MUNDANE HURT: Chapter 9

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He woke up around noon. He might have dreamed something, but he couldn't remember. Nagano was gone, leaving a note on the table alongside some bread, which read, “Feel free to eat whatever you find in the house.”

The room was as silent as a coffin. The only sound was the repetitive chewing as he bit into the bread. There was no TV. He wondered why but remembered that Nagano had never been much of a TV watcher. Its absence seemed to fit, after all.

In the right corner of the room stood an old bed, and at its foot was a foldable wooden desk. The low table where he was eating was chipped along the edges, and its worn, faded surface had turned a pale shade of white. Even though Nagano must be making a decent income, there was a strong air of poverty in the room. The wall opposite the bed was entirely lined with a built-in bookcase, crammed with legal texts whose titles alone seemed dense enough to close a mental shutter in his mind.

Looking for his own clothes, he found them still stuffed in the washing machine. He opened the closet and borrowed a black down jacket. It was loose but a fairly close fit. Four hooks hung on the right-hand wall, where a belt and a key were neatly organized.

As he suspected, it was a spare key to the apartment. He pocketed it and stepped outside. The cold wind rushed at him, prompting him to zip up the jacket. The apartment was a three-story concrete building. If he left now, he’d probably never think about it again; it was the kind of plain, ordinary place that faded from memory.

He strolled around the neighborhood, glancing back at the apartment now and then. It was a quiet residential area along the riverbank. The thought of just leaving crossed his mind every few minutes. But he still felt too tired, and the cold was biting. The harsh reality was that he didn’t have a cent on him. His wallet with a few hundred yen and his phone might still be back in the hotel room where he’d been assaulted, but he had no money for the train to get there, and it was likely the yakuza had already taken them. As for the clothes he’d left at his usual manga café, he hadn’t paid his tab and had no means to settle it, so there was no way to retrieve them.

Money. Money. Without it, a person can’t do anything. He came across a small, rough playground, wedged between a parking lot and a residential building, that had nothing but a solitary swing that looked like it had been haphazardly installed. Weary, he sat down on the swing. A dull ache pulsed in his lower back, but it was much better than it had been over the past couple of days.

A few days of work could get him twenty thousand yen. That would be enough to make a break for somewhere far. He’d like to get his phone and the things from the manga café if possible. But the café tab was probably high by now.

The swing creaked painfully, even with the slightest movement. Nagano had said he could stay in the apartment for a while. It would probably be best to lie low there, save up some cash from part-time work, and then make a getaway.

He looked down, his fingers grazing his neck. Nagano’s touch from yesterday lingered strangely. Maybe he still has feelings for me... keeps me around just because he wants something. It seemed plausible, and yet somehow it didn’t. He couldn’t quite figure it out. Not that it matters, really. None of it matters. The world could blow up tomorrow, and it’d be fine.

The swing suddenly shook as though an earthquake had struck. Startled, he looked up.

“Yo.”

A man with a round face, gripping the swing’s chain, stood over him. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed him come up from behind. The man was grinning, but a cold, sinister gleam lurked behind his eyes.

“I need a word with you. Come on.”

He knew he should run, but fear gripped him, and his knees began to tremble. Unable to rise from the swing, he sat paralyzed. Growing impatient, the man seized his arm and dragged him into a parked van. No sooner had the door closed than a fist flew at him, the pain bursting across his nose. He fell backward, slamming against the van door.

“Couldn’t find you anywhere, only to learn you’ve been crashing at the lawyer’s place, huh?”

The man wiped his bloodied fist with a sneer, then casually smeared it across the front of Nishizaki’s down jacket.

"Your ex-girlfriend, the hostess—no matter how much we pressed her, she kept saying she didn’t know where you were. I thought you’d really skipped town. But then, just to be sure, we had someone watching the lawyer’s place. Bingo."

"I-it’s just... I wasn’t feeling well... and, well, he said I could stay at his place... I thought it’d be, uh... more convenient for... many things..."

