Vampire and His Pleasant Companions: Volume 6 - Part 3

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The sunlight streaming through the window was too bright, waking Al before six a.m. As he brushed his teeth at the long sink in the hallway, he remembered his promise to Shimizu—to go visit Yonekura’s grandmother’s house.

Nukariya had probably already contacted the police, so they were surely at the house by now. The place was likely cordoned off, restricted.

He spent a while brooding about how to turn Shimizu down, but then it hit him—he could just go. If they arrived and saw that it was off-limits, Shimizu would understand.

At 6:00 a.m., Al set off with Shimizu toward the crumbling house that had belonged to Yonekura’s grandmother. Even at this hour, the temperature was already rising—it was shaping up to be another hot day. The two of them walked side by side, slowly along the river path.

“Come to think of it, the lady from the diner said a bunch of cops showed up in the village late last night. Said the atmosphere turned all serious and tense.”

It had to be because of the remains.

“One of our camera guys overheard and thought it might turn into a hot scoop. He grabbed his gear and rushed out.”

They might run into that cameraman at the scene.

“That creepy house you mentioned yesterday, Al-san… is it still a bit farther?”

Up ahead, a bridge came into view.

“Cross there. Then… right.”

Al pointed across the bridge, toward the slanted house.

“Tsuchinoko house… that one.”

“...Huh? There’s a bunch of police cars over there.”

Shimizu shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the distance. Sure enough, several vehicles in the black-and-white pattern of police patrol cars could be seen.

“...Why are all those patrol cars gathered around that house?”

The area around Yonekura’s grandmother’s house had been cordoned off with yellow tape. In front of it stood three elderly people in everyday clothes, and one man holding a camera. One would expect a much more tense atmosphere after the discovery of skeletal remains, but no one looked particularly alarmed.

“Watanabe-san, did something happen at this house?”

Shimizu called out to the man with the camera. The man, around fifty and wearing glasses, jolted and turned around with exaggerated surprise.

“Oh, Shimizu-san, you scared me,” he said, scratching his head with a sheepish grin.

“I heard there was a report last night about a skeleton under the floor of this house. But even after searching, nothing really turned up.”

“No way,” Al blurted out before he could stop himself. Watanabe—apparently the name of the cameraman—waved his right hand and said, “Not lying, I swear.”

“They say there were signs something might’ve been dug up, but that’s all.”

Al was stunned.

The skull had been in a painfully obvious spot—right under the floor, nestled in the bamboo roots. It had been visible just by peeking through the hole. There was no way anyone could search and not find it. That could only mean—someone must’ve dug up the body after he left.

“They said the tip came from a detective, so they’re taking extra care with the investigation. But judging by the vibe here, it could be the detective got fed false information. Might just be a dead lead. Still, if something does turn up, it could be a scoop, so I’ll stick around a bit longer.”

Watanabe gave a wry smile. Shimizu muttered, “With this much commotion, even if something was gonna come out, it’d be scared off,” and then turned back to Al.

“So where in that house did you see the tsuchinoko?”

If Al said “inside the house,” they’d suspect trespassing. He quickly lied. “Yard. I saw it… yard.”

Apparently Watanabe had overheard them, because he turned and asked, “What’s a tsuchinoko?”

“He says he saw one around here, so we came to check it out,” Shimizu explained seriously.

Watanabe gave a half-laugh. “Tsuchinoko, huh?”

He didn’t seem like the kind of person who believed in mysterious creatures.

Since they weren’t allowed into the yard, they simply walked once around the house and returned to the inn. From Shimizu’s point of view, it had been a wasted trip—but he still seemed pleased, saying, “Between the tsuchinoko and the skeleton, something’s definitely going on around here.” Apparently just seeing the site had satisfied him.

Checkout was at ten, but since there were empty rooms, Al arranged to stay another night.

He pulled the curtains and cracked the window open. Then, in a darkened corner of the room, he took off his clothes. After checking again and again that no one was around, he transformed into a bat and flew out the window—heading back to Yonekura’s grandmother’s house.

When he’d heard there was no body, for just a moment he wondered if what he saw had been a mistake—or a hallucination. But that wasn’t possible. He had a photo. It had been there. For the body to suddenly be gone—something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

He couldn’t enter the house in human form, but as a bat, he could. He wouldn’t believe anything until he saw it with his own eyes.

Flying at several times walking speed, he reached the house quickly. Seven officers were in the yard. One of them noticed the bat flying overhead, but paid it no mind as they continued digging.

He slipped through the open door into the slanted house. No police were inside—they were all outside. Now was his chance.

He searched for the spot where he had fallen through the tatami, but the torn mat was gone. In fact, all the tatami had been removed, and he couldn’t tell where the hole had been.

Something felt wrong. Strongly wrong.

What was different?

Then he realized—the bamboo. The bamboo that had burst through the floor was gone.

Al dug through the ground, crawling on all fours, trying to retrace the spot where he had found the remains the day before. Nothing. There was nothing there.

“No… no…” Al shook his head violently from side to side. It had been here. He was sure of it. He carefully scanned the area. The soil where the skull had been was lower than the rest, with marks that looked like it had been freshly disturbed—dug up.

Yesterday evening, he’d found the skeleton and told Nukariya about it. And then, in the few hours between when Nukariya had contacted the local police and when they arrived on site, someone had dug up the body and taken it away. Was that even possible? But judging from how bleached the skull was, the whole body had likely already been fully reduced to bones. That would’ve made it more compact, easier to carry. Not impossible.

