Vampire and His Pleasant Companions: Volume 5 - Part 12

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Al flapped his wings through a light drizzle, following the now-familiar path to the center. Rain yesterday, rain today—not a single sunny day since returning to Japan. The endless humidity felt like it could drown him. While flying along the riverbank early that morning, he’d seen clusters of hydrangeas blooming in a flowerbed by the roadside. Unfortunately, being a bat meant his vision was all in grayscale—he couldn’t see their beautiful colors.

At night, he’d been searching tirelessly for part-time jobs, applying here and there, but never getting hired. There’d been one that looked promising, and he’d happily told Nukariya about it, only to be told it was a front for an organized crime group. He’d panicked and withdrawn his application. Things weren’t easy.

About fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the center. He tried landing on the break room’s windowsill, but the rain had made it slick—his claws slipped and he fell with a thud into the grass below. Lying on his back, staring up at the dreary sky, Al was hit with the grim thought that today might be cursed from the start. No, no—that wasn’t true. Just because something bad happened in the morning didn’t mean the whole day was ruined. There was still hope for a happy rest of the day.

He pushed himself upright and grabbed the windowsill again. Carefully, he peeked into the break room. As usual, Hatono was the only one in this early.

“Gyah gyah!” he called out loudly. She noticed him right away, hurried over, and opened the window. As he wriggled inside, she gave him a smile and said, “Good morning, bat.” Al would have preferred she called him by name—Al, not “bat”—but he couldn’t complain. For someone so cool and sharp-tongued in manner and appearance, she was surprisingly friendly to him.

Kanezaki, the other associate embalmer, never opened the window no matter how much Al cried from outside. He clearly understood what Al wanted but would just glance back and say, “Sorry, Takatsuka-san told me not to let you in,” as if that explained everything. Hatono probably got the same warning—but clearly ignored it. Koyanagi, too, would sneak him in when Akira wasn’t around, whispering, “Don’t tell Takatsuka-san,” followed by a flimsy excuse like, “I opened the window and he just sort of flew in.” Al was certain now—he had at least two allies here.

As a show of good manners, Al shook the water off his soaked body by the window before flying to Akira’s desk. Since Akira absolutely refused to open the window, the only way to legally enter this break room was to come early when Hatono arrived.

It had been about a week since they reunited, and every morning Al showed up at the break room, but the distance between him and Akira hadn’t closed at all. He could only watch him from nearby. When Akira left for the day, he never brought Al home with him. Al had tried to follow a few times, but no matter how much he cried, the windows and door to Akira’s apartment remained shut.

A big reason they couldn’t grow closer was that Al couldn’t talk to him. As a bat, communication was limited to messages typed on a smartphone—but even that, Akira no longer allowed. Al knew he’d be scolded, so he couldn’t muster the courage to take human form. In the end, his fear of Akira’s anger kept him from facing him properly.

From 1 p.m. to 3 p.m., Al would revert to human form, but since he stayed a bat the rest of the time, it wasn’t a big issue. If the transformation were forced during other hours, finding clothes would be a problem. Thankfully, Akira didn’t know the exact mechanics of Al’s new body.

At first, just being able to see Akira again had been enough. But once that desire was satisfied, he found himself wanting more—to be closer, to talk, to be understood. There’s no end to wanting, once it begins.

As he sat on Akira’s desk with his wings spread wide to dry, Hatono, now fully made-up, stood over him with her arms crossed, looking down with a serious expression.

“I have a few words for you.”

Lately, Hatono had been speaking to him more and more. At first, she’d treated him like a dumb animal, assuming he couldn’t understand a word. But after Al responded with nods, cries, and other gestures, it seemed she’d started to suspect he might actually understand what she was saying.

“Takatsuka-san has the day off today.”

The news hit like a splash of cold water, and Al couldn’t help blurting out, “Gyah?”—Why?

Embalmers usually had two days off per week, but their schedule was dictated by the volume of embalming requests, meaning their days off fluctuated. Yesterday, when Al had checked the schedule, Akira had been listed as working today… though it was Sunday.

“There was a change regarding a body that was scheduled for processing, and the embalming got canceled. Since Takatsuka-san already had afternoon plans and was going to take that time off, they figured he might as well take the whole day. Matsumura-san told me.”

It was now certain that Al wouldn’t get to see Akira at all today. The shock left him frozen, mouth agape in disbelief.

“You look surprised.”

He nodded reflexively, and Hatono let out a small chuckle. Still, what kind of plans did Akira have this afternoon? Back when they were living together, he’d only taken time off for trips back to America or if he was feeling unwell. Could it be… was he sick?

Worried, Al let out a soft “Gyuu…” and Hatono asked gently, “Are you lonely?”

"Then why don't you go after him? He said he was heading to a children's care facility."

Hearing that brought it back to Al—some time ago, a man named Yonekura, who worked at the orphanage Akira once lived in, had asked him to come give a talk. Was that happening today?

He wanted to sneak a look at Akira giving a lecture—but he didn’t know where the facility was. Even if someone showed him the address, he couldn’t read the place names. Should he go outside and try to track Akira by scent? But unless Akira had his own blood on him, even Al’s sharp vampire nose wouldn’t be able to follow him.

Better to narrow it down with clues than fly around aimlessly. He could go home once, turn human, and try searching for the facility on his smartphone. But with his still-shaky kanji skills, could he even find it?

While Al stewed in uncertainty, Hatono plopped down on the break room sofa, sipping vegetable juice with a slurp before flipping on the TV. The weather forecast was on, and Hatono pressed a hand to her forehead and furrowed her brows.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain all day. If it’s still pouring when I head home, I’ll end up soaked. I really hate getting wet. Don’t you?”

"Gyah!" Al answered. (Yeah!)

While they were chatting, Koyanagi arrived at work. He, too, informed Al that Takatsuka-san wasn’t in today. Shortly after, the other Associate Embalmer, Kanezaki, entered the break room.

Since their supervisor Akira was off, it looked like Kanezaki would be helping Koyanagi and Hatono with today’s body preparation. The room would soon be empty again—Al had to decide what to do.

Just as he concluded that he should go home and look up the facility online, hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway. They were too heavy for Matsumura, the office clerk. Just as he thought—it was Akira, slamming the door open despite supposedly having the day off.

“Huh? Takatsuka-san, what brings you here?” Koyanagi tilted his head.

“I forgot the materials for my lecture.”

Akira shot a glance at the bat on his desk but utterly ignored him and began rummaging through the shelves.

“What are you going to talk about in your lecture?” Hatono asked his back.

“The history of embalming,” Akira replied, still not turning around.

“Ah, I see. That sounds terribly dull.”

His hands, which had been restlessly flipping through files, suddenly froze.

“I heard the audience will be from elementary to high school. Don’t you think giving children a stiff history lecture will just put them to sleep?”

Al had sort of thought the same. Akira turned around—his expression slightly scary.

“No topic was assigned, and I wasn’t told to make it ‘fun.’”

“I only meant,” Hatono shrugged, “that you might consider a topic kids could actually relate to. If I were a child and someone lectured me about embalming history, I’d be asleep in three minutes, guaranteed. Ah, but maybe you want your audience to nap during your lecture?”

“Hatono-san, that’s a bit much,” Koyanagi said gently, trying to rein her in, but Hatono acted as if she hadn’t heard.

Akira didn’t say anything, but the anatomy textbook in his hands twitched ever so slightly—betraying his growing irritation.

“The lecture’s theme is bioethics. To convey that properly, I felt starting with the origin of embalming—”

“If you're going to tie bioethics to embalming, I’d say you’ll need to drop in a few fun anecdotes or you’ll lose every kid’s attention,” Hatono cut in.

She wasn’t wrong, which only seemed to deepen Akira’s inner conflict. Even Koyanagi was at a loss for a counterargument.

“Honestly, isn’t this whole lecture thing a bit much for you, Takatsuka-san? You’re not exactly overflowing with stories or particularly great at public speaking. You’d probably make a bigger impression if you just performed a sketch about embalming for the kids.”

A sketch… That was about as far from Akira’s world as one could get. A comedy routine on embalming, in front of children? It was an impossibly high hurdle. His cheeks were visibly stiffening under the pressure.

"I-I'm not trying to make kids laugh their heads off!"