The Round Face man nodded as though humoring a child. "As long as you haven’t forgotten the ‘job’ you were assigned, that’s all that matters."

He pulled a red phone from his bag and tossed it onto Nishizaki’s lap. "We need to keep in touch. Keep it on, and don’t even think of ignoring my calls. If you don’t answer, I’ll kill you."

It was like being fitted with a bell. There was no escaping them; if he didn’t pick up, he’d be hit again. Holding the phone as if it were a ticking bomb, he watched as a drop of his own blood fell onto the screen.

"Oh, and by the way, we threw out your stuff from the manga café," the man said.

Nishizaki felt his skin crawl. They had found his hiding place, the manga café he’d been using as a refuge. How? He hadn’t told anyone about it. The only person who might have known was one of the staff. The man’s tone shifted again, moving from intimidation to a disturbingly familiar camaraderie as he clapped Nishizaki on the shoulder, giving him a friendly pat.

"Don’t look so damned terrified, like a rabbit about to die. Just get the video footage, and all this will go away. You won’t even have to see me again, so don’t go getting any ideas about running."

He gestured for his associate to open the van door, then kicked Nishizaki out with enough force to send him sprawling onto the sidewalk. A woman walking her dog gasped as she saw him hit the ground, her hand flying to her mouth as she cried, "Oh my goodness, are you alright? You’re bleeding!"

Ignoring her, he stood up and made his way back to Nagano’s apartment.

In the bathroom mirror, his face was streaked with blood. He washed it off, but his bruised right cheek and swollen nose throbbed painfully. The bruises from his last beating had just started to fade, only for fresh ones to take their place. Purples, blues, yellows—the shifting colors under his skin painted a grotesque gradient.

He felt his stomach lurch and leaned over the toilet, vomiting until only bile remained. What a waste. He felt an urge to cry—not just from the loss, but from the fear gnawing at him. They terrified him. How far would they go to track his every move, to keep him cornered? If he tried to escape and they caught him, he knew they would kill him. He couldn’t stand it any longer, the pain, the dread. How could he break free from them?

If I just get the video footage of the safe for them, would that be enough? Would they leave me alone after that?

Nagano’s laptop was sitting on the desk, just waiting to be opened. He booted it up, but a password screen blocked him. He tried Nagano’s full name, last name, even his own name out of sheer desperation, but each attempt returned an error. There was no guarantee the data was even on the laptop. The original recording could be on a USB drive, an SD card, or a hard disk from the camera itself. There was nothing that looked like a data storage device in the desk drawers. If the data was important, maybe Nagano had hidden it somewhere else.

He inspected the underside of the drawers, finding nothing. Maybe he’d tucked it in among the books on the shelf? The vast, wall-spanning library of legal texts loomed over him. He started pulling down books from the far right side of the shelf, opening each one and checking between the pages. At first, he put the books back neatly, but eventually, he got tired and just started piling them up around him. Book towers grew and toppled over, scattering their contents across the floor in mini-avalanches.

As the daylight outside faded, a creeping sense of urgency gnawed at him. Nagano would be home soon. He had to get the room back in order, but he couldn’t remember where any of the books had been. The room looked as if it had been ravaged by a hurricane of books. How could he explain this mess?

“Bastard,” Nishizaki muttered, throwing a thick book against the wall. The book didn’t complain, though his own arm felt the sting from throwing it. Tears sprang to his eyes, unbidden. Something was seriously wrong. Really wrong. He felt himself slipping, the dread clawing at his insides. Pulling the blanket over his head, he burrowed into the bed, trembling. The pain in his nose throbbed as fear and frustration twisted within him, leaving him clueless about what to do next in this disaster of a room.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, shaking, until he heard the front door open. Nagano was back. What now? What was he supposed to do? Clutching the blanket tightly, he felt the dread seize him again, and he sniffled hard.

“You in here?”

A hand gently rested on his head through the sheets. A flash of the Round Face man’s ruthless fists flooded his mind, and his body jerked in reflexive terror.