And the only person who would know the body was there—the one who buried it—was Yonekura.

If even a fragment had been left behind, that would be something, but the spot where the bones had surfaced yesterday had now been stripped clean—roots, soil, and all, gone.

Frustrated, Al clenched his teeth hard. If only he’d reported it immediately to the local police when he first discovered the remains, they might have been able to collect the body before it was taken. He shouldn’t have gone back to the inn to soak in a bath. Nukariya had trusted him, had made the report on his behalf, and now, with the remains missing, it would seem like he’d believed a hoax and wasted the time of a rural police department. It would hurt his reputation. Al felt genuinely sorry.

I will find it—no matter what. I’ll find the body and the one who took it, and hand them over to the police!

With that vow in his chest, he lowered his nose to the trampled earth. He searched desperately for the fading traces of scent—of blood and flesh that had long since returned to the dirt. Then, flick, a sharp tang of blood grazed his nose.

It was fresh.

There hadn’t been a scent like this yesterday. What did that mean? Whose blood?

As he sniffed around the area, he caught faint traces here and there—spots where the smell of fresh blood lingered.

Maybe someone had injured a hand or foot while digging up the bones? The police had been here too, but if they hadn’t found anything, they likely wouldn’t have dug with much enthusiasm. Which meant the blood was probably Yonekura’s.

To Al, blood was food. If it was fresh, his senses could detect it with clarity.

His only lead now was the scent of that blood. He followed it.

It trailed out of the house, into the backyard, but quickly began to thin out. A car or motorcycle must’ve picked up from there.

The scent was too faint. He couldn’t track it any further. He couldn’t even tell whether they had gone left or right.

He couldn’t follow it. So frustrating. So frustrating.

Al collapsed near the roots of a tree in the backyard and rolled around helplessly. But there was nothing more he could do.

Defeated, he returned to the inn, turned back into human form, and sent a message to Nukariya. He apologized for being late to report, and for failing to stop the remains from being taken—or track them afterward.

The phone rang almost immediately.

[Don’t worry about me. It was just bad timing.]

Nukariya was endlessly kind. And just like Al, he was convinced that the culprit was Yonekura.

[The body might’ve been taken away in Yonekura’s private car. According to the police system, we know that Yonekura headed down the expressway toward Kyushu. After he got off the highway, it looks like he switched to regular roads—we don’t know where he went after that.]

A flash of insight hit Al. If he couldn’t follow the scent, maybe he could search for Yonekura’s car instead.

It might be like looking for a gold flake in the desert, but it was better than doing nothing.

He asked Nukariya to tell him what Yonekura’s car looked like, and in response, Nukariya sent a photo of a similar model—along with the license plate number.

[I’ll find Yonekura.]

If he could find the car, then the body would surely be inside. Al declared his resolve, but Nukariya quickly replied with a warning:

[Don’t overdo it.]

[Yonekura has killed someone. He might be the kind of person who doesn’t hesitate to hurt others. If you do find him, don’t try to handle it alone. Contact me, okay?]

After promising he’d be careful, Al ended the call. He burned the photo of the car into his brain and memorized the license plate number. Then, once more, he turned into a bat and flew out the window of his room.

If he were Yonekura—where would he take the body in that car?

If the remains were evidence of a crime, then of course Yonekura would want to get rid of them as soon as possible. That meant either burying them in the mountains, or dumping them into the sea… In front of Al stretched the overgrown, shadowy trees of a fading rural mountain landscape. Honestly, if someone wanted to bury something, it could be done just about anywhere out here.

He soared higher and higher into the sky. If Yonekura planned to bury the body, he’d need some familiarity with the land. Otherwise, there was the risk of accidentally digging on someone else’s property and getting caught. So more likely, Yonekura would choose somewhere not far from Yontate Village—a place he knew people wouldn’t come.

Al flew north, above the road that led from Yonekura’s grandmother’s house into the mountains. There were no homes along the road, and it ended in a dead end. No people, no cars. A fork branched off halfway through, but it led to a larger town—clearly the wrong direction. Al turned back toward the village. That alone had taken nearly two hours.

Next, he tried the mountain road to the south. That road climbed steadily higher. At the peak, he spotted a building with a tiled roof. A torii gate stood in front of it—it was a shrine. The narrow road split again, one path leading to the shrine, the other ending in a cul-de-sac.

At the end of the dead-end road, there was a small clearing, and one dark-colored vehicle was parked there. A long rectangular box-shaped car. Not quite a camper van, but big enough to sleep in the back seat. It looked like the car in the photo Nukariya had sent.

Al flew closer and checked the license plate.

It matched.

Found it!

He had to tell Nukariya—but his phone was back in the room at the inn. If he flew back now and came back later, the car might be gone. He couldn’t risk losing it.

At the very least, he had to confirm whether Yonekura was inside—and whether the body was.

Quietly, making no sound, Al landed on the car’s roof. The back windows were tinted; he couldn’t see through them. So he crept to the side window on the passenger’s side and peeked inside.

There was someone in the driver’s seat.

It was Yonekura. No mistake.

He was asleep, lying flat across the reclined seat.

From that angle, Al could see into the back. There was a cooler box—about the right size for a small dog to fit inside. Too small for a human body—but if it was just bones, it would be more than enough.

So it really was Yonekura.