"I understand that," Hatono replied coolly, "but if they won’t listen in the first place, the whole point of the lecture is lost, right?"

She hacked down Akira’s resistance with the precision of a seasoned swordswoman.

"If you’re so dead set on giving a dry, snooze-inducing talk while clutching a textbook, why not take along that freakishly smart and dexterous bat and have him do some tricks from time to time? That way the kids might actually stay focused."

Hearing himself volunteered, Al straightened up with a crisp, proud motion.

“Oh, that might actually be a good idea,” Koyanagi chimed in at the perfect moment.

“Al is smart, and if he does something fun at the start of the talk, it’ll hook the kids. My own kid loves animals.”

Al’s lips curled into a warm smile. It was a good idea. If it was under the pretense of helping Akira, he could stick by his side openly. If he could be useful and bring joy, there was no way he could pass up this chance. With a burst of flapping wings, he took off and landed squarely on Akira’s shoulder.

“Don’t land on me!”

Akira snapped, trying to tear him off. But Al clung tight, digging his claws into the shoulder of Akira’s summer jacket. Akira, clearly frustrated at Al’s disobedience, stripped off the jacket and shook it violently in every direction. Al’s vision spun in dizzying circles, but he couldn’t afford to lose this battle. He clung with all his might.

Realizing Al wasn’t coming off no matter what, Akira gave up and, with a sour expression, reluctantly put the bat-adorned jacket back on. A body arrived for embalming, and the other three exited the break room.

Akira sat at his desk, flipping through an English-language anatomy book for a while. Then, a little past noon, he placed the book into his tote bag and left the room. It seemed he intended to take Al with him. Al thanked Hatono silently in his heart for her strategic assist.

Akira cast a frosty glare—one usually reserved for bird droppings—at the bat on his shoulder, then silently started the car. They were headed to the facility where teenage Akira had once lived. Al was burning with curiosity—what kind of place was it?

Al had volunteered once at a local children’s home when he was young. It was clean, like a school dormitory. The children had been so warm and affectionate, and some had even cried when it was time for Al to leave.

After about thirty minutes, they left the suburbs. The car slowed near a park in an old residential neighborhood, and ahead came a gated building. Akira passed it, then turned right and drove around to the back. He parked in a space marked “For Facility Staff Only.”

Even after parking, Akira stayed in the car. He didn’t do anything—just leaned against the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. About ten minutes passed before he finally sat up and grabbed the tote bag from the passenger seat.

He stepped out into the light drizzle and opened his umbrella. The parking lot was adjacent to the facility, and there was a small gate in the fence that looked like a staff entrance. Akira walked there without hesitation and pulled the doorknob.

Click-clack. Locked.

With a small “tsk” of irritation, he walked along the fence. The sidewalk was poor, dotted with puddles, which Akira nimbly sidestepped as he went. When he reached the front—past the gate pillars and iron door—he stopped. The metal gate was barred and locked as well. He’d have to call out for someone to let him in.

From the car, it hadn’t been visible, but the building beyond the gate was a sprawling one-story structure. It extended far back, but the roof paint was faded, and the walls stained and darkened with age. It looked quite old.

The yard, roughly the size of two tennis courts, had several children—probably around lower elementary school age—running around in the rain, shouting gleefully as if the weather didn’t matter. One of them stood still, watching Akira intently. Slowly, the child began to walk toward him.

"Hello."

The little girl, whose head barely reached Akira’s stomach, had her hair neatly trimmed just above her shoulders. With a shy smile, she clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her head slightly.

"Hello," Akira replied, curt as ever.

"What's that?"

The girl pointed at Akira’s shoulder. He glanced at it briefly—at him—then answered, "A bat."

At once, the girl let out a loud, "Waaah!"

"A bat! A bat! Amazing!"

Excited, the little girl clenched her fists and bounced up and down on the spot.

"Emiri wants to touch the bat!"

So the girl's name was Emiri. Akira remained with his arms crossed and didn’t say yes.

"Hey, hey, I wanna touch it! Let me touch it! Let meee!"

Her voice kept getting louder. Akira frowned deeply, thought for a moment, then grabbed Al off his shoulder with a rough rip and held him firmly.

"Hold out your hand."

Emiri slipped her right palm through the bars of the gate.

"Gently," Akira instructed. "Bats are small and delicate."

He placed Al onto her outstretched hand. Maybe because she'd been warned ahead of time, Emiri reached out and softly stroked Al’s back.

"He’s fluffy. Like a hamster. So cute."

The other children who’d been playing came swarming over from all directions. Seeing Emiri, they started calling out—"I wanna touch the bat too!" "Me too!"—one after another. Akira quickly took command of the situation.

"If you want to touch it, line up. Be gentle, very gentle. And each of you gets ten seconds."

"What are you all doing?"

A slender woman wearing an apron hurried over. Akira, who had been crouched down, rose to his full height in one smooth motion. The woman, likely in her mid-forties, stared at Akira’s face for a moment, then gasped and cupped her cheeks with both hands.

"Wait… are you Akira-kun?"

Akira bowed his head deeply to her.

"It’s been a while, Ishimoto-san."

"It really is you, Akira-kun!"

The woman—called Ishimoto—repeated herself, "It really is, really…"

"Kaito told me you might come to talk to the children, but I wasn’t sure if I should believe it. He said it would depend on your schedule, and that you might not be able to come if something came up at work. But look at you… you’ve grown into such a fine young man…"

Her eyes, gazing up at Akira, shimmered with tears. She gently wiped the corners of her eyes and opened the gate to welcome back one of the facility’s former children.

“When Kaito told me about you, I really wanted to see you too. You look well. You’re doing okay? Are you happy?”

Akira paused briefly, then nodded. "Yes."

"I’m glad. Truly. After you left here, we completely lost track of you. The high school teacher told us you'd gone to study in America, but none of us had heard a word about it. We were shocked, wondering how you'd even managed that…"

Wiping the tears that kept coming, Ishimoto smiled.

"But I suppose all that’s in the past now, right? Your talk with the kids isn’t until two-thirty, so you’re quite early."

"Kaito told me this time."

"Ah, I see. Well, this place hasn’t changed at all, just so you know."

The children looked up at the tearful Ishimoto with concern. She quickly wiped her eyes and placed a hand on Akira’s shoulder.

"This young man here," she told them, "is a graduate of this home—Takatsuka Akira-san. He’s come today to speak with all of you."

Introduced by Ishimoto, Akira seemed to feel he should say something and gave a short bow. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello!” the children echoed in chorus, cheerful and energetic, all eyes fixed on Akira, waiting for his next words. But he fell silent again, and so the moment fizzled out.

“You’re still as shy as ever,” Ishimoto said with a laugh, gently urging him inside the building. Up close, the single-story facility revealed cracks in the concrete walls and chipping along the lower edges. There was an air of worn-down austerity that carried a subtle melancholy.

Inside, it was dim, with an atmosphere oddly reminiscent of the temples seen on Japanese TV. Along the wall stood a large shoe cabinet, and wooden boards were laid out on the floor with visible gaps between the slats. Al wondered what they were for, until he noticed both Akira and Ishimoto taking off their shoes on them.

The hallway floor was covered in old linoleum—patched in spots with whitish material, giving it a mottled appearance. Nothing about the place suggested any abundance of funds.

Akira was led to a room roughly the size of ten tatami mats. Al glanced up at the wall clock—12:45 p.m. The lecture wasn’t scheduled until 2:30, so there was still over an hour and a half to wait.

The sofa in the center of the room looked solid and weighty, but as he drew closer, the fabric surface showed clear signs of wear—thin patches where the material had rubbed away. This must be a reception room, Al guessed.

“Nothing’s changed since I was here,” Akira said, running a hand over the armrest of the sofa.

“It’s all falling apart, right?” Ishimoto replied with a wry smile, placing tea and some snacks on the low table before sitting down across from him.

“We haven’t had the budget to update anything,” she added.

“Is the operation struggling financially?”

At Akira’s question, Ishimoto chuckled behind her hand.

“You talk the same as ever. I remember thinking you sounded far too grown-up for your age. Now, though, it finally fits. Still—don’t know why, but it makes me laugh.”

The look she gave him was full of warmth, like that of a mother gazing at her child.