“Can we talk?” Nagano’s voice was calm, not angry. Nagano wasn’t like that man. Not at all. The tension loosened ever so slightly, and then, suddenly, light streamed into his view as the blanket was lifted. Reaching to pull it back over, he accidentally met Nagano’s gaze.

“Why are you crying?” Nagano looked genuinely puzzled.

Nishizaki’s shoulders shook as he sniffled again, unable to stop.

“Your face looks swollen again.”

He wanted to explain: he’d been caught by the yakuza, punched, kicked, threatened…

“Did you get in a fight with someone?”

He couldn’t say it. There was no way he could tell Nagano that the yakuza were threatening him. Instead, he pressed his face into the sheets.

“I... I tripped at the door.”

A pathetic lie.

“Hurt like hell…”

Nagano remained silent for a moment, then asked quietly, “Is that why you took it out on the books?”

Yeah, fine, Nishizaki thought. Let him think that.

“Did letting off some steam help?”

Nishizaki looked up as Nagano cleared the books off the table, setting a bento and a bottle of tea on it. “Can you eat dinner?”

He shook his head; he couldn’t imagine eating.

“I see. I’ll leave it here, so have it when you’re ready. I’m starving, so I’ll start.”

Nagano dug into the bento, undisturbed by the room’s state of disarray. It was almost surreal, the normalcy he projected in such a chaotic setting.

“…You’re not angry?” Nishizaki asked.

“Why would I be?” Nagano replied, his mouth full.

“If someone did this to me, I’d lose it.”

“You’re not feeling well, so it makes sense if your mood’s a bit unstable. Besides, I needed to get rid of some of these books anyway. Now’s as good a time as any to organize.”

Nagano’s calm had an odd effect, like the lights coming on in a haunted house, and suddenly, what had seemed terrifying now felt strangely out of place. The smell of fried food and rice lingered in the air, sparking a faint hunger, even though his throat still burned from vomiting earlier. Climbing off the bed, he brushed some scattered books aside with his foot and sat cross-legged across from Nagano, who glanced at him briefly.

“Were you out somewhere?”

Nishizaki froze, wondering how he knew, but then saw the answer: Nagano’s down jacket lay crumpled by the table.

“I fell outside,” he mumbled.

Nagano handed him a bento and a bottle of tea. The packaging was from a familiar, inexpensive chain Nishizaki used to frequent. Somehow, its familiarity brought an unexpected comfort. He recalled that the first time he’d eaten this bento, he’d found it almost inedible, but he’d gotten used to it quickly enough. Despite having money, Nagano seemed content with cheap convenience food.

“Do you actually like this place?” he asked.

Nagano, devouring his meal with single-minded determination, gave a brief nod. “It’s on the way home from the station and stays open late.”

“Can’t you cook for yourself?”

“I don’t cook. I just eat out or buy what I need.”

He answered indifferently, as if it didn’t matter. Then Nishizaki remembered something.

“Didn’t your mom suck at cooking?”

Nagano’s chopsticks froze mid-bite.

"…That’s just normal," Nagano muttered.

"There was that one time I had dinner at your place, remember? The taste was such a shock," Nishizaki said, clearly enjoying himself.

"Maybe it was just that you grew up eating better quality food, so you got used to the finer things," Nagano replied, seemingly unwilling to admit it.

"It’s not that. Come on, your mom’s curry was practically soup. And the salad—it was so watery, I kept thinking, ‘Drain it better, please!’”

Nagano’s expression shifted, irritation showing plainly on his face. Nishizaki realized he might’ve gone a bit too far, considering he was currently in Nagano’s debt.

"Yes, our curry was pretty watery. Until I tried it at the university cafeteria, I had no idea curry could even be thick," Nagano conceded.

“So you do get it.”

“Still, you didn’t say a word about it back then, did you?” Nagano’s voice had a sharp edge, almost childishly defensive.

“Yeah, I had a little tact, you know,” Nishizaki said with a smirk. “Anyway, your mom being terrible at cooking was a blessing in disguise. If that watery curry was what you thought was good, then practically anything you eat must taste amazing now. Call it ‘eco-friendly taste buds.’”

