Elemental, My Dear Watson
Darkness.
Not fog, not shadow—darkness so complete it erased the idea of edges.
No cold, warmth or even ground beneath his feet.
Shu moved, he thought he moved, but there was no resistance, no weight, no sensation in his legs. If he was standing, he couldn’t feel it. If he was walking, there was no rhythm of footsteps, no echo, no forward momentum.
Only motion in a void. He blinked once. Nothing changed.
No afterimage of his eyelids. No color shift. No confirmation his body even responded.
“…hello?” he tried.
His voice didn’t echo.
It didn’t even sound like it left his mouth. It was like he’d thought the word instead of speaking it, and yet he knew he wasn’t dreaming. His illusions had broken the second he tore himself out of Kagayaki’s trick. He’d felt the shatter, the rupture, the pull back into reality, or as close to reality as the Idea World is.
This wasn’t it.
It was something else, something that shouldn’t exist.
Shu tried again, louder:
“Hey! Anyone?”
Nothing.
Not silence.
Silence would have implied a world around him, swallowing the sound.
This was… absence. A sensory void, a place devoid of reflection, reaction, presence, or time.
He lifted his hand—he thought he did. His brain fired the command, muscles should have moved, but—
He saw nothing, not even the faint outline of fingers, not even a silhouette.
And then a voice slid through the darkness.
Not echoing, not even emanating. Simply arriving inside him, like a thought he hadn’t thought.
"*What do we have here..."
Shu swallowed—or the idea of swallowing. His throat didn’t exist here, but fear still knew where to sit.
“…Who are you? Are you alright?”
The question came out instinctively. Automatically.
Ridiculous.
But that was who he was.
A delighted sigh rippled through the void, like something enormous stretching luxuriously in the dark.
“My, my… you don’t even know my face, and you worry for my wellbeing.” Her tone curled into amusement. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? How exhausting it must be, being so… good.”
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then she laughed.
It was soft at first—like a courtesan covering her mouth behind a sleeve. Then it rippled—growing richer, warmer, sharper, echoing through the dark in a way the void had never echoed for his own voice.
“…adorable.”
Her voice drifted.
Sometimes behind him, sometimes above. Sometimes whispering directly against where his ear should be.
But there was no direction here.
Only her.
“…who are you?” Shu asked.
“Aah,” she sighed, “names.”
The void quivered.
“Such flimsy little nets humans cast on the ungraspable. Still—” Her tone danced between mockery and fondness. “I’ve been called many things.”
Her presence swelled, filling space without growing closer.
“Dàjìn, Lady Kayō, Bao Si, Wakamo, Mikuzume...”
Each name dropped like a pebble into ink, sending ripples through the nothing.
“And many more,” she added lightly, “depending on which people seeked to take revenge against me at the time.”
She laughed again—but this time it wasn’t human. It was like nine voices layered over each other, laughing at slightly different times. A braid of amusement, scorn, hunger, nostalgia, mischief. A creature wearing a woman’s mirth like a silk veil.
Shu’s skin prickled— if he had skin.
“I…” He forced the words. “You aren't human.”
“Of course not,” she purred.
Something brushed the back of his neck—
—or the idea of his neck.
A tail?
A hand?
Breeze?
Nothing stayed long enough to understand.
The darkness shifted again and this time there was a shape in it. Not visible—but perceivable the way you perceive a mountain behind fog:
Enormous.
Watching.
Amused.
“And you?” her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “What shall I call you?”
“Shu, Shu Jinkō... ” he answered automatically.
“Shu,” she repeated, tasting it. “Shu Jinkō. Shu the leader. Shu the beloved. Shu the hero.”
“Shu Jinkō.”
He stiffened.
It sounded amused.
“A most preposterous name.”
He opened his mouth—
“If you’re one of Kagayaki’s illusions—”
Her laughter cut him off, sharp as silver.
“Child. That little dream-weaver couldn’t even touch the shadow of one of my tails.”
The space tightened around him. Suddenly he felt small. Smaller than small.
Like a bead of dew held in the palm of an ancient hand.
“I am not your enemy.” Her tone softened, almost tender.
A lie.
“Not in this state, at least... What I am merely curious.”
A truth.
“Why does a thing like you keep getting in the way of my entertainment?”
Shu bristled. “What do you mean, entertainment?”
“Human fate,” she whispered, pleased. “Love, rivalry, ambition, disaster. Watching you little mortals try so hard to write your own stories—so valiant. So hopelessly unaware. There isn't much to do for me in this place, so this sort of entertainment will have to do, until the barrier is gone at least...”
Something circled him then.
A presence.
A tail—or many tails—brushing the edges of his mind.
“You must burn so brightly in the eyes of the people, Shu Jinkō,” she murmured. “A little lantern made to keep away the monsters out in the dark.”