“If things are tough, I’ll help,” Akira offered. “I don’t make a fortune, but I can spare something—”

“It’s all right. Really, don’t worry about it,” Ishimoto cut in firmly.

“Money’s always been tight, past and present. But I believe we’re giving the children at least the minimum they need. I don’t want to rely on the kids who left this place. Financial support—even the smallest amount—becomes a burden. I don’t want this facility to ever become a weight that holds them back. More than anything, I want them to live their own lives now.”

Akira murmured a quiet “I see,” and looked down.

“Sorry, I brought up the sofa and made you worry,” Ishimoto said. “Let’s talk about you instead. Start with the bat. What’s the story with him?”

Apparently, she’d been curious about Al—glancing at him more than once. In response, Al tilted his head cutely and let out a well-timed “Gya!”—a gesture meant to charm. It worked like a dream. Ishimoto’s face lit up with a smile. “He’s adorable.”

“He, uh… became a pet by accident,” Akira muttered, adding a strange preface when just “pet” would have sufficed.

“It’s unusual to keep a bat. Is it okay to let him roam around?”

“He’s tame,” Akira said.

Sensing this was his cue, Al rubbed his head affectionately against Akira’s neck.

“He really is tame, isn’t he? Is it all right if I pet him?”

Without a word, Akira grabbed Al off his shoulder with a rip and placed him on the low table in front of the sofa.

“It’s fine.”

As Ishimoto reached out, Al stepped forward and let her stroke his back gently with her fingers.

“He’s so calm.”

Ishimoto’s fingers were warm, but the skin around her nails was rough and peeling, her hands chapped and dry. Maybe her job was tough, Al thought, and he gently nuzzled his cheek against the coarse patch in sympathy.

“Fufu, how sweet. Maybe he’s gentle because his owner is gentle,” Ishimoto said with a soft smile.

Akira looked like he wanted to say something, but he simply lowered his gaze and said nothing. Ishimoto stood from the sofa, glancing at her watch. “Ah, it’s already this late.”

“We were supposed to hold the bazaar outside in the garden, but because of the rain we had to move it to the cafeteria. It’s much smaller, so it’s been hectic. Once it’s over, I’ll have more time to chat, so let’s talk then, okay? I’ll let Kaito know you’ve arrived. Until the event, please relax here.”

With that, Ishimoto left the reception room. Akira looked around for a while, then slowly stood and walked toward a wall lined with children’s drawings and photos. He stared at them in silence. Some of the photos were clearly old and faded. Al narrowed his eyes, trying to see if any of them showed Akira as a child, but in the group shots, the faces were too small to tell.

Without warning, the door creaked open. Akira turned instinctively. It was Yonekura, the man who had invited him to speak. He was dressed in a dark tracksuit—much more subdued compared to the brighter clothing Ishimoto wore.

“Thank you for coming today,” Yonekura said. “Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“It’s fine,” Akira replied curtly. Not the friendliest response—Al couldn’t help feeling a little frustrated. Couldn’t he be just a little more pleasant? But then again, this was typical Akira.

“Ishimoto-san was so moved she cried, you know. She’s the only one still working here from when you were at the facility.”

Yonekura pulled out a paper labeled “Bazaar Schedule” and used it to explain the rough outline of the day’s events. It was simple—just a short talk with the kids on a makeshift stage. The whole explanation was over quickly.

“By the way, Takatsuka-san, have you had lunch yet? I can bring it now.”

He handed Akira the paper as he asked.

“No, I don’t need it,” Akira said.

“Won’t you get hungry?”

“There’s food at the bazaar, isn’t there?”

“They are, but it’s just things like yakisoba and karaage.”

“That’s good enough. I was planning to check out the bazaar anyway.”

“Oh right,” Yonekura said, clapping his hands lightly.

“Remember that time at the flea market when I was stuck manning a stall alone because the older kid ditched me? You happened to walk by and stayed with me the whole time. I’ve never forgotten that.”

He smiled fondly, then added, “Just be back in this room by two-thirty. Until then, feel free to do as you please. If you need anything, just call out to one of the staff—or use your phone.”

Then Yonekura left the room. Almost immediately, Akira picked up only his wallet and headed for the door. Al, startled by his sudden movement, quickly flew up and landed on his shoulder.

The right wing of the building echoed with noisy voices, while the left was silent. Without hesitation, Akira turned left. His steps were slow, thoughtful. Occasionally he paused—resting a hand on the wall, leaning against the edge of a sink—as if quietly reminiscing.

He peered into one of the open children’s rooms, then gazed absently out the window. After slowly circling around the quiet left wing of the building, he turned back toward the right, where laughter and chatter filled the air.

The room labeled “Cafeteria” was filled with five rows of long tables crammed with secondhand clothes, shoes, books, toys, and dishes.

It was crowded with both adults and children, and the rainy weather had made everything humid and stuffy. Despite the air conditioning, the atmosphere inside was thick and stifling.

Akira wandered through the bazaar, glancing at the items on display with minimal interest. It felt like a garage sale—fun and eclectic—and Al’s gaze darted excitedly from one table to another, but Akira didn’t pick up a single thing. Just looked. That was it.

Then Al spotted it. A t-shirt, front and center, with a single kanji printed boldly across the chest: “穴”—“hole.” It was absolutely the coolest thing he had ever seen. So cool it was painful. He wanted it. Craved it. Even better, the price tag read 300 yen. Cheap. Even with the meager savings he had from America, Al could totally afford it!

He gave a sharp “Gyah!” by Akira’s ear to catch his attention, then pointed with his claw at the “穴” t-shirt. Akira clicked his tongue, his face instantly turning sour, but reached for the shirt anyway and unfolded it. The size was perfect.

Al wracked his brain, trying to figure out how to tell him—just pay for it, I’ll give you the money later. Just buy that awesome shirt. As he struggled to communicate, a cheerful voice cut through the moment. A boy in the upper grades of elementary school, apparently manning the booth, beamed and said, “That one’s 300 yen! No one’s worn it—it’s brand new!”

Akira clamped his mouth shut as if swallowing something unpleasant. Now that he was holding it, he couldn’t just ignore it. On top of that, the kid was staring up at him with wide, sparkling eyes full of expectation. Buy it. Buy it. Al chanted from his perch on Akira’s shoulder. Finally, with a resigned grunt, Akira handed the shirt to the boy.

“Thanks! That’ll be 300 yen.”

Akira paid. He bought it!

Even if it was thanks to the boy’s assist, Akira had just bought something for him! Al was so happy he wiggled around on Akira’s shoulder in glee—until he heard Yonekura’s voice from behind.

“Thank you for your purchase, Takatsuka-san. So, you’re into novelty t-shirts like that?”

Yonekura was clearly holding back laughter. Novelty t-shirt? But the kanji was seriously cool—was there some weird meaning to it?

“I know someone with awful taste who’d like this,” Akira muttered, clearly annoyed, folding the shirt.

“Oh? A friend? Or maybe a girlfriend?” Yonekura teased.

“Just an acquaintance,” Akira replied flatly, putting way too much emphasis on the word.

Yonekura gave a sly squint. “Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

At a nearby food booth by the cafeteria exit, Akira picked up a pack of yakisoba, karaage, and grilled skewers—just slightly more food than his usual lunch. Then he left the bazaar-turned-cafeteria and walked down the hallway. As he passed the reception room, he heard the sound of crying.

Crouched against the wall, face buried in her hands, was the short-bob-haired girl, Emiri. There was a faint scent of blood coming from her—she must have been injured. Akira knelt beside her, bringing his eyes to her level.

“What happened?”

“...Sora... Sora pushed me, and I fell... waaaaah!”

Emiri wailed, her face turned toward the ceiling, tears streaming down. Her small knees were caked with dirt and lightly bleeding. Akira sighed and said, “Stand up.”

“It hurts... I can’t stand...” she sniffled.

Still crying, Emiri shook her head side to side. Akira muttered, “Jeez,” under his breath and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to the sink across from the reception room. He rinsed the dirt from her scraped knees and gently dabbed them dry with paper towels.

The wounds were clean now, but blood was already beginning to well up again. Akira took her hand and led her back toward the entrance. Opposite the shoe lockers, there was a small room visible through glass windows, where a few steel desks were grouped together—it was probably the office. Akira peered inside and called out, “Excuse me,” but there was no reply.

