Chapter 25: Anger

With a surge of pure, cold will, Yomikawa banished the ugly, withered face of Kagehara Munemasa from her mind. She wrapped her arms around herself, a physical act of containment against the storm raging within, and forced her thoughts back onto the familiar, solid ground of logic.

“There are still… loose ends. Unanswered questions that demand clarification. For instance, this intruder… did they witness the transformation? The impossible, instantaneous shift from short, masculine hair to this long, silken style.”

“And if they saw it… what did their mind make of such a sight?”

“And another thing: during my period of induced unconsciousness, why did they bother to open the villa’s main security door at all? Even just that ten-centimeter crack.”

“Was it a deliberate act of misdirection? A calculated move to make me attribute the night’s events to some supernatural force? A kitsune, perhaps, or some other folkloric entity? The probability of such a sophisticated psychological ploy seems… low.”

“Or, more plausibly, they had a practical, compelling reason for doing so. Perhaps they needed to transport something out of the villa. Or, conversely, bring something in from the outside?”

Yomikawa Tsuko’s head gave a slow, deliberate nod in the oppressive darkness. This line of reasoning effectively ruled out simple, opportunistic theft. Passing valuables through a narrow gap in a door to an awaiting accomplice… while cinematically clever, it was an unnecessarily convoluted and risky maneuver. If the primary objective was burglary, the optimal strategy would be to secure the loot and exfiltrate as swiftly as possible. And given her new, chilling theory – that the intruder had been inside the villa long before she had even returned from school – why wait until the dead of night to make their escape? Why not simply complete the theft and be gone before she ever set foot in the house?

It defied all logical sense.

“Which means,” her thoughts raced, sharp and clear now, “that one half of the puzzle remains shrouded in shadow. First, the method of entry. How did this person gain access to the villa in the first place? Second, their identity. Who are they? And third, their ultimate objective. What do they truly want?”

“If their method of departure was entirely mundane, free of any supernatural influence, then it stands to reason that the remaining questions should also be analyzed through a rational, human-centric lens. I must resist the temptation to invoke supernatural forces to explain away the unknown. For now, I must treat this intruder as an ordinary, albeit exceptionally cunning, human being. And I must deduce their methods accordingly.”

Having established this clear, logical framework, Yomikawa’s mind, a cold, efficient engine, began to sift through the available data, through the recent events of her borrowed life. And very quickly, a primary, and deeply unsettling, suspect profile began to emerge.

“Suspect Profile Number One: a sexual predator. Tracking such an individual should not, in theory, be overly difficult. The pool of persons possessing both the motive and the requisite technical skills to execute such a plan is remarkably, almost vanishingly, small. And at the very top of that short, sordid list… the employees of a professional locksmithing company.”

“On the morning of June 10th, I, as Yomikawa Tsuko, hired a locksmith to replace the lock on the villa’s main security door. A technician with specialized knowledge… if he had desired to surreptitiously retain a spare key, or to utilize his professional skills to fabricate a duplicate at a later time… it would have been, for him, a trivial matter.”

“Senpai’s physical appearance is, by any objective measure, highly attractive. But perhaps more significantly, she is known to live alone. It is entirely plausible that upon discovering a single, young woman occupying such a large, upscale villa, the seeds of a monstrous plan were already being sown in his depraved mind. After completing the legitimate job, he could have spent a day or two creating a duplicate key. And then, on June 11th, before my return from school, he could have let himself in, concealing himself somewhere within the house, waiting.”

“And since the object of his vile obsession was not yet present, he would have had no choice but to wait. To hide. Perhaps even intending to wait until I was sound asleep before… commencing with his plan.”

“The storm that night… that was an unforeseen complication. My decision to remain in the living room, another. But he was resourceful. He deployed some sort of chemical agent – hence the sticky, cloying smell, the substance that rendered me unconscious.”

“Next, he would have prepared to begin his grotesque activities. It’s highly probable he had recording equipment with him, given the common psychology of such predators. But then, by a sheer, cosmic, and for him, perhaps terrifying, twist of fate, he would have borne witness to the impossible. He would have seen my body undergo a physical transformation, my hair lengthening from short to long in a matter of impossible moments.”

“The shock would have been immense, naturally. But if this was not his first crime, his psychological fortitude would likely be considerable. He would not have simply fled in terror at the sight of something so far beyond his comprehension. Instead, he would have… investigated.”

“And, in the course of that investigation, he would have, of course, discovered the ultimate anomaly of my physical form. The face of a strikingly beautiful young woman, but beneath the clothes… the body of a male.”