Shu steadied himself, or thought he did, because there was no ground here, only intention. “What do you really want?” he asked.
A soft inhale. A smile forming in the dark.
She did not answer.
Instead—
“What is it you want, Shu Jinkō?”
The question rang through the void, too sharp, too precise, like a blade tracing the outline of his throat.
He opened his mouth— and his answer came without thought. “I want everything to be good. I want everyone to be happy.”
Silence.
Then—
A slow, rising laugh.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Something worse:
Pity.
Something grazed his jaw—
A strand of hair?
“You say you want everyone to be happy.” The darkness swelled until it felt like the whole world was leaning in to listen. “So tell me, Shu Jinkō…”
Her tone sharpened to a predatory sweetness.
“Would you want someone evil to be happy too?”
He froze.
Her voice was suddenly behind him.
“If a man’s happiness comes from slaughtering innocents— would you protect that happiness?”
Then above him—
“What if joy for one means agony for another?” Her whisper threaded into his ear. “What if a murderer’s bliss requires a child’s death?”
Then at his throat—
“What if a tyrant finds happiness in domination? What if a sadist finds happiness in pain? What if one person’s peace requires another person’s ruin?”
Shu’s breath caught.
“I— of course not—”
Her voice slid through him like a needle.
“But that is what you said. Everyone. Happy,” she repeated softly. “Utterly charming. Utterly meaningless.”
Shu clenched his fists.
“It’s not like that—!”
“What if one evil man smiled— truly smiled— only when crushing another man’s throat? Would you support his happiness too?”
Shu felt sick.
“That’s not—”
She leaned close—
or maybe the world leaned her close.
“Little lantern… You say ‘everyone,’ but you surely don’t mean it. Right?”
A pause.
“You mean the good? The innocent? The kind? You want a world where everyone is gentle, don’t you? Where everyone is saved.”
“That’s—”
“Here is the truth you refuse to speak,” she whispered.
The dark tightened around his ribs.
“Some people enjoy hurting others. Some people will never seek peace. Some people’s happiness requires breaking everything you love.”
Her voice turned soft. Almost tender.
“So tell me, Shu Jinkō…”
The question struck him like a cold blade.
“Would you strip them of their happiness so the rest may keep theirs?”
Shu felt the world tilt.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You do,” she answered immediately.
Silken and deadly.
“You simply can't face it. I know you weren't lying when you said everyone. And deep down you know it too. You just can't help yourself.”
Her words coiled around his heart like smoke.
“Ah… the little lantern flickers.” She sighed happily. “I adore it when ideals strain against reality. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.”
“Tell me this, Shu Jinkō…” Her voice whispered directly into his ear now. “What is it you really seek?”
Shu opened his mouth — but nothing came out.
Because the truth was that the question hit something deep and unexamined inside him, something that pulsed oddly against his ribs.
Desire felt alien. Wanting felt dangerous.
He had never asked himself what he wanted. He only ever acted according to a feeling — a compulsion — a shape inside him that refused to let him do otherwise.
Her voice melted back into the dark, distant and huge and hungry.
“There is nothing inside you,” she murmured, “but a compulsion to save.”
A pause.
“Not because you desire to save.”
Her whisper coiled around his spine like a serpent.
“But because you have to.” Her voice curled around him, soft as fur, cold as a grave.
Shu stiffened. He didn’t understand — and that was precisely why it terrified him.
“That’s not true,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” she crooned. “You walk and speak like a man, but you are hollow as a prayer.”
She chuckled softly.
“Little lantern… You’re a false hero made from wishes that weren’t yours. A dream that never learned to dream for itself.”
The darkness leaned close.
“Let me ask you again…”
The void bent, warped, narrowed into a single point of pressure directly above his sternum.
“Are you even able to want, Shu Jinkō?”
The hallway outside the Student Council room was nearly empty. The only sound around was the distant chatter of clubs packing up for the evening. Yae stood leaning against the wall, arms folded, one foot propped behind her ankle, gaze fixed lazily on the opposite end of the corridor.
Kaoru Nagamine had never seen Yae Zennami wait for anyone, wasting whatever precious free time she had after school.
The door opened behind her with a gentle click.
Kaoru stepped out, backpack slung over one shoulder, blue hair still a little mussed from the long afternoon, notebook pressed to her chest.
“Sorry!” Kaoru bowed quickly. “I didn’t mean to take so long—Madoka asked me about the budget notes again and—”
“Relax,” Yae said, not looking away from the far end of the hall. “I’m the one who asked you to tag along. I’m not going to complain if you take ten extra seconds.”
Kaoru blinked.
Still weird. Still surreal.
Yae requesting her specifically? For something outside school?
“Um,” Kaoru shifted her grip on her bag, “you’re… sure you want me to come?”
“Yup.” Yae pushed off the wall, straightening her jacket.