He turned to Emiri. “Go into that room and bring me the wooden box on the third shelf from the bottom, on the left.” Emiri nodded and did as she was told, returning with the box in hand. Akira sighed, “Guess it hasn’t moved since back then,” and had her sit on a chair in the corner of the hallway before disinfecting her knees.

The abrasions were wider than expected, too big to be covered with regular band-aids. Akira padded her knees with gauze and wrapped them neatly with a roll of bandages. As he worked, Emiri watched his hands and face in turn, then asked, “uncle, are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“But you’re really good, like a doctor.”

“Is that so,” Akira murmured, fastening the bandage with medical tape.

“You are a doctor, right? You just don’t tell anyone because everyone would cry when they see your needles.”

“I’m not a doctor…” Akira replied, snapping the first aid box shut.

“In a way, though,” he added, “I guess you could say I’m a doctor—for the dead.”

Emiri blinked in confusion. “Dead people have doctors too?”

“Not all of them. But some do.”

“Huh…” she murmured, nodding as if that made perfect sense.

Akira held the first aid kit out to her. “Take this and put it back where it belongs.”

But instead of taking it, Emiri leaned in and pressed herself flat against Akira’s stomach.

“Hey. Take it,” he said again.

She shook her head in exaggerated refusal.

A woman about the same age as Akira approached. She wore a polo shirt similar to Ishimoto’s—probably another staff member. Her eyes scanned Akira, a bit bluntly, and he hastily greeted her.

“Hello. My name is Takatsuka Akira. I’m here today to give a talk.”

It seemed she was already informed; her expression softened and she nodded. “Ah, the graduate. Yes, we were told. Thank you for coming.” She bowed.

“This girl fell and scraped her knees, so I brought her to the office. No one was there, so I went ahead and treated the wounds. She brought the kit for me. I also used some of its contents. I apologize for acting without permission.”

Akira explained the situation carefully and respectfully. The staff member’s wary look eased into a gentle smile. “No, not at all. Thank you for helping.”

“Uncle, play with me!” Emiri chirped, grabbing Akira’s hand.

The woman stepped in quickly and scooped Emiri up from behind. “You can’t bother the uncle, okay?” she said kindly.

The moment she was pulled away, Emiri let out a piercing “Gyaaah!” and began flailing her legs, kicking wildly as she cried. Akira flinched in surprise.

“Don’t worry,” the staff woman said calmly. “This happens all the time.”

The staff member carried off the flailing Emiri. Akira watched the child’s retreating back for a moment, but seemingly deciding it was no longer his place, he returned to the reception room.

While Akira wasn’t the most skilled at interpersonal communication in his private life, he seemed to be quite good with children. He interacted with them naturally, as though used to it. Maybe back when he lived at this facility, he often looked after the younger kids, too.

At the bazaar, he'd bought more food than he could eat, contributing more than his share to the sales. Even without many words, you could understand just by watching him—Akira was kind. Perhaps that little girl had sensed it in just the short time they’d been together.

Now, seated in the reception room, Akira quietly ate the yakisoba, fried chicken, and grilled skewers he’d bought. Al checked the time on the wall clock—2:15 p.m. The lecture would begin soon.

Ah, he really want to talk to him right now. Al leapt from Akira’s shoulder down onto the long couch, and wriggled into the half-open tote bag. He tried to pull out Akira’s smartphone, but with his small bat body, the phone’s weight was a struggle. On top of that, Akira’s phone was huge.

Hooking his little feet around it, Al struggled to drag the phone out—when suddenly, a hand reached into the bag and plucked out both Al and the phone, placing them on the table.

“What were you rummaging around in my bag for?”

Al powered on Akira’s smartphone and used the tip of his nose to enter the passcode. It unlocked, and he opened the notes app.

“…How do you even know my passcode?”

Al typed: “saw.”

Akira scowled, but it was his own fault for unlocking it right in front of Al when he was perched on his shoulder.

“I’ve asked before, but why do you always stay in bat form? You can shift freely now, can’t you?”

Because the human form is scarier. And also, there’s the hassle of changing clothes around the enforced bat time between 1 and 3 p.m. But mostly, it’s the fear. Not something Al could say out loud—or type, really.

“Why won’t you turn human?”

When Al didn’t reply, Akira folded his arms and muttered darkly, “…Maybe I’ll just ask Nukariya.”

Hearing that, Al panicked. If Akira asked Nukariya, the truth about his condition would come out—and then he’d probably be ordered to transform right away. With a flap of his wings, Al launched himself at the smartphone screen and clung tightly to it.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? I can’t type with you there. Move!”

Not moving. No way. Al wasn’t ready to face Akira as a human yet.

“I said move, dammit!”

Akira shook the phone violently. Its edges were slick and smooth, and Al couldn’t hold on—he slipped off and went flying toward the wall. Flailing, he spread his wings at the last second and swerved back to cling to the screen again.

Deep furrows appeared on Akira’s brow. His face twisted into something truly terrifying.

He began shaking the phone even more forcefully. Al lost his grip again and tumbled off—but just as he was about to try another jump back, Akira snatched him out of the air. Without a word, he carried Al to the window and tossed him outside.

Before Al could even react, the window slammed shut behind him with a crisp snap. He’d been thrown into the rain. Thrown. Into. The. Rain.

Stunned, Al clung to the window frame and cried out, “Gyaa! Gyaa!” But Akira, now back on the sofa, didn’t even look his way.

He’d said he would ask Nukariya, but now he’d just set the phone aside and gone back to eating the rest of his yakisoba and karaage. Maybe he was waiting until after the meal, once he’d calmed down. Either way, leaving the phone near Akira was dangerous. In a desperate moment, Al even considered destroying the phone—but stopped himself just in time. Even if he did, if Akira went and spoke to Nukariya directly, it would be over. The truth getting out was only a matter of time.

There was no sign the reception room window would open again. With no other choice, Al slipped back inside through the still-open main entrance—but the door to the reception room remained shut.

The dining hall was lively, but over here it was silent—no one in sight along the hallway. As Al flitted around, searching for a way into the reception room, he noticed a gap in the ceiling at the end of the corridor. Maybe he could get into the ceiling space and peek into the reception room from above. If he found another gap, he might even be able to slip inside.

Squeezing himself through the narrow opening in the hallway ceiling, Al pushed his way into the attic. Using his best guess based on the corridor layout, he crawled toward the reception room. The building was old, and the attic was choked with dust and spiderwebs. At one point, he recoiled in shock—there was the shriveled corpse of a mummified rat lying among the beams. Light filtered in through multiple cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the dark attic in patches. From one such gap, the scent of fried chicken and yakisoba wafted upward.

This must be it.

Peeking carefully through the gap, he spotted Akira sitting on the sofa. Al wanted to find a way inside, but the gap was too small—only his nose could fit. Akira remained seated, quietly staring down at the notebook he’d brought with him.

At exactly 2:30 p.m., Yonekura arrived to fetch him. Akira put away his notebook and left the reception room. Al wanted so badly to hear what kind of speech Akira would give. He turned back the way he came, exited into the corridor, and went looking for him—but Akira was already gone. From behind a closed door next to the dining hall, he could hear Kaito’s voice. That must be where the lecture was taking place, but the door was shut tight—he couldn’t get in. Pressing his ear to the wall, he tried to listen, but the buzz of children's chatter made it impossible to hear clearly.

Left with no choice, Al returned to the attic and followed the sound of voices. He found a large gap near the loudest area and peeked down through it. He could see children sitting in chairs—about thirty of them, ranging in age from older to younger. He was directly above them. Pressing his eye to the gap, he spotted Akira standing at the front, facing the children.

A small table draped with a tablecloth sat before him, with a sign behind that read “Today’s Menu.” Akira gave a small, clearing cough and took up the microphone.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Takatsuka Akira. I spent about six years here, from junior high through high school. Now I work as an embalmer. You’ve probably never heard of that before…”

He began calmly explaining the nature of his work. Though Hatono had warned that children might get bored, they listened attentively, not a single one chatting or fidgeting.

He seemed a little tense, but when he wasn’t angry, Akira had a really nice voice. However, as the talk turned toward the history of embalming, the monotony began to set in, and Al’s eyelids grew heavy. He fought it, shaking his head vigorously to stay awake, but the waves of drowsiness were relentless. In the end, lulled by the sound of his favorite person’s voice, Al began to doze off.