“Stunned, no doubt, but he would have seen the value in what he’d found. He likely would have documented his discovery. Photos. Video. Evidence. To be analyzed, to be leveraged, at a later date. Perhaps he sought to understand the truth behind the impossible thing he had witnessed. Or perhaps, more mundanely, he saw an opportunity for blackmail. In either case, his primary objective would have shifted in that instant. And he would have retreated into the shadows, a silent, hidden predator, watching, waiting.”

No matter how Yomikawa twisted the scenario, no matter which logical pathway she pursued, the conclusion was the same: the person hiding in the villa that night had almost certainly stumbled upon her most profound, most dangerous secret. And they now possessed tangible, irrefutable evidence. Evidence that, if ever exposed, would result in her complete and utter social, and perhaps even literal, annihilation.

At this thought, an icy, murderous rage, an emotion as alien and unwelcome as the fear that had preceded it, began to smolder in Yomikawa Tsuko’s heart. These kinds of creatures… they are truly, utterly, detestable. To so brazenly seize another’s most critical vulnerability, to hold it over them like a loaded gun… do they possess no sense of their own precariousness? No instinct for self-preservation? No fear of being hunted, of being… dealt with?

“And more importantly… it is highly probable that this was not his only unauthorized visit to this villa.”

With that chilling realization, the smoldering ember of her rage exploded into a raging, uncontrollable inferno. She could almost see him, this faceless intruder, hiding in some dark corner, a leering smirk of smug contempt on his face. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he would look at her now, as if she were a fool, an idiot, a grotesque plaything whose every secret he had laid bare. The thought of it, the sheer, visceral humiliation of being so thoroughly outmaneuvered, of being seen, of being known… it made her want to hunt him down, to feel his throat in her hands, to tear him limb from limb.

“Damn it! This is… intolerable! Don’t you dare underestimate me, you pathetic little worm! Do you really think I can’t find you?”

“And damn me!” The rage turned inward, a corrosive acid of self-recrimination. “How could I have been so blind? So complacent? Why didn’t I consider this possibility sooner?!”

The more she thought, the more her fury grew, a wild, untamed beast, clawing at the confines of her rational mind. This feeling of being played, of being a pawn in someone else’s sick game, made her clench her fists so tightly that her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms, drawing beads of blood.

“Damn it… pathetic… bastard… Get out of my head! Get out, you useless, contaminating emotions!”

For the first time in her entire, long existence, she was experiencing rage so absolute, so pure, that it bordered on a complete loss of reason. This lack of control, this horrifying inability to command her own internal state, was almost enough to make her scream. And so she did. A raw, ragged cry of pure, undiluted frustration, the borrowed girlish voice tearing from her throat, echoing through the vast, empty villa before being instantly devoured by the storm’s fury.

“Hah… hah… hah…” Her breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

“Losing my temper in a fit of pique? Me? This is… unacceptable. I must… I must… regain my composure. A true predator, a truly strong individual, remains calm, remains rational, no matter the circumstances. I was born strong! Damn it, this… this solitary descent into madness… isn’t this the very definition of weakness? Of impotence?!”

A tidal wave of conflicting emotions crashed over her, threatening to drown what was left of her reason. Never before had she experienced anything like this. She felt utterly adrift, her thoughts, her very sense of self, buffeted and tossed by forces she couldn’t control. She was a small, fragile boat in a raging, black-water storm, moments away from being swallowed by the waves.

One moment, she was consumed by a cold, sharp self-loathing; the next, by a burning, venomous hatred for the unseen person who had so thoroughly played her. Her mood swung wildly, a nauseating rollercoaster ride, before plunging into a deep, dark abyss of self-doubt.

“Is this it, then? Is this my true nature? Stripped of my innate, natural advantages, am I… am I even less than an ordinary human? A mere animal, unable to control its own base emotions, unable to maintain even a shred of detached calm?”

“No! That cannot be true! It’s not!”

A new kind of terror, a fear of existential collapse, washed over her, colder and more profound than any fear of the dark. The thought of this being the truth was more devastating than any temporary setback, any single failure.

To think… that Kishida Masayoshi, a man she had so often derided, so often dismissed as a bumbling, inefficient fool, could maintain his composure most of the time, while she, who had always considered herself a hundred times his superior, was now… this. A pathetic, unraveling mess of raw, uncontrolled emotion. What did that make her past mockery of him? Just the petty, self-satisfied crowing of a tin-pot tyrant?

Am I truly… this kind of person? The thought was so repulsive, so utterly vile, that Yomikawa Tsuko felt a wave of nausea so intense she almost gagged.