Worried he might’ve gone too far, Nishizaki glanced over at Nagano, who muttered, looking pained, “It’s irritating, but I can’t get mad at you.”

Nishizaki let out a chuckle.

“Well, luck of the draw, I guess. Cooking skills are like a lottery,” he shrugged. His own mother cooked but specialized mostly in baking. As a kid, he would come home from school to freshly baked cookies or pound cake, which she’d present with a warm smile whenever he told her how good they tasted.

He didn’t see her face before she died. His brother had told him, She’s not the mother you remember anymore. It’s better if you don’t look. All he could recall from her funeral was the white tassel ornament on the lid of the coffin. He’d wanted to see her face, no matter how she looked. He’d known he could pull the tassel to open the small viewing window but hadn’t, hesitating until it was too late, and then she was ash… His heart twisted. Stop. Don’t go there. Bury it.

“Hey, don’t you have a girlfriend who can cook for you or something?” he asked, trying to fill the silence, afraid his thoughts might turn darker.

“No,” Nagano replied simply.

He remembered the Sukajan jacket yakuza saying Nagano didn’t have a girlfriend, only an ex who’d gotten married and moved somewhere in America… Yosemite? No, Kansas. Somewhere out there.

“Did your ex ever cook for you?”

“Just because someone’s a woman doesn’t mean she likes cooking,” Nagano said, sidestepping the question. Which likely meant…

“So your mom and your ex were both lousy cooks. Seems like you’re cursed by the god of cuisine.”

“Cooking skills aren’t why you date someone,” Nagano replied, almost philosophically.

So she really was a terrible cook, then. Nishizaki smirked. “Sure, compatibility’s the most important thing, but bonus points for looks, cooking, and other things being great too, right?”

Nagano hesitated, looking slightly put off, which only spurred Nishizaki on.

“Come on, ‘other things’ are pretty important too, you know? How was it with her?”

“What… what do you mean?” Nagano fumbled with his chopsticks, dropping them onto the table in a fluster.

“It’s not exactly polite conversation,” Nagano finally managed, as if the topic were some kind of national secret.

“I happen to love this kind of talk.”

“Crass subjects like this are just… vulgar.”

Nishizaki practically choked on laughter. Vulgar? What was this, the Victorian era? He clutched his stomach, rolling around, laughing as Nagano scolded him, only to laugh harder. His stomach hurt from it, and he could barely breathe, while Nagano continued to eat with the calm composure of a monk.

“You’re not a virgin, right?” he managed to ask between fits of laughter.

Nagano glared at him, eyebrows knitted sharply. “Of course not.” And Nishizaki believed him.

“But you definitely give off major virgin vibes. So… was your ex the only one you’ve ever been with?”

Nagano’s face turned ashen, then immediately flushed a bright red, his earlobes practically glowing, as if they’d catch fire any second.

"Sex is just another experience, you know? You should try it with more women," Nishizaki said.

"I only want to do it with someone I actually like!" Nagano’s response was like something out of a middle schooler’s mouth. Nishizaki couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Nagano, looking deeply uncomfortable, stood up and headed for the kitchen. Nishizaki couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that. Lately, his place in the world had felt so low that he’d forgotten what it was like to feel superior, even jokingly, at someone else’s expense.

But as the laughter faded, a wave of unease crept in. Nagano hadn’t come back yet. Maybe I laughed too much, he thought. What if Nagano was actually mad? What if he told him to leave? That would be a problem; it was already dark out, and the thought of running into the Round Face thug again terrified him.

He figured he should apologize. Moving to the sliding door that separated the hallway from the room, he opened it slowly. A faint whiff of smoke greeted him.

Nagano was under the kitchen vent, smoking. Despite his earlier, almost innocent declarations, he looked surprisingly at ease doing it.

“You smoke?” Nishizaki asked, remembering how much Nagano had hated cigarettes in high school.

“...Sometimes,” he replied.

