Chapter 32: Surprise

June 24th. Sunday.

After what felt like an eternity of weeping gray skies, the heavens had finally cleared. The clouds were now delicate wisps of silk, drifting in a serene, brilliant blue. Warmed by a gentle sun, the entire city seemed to be taking a deep, collective breath, reawakening with a fresh, vibrant energy.

Yomikawa Tsuko had been awake since before dawn. The list of tasks she had set for herself was long, and time, she was beginning to learn, was a precious, finite resource. And then there was the other, more pressing concern: she never knew when one of those strange, unwelcome emotions would ambush her, derailing her focus, hijacking her very being.

Since her grim pilgrimage to the cemetery yesterday, the chaotic emotional storms, while still making occasional, unwelcome appearances, had become less… debilitating. More… manageable. And through a process of grim, relentless trial and error, she had discovered a surprisingly effective, if somewhat perverse, method for combating the disorienting turmoil.

The proper term for this technique, she supposed, would be ‘fighting poison with poison.’

Whether it was a flicker of pleasure, a surge of anger, or a wave of fear, the moment she felt an emotion threatening to overwhelm her, to compromise her control, she would deliberately, surgically, force her mind back to the memory of Kagehara Kenta. She would summon the grief, the guilt, the crushing, hollow weight of that particular sorrow, and use its sheer, overwhelming force to brutally suppress any other intrusive feeling.

The benefits of this grim tactic were immediately apparent. It allowed her to concentrate when she needed to, and it also seemed to be helping her… acclimate… to the persistent, underlying grief, lessening the bitter, suffocating weight of her self-loathing.

Of course, the first time she had attempted it after returning home, the backlash had been… severe. Her energy had instantly and completely evaporated, her mind flooded with intrusive, agonizing images of Kagehara Kenta, leaving her listless, paralyzed, unwilling to even move. Even the cold, sharp thought of her carefully laid plans for revenge had done little to rouse her from that profound, sorrowful stupor. It was fortunate that the locksmith technician, when he had come to change the locks for the second time, had been so unobservant. He would have surely thought her mad.

But the second time she employed the technique, and then the third, the after-effects were less paralyzing. Her system was adapting. This was a clear, quantifiable sign that she was rapidly adjusting to the impact of these new, negative emotional states.

She was also keenly aware, however, that this adaptation was purely internal, a brutal, silent war being waged in the private arena of her own mind. If an external factor, an unforeseen social interaction, were to be introduced into the equation… at her current level of control, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that she would likely crumble.

But still, it was progress, wasn’t it? A positive development.

“It’s a stroke of pure, dumb luck that this… transformation… is occurring over a weekend, with the house mercifully empty. Otherwise, my cover would have been blown by now. Which brings up another interesting, if currently unanswerable question… I wonder what has become of Senpai, now that she is the new occupant of the brain I once inhabited.”

“Damn it! There I go again, my focus… it’s drifting. Why is it so difficult to maintain a single, linear train of thought? Senpai’s brain is far too… active. Her thought processes are too erratic, too prone to wild, associative leaps. No wonder she entertained such grandiose, insane notions as achieving immortality. A foolish, utterly impractical fantasy. Although…” Her thoughts took another sharp, unexpected turn. “…if one were to succeed… even partially… living for a few hundred years might not be so… unappealing. The only significant obstacle is the relentless, exponential march of technology, the ever-increasing sophistication of forensic science, which makes covert, extra-legal activities more and more difficult to execute. I wonder if crime, as a concept, will eventually become obsolete… though, if society evolves into some kind of cyberpunk dystopia, with a rigid, almost complete delineation between the affluent elite and the impoverished masses, then things might, paradoxically, become much easier… who, after all, would bother to properly police the teeming, lawless slums…”

“Eh… why am I indulging in such pointless, rambling speculation again…”

Yomikawa Tsuko sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, and forcibly wrenched her thoughts back to the immediate, pressing task at hand. She rubbed her temples, a gesture of profound weariness, then picked up her pen and began to write furiously in the diary, her script a small, sharp, angry scrawl.

At present, there were two matters of immediate, top-priority concern.