Al didn’t know the full story of how the body had ended up under the floor—but if he pieced it together with what Nonoshita had told him, it wasn’t hard to imagine: Yonekura had resented his abusive grandmother and murdered her. Then he buried the body under the floor. To avoid suspicion, he’d told people she was senile and claimed she’d gone missing. The way he covered it up, how thorough he’d been—it had all been calculated.

Yonekura was likely completely off guard right now.

Al wanted to tell Nukariya where he was—but he didn’t want to leave. If he lost sight of the car now, he might never find this brutal killer again. And that would delay the day Akira’s name was cleared.

CLUNK. A sudden noise. The car door opened.

Al pulled his face back in a flash and flattened himself against the roof.

Yonekura stepped out of the car. He stretched both arms overhead and let out a loud yawn. A bandage was wrapped around one of his fingers.

The scent of blood Al had picked up under the floor—so it really had been Yonekura’s.

What was he going to do now? Al watched closely.

Yonekura wandered into a patch of tall grass… and began to relieve himself, standing.

This was a chance. Al dropped silently to the ground and picked up two small pebbles, one in each foot, then leapt back up to the roof of the car to hide again. Yonekura, having finished his business, wandered back slowly. He was completely relaxed, unaware of anything.

Just as Yonekura flung open the driver’s side door, Al hurled both pebbles toward the woods on the passenger side. One struck a tree trunk with a sharp clack. Yonekura turned in that direction and, leaving the door open, took a few steps toward the sound.

That was all the time Al needed.

He slipped into the car and dove under the seat.

Yonekura came back almost immediately and climbed in. The engine started. Al crouched small and silent, watching the foot that pressed on the gas pedal.

If Yonekura had dug up the bones, it was because they were something he couldn’t afford to be found. There was no way he would just carry them around indefinitely. He’d surely want to bury them—or dump them—somewhere. If Al could confirm the location, he could tell Nukariya.

Suddenly, Al’s nose caught the sharp scent of blood.

It was drifting from the floor of the back seat. The scent was different from Yonekura’s. A bit older. But it was familiar.

He’d smelled this blood before.

Where…? Who…?

Then he remembered.

It was Ishimoto’s blood. The overwhelming, choking scent from when Ishimoto had been stabbed repeatedly. It wouldn’t be strange if some of the blood Yonekura had been soaked in had ended up in the car.

Al slowly crawled across the floor, keeping to blind spots, and carefully climbed up toward the rear door behind the passenger seat. He peered out through the side window. The car had passed through a narrow road and was now speeding along a lonely country road dotted with only the occasional house.

It was frustrating. They’d come so close—just hours short of catching him before the remains were taken.

Al didn’t know what Yonekura was planning or where he was going, but he wouldn’t let him get away. No matter where he went—even to the ends of the earth—Al would follow him.

Yonekura didn’t stop once. He drove relentlessly. Where was he headed? If he just wanted to bury the bones, that secluded spot in the mountains earlier would’ve been perfect. So why hadn’t he used it?

Maybe it was too exposed. Maybe he’d planned to move under cover of night, and just rested there temporarily. Or maybe he was now headed for somewhere he could throw the bones—like a river or the ocean.

The car had been surrounded by mountains all this time, but suddenly the view opened up. Houses multiplied. They were entering a town.

After about an hour on the road, the car finally stopped.

It was a parking lot—about the size of a baseball field—and nearly 80% full. Through the front windshield, Al could see the sea. It wasn’t swimming season yet, so no one was in the water, but the beach was crowded. There were many food stalls, so perhaps there was some kind of event.

Yonekura left the engine running and got out, walking toward the crowd.

He left the cooler box behind.

If Al called the police now, they’d definitely catch him.

If Yonekura was driving, his change of clothes was probably in the car too. Al could transform, steal his clothes, and run straight to the nearest police box. But then, how would he explain how he knew about the bones? That would lead to questions. The police might start digging into him. Too complicated.

No—his best option was to tell Nukariya where Yonekura was. Even a public phone would work. Or he could borrow someone’s smartphone.

But either way, he had to become human again—and it was currently 1:30 in the afternoon, right in the middle of his two-hour bat time.

Even though he desperately wanted to tell Nukariya, he couldn’t return to human form yet.

Yonekura had walked away from the car, but the engine was still running, the AC on full blast. In a situation like this, he wouldn’t be gone long.

Still, Al clung to the sliver of hope: “Please, don’t come back yet. Wait until I can turn human and contact Nukariya…”

But that wish shattered quickly.

With a loud bang, the rear passenger door of the car suddenly slid open.

“Wow, it’s so cool in here~”

A young girl with light-colored hair and an Asian face clambered into the back seat. Right behind her came Yonekura. Al quickly slid down and ducked back under the seat.

Who is she? Al wondered. Yonekura’s girlfriend? Then he heard a syrupy sweet voice say, “Oh, stop it~,” confirming it. Definitely a girlfriend.

Her voice only grew more flirtatious, and the atmosphere in the car turned unmistakably steamy. Al clamped his claws over his ears, but the girl’s sultry voice echoed relentlessly through the cramped interior. He shut his heart down, trying to endure the intimate sounds and simply wait for the moment to pass.

In front of him, the cooler box sat in plain view.

Even if it was just bones now, it was still a body. Thinking about what was happening right beside it filled him with a strange, conflicted feeling. The girl didn’t know, so maybe she couldn’t be blamed—but what on earth was Yonekura thinking?