Kaoru felt her heart jump a little. Not in a romantic way (that was reserved for a certain gentle giant with a green thumb)—just in the way one does when the school’s resident aloof detective genius acknowledges your efforts and capability in their field of expertise.
Yae adjusted the strap of her own bag and began walking.
Kaoru hurried after her.
“So, um… what exactly are we doing?”
Yae’s side-job had always been somewhat mysterious. “Police consultant” sounded impressive, but Kaoru had never seen it up close.
Yae slid a glance her way.
“Going to a scene.”
“A scene like—a crime scene?”
“A scene like a crime scene,” Yae echoed casually.
Kaoru nearly choked. “And he asked you first?”
“No,” Yae deadpanned. “They asked their veteran detectives first. Then some specialists. Then they called me.”
Kaoru wasn’t sure if Yae was bragging or complaining.
Probably both.
They stepped out into the cool evening air. The sun was nearly gone, leaving long shadows across the walkway.
Kaoru hugged her arms a little. “Um… I’ve never really done anything like this.”
“That’s fine.” Yae put her hands in her pockets and started down the path toward the front gate. “Just stick close and write down whatever I tell you.”
Kaoru nodded, then hesitated.
“…Why me?” she finally asked.
Yae didn’t slow.
For a moment she didn’t answer at all—just the sound of their steps echoing together.
Then she said, quietly but plainly:
“You’re thorough. And… reliable.”
Kaoru’s eyes widened.
“Plus I trust you.”
Yae shrugged one shoulder.
Kaoru felt warmth bloom behind her ribs.
“…Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Yae murmured, stopping at the edge of the school grounds.
A police cruiser was parked there waiting—lights off, engine humming softly.
Yae looked at Kaoru, expression half-smile, half-smirk. Kaoru tightened her grip on her notebook.
Yae opened the rear door, motioning for her to enter first.
“Welcome to work,” she added lightly.
The cruiser door hadn’t even fully shut before the man in the driver’s seat spoke.
“Seatbelts,” he said, voice rough like gravel soaked in coffee and cigarettes. “Both of you.”
Kaoru fumbled for hers. Yae clicked hers in place lazily, like someone boarding a bus instead of a police car.
The detective glanced back over his shoulder.
He looked exactly like the stereotype every TV drama tried and failed to imitate: long beige coat draped across the seat, loosened tie, faint stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes perpetually half-lidded from lack of sleep. The kind of man who’d been “six months from retirement” for the last twenty years.
But his gaze softened when he saw Yae.
“Good evening,” he said. “Igarashi's already at the scene. Glad you made some time.”
Yae shrugged. “Not much of a choice.”
Then she jerked her chin toward Kaoru. “This is Kaoru Nagamine. She’s helping me tonight.”
The detective gave Kaoru a small nod—surprisingly polite, not dismissive or begrudging at all.
“Nice to meet you. Name’s Tsukuba.”
He extended a calloused hand.
Kaoru shook it timidly. “Ah—Nagamine Kaoru. Well Yae already told you that. Thank you for having me… sir.”
“No ‘sir.’ Makes me feel older than I am.”
He put the car in gear. “And Yae vouched for you, which is rare, so you’re fine.”
Kaoru blinked.
Yae vouched for her?
She shot a glance at Yae, who pretended not to notice.
They pulled away from the school, the city lights blurring past the windows.
After a stretch of silence, Yae leaned forward, elbow on the center console.
“So, how’s your Hime doing?”
Tsukuba snorted. “Better than me, thanks to you.”
Yae tilted her head modestly. “I just corrected her study plan.” then she looked at Kaoru "Hime is his daughter."
Kaoru stared. “Study… plan? I thought you weren’t the type who tutors kids.”
“I’m not,” Yae said blandly.
“She’s definetly teacher material,” Tsukuba said immediately. “This gremlin rewrote the entire exam strategy for my girl. Subject by subject. Made mock tests. Made a schedule. Yelled at her when she slacked.”
“I did not yell,” Yae said, offended.
Tsukuba raised a brow. “You called her ‘academically suicidal,’ Yae. Still, she made int through her college entrance exams thanks to you.”
Yae coughed into her sleeve. “The academically suicidal part was, uhm, constructive feedback.”
Kaoru stared at Yae like she’d grown a second head.
“You… helped someone with college entrance exams…?”
Yae slouched deeper in her seat. “…It was annoying.”
Tsukuba smirked in the rearview mirror.
“She passed,” he said. “Top-tier university. Wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Yae didn’t respond. Her expression didn’t change.
The detective continued driving, city lights thinning as they headed toward their destination.
Kaoru looked between them.
“So… you’ve known Yae for a long time?”
Tsukuba grunted. “Before she was even in middle school. Her grandfather and I go way back.”
Yae waved a hand. “Ancient history. Boring. Move on.”