First, the investigation into the locksmith technician. To ascertain if her theory was correct, if he was indeed a sexual predator who had, by some disastrous twist of fate, discovered her most dangerous secret. This, however, she knew, would be a difficult, time-consuming task, with no guarantee of a swift or clean resolution. It was even possible her theory was entirely wrong, that the intruder was someone else entirely, and that she would end up wasting precious time and energy on a wild, fruitless goose chase.

The second matter was far simpler, if equally deceptive: to continue fabricating the diary. This required almost no intellectual effort. Just write, write, write, and then photograph the pages. The key, she reminded herself, was to make the photos clear enough to be legible, but not so sharp, not so perfectly lit, as to look professionally staged. The original diary, of course, that was a tool, a weapon, that would never leave her possession. The only real requirement for this task was speed. The sooner she could provide Kishida Masayoshi with his carefully crafted ‘bait,’ the better. Her plan for revenge against him, her exquisitely tailored retribution, required a specific catalyst, a specific opportunity. He was a detective. To effectively destroy his career, she would need a criminal case. A case she could subtly, artfully, manipulate.

The most awkward potential outcome, she mused, was that she would give the diary pages to Kishida, but no suitable criminal case would present itself. Or if one did, it wouldn’t be one she could easily leverage for her own dark purposes. If it truly came to that, if she was forced into a corner… well, then she would simply have to… create… a suitable criminal case herself.

“In that regard,” a cold, clinical thought surfaced, “Kana, from the club, seems to harbor a deep and potentially useful resentment towards Ōgami Yōsuke. She could, perhaps, with the right… encouragement… be molded into a suitable pawn. The only question is whether she possesses the necessary… fortitude… for such a role. I will have to observe her further. It is always wise to have a contingency plan.”

“Damn it, I’m doing it again! My mind is wandering…”

Just as she was trying to force her chaotic thoughts back into some semblance of order, to get back to the grim task of writing, the doorbell rang. Three sharp, distinct, and entirely unwelcome, chimes.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Don’t tell me it’s that chattering fool, Hitomi-obasan.

But what if it’s Senpai’s parents? What if they’ve returned, unexpectedly?

In an instant, her mind was flooded with a dozen worst-case scenarios. The thought of her ‘parents’ returning sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated anxiety through her, her heart clenching painfully, a hot flush creeping up her spine. In her previous life, she could have faced anyone, under any circumstances, with an unshakeable, placid mask of polite indifference. But now, with these constant, debilitating emotional ambushes, she had no such confidence.

She was suddenly seized by an overwhelming, and to her, utterly humiliating urge to not answer the door. To just stay in her room, to pretend to be asleep, and to avoid the potential confrontation altogether.

“Anxiety… nervousness…” she thought, a wave of self-loathing washing over her. “Damn it all to hell, have I really fallen so far that I’m being harassed by these pathetic, childish emotions? And even worse, I actually want to run away from them? Unforgivable. It doesn’t matter who it is. The only acceptable course of action is to face them. Directly.”

She took two deep, steadying breaths. The doorbell chimed again, insistent, almost mocking. She put down her pen, went to the entryway, and glanced at the small, square monitor for the video intercom. Four ridiculously foolish, and yet, somehow, familiar faces stared back at her.

From left to right: Ueno Junko, Ōgami Yōsuke, Takada Shōji, and Tanaka Kana.

“It’s you lot,” Yomikawa said into the intercom, her voice a mixture of genuine surprise and a deep, weary resignation.

Takada was likely the one ringing the bell; he was standing closest to the camera, his broad, earnest face taking up most of the screen. “Senpai! Kana-san said you were sick, so we all decided to come and check on you!”

“We all decided,” my foot, Yomikawa thought wryly, a flicker of her old, cold amusement returning. This was your idea, Takada, nine times out of ten. And I would wager a significant sum that Ōgami Yōsuke voted against it.

She almost said as much, but at the last possible second, managed to bite back the sarcastic comment, replacing it with a more… socially appropriate… response. “Well… this is certainly a… surprise. In any case, you had better come in.”

She buzzed the lock, then opened the security door, waiting in the entryway for the four of them to troop in.

“Excuse us for intruding!” “Pardon the interruption!”