Nishizaki reached out and snatched the cigarette from him, bringing it to his lips. These days, if he smoked, it was usually weed. Normal cigarettes felt strange in comparison.

“This is stale or something. Tastes like crap,” he said, sticking the cigarette back between Nagano’s lips. As he did, his fingers brushed against Nagano’s mouth. Nagano flinched, and ashes scattered to the floor. Maybe what’s left of his old feelings is like that ash, Nishizaki thought.

“Smoking doesn’t suit you,” he remarked.

Nagano, looking sulky, stubbed the cigarette out in the sink, a thin line of smoke trailing upward. Apologizing suddenly felt awkward.

“Maybe you shouldn’t smoke. Bad for you, you know,” Nishizaki said, knowing how forced he sounded. But Nagano’s sullen look faded, replaced by a shy smile. This was his chance.

“Hey, sorry for laughing at you earlier,” he said.

Nagano glanced up at him, stealing a quick look.

“You were so dead serious, I just wanted to mess with you a little.”

“It’s fine,” Nagano replied.

Yeah, because you retreated into the hallway with your cigarette, Nishizaki thought but held back. He needed to address something more important anyway.

“...Like I said before, I quit my job and don’t have any money right now. I’ll get a part-time gig, but would it be okay if I stayed here until I saved enough to get a place? I’ll pay you back once I’m back on my feet.”

“Don’t worry about it; take it easy.”

“Thanks,” Nishizaki said. He needed the time, not just to rest, but to search for that video footage. He didn’t plan to stay longer than necessary—just enough to finish what he had to and then disappear. He looked down and exhaled quietly.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Nagano stayed up late, tidying the scattered books. Since Nishizaki had been the one to cause the mess, he had joined in to help, but halfway through, fatigue got the better of him, and he gave up. He lay down on the bed, listening to Nagano shuffle and rustle as he worked, unable to fall asleep. It was his fault, so he couldn’t complain. Somewhere in the liminal space between waking and sleep, exhaustion claimed him.

He woke to the sound of rustling again. The room was dim. He checked his phone—6 a.m. Dawn. Nagano had changed out of the sweatpants he used as pajamas and was now in a tracksuit.

“Heading to the convenience store?”

Nagano turned, looking directly at Nishizaki as he asked, “Want me to pick up anything for you?”

“…You’re not going to the convenience store?”

“I’m going for a run. I’ve skipped the past few days.”

Stretching his body as if to loosen up, Nagano left the room. As Nishizaki dragged himself out of bed, he was surrounded by a chill that cut straight through him. Cold. Shivering violently, he pulled the curtain aside. The window was fogged over with condensation, and he wiped it clean with his palm. The glass cleared, revealing Nagano jogging along the sidewalk. His running form was just as graceful as Nishizaki remembered from years ago. He watched until Nagano disappeared from view, then retreated into the warm embrace of the sheets.

Despite his sleepiness, he couldn’t fall back asleep. After much restless tossing and turning, he curled up in the sheets and moved back to the window. Peering through a gap in the curtain, he stared drowsily at the sidewalk below. Nagano returned about 40 minutes later. Nishizaki saw his figure cross the sidewalk and disappear into the building. Quickly, he returned to the bed, feigning sleep.

He remembered Nagano leaving for work a little after 8 a.m., but everything after that was a blur. The next time he woke, it was just before noon. The futon Nagano had been using was folded neatly and placed in the corner of the room. On the table, there was a note:

"If you need it to look for a job, feel free to use my computer."

It even included the password, written meticulously. Nishizaki felt ridiculous for having struggled so much with the locked computer the day before.

He booted up the computer right away. Over the next five hours, he opened every file he could find, but there were no images or copies of anything resembling the safe. On a whim, he checked the trash folder and found one discarded file. It turned out to be a work document, detailing a dispute with a neighbor over garden shrubs. It had nothing to do with the yakuza or the safe.