Tsukuba ignored her.
“She’s been helping us since she was barely old enough to scribble on a police report. Kid’s brain is wired for puzzles. She looks at a crime scene once and sees more than half my department.”
Yae kicked the back of his seat.
“Stop that,” she muttered. “You’re embarrassing.”
“You are embarrassing,” he shot back. “Embarrassingly good. If you weren’t a minor I’d hire you officially.”
Kaoru felt like she’d stepped into a parallel universe.
Tsukuba eased the car to a stop beside a row of taped-off houses, the engine ticking softly as the night closed in around them.
He switched off the headlights.
Before Kaoru could even open her door, Tsukuba turned in his seat to face her directly.
“Before we go any further,” he said, voice carrying weight, “Nagamine—you need to understand something.”
Kaoru swallowed. “I can handle—”
“No,” he cut in. “You think you can handle it.”
Kaoru froze.
Tsukuba continued, tone low. “We’re dealing with a particularly brutal series of murders. Yae’s seen two scenes already. This one is worse.”
Kaoru felt her throat tighten.
She opened her mouth to insist again—
—but Yae cut across her, tone flat, uncharacteristically serious.
“You’re going,” she said.
Kaoru blinked. “W–what?”
Yae leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, her voice leaving no room for argument.
“You’re coming with me. I brought you for this.”
Kaoru stared at her, half startled, half realizing that Yae was dead serious.
Tsukuba gave a small grunt of approval.
“She picked you, kid. That means something.”
He reached for the folder beside his seat, flipping it open to several blurred crime scene photos—nothing too graphic, but unmistakably violent.
Kaoru didn’t flinch but her fingers tensed on her notebook.
Tsukuba explained as he stepped out of the car, the two girls following.
“As you both know, we’ve got a serial killer on the loose.”
The night breeze was cold. It did nothing to dispel the sense of dread creeping up Kaoru’s spine.
“He moves through forbidden zones and poor districts normally,” Tsukuba said, lifting the crime scene tape for them to duck under. “But this time… this time he crossed into a normal neighborhood. Middle of town. No pattern match, no escalation signs. Just—”
He exhaled through his nose.
“A bad surprise.”
Yae walked ahead andKaoru followed her, feeling small beside her confidence.
Tsukuba continued, “Bodies are already gone to the morgue—sorry, Yae, I know you prefer pristine scenes.”
“I do,” Yae agreed, deadpan. “But you got me in here before forensics bagged everything, so I’ll take what I can get.”
Kaoru glanced between them.
This—this—was normal conversation for these two?
Tsukuba inclined his head. “Yeah, scene’s still dirty. Enough for you to get a read. We pulled the victims out, but the room… the room’s untouched otherwise.”
Yae clicked her tongue. “Good.”
Then, to Kaoru, she added matter-of-factly—
“If you need to throw up, do it outside the tape.”
Kaoru stiffened. “I won’t need to.”
Yae didn’t smile. She didn’t tease.
She simply said—
“I know.”
Tsukuba led them to the open door of the house.
He paused on the threshold.
“One more thing,” he said without turning. “This one was messy. And angry. You’ll see what I mean.”
Yae stepped forward, unfazed.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the house felt wrong.
Not haunted, not supernatural like they had grown used to because of their Idea World adventures—just violated. A space that should have been ordinary, lived-in, safe… turned inside-out by something methodical and monstrous.
Shoes still neatly lined at the door. A half-zipped backpack by the wall. A fallen umbrella bent at an odd angle. Nothing dramatic. Nothing bloody.
But the house was dead silent.
Kaoru’s stomach tightened without a clear reason until she noticed the faint disturbance in the air: that subtle, indescribable emptiness only a place with no living occupants has.
“As I said,” Tsukuba murmured, stepping forward, “bodies were removed already. Two adults, one elder, one child.”
Kaoru’s breath hitched softly.
Yae didn’t pause. She was already leaning over the shoe rack, eyes half-lidded but scanning with the precision of a scanner.
Tsukuba gestured them further inside.
“This is consistent with the previous cases we’ve shown Yae. The killer selects households that fit a pattern: small families, preferably with at least one vulnerable member.”
“Vulnerable as in…?” Kaoru asked, voice small.
“Elderly, disabled, children, or a parent who’s often home alone,” Tsukuba replied. “He always enters quietly. No forced entry anywhere, ever.”
Kaoru frowned. “Really?”
“Might be someone who knows how to pick locks without leaving obvious traces,” Yae said casually, examining a cluttered hall table. “Either way, he doesn’t make noise.”
They reached the living room.
That was where Kaoru realized why Tsukuba called this one worse.
The room wasn’t wrecked. Not overturned, not splattered, not theatrically destroyed.
A cup of half-finished tea on the kotatsu. An open book on the couch, spine cracked. A child’s coloring pencils left scattered in a neat little arc beside a workbook—one page half-colored in bright orange.