Eventually, the sweet voice faded. Al saw long, claw-like fingers reach down and pick up a pair of panties that had fallen near his hiding spot. The girl straightened her clothes, glanced at her phone, and muttered, “Ugh, my friends are totally looking for me~,” then stepped out of the car without a second thought.

For a girlfriend, the goodbye was oddly casual. Maybe it had just been a one-time fling.

Once she was gone, Yonekura rolled all the windows down. The foul odor lifted as the inside of the car cooled to match the outside air. Then, he shut the windows again.

Bat time would be over soon. If Yonekura left the car for a long enough stretch again, Al could finally slip out and contact Nukariya.

Yonekura sat in the back seat, sipping a soda and fiddling with his smartphone. No sign he planned to go anywhere. Maybe he had brought the bones to the ocean to dispose of them, but the beach was unexpectedly crowded, so he was just killing time until nightfall. Maybe that’s why he’d invited the girl—for something to do while he waited.

Then again… maybe not. Al couldn’t tell what Yonekura was thinking or what he was going to do next.

When the car clock ticked past 3:00 PM, a notification chime pinged from Yonekura’s phone. A message? Yonekura stepped out of the car.

Now’s the chance.

Al transformed into human form in a corner of the car. He opened Yonekura’s bag and began rummaging through it for clothes—but through the window, he saw Yonekura returning. And this time, he wasn’t alone—he was with another man.

Panicking, Al shoved the bag back as it was and curled into a ball on the back seat. He might not make it in time. But if he tried to jump out now, he’d definitely be seen.

He had to turn back into a bat.

Just before the door opened, he barely managed to transform and slip into the narrow gap between the seat and the door.

Yonekura and the man got into the back seat. Yonekura shut the door, then pulled the curtain across the space between the back and front seats, sealing the car into a private room.

What is this…? Drugs? A gun deal?

Nukariya had told him that in Japan, only hunting rifles were legal, so the more likely scenario was drugs…

But Al’s assumption was immediately shattered.

Yonekura wrapped his arms tightly around the man—and the two of them collapsed together into the back seat in a tangle of limbs.

Al blinked. Then blinked again. No matter how many times he did, the scene in front of him didn’t vanish.

Just earlier, Yonekura had been doing the same thing with that sweet young girl—and now he was doing it all over again, but with a strong, muscular man.

No way… Al clutched his head with his claws.

What even is this!?

It hadn’t been that long since the girl had left. And now here Yonekura was, spending over an hour in an even more intense, sweat-drenched session with a man.

When it was all over, the man gave a simple, “That was great, see ya,” and left the car just as casually as the girl had.

Al had heard of people who treated sex like a sport, enjoying it casually with multiple partners. But Yonekura’s vitality was something else. He’d barely rested—done with the woman, straight to a man.

With the girl, Yonekura had fixed himself up quickly afterward. But now, after the man, he just sat there naked and slouched in the back seat.

“That thing’s way too big.”

Grumbling, Yonekura lit a cigarette. Then he bent forward, stood up, and kicked the cooler box hard with his heel.

“Granny—are you watchin’?”

With a guttural laugh, he stomped on the cooler box. Again and again and again. The sheer persistence of it was disturbing—it felt unhinged. And in that moment, Al became sure: that skeleton had been Yonekura’s missing grandmother. She was inside that cooler box.

If what Nonoshita said was true, Yonekura had been abused by his grandmother. Maybe he killed her out of resentment. But even so—no, especially so—you can't just kill someone. You must never, ever kill a person.

Eventually worn out from kicking, Yonekura collapsed into the back seat, panting heavily. Once his breath calmed, the car fell eerily silent. Al thought he’d fallen asleep—until he heard a small, trembling voice:

“Ishimoto-saaan.”

“Ishimoto-saaan…”

He called the name again. Then came the sound of a wet sniffle. Was he talking about that Ishimoto? The staff member from the care facility? If so, it was Yonekura himself who had stabbed him to death—over and over. And yet, here he was, crying over it?

“Ishimoto-saaan, Ishimoto-saaan…”

The way he called the name… it was like a lost child searching for a parent. Maybe Yonekura had looked up to Ishimoto. But if that were true, then why had he killed her? It made no sense.

“Takatsuka-saaan.”

The sudden appearance of Akira’s name made Al jolt.

“Takatsuka-saaan…”

Yonekura had set up Akira to take the fall. Framed him as the killer. And now, he was calling his name with a tone of desperate longing, like clinging to a lover. Yonekura sobbed for a while, quietly, before suddenly sitting up straight. He blew his nose with a sharp honk, got dressed, moved to the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

Al couldn’t make any sense of Yonekura’s behavior—none. It was impossible to predict what he would do next.

Al stayed hidden, watching for a new chance to alert the authorities. Eventually, Yonekura parked at a large home improvement center and went inside. Al had no idea what he was after or how long he’d be. Ten minutes later, Yonekura returned and tossed a shopping bag into the passenger seat, but Al couldn’t tell what was inside.

From there, the car turned onto narrower and narrower roads, gradually winding into the mountains.

So, not the sea after all—he was planning to bury the bones.

But if that was the case, why hadn’t he done it sooner? Maybe even Yonekura wasn’t sure what to do with them.

The sun dipped low in the sky—it was evening now. Al imagined Yonekura walking deep into the deserted forest, but instead, they arrived in a surprisingly open area.

Tents dotted the grassy clearing.

What is this? Al read a nearby sign: “CAMP,” written in English.