Just as he was slipping into sleep, a sharp, powerful scent of blood blasted through his nostrils, jolting him awake. The smell was as strong and raw as the aftermath of a fatal accident or a poorly-drained animal carcass. It prickled across his skin like crawling insects. For an instant, the urge to drink—how delicious that must taste—flickered in his mind. But more than that, he was worried. Wasn’t this scent too strong? Could one of the children have been seriously hurt?

Dread prickled across his wings.

Until now, he’d avoided flying through the attic to prevent bumping into wires or thin support beams, but that wasn’t an option anymore. He launched toward the source of the blood smell.

This was the reception room.

Through a gap between ceiling and wall, a wave of fresh, iron-thick blood hit him like a slap. It was overwhelming.

Eyes wide in horror, Al peered through the crack—and froze.

Ishimoto was lying on her side by the sofa.

Her once-light clothing now looked dark—soaked through. In blood.

Someone was straddling her fallen body.

And in that person’s hands—a blade.

With a thunk, the knife plunged into Ishimoto’s chest again.

She’d been stabbed.

"Gyah!"

Al shrieked, and the hand holding the knife froze mid-air. The attacker looked up, scanning the area. It was Yonekura. But then, as if nothing had happened, Yonekura brought the blade down again. The dull, wet thuds of the stabbing sounds sent a chill skittering down Al’s spine. Even though she was being stabbed, Ishimoto didn’t scream. There was no reaction at all.

He had to stop Yonekura—somehow. But not like this.

Al burst out of the ceiling from the far end of the hallway. He made it to the reception room door, but in bat form, he couldn’t even turn the doorknob.

It had to be past 3 p.m.—his "bat time" was over. He didn’t sense any children or staff nearby, so he dove into the space beside the pipes under the hallway sink and focused hard, willing himself to transform. Heat surged through his body, his form expanding, and color returned to his vision.

Now in human form, Al dashed into the reception room.

But Yonekura was already gone.

Lying beside the sofa, with a knife still embedded in her chest, was Ishimoto.

Al rushed to her and called out, "Wake up." But there was no response. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t move. Only the pool of blood spreading across the floor was alive, slowly, steadily expanding.

She was… dead?

No—maybe if he acted fast enough, maybe she could still be saved.

He had to call an ambulance.

He lunged for the landline on the wall—only for the door to open and Akira to step into the room.

The moment he laid eyes on the naked man standing by the phone, Akira’s eyes went wide.

"You… you're Al…? Al, is that you?"

For a few seconds he stood frozen in place, then suddenly shouted, "You're Al, aren't you?! What the hell are you doing here?!"

"And this smell—"

His gaze shifted, and he finally noticed Ishimoto lying beside the sofa. Tossing aside the tote bag he held, Akira rushed to her, eyes widening at the knife lodged in her chest, her unmoving body. He touched her neck, checking for a pulse.

"...No pulse."

The guest slippers on his feet were soaked scarlet with her blood.

"What the hell happened here?! If you know something, explain it now!"

Akira’s eyes burned, sharp and accusing. Was he—was he suspecting him?

No—it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. The one who stabbed Ishimoto was—

"Takatsuka-san, uh—"

Yonekura’s voice. He popped his head through the open door like he’d just wandered by. Al pointed a finger at him and shouted, "You!"

Yonekura furrowed his brows. "Huh? Who the hell are you?" Then he looked down and finally saw Ishimoto’s body.

"Uwaaaaaaaagh!!"

He screamed.

This bastard—after stabbing her over and over, he had the nerve to act like he was seeing it for the first time.

"Takatsuka-san! What… what did you do?! And who the hell is that naked guy?!"

Akira, completely overwhelmed, snapped back, "I don’t know!"

"I can’t believe this. Why would you kill Ishimoto-san?!"

The gall. The shameless audacity. And in that instant, everything became clear.

Yonekura was trying to frame Akira for murder.

Al lunged forward and grabbed Yonekura by the collar. His hair reeked of blood—fresh and metallic. There was a small splatter of blood near his neck, likely from the blowback. His clothes, however, didn’t smell like anything. He must have changed into a clean set after the attack. The bastard was cunning.

"Ow! What the hell?!"

Yonekura shouted, kicking Al hard in the stomach. Al flew backward, landing hard against the wall. Yonekura bolted from the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Everyone, get out of the building! Run!"

Al heard his voice screaming just outside.

"Someone—someone call the police and an ambulance! Ishimoto-san's been murdered! Takatsuka-san killed her!"

Akira stood there, stunned.

His hands and knees were slick with blood from checking Ishimoto’s pulse. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked like he’d done it.

This was bad. Really, really bad.

"…Get out."

Akira growled low.

"Get out of here right now!"

Clenching his blood-smeared fists, he shouted again, "Get out of here!"

"I don' go!"

Al's voice rang out, clumsy and defiant.

If he left Akira alone in this blatantly incriminating scene, he’d be pinned as the killer. There was no way he could just run.

"Yonekura… is killer. I… talk."

Akira’s eyes widened in shock, disbelief flooding his face.

"You're saying Kaito's the culprit?"

"I was in… ceiling. I saw."

Holding his forehead, Akira muttered under his breath, "This has to be a joke."

"No joke. Is true."

"I get it. I understand, alright? Just—get out of here. If you're around, it'll only make things more complicated!"

"No!"

"Get out!!"

Couldn’t they just both run? Or maybe he should stay and explain everything. He was a witness, after all—but could he even handle the police?

"Why won’t you leave?! Hurry up and go!"

Akira’s voice echoed in a raw scream. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway toward them. Alarmed, Akira darted to the door, twisted the knob, and locked it from inside.

"Someone’s coming. Go out through the window!"

BANG—a loud thud shook the door. Someone was slamming into it from outside.

"This is the police. Open up!"

The police arrived so quickly, it was almost suspicious—like someone had tipped them off ahead of time. Akira stood blocking the door, growling low at Al, “Hurry up! I can’t explain your existence!”

It was only then that Al finally realized—his being here was nothing but a burden to Akira. He wasn’t helping at all. What mattered now was getting the truth to Nukariya.

He turned to escape through the window, only to sense movement outside. The police must have anticipated that someone might try to flee that way. There was no way he could get out in human form—especially not naked.

With a heavy crash, the door bowed inward. Akira’s body jolted as he held it shut—he was at his limit.

Al crouched beneath the desk and commanded himself, Turn into a bat. His body transformed in a single focused burst. His vision shifted into black and white, and by the time he crawled out from under the desk, the door had burst open. The force sent Akira flying.

Five officers stormed in with stomping boots, and before Akira could even move, they pounced on him. Though he hadn’t done anything, they struck him on the head and arms. It was brutal.

One officer twisted Akira’s arm behind his back.

"Nggh…"

Akira let out a pained gasp. That arm—those hands—were his livelihood. And they were treating him like this. Furious, Al sprang at the officer’s face and bit into his cheek.

“Gahh—what the hell is this thing?!”

The officer recoiled, letting go of Akira’s arm, and tried to swat the bat away. Al dodged just in time. Now freed, Akira lowered his arms and spoke calmly.

"I’m not resisting."

He raised both hands slowly in front of him.

“I’m unarmed. I’m not the perpetrator. I’ll follow your orders—just, don’t be rough… not with me, or the bat."

The officer who had moments ago looked ready to lash out again, faltered at Akira’s composed tone. Around him, the other officers watched warily as he extended his hands forward again.

“I understand that under these circumstances, being taken in for questioning is unavoidable. I’ll follow orders. Just—don’t damage my arms. My work depends on them. If anything happened to them, I wouldn’t be able to continue.”

Even though he’d done nothing wrong, they still cuffed him. The young officer Al had bitten struck Akira in the back, as if trying to push him forward. Apparently, he thought anything but the arms was fair game. Al burned with fury.

"Could you cover the handcuffs with something?" Akira asked quietly.

"No need for that," the young officer dismissed him coldly.

"I grew up in this facility. If the children see me like this, it might shock them."

That made the young  officer pause. His expression shifted as he fell silent. One of the older officers—probably in his fifties—walked ahead, then turned back and draped a towel over Akira’s hands. Akira bowed his head and thanked him sincerely. “Thank you.”