It seemed Nagano used the computer for work as well, but he kept no significant records on it. The email system was locked behind an ID and password, which Nishizaki didn’t have, making it inaccessible. Knowing Nagano’s meticulous nature, the fact that he had so readily lent out the computer suggested there was nothing on it he was worried about anyone seeing. Even digging through the browser history yielded only shopping websites, weather forecasts, and travel guides to foreign destinations. The bookmarks were just as mundane.

After staring at the screen for so long, Nishizaki’s eyes began to ache. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and leaned back, sighing. There was nothing on this computer. Yesterday’s search of the bookshelf had also come up empty. If the data was being stored at Nagano’s workplace… That’s a dead end.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the shrill sound of an electronic ringtone. The smartphone the round-face man had handed him, left untouched on the bedside table, was now demanding attention. I don’t want to answer it. But the memory of the man’s threat—Answer, or I’ll kill you—made him pick it up with trembling hands. The screen wasn’t locked. A tap connected the call.

“Hey, it’s me,” said the voice on the other end.

There was only one person it could be.

“That phone I gave you—notice anything missing? Like a charger?”

When Nishizaki didn’t respond, the man snapped, “You hearing me, you little shit?”

“Y-yes!” Nishizaki stammered, sitting up straight as if the man could see him.

“I brought one for you. Get your ass downstairs and pick it up. Now.”

Grabbing his keys and the phone, Nishizaki rushed down the stairs. Outside, the sky was painted with the orange and black gradient of early evening. He stepped onto the sidewalk and looked left and right, but the round-face man was nowhere in sight. Wandering around the apartment complex, he was startled when someone bumped into him from behind.

It was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with a shaved head. He silently shoved a bundle of cables into Nishizaki’s chest before walking away without a word.

The smartphone buzzed again in his hand.

“Did you get it?”

The round-face man’s voice demanded confirmation. It seemed he had sent his subordinate to deliver the charger and wasn’t nearby himself. As Nishizaki stared at the charging cord swinging against his chest, he realized this might be his only chance to talk.

“Uh… can I say something?”

The Round Face man snorted. “Huh?”

“I looked around the apartment, but there was nothing that seemed to hold the data. His computer was spotless too. It doesn’t look like he keeps work-related documents at home.”

A short silence followed, then a dismissive “Hmm.”

“If it’s not at his house, then… I mean, there’s really nothing I can do,” Nishizaki added, his voice faltering.

“Then ask him directly,” came the sharp reply.

“There’s no way I can do that! He’ll wonder why I know about his work files, and it’ll make him suspicious.”

“Do it.”

The growling tone of the man’s voice hit Nishizaki like a physical blow.

“I don’t care if he gets suspicious or not. All I want is the video footage,” the man said.

“But if he gets too cautious…”

“That’s your problem. Handle it!”

Nishizaki’s protests dissolved into silence.

“It’s fine if you can’t get the information from him,” the man added after a pause. “But you’ll have to make up for it somehow.”

The memory of being told he’d be fed to the dogs resurfaced, and Nishizaki’s lips quivered.

“Do it like your life depends on it, you worthless piece of shit!” The voice over the phone felt like it was drilling into his skull.

“Punch yourself,” the man said suddenly.

“W-what?” Nishizaki stammered, caught off guard.

“Punch your own damn face.”

“W-wait, what? What are you saying?” His voice cracked in panic.

“You don’t have enough grit. Do it!”

The command made no sense. But then again, the man couldn’t see him. Nishizaki lightly touched his right cheek with his fist, barely applying pressure.

“I hit myself,” he said quickly.

“Don’t give me that crap!” The man’s voice roared. “That pathetic excuse for a punch wouldn’t even swat a fly. You call that hitting yourself?”

Nishizaki froze, his whole body stiff with fear. He glanced around frantically but saw no sign of the round-face man. Yet he felt as though he were being watched.

“Do it properly! Or I’ll kill you!”

Driven by sheer terror, Nishizaki struck his own cheek.

“Still holding back, huh? Keep going until you’re bleeding. Or would you rather one of my boys beat you half to death?”

