Chapter 55: Putting on a Brave Face

For a single, heart-stopping instant, the world dissolved into a sensation of pure, weightless freefall. Then, the safety rope snapped violently taut, arresting her descent with a brutal, bone-jarring jolt. Yomikawa Tsuko dangled in mid-air, a helpless marionette on a string, her failed gamble completed.

Thankfully, the equipment was of high quality. Her hands, still trembling with an unfamiliar mix of adrenaline and exertion, fumbled with the release buckle. She began a slow, mechanically controlled descent. But the moment her feet made contact with the solid, unforgiving ground, her legs, now feeling like overcooked noodles, gave out completely. With a soft, pathetic thud, she collapsed, landing hard on her knees.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it…”

“This… this pathetic, humiliating display… it’s utterly, irredeemably ugly.”

Beads of sweat, cold and clammy, rolled down her forehead. Her legs ached with a deep, burning fatigue, and her arms and fingers, pushed far beyond the limits of this new, weaker body, trembled uncontrollably. She remained on her knees, her arms barely supporting her own weight, unable, for a long, agonizing moment, to find the strength to stand.

And to her immense, seething fury, her heart was still pounding, a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs. In that split second of falling, that brief, terrifying eternity, she had felt it. A raw, undeniable, and utterly humiliating surge of regret and terror. And now, safely on the ground, she was consumed by a new and even more infuriating wave of shame and vexation at having felt such pathetic, useless emotions at all.

“What is there to regret?” she snarled internally, her thoughts a chaotic tempest. “My decision, even if it was the wrong one, was my own. It is not for others, especially not for him, to pass judgment on.”

“He, of all people! What right does he possibly have to offer me his unsolicited, condescending advice?”

“If I had chosen to follow his suggestion, that would have been the true failure. The true act of submission. The true act of weakness.”

“Therefore, I should be pleased with this outcome. I should be proud. Faced with an unknown, difficult situation, I held fast to my chosen path. I made a bold, decisive move. And even if I failed, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to be ashamed of in that.”

“Do not be angry. Do not show rage. I cannot, I will not, show any weakness in front of this man. Damn it, damn it, just… calm… down…”

She desperately tried to soothe herself with this frantic, internal monologue, but she could feel a vein throbbing violently at her temple, an almost unbearable pressure building in her chest.

“Are you alright?”

At that moment, Kishida Masayoshi, the man who had tried to point her towards another, safer path, walked over, his hand outstretched, a look of genuine concern on his foolish face, intending to help her up.

However.

SLAP!

With a speed and violence that surprised even herself, Yomikawa Tsuko smacked his hand away.

The impulse that had been brewing in her chest, the raw, chaotic, and utterly uncontrollable anger, had finally, explosively, broken free.

She did not need his pity. She would not accept it.

“I am not so weak as that,” she snarled, forcing herself to her feet with a strength born of pure, defiant rage, her movements stiff, jerky. She brushed the dust from her knees and hands, her face a mask of cold, hard indifference. “I had not realized, until this very moment, that Officer Kishida was such a… meddling, officious busybody.”

“Eh? Uh… I’m sorry.”

Kishida Masayoshi looked at his hand, now red from the force of her slap, then back at Yomikawa’s furious, pale face, a look of utter, uncomprehending confusion on his own. He had absolutely no idea what he had done to provoke such a hostile, almost violent reaction.

And besides, it was clear to him, with a professional certainty, that she was just putting on a brave face. A performance. Her fingers, her hands, they were still trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline.

He had gotten off work early today and had come to the gym to unwind, to clear his head. When he had entered the main climbing area, he had noticed a young woman climbing alone in the beginner’s section, her movements and route choices clearly those of a complete novice. Concerned for her safety, he had decided to offer some friendly, unsolicited guidance, only to realize, as he drew closer, that it was this sharp-tongued, enigmatic, and deeply unsettling girl.

“But… this is your first time climbing, isn’t it?” he pressed, genuinely concerned. “And the safety instructor wasn’t with you. It could have been dangerous.”

What did I do? he wondered, completely at a loss. Why is she reacting like this? For someone like Yomikawa Tsuko, someone usually so cold, so composed, to have such an extreme, almost unhinged reaction… it was a strange, deeply unsettling thing. As strange, in its own way, as seeing her alone and weeping at the cemetery that day.

Yomikawa Tsuko unclipped her safety harness, then slowly, deliberately, rotated her aching arms. Her voice was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of any emotion. “Is that so? Well, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you by not getting seriously injured.”

“Uh…”

Kishida Masayoshi was almost speechless. This girl’s aggressive, combative nature seemed to have intensified, to have sharpened, since their last meeting.

Just looking at his foolish, confused face filled Yomikawa with a fresh wave of irritation. She couldn’t stop herself from delivering another, final verbal jab. “As I recall, Kimura-kun is still missing. And yet, Officer Kishida, instead of diligently investigating that rather pressing case, you’re here, wasting your time offering me unsolicited, and frankly, unwanted climbing advice. How very… kind-hearted of you.”