Yonekura drove straight into the meadow and parked at the edge. Other campers had also driven in and pitched tents beside their vehicles.

After stepping outside, Yonekura set up a small stand next to the back seat door. It had four legs and a wire-mesh surface. Maybe he was going to cook something?

To make a report, Al would have to become human again. The safest plan was to wait until Yonekura fell asleep, transform, borrow his clothes, step outside, ask someone to borrow a smartphone, and contact Nukariya with the situation. But judging by how things were going, who knew when that would be?

Yonekura returned to the car from outside and opened the cooler box he’d been viciously kicking earlier. He pulled out something like a burlap sack. It was about the size of two large cushions, misshapen and lumpy. When it swayed, a dry rattling sound came from inside. That smell—Al recognized it. It was the same as what he'd smelled under the floorboards.

Yonekura spread a blue tarp across the floor of the back seat and flipped the sack upside down. Dirt and what looked like pale white bones spilled out in clumps. He picked out the white bits and returned them to the sack, then dumped the remaining soil at the base of a tree near the car. When he came back, he laid a thick, flat board—about twice the size of a cutting board—on the floor and placed the sack on top of it. Then, with a heavy metal mallet in hand, he raised it high and brought it down hard.

CRACK.

The sound of bones shattering echoed through the car. CRACK. CRACK.

Even just watching it made Al’s chest ache. But Yonekura wore a gleeful smile, eyes shining with delight as he struck again and again and again. The sack that had once been the size of two cushions was now half that.

With the sack in hand, Yonekura stepped out of the car. The door shut behind him, so Al climbed up into the seat and peeked out the passenger window.

Yonekura had set up that small platform outside—a stack of scrap wood—and he held the sack over it, letting the crushed contents pour out. White shards tumbled down with a rattle rattle—like bits of splintered wood.

He then squeezed a jelly-like substance from a tube onto the pile. Probably some kind of fire starter. As Al was thinking that, Yonekura struck a flame.

A sudden column of fire surged upward. In the dimming twilight, it roared and cracked.

As he watched the flames dance, Yonekura gazed into them dreamily and muttered, “Granny, feelin’ warm?”

“Not just warm, huh? Bet it's more like ouchie, ouchie.”

He chuckled.

“Could’ve chucked you in the ocean, I guess. But then every time I saw the sea, I’d think of you. I actually like the ocean, you know? So makin’ me hate it—that’d be a curse in itself.”

A chill ran down Al’s spine, but at last, he understood.

Yonekura didn’t want to bury or dump the bones. He wanted to burn them. Burn them with kindling in a fire. Out in the countryside, fires like this weren’t uncommon, but the smoke would still draw attention. A campsite, though—everyone’s doing it. Nobody would think it was strange.

Al had heard that once bones were burned, it became much harder to extract DNA. If he didn’t act, a key piece of evidence could be lost forever.

This couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hello there~!”

A gentle voice.

A girl with big, round eyes and her hair tied neatly behind her head smiled at Yonekura and asked, “Solo camping?”

“Not really camping. Just makin’ a fire.”

Even caught in the act of burning human bones, Yonekura didn’t flinch. The girl, of course, wouldn’t dream that what she was seeing were human remains.

“Ah, I get that. Sometimes you just wanna enjoy the fire, right?”

Yonekura’s attention shifted to the girl.

Now’s the time.

Crouched low in the back seat, Al transformed back into human form. He reached into the bag on the seat and pulled out Yonekura’s clothes, hurriedly slipping them on.

Outside, Yonekura was still chatting with the girl—laughing, enjoying himself.

If I go now…

Al slowly opened the door.

Click.

The interior light blinked on.

The automatic light. He hadn’t noticed it during the day, but now in the dark, it was obvious.

“Huh? The light just turned on…” A girl’s voice.

Al burst out of the car and ran into the underbrush. Someone was chasing him—probably Yonekura. He wasn’t wearing shoes, so his feet hurt. But he pushed through the pain and ran full speed. He glanced back midway, but the presence pursuing him had vanished.

Crouching low in a patch of tall grass, Al turned into a bat.

Just as he expected, back at the campsite, Yonekura poured water over the fire, scooped the smoldering bones into a metal bucket, got into the car, and drove away.

Al took to the air and followed from above.

The car tore through the dusky mountain roads at breakneck speed. The narrow road barely allowed for two cars to pass, and Al watched anxiously, certain a head-on collision was only moments away.

After following for about fifteen minutes, a bridge came into view ahead—around sixty feet long. Yonekura’s car came to a halt in the middle.

He got out, holding both the burlap sack and the bucket.

No… don’t tell me…

Yonekura flung the bucket over the side of the bridge. The burned bones clattered inside as it fell. Then he opened the mouth of the sack and dumped the remaining contents into the river.

Shattered bits of bone dropped one after another into the water, drifting off with the current. The evidence was being scattered—lost.

Yonekura let go of the sack. It fluttered downward but caught a sudden gust of wind, lifting up for a moment. Al dove for it.

The wind-blown sack snagged on a tree branch growing along the riverbank.

Gathering the broken bone fragments floating downstream would be nearly impossible. But if the sack still held some unburned bone shards or dust, there might be a chance—something usable for analysis.

The cord of the sack was tangled tightly in the branch. Al hooked his feet around it and tugged, but it wouldn’t budge.

He glanced around. Yonekura was gone from the railing, but the car was still visible. He must’ve gone back.

Al flew under the bridge and landed, shifting into human form. The riverbanks were built up with concrete, but the water was low—enough to walk along the dried shore.