The four of them filed into the house, a sudden, noisy intrusion into her silent, ordered world. Yomikawa retrieved guest slippers from the shoe cabinet next to the door. As she did so, she noticed Takada Shōji’s eyes were practically glued to her, his gaze fixed with an intensity that was both flattering and deeply irritating.

For the sake of comfort while writing, she had casually tied her long hair back at her shoulder. She was only wearing a loose, black, cotton long-sleeved nightgown. As she bent down to retrieve the slippers, the hem of the nightgown rode up, revealing her slender, pale calves. The soft cotton fabric clung to her body, subtly accentuating the graceful, maturing curves of a young woman.

Compared to the usual image of the capable, dependable senpai who led and cared for everyone, the Yomikawa Tsuko of this moment possessed a quieter, more approachable, almost domestic, and therefore, more vulnerable aura.

“It seems… we really have disturbed you, Senpai. I’m so sorry…” Kana said, letting out a little gasp as she took in Yomikawa’s surprisingly casual attire.

Takada Shōji seized the opportunity to quickly bow his head and busy himself with changing his shoes, a desperate attempt to hide his own awkward, tell-tale flush.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting visitors. It’s rather impolite of me to receive you all dressed like this.”

Yomikawa glanced down at herself. The cotton nightgown was actually quite modest in its design, a typical girlish style. But it was, of course, looser than her usual, more structured clothes, the neckline wider. If she bent over too far, her delicate collarbones would be exposed. A potential weakness.

“Not at all! We’re the ones being rude, showing up unannounced like this! Please, forgive our intrusion.”

Once everyone had changed their shoes, Yomikawa led them into the living room, gestured for them to sit on the sofa, and then mechanically prepared and served tea. Throughout the entire, tedious process, Takada Shōji’s adoring, slightly dopey, gaze never once left her.

This boy, she thought, a flicker of something almost like amusement in her mind. His foolishness, his utter transparency… it’s almost… endearing. In a pathetic sort of way.

“Senpai’s house is… so beautiful! Is that open room over there a study? Wow, so many books! Have you read all of them, Senpai? That’s incredible!” Poor Kana, ever the social lubricant, was desperately trying to fill the awkward silence, to liven up the atmosphere. If she could have, Yomikawa had no doubt, she would have happily given Takada Shōji a sharp smack to remind him to be less obvious with his staring.

“There really are a lot of books! To have a whole room just for them… no wonder Senpai is so knowledgeable. Yōsuke-kun, you must have a lot of books at your house too, right? Because of your father’s profession.” Junko’s admiration, at least, seemed genuine.

Ōgami Yōsuke scratched his head, a hint of a blush on his own cheeks. “We have some books, yes. But not nearly as many as Senpai.”

After she had finished serving the tea, Yomikawa Tsuko returned to the sofa and sat down, a calculated distance from the others. “Well,” she said, her voice smooth and even, “most of these books belong to my parents. They’re primarily professional texts. I haven’t read them. I wouldn’t understand them even if I tried.”

She said this, and they all, of course, assumed she was just being modest, not wanting to show off. They had no idea that if they were to press her on the matter, to ask a single specific question about any of the volumes on those shelves, they would discover she was telling the absolute, literal truth.

Ordinarily, when guests arrived, Yomikawa Tsuko would have excused herself to change her clothes. Receiving classmates, some of whom were male, while wearing only a nightgown was, she knew, a significant breach of etiquette. But she sipped her tea, deliberately, pointedly, making no move to change.

The reason for this, aside from the sheer, unadulterated bother of it, was primarily a strategic one. She wanted to send them on their way as quickly as possible. Judging by their expectant faces, it was highly likely they had come here with the intention of holding an impromptu club activity. But her fabricated diary was not yet complete. She simply didn’t have the time to waste on the increasingly tedious ‘Sleepwalker’ incident.

Yes, she thought, a new, refined plan beginning to form. If I can leverage the excuse of not feeling well, I can delegate. Get them to take action on their own. And then they can simply… report their findings to me at school tomorrow. Efficient.

With this thought, she decided to make her intentions clear, her voice taking on a delicate, almost fragile note. “In any case, thank you all so much for coming to see me. I was running a slight fever yesterday and this morning. I am feeling a bit better now, though. It shouldn’t prevent me from attending school on Monday.”