn’t go in, Father’s office has never been restricted, but Father always kept the door closed as if to say “not for children,” and even now, neither Father nor daughter have changed their habits…except tonight, it seems. 

Flick. The lights come on. What did I expect? Father’s office is as cluttered as ever, perhaps more so than usual, because he doesn’t tend to forget to put his commonplace journal back in the drawer, never mind leave it open, but as Kizuna draws closer to do just that, she pauses. The edges of the leather binding peeking out from behind the pages are a deep navy blue. Father’s is green. One of the orphans’, maybe? Are any of the little ones’ birthdays coming up…? Kizuna doesn’t think so… Closer inspection answers her question, as one of the open pages is already covered in the big, blocky kana of a young child. Both pages have dried-up tear stains. Ah. This must be… 

Kizuna gingerly picks up the aging, long-unused journal, and flips it over. Engraved onto the cover is the silhouette of a boy sitting on a branch of a tree, shielding his eyes as he gazes at the clouds; the back cover reads “Somezuki Uru.” Is that incident what Dear Sister wished to speak with him about…? Father must have pulled it out after she left, and then…

Placing the journal back on the desk the same as she found it, Kizuna exits Father’s office and closes the door behind her. Some things are best left private.

This curry rice tastes like astronaut food except it doesn’t except it does except it has that comfy blend of spices that you remember from Aioen with extra kick and you can taste every single one except you can’t except you can except you shouldn’t because it was a mistake to come back here! Why did you leave Mom? What’s wrong with me? You’ve gone for more than a measly few hours without food, that bastard has forgotten to order more of that cheap rubbery beef jerky he always gets until you run out for days at a time, and you didn’t have to walk back because coming back at all was optional! Why didn’t you stay? I wanted to be with Mom, not here, so why am I here again? What the hell is wrong with you? Go back! Go back right now and apologize! You’ll even go back with stupid Jin in tow if it’ll make her happy—

“Will it?”

Shut up!!! No one asked you!!! No one ever asks you—

Except for Mom. Mom asked for him. Mom always asks for him. She’d be happier if she met him in her office instead, because it would mean he’d finally accepted her teachings.

But he wouldn’t know what to make!! He doesn’t even know how to build a bomb, or anything else for that matter! He’d need my help to do everything because he needs me to be anything, and that’s why he should die!!

“Aren’t you supposed to kill me?”

No. You’ll die another way, asshole, and it’ll be far more merciful than you could ever deserve I hate you I hate you I hate you, but I won’t be the one who does it—

“Why not?”

Because…because I just won’t! I’m not getting arrested for your sins, and I’m not letting you put me back in a prison cell just to punish you like you deserve when I’ve already spent too much of mine being responsible for your worthless life—

“Is that all?”

Yes. Yes! Why the hell wouldn’t it—

There is a phone next to the disgusting and delicious curry rice. It is already on. The only messages on it have already been read.

Sent, 18:09:

Lien: jsyk im not gonna be back til late. like after midnight
jsyk=just so u kno

Sent, 20:34:

Lien: u eat? gen-chan made curry rice. even packed some 4 me 2!
[gif of a child cheering]

Sent, 21:59:

Lien: hey u doin ok over there?

“Be more considerate of the people responsible for you.”

Beneath your thumbs is an unsent message.

“Is it?”

Sent, now, 23:25:

You: Sorry. I was busy earlier, but I did eat. 

Sent, 23:28:

Lien: s’all good. busy over here 2 lol
lol=laugh out loud

You: It’s...funny?

Lien: nah its ironic or like n exageration most of the time
or like. punctuation 4 when ur in a ok or better mood
which is me! wbu?
wbu=what about u

“Why can’t you kill me? I deserve it.”

You do!! You do you do you do!!!! But…

You: I’m alright. Thanks.

Lien shouldn’t have to worry about me.

At 00:01 there is a knock at Jin’s door. With a yawn, he peels himself off the disgraceful disheveled blankets that no one will see and Uru would also mock him for—because every time Uru went looking for another one-sided fight he picked the first thing he laid eyes on—and doesn’t fix it despite the way his hands lurch but trundles towards his door. “Good evening, Ryuki-san. The investigation troubles you?” This case would likely progress much faster if Ryuki-san listened the first time he came here, but…nothing to be done about that, is there? 

“No, you just gave up, asshole.”

Uru would say that no matter what; Ryuki-san is simply the first thing he saw tonight.

Ryuki-san blinks; he must have assumed you’d be sleeping by now. “Sorry to disturb you on such short notice, but I’d like if you came with me to the station.”

“You know he can wait until tomorrow, right?”

No, he can’t. This isn’t the same as Sagane-san’s contract; Uru is different from him.

Jin steps into his shoes. “Certainly.”