He approached the tree where the sack had snagged, pulled a thin branch toward himself, and retrieved the crucial evidence.

Clutching the sack tight, he walked through the riverside brush back beneath the bridge.

He considered flying with it in his bat form, gripping it by his feet—but if he swung the sack too hard, the remaining bone dust inside might spill. This was precious evidence. It had to be preserved.

He needed to hide it somewhere safe first, then transform.

Under the bridge, near the pillar’s top, was a gap just big enough for a child to crawl into. He pushed the sack inside.

As long as there wasn’t a flood to submerge the bridge, it would be fine.

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

Grass stirred nearby. What—!?

Al turned instinctively.

A large shadow.

Something black leapt at him.

Though it happened in an instant, the scene unfolded like a broken film reel in slow motion. A hammer, glinting in the darkness, plunged toward his right eye.

The impact sent him crashing backward. Blood… it gushed. He couldn’t see out of one eye. It might’ve burst.

From the ground, Al saw with his remaining vision—Yonekura astride him, raising the hammer again.

It struck.

His left eye shattered.

Heavy, solid blows smashed into his face again and again and again.

Pain. Pain.

It felt like his head was being thrown into a raging fire.

It wasn’t something he could simply endure by staying still—his whole body thrashed in agony.

“Aaaaah! Aaaaahhhhhh—!”

His scream was reduced to a ragged rasp. Then came a sickening jolt to his throat—crunch, crunch, crunch—each impact crushing his neck further, bones snapping, the skin tearing open and piercing through the windpipe, until air hissed out of the hole with every shallow breath: hii, hii.

“…Still moving,” Yonekura’s voice said. His ears—at least his ears still worked.

“Your neck’s pretty much squashed and barely hanging on. Nerves should be severed too, but your arms and legs are still twitching. What the hell are you, a zombie?”

Something hard slammed into his torso, sending him rolling side to side across the ground. Maybe he was being kicked.

“You’re that guy who was hiding in my car, right? I came down to get the sack, and you suddenly popped out from under the bridge stark naked? Seriously, what the hell are you?”

It hurt. It hurt so much. Help me… Akira… help…

“…Oh yeah, back in the reception room, there was a naked foreigner with Takatsuka-san. That was you, wasn’t it? So you’re someone he knows? How the hell did you even track me down?”

The agony that felt close to death began, little by little, to fade.

“…Wait a sec, isn’t your ripped-off neck reattaching?”

There was fear in the murderer’s voice. Al could feel it too—his smashed face was healing. His vampiric nature had progressed, and the rate of regeneration had become astounding. Where darkness had dominated, his vision slowly returned, blurring first, then gradually coming into focus. The outlines of the world took shape again. He could see Yonekura, standing over him. It was too dark to make out his expression, but there he was, watching.

The pain in his throat was gone. He could speak again. Or so he thought—he managed to say, “I…” but the hammer came down again, straight into his newly healed face.

There was a burst of pain and a wet splatter as his right eye was crushed, the sound of it exploding echoing inside his skull.

“UGGYYAAAAAAHHHH!!”

Darkness returned.

The hammer slammed into his head over and over again.

“You’re disgusting. Freak. Just die already. Why won’t you fucking die?!”

The pain was unbearable. His head had to be nothing but pulp by now. And yet he could feel his body still trying to repair itself. Could he… move without a head? He didn’t know. He tried lifting his upper body with his ruined head still limp, but the moment he moved, Yonekura punched him in the chest and sent him crashing back down.

His chest throbbed in pain, and then the hammer shifted—crushing his knees, his elbows, joint after joint turned to rubble.

“Ouch… ouch… ouchhhh!”

He cried out, only to be struck in the throat again, silencing him.

“What the hell are you? No matter how much I beat you, you just keep coming back. You’re really a damn zombie. What does it take to kill you?”

Confused and unnerved, Yonekura continued striking whatever part of Al’s body had begun to heal. Which meant the pain never stopped.

“What is this…? Am I dreaming? Or have I just lost my mind?”

Thunk. Thunk. The hammer crushed his head again.

“That healing or whatever… it’s slowing down, huh?”

He was right. The pain took longer to fade now. Unlike Kyiv, who recovered instantly no matter the injury, Al was still partly human, and he hadn’t had any blood since leaving America. He wouldn’t die, but he was starving.

“C’mon, just die already. My arms are getting tired from all this.”

From above, a horn blared—paah, paah. Again—paah, paah. Yonekura grumbled, “So damn noisy,” and finally stopped swinging the hammer. In that brief pause, Al’s face began to repair itself. A second later, he sensed a burst of light shine directly on them.

His left eye—he could see again. A powerful beam was shining down from the bridge above.

“What are you doing down there? Night fishing?”

The voice called out from above, familiar even from a distance. It was Shimizu—the sound guy from the TV crew, the one obsessed with tsuchinoko. That blindingly unnatural light… maybe it was a shooting light?

“You’ve parked your car in the middle of the bridge, and now we can’t get past. Can you move it?”

Then Shimizu suddenly went quiet. “Wha—wait, you’re covered in blood! And there’s someone collapsed down there!”

“Did they fall off the bridge?! I-I’ll call an ambulance!”

“I’m fine,” Yonekura replied, grinning through a blood-slicked face.

“You’re not fine!” Shimizu yelled back. “You’re not fine at all!”

While Yonekura was distracted by the voices above, Al’s throat healed. He could speak again.