Completely normal.
Except for the silence and the absence of the people who made this space real.
And then Kaoru saw it.
A faint smear on the floor.
Not a splatter.
Not a pool.
Just a single dragged handprint—small, child-sized—sliding down the wooden floor as though someone had been pulled away.
Her breath caught.
Tsukuba didn’t soften it.
“The elder was killed first,” he said. “Likely asphyxiation. He always dispatches the most defenseless first. The kid though, beaten to death. As always, the youngest members are the ones he dedicates the most time to.”
Kaoru clenched her fists.
Yae crouched near the handprint. Not touching—just observing.
“He didn’t rush,” she murmured. “This wasn’t panicked. The grip line is too straight.”
Kaoru shivered.
Tsukuba nodded. “He never rushes.”
He led them toward the kitchen next.
Kaoru immediately noted the disarray:
Cabinet doors half-open.
Drawers slightly off their rails.
A knife block—missing one blade.
Tsukuba pointed at the empty slot.
“Adult male victim was killed with that. The killer always uses household items on the adults. Never brings his own weapon.”
“Because it’s one less trace to leave behind,” Yae added, opening a drawer with a pen tip. “And because it’s symbolic.”
Kaoru blinked. “Symbolic how?”
Yae’s eyes flicked toward the knife block.
“He kills with the tools of their home. Staying inside their life. And then—”
Tsukuba finished it for her.
“—he spends time living in the house afterward.”
Kaoru stared at him. “W-what do you mean by… living?”
“Exactly that,” he said. “He eats food. Uses the bath. Turns on the TV. Sleeps on their couch if he feels like it. Sometimes for as little as fifteen minutes. Sometimes for hours.”
Kaoru felt the hair on her neck rise.
“That’s insane.”
“No,” Yae corrected gently. “It’s… confident.”
Kaoru shot her a startled look.
Yae went on, eyes sharp:
“He knows exactly what evidence matters and what doesn’t. Exactly what he can leave behind safely. Exactly how forensics work.”
Kaoru swallowed hard. “…like he’s been studying it.”
“Mm.”
Tsukuba moved toward the hallway.
“This next room is—well.”
Kaoru braced.
They stepped into the master bedroom.
The bed was made. The curtains half-drawn. A lamp knocked over. A tissue box crushed on the floor. A single streak along the mattress edge—barely visible but unmistakably blood.
Kaoru forced her eyes to keep moving, to stay steady.
Then she noticed something on the nightstand: A plate with crumbs. Chopsticks placed neatly on top, parallel. A cup of instant ramen half-eaten, dried.
Tsukuba gestured.
“Four hours,” he said. “He stayed in this house four hours.”
Yae walked past the nightstand and traced her gaze over the bookshelf.
“No fingerprints on the covers,” she murmured. “He probably kepts gloves on throughtout the whole thing.”
Kaoru bit her lip, steadying her voice.
“…so he’s… careful.”
“Careful,” Tsukuba confirmed. “Methodical. Thorough. Comfortable enough to make tea and lie on the couch after murdering an entire family.”
Yae finally stood straight and exhaled slowly, then glanced at Kaoru with a rare trace of gentleness.
“Take it all in,” she said quietly. “Look. Analyze. Don’t shy from it.”
Kaoru nodded, swallowing down her fear.
And Tsukuba, watching the exchange, allowed himself a faint approving grunt.
“Good,” he said. “Most people can’t handle even the sanitized version.”
Kaoru straightened her back.
“I’m… not most people.”
Yae’s mouth twitched into a tiny, approving smirk.
“Truth,” she said.
Tsukuba stepped further into the room, lifting the tape to let them through into the adjoining hallway.
“Come on. There’s one more thing Yae needs to see.”
The hallway opened into a small study—barely a room, more of an alcove with a desk, a bookshelf, and a floor cushion. The kind of space a parent used late at night after the rest of the family was asleep.
But now—
—there was a dark, wide stain on the tatami.
A heavy one.
Kaoru stopped at the threshold, throat tightening. She wasn’t squeamish, but something about the shape of the stain—the way it fanned outward, uneven—made her chest clench.
Tsukuba lifted the tape.
“This is where the father fell.”
Yae stepped forward without hesitation, kneeling just close enough to examine the ground without touching. Her eyes narrowed slightly, absorbing details Kaoru wasn’t even sure she knew how to see.
“He crawled,” Yae murmured.
Kaoru blinked. “Crawled?”
Yae pointed, tracing the invisible pattern:
“The stain drags outward… then splits, like he pushed up on one arm. Then collapsed again.”
Kaoru swallowed hard. She hadn’t noticed it, but now that Yae pointed it out, the trail on the tatami was unmistakable. A dragging arc… then a palm-shaped smear… then another collapse.