It was clear now Akira would be taken to the station. Al tried to follow, flitting to land on Akira’s shoulder—but the young officer struck him hard. Pain flared, and Al let out a shriek. "Gya!"

"Don’t be violent with the bat!"

"Don’t get smart with me," the officer barked back—and slapped Akira across the face. Akira lowered his head… then spat a streak of red onto the floor.

If Al stayed, this cruel officer would just keep tormenting Akira.

"…Al, go. Tell Nukariya."

The whisper was nearly lost beneath the tension, but Al heard it. The young officer snapped, "Who are you muttering to?"

As a bat, there was nothing Al could do. Turning human now would only make things worse. Akira was right—the best thing was to find Nukariya and tell him everything.

Al brushed his nose gently along Akira’s neck. I’ll come back soon to help you, he silently promised—and shot into the air.

He burst out into the rain, circling high above the roof. Out back, he spotted the children and staff—huddled together in a protective ring. Among them stood the killer himself, Yonekura, pretending to be just another concerned adult. Disgusting. He was the one who’d killed Ishimoto. He was the one who framed Akira. Al longed to rake his claws across that smug face.

Down below, Akira was forced into a police car, which soon drove off down the road.

The quickest way to contact Nukariya would be by phone. Al’s own phone was at his apartment—he’d have to go back to get it. But Akira’s phone was still here, inside the bag that had been thrown aside during the arrest.

Al slipped back into the building. The reception room where Ishimoto had fallen was now open. Two officers remained, crouched near her body. Akira’s bag had landed in the shadow of the door, just out of view. The forensic team and ambulance hadn’t arrived yet.

Al quietly crept to the bag and tugged the phone free. …Too heavy. He’d flown with a phone once before, but that one had been lighter. Akira’s was too large. No way he could carry it like this. Should he turn human, just for a moment?

But… he had no clothes.

Clothes.

Clothes!

Al returned to the cafeteria. With everyone still outside, the place was deserted. He slipped under one of the tables and transformed into his human form, then borrowed a shirt and pants from the bazaar’s unsold goods that looked like they might fit. As long as he had clothes on, he could pass for a normal person.

Quiet as a cat, he crept toward the reception room. Midway down the hallway, he spotted a police officer and quickly ducked behind a pillar. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. Once the officer had passed, Al made his way back toward the reception room. Of the two officers inside, one was by the body, the other stood by the window, facing away from the door. Al slowly reached through the crack in the door, trying to pull Akira’s bag toward him—but the officer near the window seemed to turn. Al yanked his hand back in a panic.

The officer approached. Should he run? But his footsteps would be heard… He froze, tense. The officer merely stopped near the bag and began talking to someone on the phone. More officers would probably arrive soon. It was no use—retrieving Akira’s phone now was impossible.

Al gave up on the phone. Time to retreat.

Just as he ducked into the crawlspace under the hallway sink, a voice startled him: “Hey.” A girl was looking down at him. It was Emiri—bright and temperamental, but also friendly. They stared at each other, frozen. There was no time for excuses or explanations. Al pressed his finger to his lips in a “shhh” gesture, then mentally commanded himself: Become a bat.

In just a few seconds, his body shrank and reshaped.

“You! What are you doing here?” a police officer patrolling the hallway spotted Emiri and hurried over. “Are you alright?”

Flushed red, Emiri repeated over and over, “I saw! I saw him!”

“What do you mean, ‘him’?” the officer asked, tilting his head.

Al quickly dove into the clothes he’d been wearing and hid.

“Nothing,” Emiri said, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

“You can’t be here. Let’s get you back with everyone,” the officer said, taking her by the hand.

Emiri looked back at him a few times as she was led away.

Sorry for making you lie, Al apologized silently, then slipped out of the building.

Out behind the facility, in the parking lot, stood Yonekura, still talking to a uniformed officer under the light rain. Al perched silently on the nearby fence, careful not to make a sound.

“I was shocked too,” Yonekura said, voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. “I never imagined Takatsuka-san would do something like that. I thought he owed a lot to Ishimoto-san…”

His words sent chills down Al’s spine.

“I heard the suspect used to live at this facility. Is that true?”

Yonekura nodded. “Yes. I was here for a few years too. I spent some time with Takatsuka-san. He lived here for about six years, then went on to a university overseas. After that, he apparently lost contact with everyone. I started working here after graduating college, and we met again for the first time in over a decade at the former director’s funeral. That’s when he offered to give a talk at the center.”

Al’s mouth hung open in disbelief. That was a bald-faced lie. Yonekura had been the one to ask Akira. Al had heard the conversation himself.

“Takatsuka-san works as an embalmer. I’m sure you officers are familiar, but that means he handles dead bodies. I didn’t think it was appropriate to talk about that around young kids, so I was hesitant. But Takatsuka-san insisted. And well, I owed him, so I gave in and let him come. If only I hadn’t… maybe this wouldn’t have happened…”

To Al’s shock, tears shimmered faintly in Yonekura’s eyes.

"Just now, I realized—this murder was planned all along. And that really scared me. Takatsuka-san asked me to help him give a lecture just so he could get close to Ishimoto-san and kill her..."

The officer offered noncommittal nods, showing no signs that he’d noticed the man in front of him was spinning lies as easily as breathing.

"Do you have any idea what might’ve motivated the suspect? For example, was there any past trouble between the suspect and the victim?"

At the officer’s question, Yonekura hesitated, giving a suspiciously ambiguous, "Well..."

"So there was something, then?"

The officer leaned forward eagerly.

"I was really young at the time, so I might’ve misunderstood. Please treat this as nothing more than a rumor. I heard that Ishimoto-san was very fond of Takatsuka-san and that, um... she one-sidedly pressured him into a relationship."

"When you say 'pressured into a relationship,' could you be more specific?"

"It’s hard to talk about, but... I heard she ordered him to get into bed with her, and... that sort of thing."

The officer fell silent for a moment, clearly taken aback.

"So you’re saying the female victim may have sexually assaulted the suspect in the past?"

"...Yes."

It was so outrageous, Al felt like his head was going to explode. Not only was Yonekura framing Akira as the killer—he was trampling on Ishimoto’s dignity to do it. Absolutely unforgivable.

Al wanted to sink his teeth into Yonekura’s head—but he held back. He’d planned to hear the whole thing, to see how far Yonekura would go with his lies, but the man soon climbed into a police car and left the facility. He was probably being taken in for questioning as a witness.

Shaking with fury, Al returned to the apartment. In front of his phone on the table, he shifted into human form and immediately sent a message to Nukariya: "Akira made criminal."

Not even a full minute passed before his phone started ringing.

[Nukariya, help. Akira's been falsely accused of murder. The police took him away. What should I do?]

As soon as he answered the call, Al spilled everything in one breath. Speaking in English with Nukariya made it easier to explain in detail.

[Hang on, slow down. You can’t just throw around 'false accusation' and 'murder' like that—I have no idea what happened. Start from the beginning?]

Al explained everything: how Akira had visited the children’s home where he once lived, how a staff member there named Yonekura—someone Akira knew—murdered his colleague Ishimoto and pinned the crime on Akira. When he was finished, Nukariya let out a heavy sigh. [That’s horrible...]

[Okay. I think I understand the situation. I’ll check things out on my end and get back to you.]

Al replied with a simple [Okay.] After that, there was nothing left to do but wait. Over and over, his mind replayed the scene of Akira being arrested, of Yonekura stabbing Ishimoto... His hatred for Yonekura piled up like storm clouds.

Outside, the only sound was the endless patter of rain. One hour passed. Then two... Just when Al was convinced he’d bore a hole through the phone with sheer willpower—

There was a knock at the door. Knock Knock.

"Al, it’s me."

It was Nukariya’s voice! Al leapt to the door and opened it. But the moment he saw Nukariya’s grim expression, he realized things were not going well.

"We got screwed."

That was the first thing Nukariya said.

"They pulled me off Akira’s case because I’ve been his friend for years."

"No way…"

Nukariya sighed and leaned back against the wall beside the entryway.

"My loudmouthed, idiot partner goes, 'Hey, isn’t the suspect Takatsuka Akira that friend of yours? The guy who likes bats?'—right when the chief of headquarters is standing behind me. …If he’d just kept quiet, I could’ve stayed on the case a little longer."