“I’m coming down right now!” Shimizu shouted, breaking into a run.

Yonekura clicked his tongue and tightened his grip on the hammer.

No. If Shimizu came closer, he might be attacked too.

“Don’t… come here.”

Al managed to rasp the warning in a hoarse, broken voice. Shimizu stopped in his tracks.

As Yonekura turned back, Al sprang to his feet and sprinted into the darkness. A stabbing pain shot through his knees, like nails being driven in, but he couldn’t stop now. The riverbank was overgrown with weeds, trees spreading their roots right to the water’s edge, the footing treacherous. He could hear Yonekura chasing behind him, but the strong lights weren’t following—they couldn’t track him. Only Yonekura could see where he went.

So he ran and willed himself: Turn into a bat!

“Huh?” Yonekura’s voice reached him.

He must’ve seen it—the transformation from human into bat—but Al didn’t care. His body shifted mid-run, and just as he became a bat, he dove into the brush on the far side of the river. In this small form, Yonekura wouldn’t be able to spot him anymore.

Peeking through the grass, Al saw Yonekura throw the hammer into the river, then return to the bridge’s underside, retrieve the sack from behind the pier, and head up the embankment to the road.

With every ounce of strength left, Al flew toward the bridge railing and hid in the shadow of the crew’s van. His body was healing fast, but the blood loss had taken a toll. He was dizzy, his wings trembled. Even just flying from the riverside up to the bridge left him panting for breath.

“Sorry for the trouble. I’ll move the car right away,” Yonekura said, his expression calm.

But Shimizu’s face was tense. “Hey… the person who was lying down—what about them?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Yonekura feigned ignorance.

“There was only me down there.”

“There was someone else. I heard voices. And you’ve got blood on you—wait…”

In the harsh glow of the studio light, Yonekura’s clothes looked dark and stained, but just barely. Al was stunned too. He remembered now—when Kyiv had been shot in America, his blood had crumbled into ash and vanished. Since Al had nearly turned into a full vampire, maybe his blood had done the same. But because he wasn’t fully changed, maybe some imperfect residue had clung faintly to Yonekura’s clothes.

"I just dropped something and picked it up, that's all," Yonekura said as he made a show of swinging the burlap sack in his right hand. Then he exhaled lightly, almost theatrically.

"I've been alone the whole time. If someone saw something… maybe it was a ghost," he added with a flat tone, completely unbothered. The more Yonekura spoke, the more stiff and tense Shimizu's face became.

"B-but I definitely heard someone… a voice—"

"I don’t know," Yonekura cut in dismissively. "Maybe someone who died around here?"

He said it so irresponsibly, like he was flicking lint from his sleeve.

"No, that can’t be right. Either way, I’m going to take a look under the bridge," Shimizu insisted.

With another exaggerated sigh, Yonekura tossed the sack back into his car and began descending toward the riverbank alongside Shimizu. Al couldn’t help worrying that Yonekura might try something—he could still do something awful to him. But a scary-looking man in his sixties, probably one of the crew, was standing above with a flashlight trained steadily on their feet. With a witness present, Yonekura wouldn’t be able to make a move so easily.

While Shimizu wandered the riverbank, looking around, a blaring honk suddenly blasted from behind. A window rolled down on a large truck and the driver shouted angrily, “Why the hell are you parked in the middle of the road? Move your damn car!”

The old man holding the light frowned, scratched his head roughly, and without asking, opened the door to Yonekura’s driver seat. He peered inside. Was he planning to move the car without permission? He might have to—Yonekura’s van and the other box van were blocking the road, and the truck couldn’t get through unless they moved.

Al seized the moment and flew into Yonekura’s car. The man jerked back—"Whoa! A bird?!"—but when Al stayed quietly curled up under the back seat, the man just grimaced and climbed into the vehicle. He cranked the windows down wide, as if silently telling the bat to get out, then started the engine and began rolling the car forward slowly.

Al crawled up bit by bit to the passenger seat. The burlap sack was lying there carelessly, just waiting.

Gripping the sack tightly with both feet, he flew out through the open passenger-side window. Every wingbeat sent pain splintering through his entire body, like he was going to fall apart. Still, he endured. He forced himself back toward the box van. One of its rear doors had been left ajar. He slipped inside and shoved the sack beneath the seat. Then, exhausted, he curled up beside it.

 

Before long, the door of the box van shut, and the vehicle began to move. Just as it came to a stop again, the rumble of a large truck passed by with a loud drrrmmm, rolling along the road they had just cleared. About ten minutes later, Shimizu got into the driver’s seat with a muttered “Man, that was something,” and the gruff older man from earlier climbed into the passenger seat.

“Sorry for holding you up like this,” Shimizu apologized.

“The one to blame is that guy who parked his car in the middle of the damn road,” the man replied in a low, intimidating voice.

“About an hour to the airport. We should be able to make the flight in time,” Shimizu said, trying to smooth things over as he started the van.

As the box van began rolling again, Al quietly moved around inside and peered through the rear window. There were no headlights behind them. Had Yonekura realized the sack was gone by now? Was there any chance he might chase after them?

“…That guy who parked in the middle of the bridge really gave me the creeps,” Shimizu muttered.

“I swear I saw someone else down under the bridge, all covered in blood. I heard their voice too… but I guess it was all in my head.”

“I saw it too,” the older man said. His voice was calm, but heavy.