While Brahman’s lights are still on, and inside the restaurant two kids wait at the counter, it is not for a meal; Gen-chan closed the restaurant at 11 and retired upstairs, leaving Amame with the key to lock up once her family is finished. She told him he could stay if he wanted—it’s his restaurant—but he insisted on giving their family privacy. “It would not be right to intrude on your family's reunion.”

“Gen-chan is family though. Besides, this also affected you, didn’t it? Dad and I asked you to—” 

“I’m content to see that quiz show end as it always should have.”

Still doesn’t feel right, but when Gen-chan is this stubborn about something, even Amame can’t change his mind, so it’s just her and Shouma waiting for Dad to come back safe. Her phone reads 00:29. Any minute now. Nothing happened tonight, Furue Jin didn’t fall from the rafters, and Dad already called after the show ended saying he’d be on his way, so when he comes in any minute now his suitcase will have clothes in it and Dad will be smiling, so any minute now…! Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—

Brahman’s bell chimes in G. “Shouma!” Amame nudges her brother who jerks his head off the countertop and rubs his bleary eyes.

“I'm home!” Dad says, hovering by the entrance. “Well, I guess not home, but—oh I got one! I’m Back-man!”

“Welcome home…!!!”

Amame tackles Dad, who stumbles back against the table to catch his balance right as Shouma finally joins in one arm and then both. From the spotlight, from the bike-ride here, from nerves, from relief Dad’s nice suit that isn’t the one still in his suitcase is covered in his sweat and her snot and Shouma’s tears and her tears and Dad’s snot and Shouma's snot and Dad’s tears and none of them can do anything but blubber and bawl and cry because Dad is here. All three cling tighter, tighter, tighter; Dad won’t leave them for good. 

“You’re still up?” Lien whispers while collapsing face-first onto the couch without taking his clothes off. (It’s his turn tonight.) “Thought Brahman closed hours ago…”

“Correct,” Gen says. Slowly but surely, the orangey-brown curry stains are scrubbed off the table’s surface. He must not be used to cleaning after himself, but he can be taught, so long as he’s willing. “I wanted to ask you something.” Such is the question, isn’t it?

“What’s up?”

“Do you trust Uru?”

Lien answers immediately—“Yeah, why?”—and while Gen knows better than most that Lien trusts the world freely no matter how it betrays him, the answer still surprises Gen. 

When Amame clocked in late this afternoon and asked if she could keep Brahman open later this evening to meet with Komeji-san, as she explained her worries, a pot Gen didn’t realize was still on the heat started to simmer—

“What do I do…? What in the world…should I do?”—

and bubble—

“Picked up…? … But, uh… … Fine, if you say so.”—

and brew—

“Sorry, Gen-chan… I shouldn't have told you…”—

until it boiled over as the detectives took Amame away for good because Amame—compassionate and accepting Amame, who could show kindness to the ugliest of things—killed Tearer. She cut him in half like he did her father. Gen hid his first victim in the freezer for six years. Tearer is in the other room, isn’t he?

“You too, huh?” Even though Gen has not explained himself, Lien seems to already understand. “But that’s just a bad dream, you know?”

“I guess…” When Gen was younger, Shigure-san would have said he too had the gift of prophecy, and while he doesn’t believe this is prophecy…wasn’t it real?

“Nah, I know for sure,” Lien says. The lights outside the kitchen area may be off, but Gen can hear that confident grin. “If Uru was that guy, he wouldn’t be here, right? But he is. Case closed.”

“Hm…” There may be something to that. No one was murdered by Tearer yesterday, so…can Tearer be sleeping in the room next door? Outside their collective imaginations, does Tearer exist? “You’re probably right. I trust your judgment.”

“You do…?”

“Of course,” Lien accepted Gen without question because he’s kind; Gen believes in that part of him more than any dream. 

“He passed out real quick,” Tama says. “Apparently Pewter had trouble with getting Uru to sleep earlier.”

“Guess I’m lucky he’s cooperative.” Whether from exhaustion or because being tired would hamper Jin-san’s ability to tell a consistent lie, Kuruto expected more pushback after showing up after midnight. “He didn’t even ask questions.” Just said he’ll need a higher dose of the sedative than they prepared. 

“Ryuki, do you really think you’re going to find anything…? You know somnia aren’t admissible, so if you can’t even get a lead from this…”

“If you two don’t mind, I would like to go home and sleep within the next hour,” Commissioner Ondo interrupts. “It’s almost 00:45.”

“Sorry sir!” Kuruto hurries into the psyncer seat. If only Boss and Pewter weren’t drinking right now, although they’d probably still say no. The Commissioner isn’t bad—actually he backed Kuruto’s admission into the police academy—but he’s strict. If he’s the one supervising the psync, he’d unplug the machine within the second the time limit runs out to prevent another…incident. Maybe he’s right for that actually. “Ready!”

“Detective Ryuki, you have six minutes. Begin.”

Chapter Text