“He tried to get away,” Kaoru whispered.
“Not away,” Tsukuba corrected grimly. “Forward.”
He nodded toward the low table beside the tatami.
And Kaoru saw it.
A phone. An old landline, corded, its receiver knocked to the floor. Blood had dried on its surface in streaks and smudges where fingers had tried to grip it.
And on the keypad—
Two buttons were darkened.
Stained.
1
9
Yae leaned in.
“He tried to dial 119?”
The house felt smaller once they stepped back outside.
Not physically, but the air around it seemed to tighten, as if the violence that had occurred inside still occupied the space, pressing outward through the walls. A neighbor stood at the end of the block pretending not to watch.
Kaoru adjusted her glasses, more out of habit than need. Her posture was composed, but the faint tension in her jaw hadn’t gone away since they’d left the crime scene.
A few meters away, Detective Tsukuba stood with officer Igarashi, speaking in low voices. Tsukuba had one hand on his hip, the other rubbing absently at his temple. Igarashi nodded along, stiff-backed and attentive, occasionally glancing back toward the house as if expecting it to do something else.
That left Kaoru and Yae standing near the curb, side by side, the silence stretching between them.
Yae broke it without preamble.
“There are two serial murder cases in Kageoka right now,” she said, tone casual. Like she was commenting on the weather.
Kaoru blinked and turned her head slightly. “Two?”
Yae nodded. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat. She wasn’t looking at Kaoru; her gaze was fixed on the house they’d just left.
“One of them,” Yae continued, “I’m almost certain is tied to the Idea World.”
She paused, then added, “This one isn’t.”
Kaoru frowned faintly. “You’re sure?”
Yae hummed. “As sure as I can be without lying to myself.”
She finally looked over, a thin, crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Which is why this one’s going to be harder.”
Kaoru considered that, replaying the details in her head—the brutality, the time spent inside the house after the murders, the strange mix of carelessness and precision.
“Because there’s nothing narrowing it down,” Kaoru said slowly.
“Exactly.” Yae’s smile widened, just a little. “When the Idea World’s involved, you can eliminate whole categories of suspects.”
She shrugged. “A purely mundane serial killer? All you’ve got is victim type, method, and psychology. And even with all of that it is… slippery.”
Kaoru exhaled quietly. “That feels backwards. You’d think monsters from another world would be harder to deal with.”
Yae let out a short laugh. “They are. To stop.”
There was silence for a bit, and then Yae spoke again, in the way someone might mention a change in plans.
“Oh,” she said, eyes still on the house, voice light. “By the way—the supernatural one? They’re targeting me.”
Kaoru went still.
She didn’t do it dramatically. She just… halted, as if her body had decided before her mind could catch up. When she turned to Yae again, her composure cracked clean through.
“What?” she said. Not loudly, but sharply. “What do you mean targeting you.”
Yae blinked, finally looking genuinely surprised. “Hm? I thought it's obvious. My name was on the last crime scene.”
“No,” Kaoru snapped. “you can’t just—Yae, you can’t just not mention that until now.”
Yae shrugged, unbothered, hands still in her pockets. “I wasn’t hiding it. I just hadn’t said it yet.”
“That’s the same thing!” Kaoru shot back. Her voice dropped instinctively, aware of Tsukuba and Igarashi only a short distance away, but the edge didn’t dull. “That’s an extremely important detail. You’re talking about a killer connected to, or worse, a monster from the Idea World actively coming after you.”
“And that,” Yae said calmly, “is precisely why it’s useful.”
Kaoru stared at her.
Yae turned fully now, facing her, expression composed in that infuriatingly relaxed way she always wore when she thought she was right.
“Being the target creates a direct link,” Yae continued. “Intent. Focus. Pattern. It means the culprit is no longer separate from the investigation. They’ve anchored themselves to me. That narrows the field enormously.”
She tilted her head. “It also gives us control, however slight.”
Kaoru felt a flare of anger—hot, immediate. “Control? Yae, you’re talking about your life like it’s bait.”
“It is bait,” Yae replied, evenly. “High-quality bait.”
“That’s not—” Kaoru cut herself off, pressing her lips together hard. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to slow her thoughts. “You should have told everyone else. Immediately. This isn’t something you get to decide alone.”
For the first time, Yae’s smile faded.
She didn’t look annoyed. She looked… thoughtful.
Then she looked directly at Kaoru. Really looked at her.
It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing.
“Careful,” Yae said quietly. “You’ve done exactly that before.”
Kaoru froze.
Yae didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed with surgical precision.
“You’ve kept critical information to yourself,” Yae went on, gently but firmly. “Because you thought you could handle it. Because you didn’t want to complicate things. Because you didn’t trust others.”
Kaoru opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Yae held her gaze, unflinching.
After a moment, she exhaled.