Tears streaming down his face, Nishizaki hit himself again. Then again. Passersby stared in shock, giving the man punching himself a wide berth as they hurried past. Through the phone, the round-face man laughed, the sound echoing mockingly before cutting off.

The call had ended. Nishizaki broke out in a cold sweat, wondering if he’d accidentally hung up. He redialed in a panic, but the man didn’t answer. It must’ve been him who hung up. Relief washed over him.

The wind stirred his bangs, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. I can’t take this anymore. This is impossible. I’m done.

His legs began moving on their own. He didn’t know where he was going, but he needed to get away. Away from this impossible nightmare. A park, under a bridge—it didn’t matter where he ended up as long as it wasn’t here.

As he wandered aimlessly, he felt a pair of eyes on his back. He turned quickly, but no one who resembled the round-face man’s subordinates was there. Even so, the sensation of being watched wouldn’t leave him. If they’re tailing me, I can’t go anywhere isolated. A dark, deserted spot would be suicide.

Unconsciously, his feet carried him toward the busiest area he could find.

He eventually arrived in front of a subway station. The noise of commuters—students, workers—comforted him. Exhausted from all the walking, he slumped down next to a public phone. For now, he felt safe, but what about when the last train left and the station emptied? They could come for me then.

Across the street, he spotted a police box. If I ran in there, would they help me? But what if they found out about the drugs? Would I get arrested? Maybe that would be safer—if they threw him in jail, the yakuza wouldn’t be able to touch him. But then what? If they let me out on probation, I’d be dead for sure.

I can’t run. I have no money, nowhere to go. And that guy won’t listen to excuses.

Nishizaki felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff. The only way to escape this nightmare was to get the video footage, no matter what it took. That was his only option.

The problem is that the video footage isn't in his apartment—so what should I do? If I just outright ask, "Where’s the video of the safe?" someone like Nagano, with his straight-laced personality, would immediately get suspicious and never say a word.

Threaten him? Tie him up while he’s sleeping, hold a knife to his throat… That would… His thoughts spiraled into darkness. That’d make me a full-blown criminal.

But I wouldn’t actually kill him. Just scare him a little. Except… this is Nagano we’re talking about. He’s the type who’d keep his mouth shut even if it cost him his life.

A sharp gust of wind hit him, making his whole body shiver. He’d rushed outside when the phone rang and forgotten his jacket. During his frantic walk, fear had consumed him, and he hadn’t noticed the cold, but now it was seeping into his bones. Even women wearing heavy coats were hunching their shoulders against the chill, their coat hems flapping like flags in the wind.

A memory surfaced of a fairy tale he’d read as a child—the one where the North Wind tried to blow off people’s clothes. No matter how hard it blew, no one took off their coat. But when the sun shone warm and bright, everyone shed their layers willingly.

Right. If Nagano’s guarded, the key is to lower his guard. Isn’t that how it works? He remembered the old concept of a “honey trap.” If he could get Nagano to fall for him, maybe even start a relationship, that stiff, rule-abiding man might relax enough to share things.

It’d be ridiculous to try a honey trap with a guy if we were just old classmates, Nishizaki thought. But Nagano had been infatuated with him in high school. Obsessed, even.

Nagano had dated women since, and it wasn’t clear if he was still into men, but… he took me in, even though I’m a wreck. His touch lingers sometimes. The way he glances at me… there might be a chance.

The arrival of a train released a tide of people from the station. Among the moving mass of similar coats, Nishizaki thought he spotted Nagano. Why is he here? Then it clicked—this was the closest station to Nagano’s place, and it was around the time he’d be heading back.

If I stick with him, if we’re together, that Round Face bastard probably won’t try anything.

Nishizaki got to his feet and began trailing the man he believed to be Nagano. But the figure moved quickly, almost as if propelled by a motor, leaving Nishizaki struggling to keep up, panting for breath.

At a red light, the man finally stopped. Nishizaki managed to catch up, glancing up to confirm: it was Nagano, staring straight ahead across the intersection.