He bit down on his back teeth, clearly bitter. Al told him about the lies Yonekura had been feeding the police.

"A textbook two-faced liar. Even if the truth comes out eventually, his lies will still mess up the investigation. If the first steps go wrong, it can lead to fatal mistakes."

Nukariya clicked his tongue in frustration.

"This was a red-handed arrest at the scene. With a colleague’s testimony providing what looks like a clear motive, it’s all too convenient. They’ll verify the timeline and the scene details, sure—but with the case looking 'solved,' the investigation will start to lose steam."

Nukariya looked pained. Al paced nervously back and forth around the room.

"Akira… go jail? He no crime… still go?"

"I won’t let that happen. And I’ll catch the real killer too. But it’ll take time to dismantle false testimony. If we could use what you saw as evidence, that would help a lot. But if we take too long and the real killer flees the country, we’ll never recover from it."

He clenched his right hand tightly.

"The longer this drags out, the more time Akira loses behind bars—time he doesn’t deserve to lose. That’s why I’ve decided to move independently from the departmen."

Al raised a hand. "I help."

"There’ll be places I can’t go anymore, not as a detective and not as his friend. If you can cover those gaps, it would be a huge help."

"Yes! I help!"

There was no way Al was going to let Akira be branded a murderer.

"First, we start with an investigation into Yonekura Kaito. He must have had a powerful motive to kill the victim and frame Akira."

Nukariya spoke with certainty. Yonekura hadn’t been the only one who lived at the facility with Akira. So why frame him specifically? Al wanted to understand that more than anything.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

"Right now, we’ve got a weekday daytime discount going—just 600 yen for two hours with one drink included! Would you like to take advantage?"

At the karaoke counter, a young girl—her makeup so thick it was noticeable even in grayscale bat vision—beamed as she made the offer, her twin tails puffed up like a poodle. Without a second’s hesitation, Nukariya stuck to his original plan and said, "Just one hour."

"Alrighty, enjoy your time~!"

Nukariya took the slip from the attendant and headed to the assigned room. Once inside, Al crawled out from under the flap of Nukariya’s suit. The room was barely bigger than a closet, with a long table in the middle and a sofa on each side. Between the furniture and the dim lighting, it felt oppressively cramped.

"I brought you a change of clothes."

Nukariya placed a tote bag on the sofa and closed the door—instantly turning the room into a soundproof chamber. Al transformed into human form, then changed into the clothes Nukariya had brought for him: a T-shirt printed with the kanji "試練"— “Trial / Ordeal / Test of faith or endurance”, and blue jeans. He didn’t know what the kanji meant, but it looked cool. Nukariya really understood his taste.

While Al changed, Nukariya used the remote to enter a few song selections.

"Nuikariya, you sing karaoke?"

[I don’t sing, but I thought it’d seem more natural if something was playing. Also, you can speak in English.]

Even though Al had gotten better at understanding and speaking Japanese, he still wasn’t perfect. When it came to complicated conversations, English was much easier.

Nukariya sat down on the sofa opposite Al. The karaoke track played in the background, the volume turned down low.

[Now that Akira’s been arrested as a suspect, they’re subtly watching my actions too, since I’m his friend. I’m worried my dorm might be bugged, and if they find out I’ve been meeting you, they might start monitoring you too. I’m sorry we have to talk in a place like this.]

[I’m okay.]

[It’s been three days since Akira’s arrest, and with Yonekura’s eyewitness testimony, the higher-ups seem eager to wrap this case up quickly. But there are some things that don’t add up. First, they didn’t find Akira’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Second, there was almost no blood spatter on his clothes. Akira’s consistently denied committing the crime. It’s tough to claim innocence since he was alone at the scene, even if only briefly, around the time of death—but he has a lawyer now, so we’ll watch how things develop.]

[I saw it. I saw what happened, and I can’t even testify. It’s so frustrating.]

Akira hadn’t hurt anyone—hadn’t killed anyone. Al’s body tensed with anger, involuntarily.

[Can you tell me again, in detail, what Yonekura was like when he killed the victim? Did he say anything? Do anything strange? Anything at all might help.]

Closing his eyes, Al pulled the memory of that brutal scene from the back of his mind.

[When I saw her, Ishimoto-san wasn’t moving anymore. But Yonekura kept stabbing. When I cried out from the attic, his hand stopped just a little—but then right away, again...]

He’d been stabbed himself once, and the memory of that pain came rushing back, making his whole body tremble. Nukariya nodded gently.

[The autopsy showed multiple deep stab wounds, suggesting strong intent to kill.]

Hearing that, Al’s mind was immediately filled with the image of Yonekura’s deranged face, stabbing again and again at Ishimoto, even though she was already gone—like some kind of monster.

[He must’ve been planning to frame Akira from the very start. I also heard he was quick to lead everyone out of the facility. Not that it’s unnatural, but… maybe Yonekura didn’t want anyone to run into Akira. If someone had seen the scene and noticed Akira wasn’t holding the weapon and was trying to perform first aid, no one would’ve believed he was the culprit.]

The sofa let out a low creak. Nukariya shifted slightly and then, facing Al head-on, continued.

[I’m thinking of looking into Kaito Yonekura’s past.]

[His past?] Al echoed.

[Putting together what we know and what you saw, there’s a level of calculation in the way Yonekura acted. He had no hesitation when killing, and afterwards he lied to deceive the police without a flicker of guilt. He showed no sign of being shaken by what he did. …This is just a hunch, but I don’t think this was Yonekura’s first time. I think he’s committed a similar crime before.]

Al swallowed hard.

[I heard from a woman who used to work at the facility. Yonekura came there after being abused by his father and stepmother. He stayed a couple of years before being taken in by his grandmother in Saga, Kyushu. Apparently, while he was at the facility, he was extremely afraid of female staff—maybe because of the abuse—but he didn’t show any behavioral problems. I want to know more about his life after going to his grandmother’s, but it’s in the countryside, and too far for a day trip. I’ve already requested time off, but it’ll take a little while.]

Nukariya was a detective—he knew where to dig. Al leaned forward, eager.

[I can’t just sit here. I want to do something too, to help Akira.]

Nukariya stared at him for a long beat, then finally smiled.

[…Actually, Al, there’s something only you can do.]

The detention center was on the third floor of the police station. But the steel door that led inside was locked tight. A little past 9:30 p.m., coming straight from the karaoke place, Nukariya slowly walked past the detention wing three times. On the third pass, someone emerged from inside.

“Evening, Yoshizaki-san.”

The man was older than Nukariya, probably nearing sixty. He gave a casual nod. “Ah, Nukariya.”

“Any change with Takatsuka?”

The guard—Yoshizaki—replied, “No change,” then added pointedly, “Even you, Nukariya, I can’t tell you more than that.”

“I understand,” Nukariya replied with a wry smile.

“If nothing’s changed, that’s enough for me.”

Yoshizaki let out a weary sigh. “Can’t blame you… having a friend locked up at your own precinct…”

“I believe he’s innocent. …Oh, by the way—Yoshizaki-san, have you been to the mountains lately?”

Nukariya, still facing Yoshizaki, brought his right hand behind his back. From the cuff of his suit sleeve, Al in his bat form slithered out and carefully descended along Nukariya’s back to the floor. Making sure not to be seen, he tucked himself into the blind spot just beside the door.

While Nukariya chatted with Yoshizaki about hiking—nothing but innocuous small talk—he eventually left. Yoshizaki also disappeared from the area for a short time, only to return a few minutes later and unlock the door to the detention block with a key. Al swiftly followed behind him, sneaking into the restricted area.

A single, straight corridor stretched out ahead, wide enough for a person to lie across, with cells lined neatly on both sides, each sealed behind iron bars. Yoshizaki’s footsteps echoed with sharp click-clack sounds as he walked halfway down the hallway. On the left side, one section lacked a cell and instead opened into a shallow recess about the size of one tatami mat. There sat a large desk roughly the length of an embalming table and a chair. Yoshizaki took a seat—this was likely the guard’s station for monitoring all the cells.