“I was going to tell you,” Yae said. “From the beginning. I just wanted to see how you dealt with this crime scene first.”
Kaoru’s hands clenched at her sides. “That’s not reassuring.”
She glanced toward the detectives again, then back to Kaoru, voice lowering.
“I want your help,” Yae said plainly. “Not as backup. Not as an assistant. As a second investigator.”
Kaoru looked at her, stunned into silence.
“Two cases,” Yae continued. “One mundane. One supernatural. They’re not as different as they look, but they’re not the same either. I can’t split myself in two.”
She gestured vaguely at her own chest. “And since I’m apparently on someone’s hit list, I need someone watching my blind spots.”
Her eyes sharpened, intent settling in.
“I want you guarding my back while we investigate,” Yae said. “Because whether I like it or not, I’m one of the targets. Possibly the next one.”
Kaoru swallowed. Fear crept in—not the panicked kind, but the cold, responsible kind. The kind that came with understanding the stakes.
“You should have told me— I eman everyone else sooner,” Kaoru said quietly.
Yae’s mouth curved, just slightly. Not a smirk. Something softer.
“I am telling you now.”
Kaoru let out a slow breath.
“…Fine,” she said at last. “But no more surprises like that. If you’re in danger, I need to know. Immediately.”
Yae nodded once. “Deal.”
They stood there for a moment, side by side again, the earlier tension settling into something heavier—but more solid.
Ahead of them, Detective Tsukuba raised a hand, signaling it was time to move.
The morning light in Kageoka was leaking through clouded skies as if reluctant to admit dawn had arrived at all. Yae walked with her usual posture: shoulders relaxed, hands tucked in her pockets, steps unhurried, mind already running four parallel thought-streams unrelated to anything she was looking at.
She spotted Kaoru ahead.
For a moment, Yae’s expression didn’t change beyond the usual smug look—she rarely showed her hand that easily—but she did drift toward her with the subtle, almost feline laziness of someone choosing company without openly acknowledging she wanted it.
Kaoru noticed her a heartbeat later.
“Oh—morning, Yae.”
Yae nodded and fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for half a block, their footsteps syncing without intention, both thinking about entirely different things until Yae, inevitably, was the first to break the quiet.
“So, Watson…”
Kaoru’s face flattened instantly.
“…I knew you were going to say that,” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I swear, the second we left that crime scene, I just knew you’d—ugh. You said I wasn't an assistant!”
Yae smirked—a tiny, smug upward curl of her lips, barely there but unmistakably triumphant.
“Well,” she said lightly, “you did accompany Japan’s greatest teenage detective on a case. There are certain titles that come with the honor.”
Kaoru shot her a sidelong look.
“Yae, I am not your sidekick. You said we'd be like...partners...”
“No, you're right” Yae agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re not nearly British enough for that. Or endearingly clueless enough.”
Kaoru stopped walking for a half-second, indignation simmering. “You—!”
Yae resumed leisurely, forcing Kaoru to catch up.
It took Kaoru a moment to realize the smug teasing had shifted—slightly, subtly—into something more serious. Yae’s eyes drifted forward, watching the street ahead with that intent, razor-sharp calm she only had when she was speaking as vice president and not as the gremlin who delighted in riling people up.
“So,” Yae began, her tone slipping into something cool, measured, “on the non-homicide side of things… the Council is cooperating with the Fujiwara Senki. Investigating the murders since they started on forbidden zones.”
Kaoru blinked. “That’s Shu’s idea, right?”
“Mm.”
A tiny affirmative noise.
“He asked me to formalize it. And since I’m doing that, I’m preparing for the possibility that you might officially join our little dynamic as well.”
Kaoru felt a flutter of nerves—undesired but inevitable—pulse in her chest.
“Join as what?”
Yae shrugged. “As someone I can trust not to explode. Or vanish. Or betray national secrets.”
Then, more pointedly, “As someone useful.”
Kaoru exhaled, somewhere between flattered and frustrated.
“And what does that have to do with… the Fujiwara Senki?” she asked cautiously.
Yae lifted one finger, wagging it lightly as though correcting a slow student.
“It means,” she said, “that if you’re going to be around them officially, I want you to be polite.”
Kaoru opened her mouth.
“And,” Yae continued, “I want you to avoid snooping into their personal lives.”
That made Kaoru stop walking.
“…Are you serious?” she asked. “Yae, I don’t— I’m not some gossip hound.”
“No,” Yae agreed, “but you are curious and distrustful. And you have habits.”
She tapped Kaoru’s forehead gently. “Investigator habits.”
Kaoru’s cheeks warmed, embarrassed. “I don’t pry for fun.”
“You pry because you need to,” Yae corrected, voice soft but firm. “And in normal circumstances, that’s useful. But the Senki aren’t just delinquents. They’re Shu’s allies. Our allies. And many of them are… volatile.”