Just say something. "Hey." Or, "Yo." But his voice wouldn’t come. His hand clenched tightly around the briefcase he carried.

Nagano turned, noticing Nishizaki. His eyes widened in surprise.

“I just… stepped out for a bit,” Nishizaki said, forcing a polite smile.

“What happened to your face?”

Reflexively, Nishizaki touched his cheek. The spot where he’d hit himself earlier throbbed, hot and swollen. His hand slipped, and the charging cord he’d been holding fell to the ground. Nagano bent down and picked it up.

“My face? Oh, uh… I tripped again. Still shaky on my feet, so I keep stumbling. But I needed a charger, so I went out to buy one…”

“This? It’s not even in a bag.”

“Threw it out. The packaging was annoying. It’s used anyway.”

“I could’ve gotten one for you.”

A bitter wind whipped around them, making Nishizaki’s whole body tremble. He let out a loud sneeze and hastily wiped his dripping nose on the cuff of his sweatshirt.

“Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?”

“Yeah. Freezing.”

Nagano set down his briefcase, took off his black coat, and handed it to him. Too cold to protest or refuse, Nishizaki slipped his arms into the sleeves. The coat was warm and carried Nagano’s scent. The fabric was soft, almost clingy—cashmere, perhaps. For someone who’d once been poor, it surprised Nishizaki that Nagano wore something so expensive. But then again, as a lawyer, he couldn’t afford to look cheap in front of his clients.

The light turned green, and they started walking. When Nishizaki matched his stride, Nagano slowed his pace slightly. He glanced at Nishizaki a few times, seeming unsure. Is he… self-conscious around me?

“Why do you keep looking at me?” Nishizaki asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What a mess your face is."

"Shut up. Stop looking at me."

Snapping at him, Nishizaki immediately regretted it. Nagano turned his gaze away and didn’t look back. Great. This is the worst. Acting like a hedgehog toward someone I’m trying to reel in with a honey trap? Genius. The awkward silence stretched between them as they walked along the path back to the apartment.

…Come to think of it, we walked like this once before, back in high school. Nishizaki remembered tagging along with Nagano on a nighttime stroll, trying to get closer to him. Back then, he’d wanted to break through Nagano’s rigid demeanor, clinging to him like an annoying puppy, desperate for some connection.

"Have you looked into any part-time jobs yet?" Nagano asked suddenly, his tone casual and unassuming, without glancing in Nishizaki’s direction.

"Yeah, sort of. My last workplace was awful, so I’m trying to be careful this time."

"That’s smart."

Nagano accepted his words without a hint of doubt. He really believes me? Nishizaki hadn’t even started searching for a job, but the excuse of “being careful” was an easy shield to keep Nagano from pushing further—for now.

"If there’s anything you’re struggling with, I’m here to help. Just ask."

It wasn’t some polite platitude. Nagano genuinely meant it. His sincerity was palpable, creating a momentary warmth between them.

"You’re a nice guy, you know that?" Nishizaki said.

"It’s nothing special," Nagano replied simply.

"Speaking of, we used to date in our junior year, didn’t we?"

Nagano’s cheek twitched slightly. Bingo.

"Oh? Did you forget? It’s been a while, I guess." Nishizaki kept his tone light, as though he didn’t care much about the answer.

Nagano turned to him, his voice steady. "I didn’t forget."

"Really? You didn’t say anything, so I thought maybe you had."

"I figured you wouldn’t want me to bring it up."

"Why not?"

Nagano didn’t answer. If he were truly over me, he’d laugh and say, “Yeah, we did,” without hesitation. The fact that he couldn’t… That wasn’t about me not wanting to talk about it. It was about him.

It’s because I dumped him. Quickly lost interest, started avoiding him, and then ended it. That’s what bothers him, isn’t it? He’s the one who feels awkward about it.

Not wanting to push too far, Nishizaki let out a dismissive laugh. "Well, whatever. Doesn’t matter now."

Nagano’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t say another word for the rest of the walk home, his silence taut with unspoken emotion.

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