Al flattened himself against the wall just beneath the door of the first cell. The floor in the detention area was dark, but the walls, bars, and doors were a light color—probably white. Nukariya had taken this into account and dusted Al’s bat body with white powder, helping him blend into the surroundings. It was a chameleon tactic. Lights-out was at 9 p.m., with bedtime immediately following. From 8 p.m., bedding was brought in and the detainees began preparing for the night. Nukariya had timed Al’s infiltration to coincide with this, knowing lights-out would give them a slim chance to speak. He must’ve planned it all even before the karaoke meeting.

There were surveillance cameras in the detention block. Even as a bat, Al could still be caught on video, but Nukariya had reasoned that due to his size, he would be hard to notice. And if worst came to worst, he was still just a bat—he’d only be tossed outside. Flying was risky; the flapping of wings made noise, and he’d stand out visually. So Al crept along the edge of the wall, dragging himself from cell to cell. One by one, he climbed each door and peered through the mesh-covered bars.

The first cell held an elderly man, probably in his seventies and bald. Next door was a man in his late thirties with a timid face. Some rooms had two inmates, others just one. A few people were lying down with their faces hidden, but Al could tell they weren’t Akira by their body types, hairstyles, and scents.

He passed the desk where Yoshizaki sat with utmost caution, barely moving. The last thing he wanted was for Akira to be in the cell directly in front of the guard—it would drastically increase the chance of being spotted and removed. Thankfully, Akira wasn’t in that room. Al let out a small sigh of relief.

Still unable to find him, Al reached the far end of the hallway. Doubt began to cloud his thoughts—was Akira even really here? But as he peered into one more cell, he spotted a familiar head of unruly hair. Akira!

There was no mistaking him. Dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, he sat reading a book—an embalming journal, from the look of it. Nukariya must have brought it to him. Just seeing Akira safe and well stirred something deep in Al’s chest. A lump rose to his throat, and he nearly burst into tears.

Akira was alone. As expected—charged with murder, he’d been put in a solitary cell. Nukariya had predicted it perfectly. But the mesh across the bars was too fine for Al to squeeze through. He climbed down toward the bottom of the door, where a small square meal hatch—used for passing food—was located. It was covered with a B5-sized metal plate and secured with an external hook-style latch.

He carefully unhooked the latch with his claw. He had meant to hold it steady with his foot and gently ease the lid open, but it turned out to be heavier than expected, slipped from his grip, and swung open with a loud clank. Crap. Yoshizaki would come. Al dove through the opened hatch into Akira’s room.

The sound must have alerted him—Akira turned toward the meal slot. Their eyes met. When he recognized the bat, Akira’s eyes widened in surprise.

Clack clack—hurried footsteps approached. Al dove into the futon laid out in the middle of the room.

“What was that noise just now?”

Akira responded to Yoshizaki’s voice: “The meal slot opened on its own.”

Yoshizaki fiddled with the hatch, opening and shutting it with a flap flap, muttering, “Guess I didn’t latch it all the way.” With a final thud, the metal lid was shut again, and the footsteps receded down the hall.

They’d made it in. Al let out a quiet sigh of relief from within the folds of the futon.

“What the hell did you come here for?”

Akira’s voice came through the bedding—low as usual, but even deeper than normal. Terrifying.

“...Lights’ll be out soon. I’ll hear what you have to say after that.”

Al let out a small, tight squeak. Even through the layers of bedding, the tension in Akira’s voice made him tremble.

And then it was lights-out.

Akira slid into the futon.

“Turn human.”

That voice—small, but so low it buzzed in Al’s eardrums like static. He curled up tighter, holding his head.

“...Hey. Just how long do you plan to stay in that bat form?”

Because the man waiting for him to change into his human form was genuinely terrifying, Al hesitated. Akira yanked on his ear, leaned in close, and hissed, “Did you not hear me say to take your human form?! They do rounds once every hour. Right after lights out, they don’t come this far. Now is our chance.”

There was a reason to hurry. This was a detention center—he couldn’t risk speaking loudly. Even if Akira was angry, he’d have to keep his voice down. More than anything, Al had a mission—to get information about Yonekura from Akira, just as Nukariya had asked him. There was no time to waste. If he didn’t ask, sneaking in here would be meaningless.

Al closed his eyes and focused hard. Change! he commanded himself. Heat rushed through his body like a wave of fire, and Akira, who had been leaning close, flinched back with a small hiss of “Hot!”

His fur vanished, his limbs stretched, and in a blink, Al had become human, lying there in the futon with Akira. Of course, he was completely naked. It was dark, they were face to face, and he could feel Akira’s warmth—so close it made his heart pound. It had been so long since he’d been this near him. Not since being left behind in America.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Akira whispered.

“Nukariya helped,” Al whispered back. Akira sighed and muttered, “I figured.”

“I thought, no way you came in here alone.”

“Nukariya got taken off the case. ‘Cause he said Akira is his friend. That’s why. Yanked. That Yanagawa guy, dumb. Really dumb.”

Al had heard Nukariya call Yanagawa a “stupid rookie” at least a hundred times.

“No one gives Nukariya info. So I take over. Ask you about Yonekura.”

Even in the dark, Al could tell Akira’s brow furrowed. Instinctively, he reached out and touched it with a finger. Akira scowled and snapped, “What are you doing?” so Al quickly pulled his hand back.

“There’s nothing I can really tell you about Kaito,” Akira said. “How he ended up at the facility, when he left—ask someone who was there at the time and you’ll find out soon enough. What Nukariya wants is the why. Why Kaito killed Ishimoto-san, and why he pinned it on me. But I don’t know. I have no idea.”

Akira had been raised in that facility until he turned eighteen. Maybe he'd said things that were thoughtless or hurtful, but Al knew—he wasn’t the kind of guy to bully others. He just wasn’t.

“Maybe…” Akira continued quietly, “Maybe Kaito didn’t care who he picked, as long as it was someone connected to the facility. Maybe it didn’t have to be me.”

Could that be true? But Yonekura had gone out of his way to approach Akira at work, to ask him for the lecture. He chose him.

“Ishimoto-san was kind,” Akira said. “At least when I knew her, she treated everyone fairly, no favoritism. Always the same face, no two sides. That’s why I don’t get it. Why did Kaito target her?”

“She was really kind…” Akira repeated softly, as if to himself.

“She didn’t deserve to die like that.”

He’d cared about her. She was someone important to him. And she’d died right in front of his eyes… Even if he was used to seeing the dead because of his job, seeing someone he knew must’ve hurt like hell. Al gently reached out to stroke Akira’s head. The first time, he didn’t say anything. But after the second stroke, he growled, “What are you doing,” and glared.

“Akira, I feel bad for you…”

His face twisted with emotion. “Shut up,” he muttered, swatting Al’s hand away.

“Tell me everything about Yonekura. Big things. Small things. All of them.”

Akira sighed, resting his hand on his chin.

“I didn’t spend that long with Kaito. He was only at the facility for two, three years before some relatives took him in.”

Yonekura being taken in by his grandmother—Nukariya had mentioned that, too. And after graduating from university, he returned to the facility to work as a staff member. If he had truly hated life at the facility, why would he choose to work there?

Or maybe something had happened—something unpleasant, something Akira didn’t know about—that made him come back for revenge? But Akira had testified that Ishimoto had been kind. Could someone really murder, so brutally, someone who had likely been kind to them as well?

You couldn’t know people’s hearts. You couldn’t read them. That’s why, for now, all they could do was gather bits and pieces of truth from those around him, and try to deduce Yonekura’s actions. Just like Nukariya thought, the quickest path to understanding him might be to talk to the relatives who had taken him in. That thought—the need to do it himself—grew stronger. Only he and Nukariya could move to help Akira. They were the only ones. He would get Akira out of here. He would prove that he was innocent. Al swore it to himself.

“By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you,” Akira said, closing the distance between them with a heavy presence.

“At the scene where Ishimoto-san was killed… I told you again and again to get out first, and yet—”

Sensing a lecture coming, Al swiftly reverted into bat form with a whoosh sound.

“Hey! Why the hell are you turning back into a bat?! Stay human!”

No matter how much Akira scolded him, Al stayed curled up in his small bat body. Shrinking in size took the edge off Akira’s anger. And perhaps Akira knew it too, because he muttered, “Cunning little pest,” and gave Al’s tiny rump a flick with his finger.

THE END - VOLUME 5

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