Kaoru thought immediately of Momo.
Then of Momo punching Shu repeatedly.
“…Right,” Kaoru muttered.
Yae added, more lightly, “And if you poke around too much, someone might mistake it for you investigating them.”
Kaoru frowned. “Isn’t that… what we do?”
“Yes,” Yae said, “but only for the good guys.”
Then she looked at Kaoru sidelong, a smirk forming, but softer than before.
“You’re good at reading people, Kaoru. But not as good as keeping others from reading you as you'd like to think."
Kaoru absorbed that quietly.
They walked on, school rising in the distance through the morning haze.
Yae stretched, yawned once, and returned to her usual lazy gait.
“But really,” she added, “the biggest reason I’m warning you is…”
She tilted her head, but before she could continue something caught her attention.
The street outside Higan buzzed with a low, confused energy.
It wasn’t loud—not yet—but it had that particular texture Kaoru had learned to recognize over time: clustered voices, overlapping speculation, the sound of something unusual rippling outward through a student body that thrived on routine. Small knots of students had stopped along the walkway, conversations looping in tight circles.
Yae slowed first.
Kaoru noticed immediately. Yae didn’t stop often—not unless something genuinely caught her interest.
“…What’s this,” Yae murmured, eyes scanning the crowd with lazy curiosity.
Kaoru followed her gaze. “Did someone get into a fight?”
“Too few people,” Yae said. “Not enough shouting.”
They edged closer. As they did, familiar faces surfaced in the crowd, Ran Nejima standing off to one side with his hands in his pockets, expression baffled, and beside him Yaya, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’d just witnessed something fascinating but didn’t quite understand why.
Yae raised a hand. “Yo.”
Ran turned, relief flickering across his face. “Oh—hey. You guys too?”
“What happened,” Yae asked simply.
Ran scratched the back of his head. “Uh… I didn’t see the whole thing. But apparently Shu lost.”
Kaoru blinked. “Lost what.”
Ran hesitated, clearly aware of how ridiculous the words were about to sound. “…Rock, paper, scissors.”
Yae stopped walking.
Kaoru stared at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I know,” Ran said quickly. “That’s what everyone said.”
Yaya leaned in eagerly. “And not just once! He lost, like, cleanly. No ties. No redraws.”
Yae’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “That alone wouldn’t cause this.”
Ran nodded. “Right, yeah—then they did coin flips.”
“…Plural,” Kaoru said flatly.
Ran grimaced. “Plural.”
Yae exhaled softly, disbelief creeping into her voice despite herself. “You’re telling me Shu Jinkō lost at rock-paper-scissors and heads-or-tails.”
“Multiple times,” Yaya added helpfully.
Kaoru crossed her arms. “That’s impossible.”
Ran snorted weakly. “I mean, yeah. Normally I’d agree.”
Yae tilted her head, thinking. “Statistically speaking, if Shu flips a coin, he just... wins.”
Ran nodded automatically. “He once called neither and the coin landed on its side. Yeah.”
Yaya giggled. “I saw that one!”
Silence fell between them.
“…Where is he,” Kaoru asked.
Ran gestured vaguely down the street. “Uh. Not here anymore.”
Yae’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”
“So,” Ran said, counting on his fingers, “after all that, a bird—”
“A what,” Kaoru said.
“A bird,” Ran repeated. “Like, just—plop. Right on his jacket.”
Yaya made a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp. “It was direct. Like the bird had a grudge!”
Kaoru stared. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was,” Ran said. “Shu just kind of… looked down at it for a second. Didn’t even react.”
Yae frowned. “Then?”
“Then he sighed,” Ran said. “Said something like ‘huh, guess it’s one of those days,’ and went to clean up and change.”
“And that was it?” Kaoru asked.
Ran hesitated. “…Not exactly.”
Yae raised an eyebrow.
“On the way out,” Ran continued, “he tripped on absolutely nothing. Like, flat ground. Then he dropped his wallet. Then the strap on his bag snapped.”
Yaya nodded solemnly.
Kaoru felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Yae didn’t speak right away. Her gaze drifted past the crowd, toward the direction Shu had gone, her usual lazy posture tightening almost imperceptibly.
“…That’s not random,” Yae said at last.
Ran shifted. “You think so?”
“No,” Yae replied quietly. “I know so.”
Kaoru swallowed. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying,” Yae cut in, “that Shu Jinkō doesn’t just have luck.”
She glanced at Kaoru, eyes sharp now, fully awake.
“He is luck.”
The murmur of students washed around them again, unaware of the weight of what had just shifted.
Somewhere down the street, Shu was wiping bird droppings off his jacket, blissfully unaware that for the first time ever—
The universe had stopped bending for him.
And whatever had been kept at bay by his luck all this time was finally coming for him.