“Well, the search and rescue operation is being handled by a specialized team,” Kishida explained, knowing even as he said the words how lame, how bureaucratic, they sounded. “It’s not technically within the scope of a homicide detective’s duties. However, if it is confirmed that Kimura-san has been… harmed… then we will, of course, become directly involved in the investigation.” But this was Japan. The division of duties was strict, almost sacred. To cross those lines, even with the best of intentions, was not seen as being helpful; it was seen as overstepping one’s authority.

Yomikawa let out a cold, utterly dismissive snort. She had no desire to continue this pointless and increasingly irritating conversation. She turned and walked towards the nearby rest area.

Kishida Masayoshi thought for a moment, then, with a sigh, grabbed two bottles of water and followed her.

This girl, he thought, she seemed to be in a particularly foul and volatile mood lately. He wondered, not for the first time, if it had anything to do with her mysterious visit to the cemetery. Who had she been there to mourn? Could it really, possibly, have been Kagehara Kenta? And if so, why did that long-dead man have such a profound and unsettling effect on her?

But these were questions he couldn’t ask directly. For one thing, he was afraid of tipping his hand, of revealing the extent of his own, increasingly obsessive, unofficial investigation into her. And for another, he had no evidence, no clues, nothing but his own increasingly wild and likely incorrect, subjective speculations.

He handed one of the water bottles to Yomikawa. She took it without a word of thanks, twisted the cap off, and began to drink, long, thirsty gulps. Kishida took a breath, and decided to press his own agenda. “The diary you gave me last time… I had it authenticated. The handwriting is indeed Kagehara Tetsuya’s. The subsequent entries… when might I expect to receive them?”

Yomikawa Tsuko sat down on a bench, crossing her right leg over her left. Her pale, smooth skin was completely exposed, and her knee, which had hit the ground when she fell, was still slightly, angrily red. She began to methodically massage her thigh muscle, her voice cold and detached. “Perhaps this weekend. I still need to… review and organize them, after all. But even if you do get the complete diary, you still won’t be able to catch Kagehara-kun, will you? You have no idea where he’s hiding, do you?”

“That… is still under active investigation,” Kishida said, sitting down on the other end of the bench. “But I am a bit curious. After reading the diary yourself, did you not have any… particular thoughts? Any insights?”

“What kind of thoughts?” Yomikawa Tsuko’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine confusion in her eyes.

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” Kishida said, choosing his words carefully, trying to articulate a feeling, a human truth, that seemed so self-evident to him. “Tanaka Erika was in love with Kagehara Tetsuya. I mean, not just a crush. Really, truly, in love with him.” He paused, then continued, “Tanaka was very intelligent, very perceptive. And according to Kagehara’s own descriptions in the diary, her special, almost obsessive attention towards him… that was the reason for it. It was her way of showing her affection.”

That girl, Tanaka… she was interested in me because she… liked me?

How is that even possible? She was the one who was always, relentlessly, exposing my lies, always backing me into a corner, always… seeing me!

Is that… is that what ‘liking’ someone is supposed to look like? Is that how it manifests?

Is this Kishida’s own, sentimental theory, or is it the cold, clinical conclusion of the analyst he consulted?

And if this is the general consensus, the accepted human interpretation of those events, how should I react? What is the correct response?

“So what?” Yomikawa Tsuko said, her voice flat, emotionless, a stalling tactic as her mind raced, sifting through a thousand possible, performative responses. If she were to adhere to the persona she had so carefully constructed, should she feign a cold indifference? Or should she feign a surprised admiration that this bumbling detective could have stumbled upon such a perceptive conclusion? Or perhaps… perhaps she should feign a flicker of jealous resentment towards the long-dead Tanaka Erika?

“You don’t find it… tragic?” Kishida Masayoshi asked, his voice filled with a genuine sadness.

“Tragic…?” After Tanaka Erika’s death, the only thing she had felt was a profound sense of relief, of quiet, satisfying, and long-overdue peace. How could it possibly be tragic?

But from the perspective of the character I am now playing, the character of ‘Senpai’… why would she find it tragic? What is the appropriate emotional response here?

“Yes, tragic,” Kishida said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “From Tanaka Erika’s perspective, her interactions with Kagehara Tetsuya were probably just… a bit of playful teasing. A way to get his attention. She liked to watch him think. She was always at his house, maybe helping with chores, with cooking, things like that. After all, Kagehara’s mother had passed away when he was very young. Maybe… maybe she was just waiting. Waiting for him to finally notice her, to confess his own feelings, so they could finally, naturally, be together.”

“But Kagehara Tetsuya, with his… damaged… brain, with his inability to process normal human emotions, was destined to be completely blind to her affection. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t understand it. And he was even, in his own cold, twisted, monstrous heart, meticulously planning to make this bright, intelligent, and vibrant girl who loved him… disappear. And it’s very, very likely that he actually succeeded.”

Kishida’s voice was filled with a profound, weary sorrow. “You don’t think that’s a tragedy?”