“Wait, Shimoyama-san, you saw it too!?” Shimizu turned, startled.

“I did. But it didn’t feel real. That bridge—falling from that height would definitely kill you. And it wouldn’t be strange if something came out from under there. There are spots like that in studios too, y’know. Creepy as hell. Best not to think too hard about it.”

Hearing Shimoyama’s words, Shimizu sighed softly. “This whole shoot’s been cursed, huh?”

“Reporter Kousuke got sick and had to be replaced, producer tripped and broke a bone and went straight to the hospital, cameraman’s parent took a turn for the worse and he rushed back to Yamanashi… Then there’s that whole mess in Yontate Village, with a maybe-dead-body situation. And now this ghost story to top it off? Yeah. We’re cursed.”

Even after driving for another thirty minutes, there was no sign of a car that might belong to Yonekura following them. He’d gotten back the sack of bones and escaped—at least, it seemed that way. Al let out a breath and sagged in relief. He was beyond exhausted, and his stomach was completely empty. He could barely move anymore.

Thanks to the film crew and to Shimizu, he’d survived. There was nothing but gratitude in his heart now. If he ever got the chance, he decided, he’d help Shimizu find a tsuchinoko for real—he meant it this time.

“Uwahhhh!”

A loud, deep shout jolted Al awake. It was bright now. He lifted his head and looked around. Office furniture—desks and shelves—towered around him. Was this… someone’s company office? But then he noticed the cameras and lights set up in the back. A studio?

“Why’d you scream like that all of a sudden?” came a voice—older, maybe a man in his fifties or sixties.

“There was a rat in the equipment crate…” Shimizu’s voice replied.

Al turned toward the sound and saw him—yes, it was Shimizu himself.

While riding in the van with Shimizu and Shimoyama, listening in on their conversation after snatching the sack from Yonekura, Al had learned they were heading for the airport in a rental van and planning to return to Tokyo on the last flight of the day.

He’d tried to think it through—if he could turn human, find some clothes, arrange a plane ticket… But his wallet was still back at the inn. There was no way he could get to Tokyo today.

But he needed to get this crucial evidence—the sack with bone fragments—to Nukariya as soon as possible. Every second counted if he wanted to save Akira.

Dragging the burlap sack behind him, Al moved to the back of the van and peered into a container in the rearmost section. The lid wasn’t locked.

Inside the container were cables and tools crammed together for purposes Al couldn’t guess, but there was a bit of space at the top. He squeezed himself in between the tools, pulling the burlap sack in with him, making sure nothing would flag during a baggage inspection.

The plan was simple: the container would be checked in as cargo, loaded onto the plane, and flown to Tokyo. Once they exited the airport, he’d grab the sack and fly out of the container. That was the plan—but the moment he slipped inside, the relief and exhaustion overwhelmed him. He passed out. And from then until just now, when a scream jolted him awake, he’d been completely unconscious.

If this was really a filming studio, then he must have made it to Tokyo. He hadn’t even realized the container had been loaded onto or off the plane, and somehow he’d ended up getting transported—along with the rest of the equipment—all the way to Shimizu’s next shoot location. Just how long had he been asleep?

The lid was open. If he could just grab the sack and fly out of here, he could transform somewhere quiet and bring the bag to Nukariya. He spread his wings to take off—but they barely moved. They felt like they were made of lead, far too heavy to lift. Just the slightest movement made him pant for air. Why? …Could it be because he was starving?

Yonekura had attacked him, and he’d lost a massive amount of blood. He didn’t feel any pain, which meant his body had healed. But that healing must have burned through what little energy he had left, leaving him too drained even to flap his wings. Had he stayed asleep so long simply to conserve strength?

“When did this thing get in the container?”

Shimizu, who had apparently left and come back, now approached the crate with cautious curiosity.

“Oh, it's got wings. So it’s a bat. …Right, we were filming out in that remote village yesterday. Must’ve snuck in then.”

He poked Al’s back with the tip of a ballpoint pen. When Al shifted slightly, Shimizu tried nudging his backside. “C’mon, go on. Fly. Shoo outta here.”

Al wanted to fly. Desperately. But he just couldn’t.

“…Doesn’t look so good,” Shimizu muttered.

Then came a bright, airy voice. “What’s going on over here?”

A woman.

“Ah, Sasaki-chan,” said an older-sounding man from a short distance away. “Looks like there was a rat in the gear or something.”

“Ugh, rats? Grossss,” the woman whined, approaching.

“Oh! It’s a bat! Not a rat, it’s a bat!” the short-haired young woman exclaimed, peering down into the crate. This must be Sasaki-chan. She had big eyes and was quite pretty.

Yes—female humans always liked him in bat form. Fully aware of this, Al tilted his head at a charming angle and gave a soft “Gya!” in a sweet, pitiful tone.

“Whoa, it squeaked!”

Shimizu recoiled a step, but Sasaki-chan came closer, delighted. “So cute!”

Encouraged, Al gave a few more “Gya gya!” squeaks. Sasaki-chan extended her hand gently toward him.

“Hey, maybe don’t do that,” Shimizu warned. “What if it bites you?”

But Sasaki-chan ignored him, reaching toward Al’s head. He leaned into her fingers and rubbed against them.

“Wow, this little guy’s got zero fear,” she laughed.

Watching, Shimizu blinked. “Wait… is it tame?”

To further build their trust, Al gave Sasaki-chan’s fingertip a friendly little lick.

“Oh my gosh, it’s way too comfortable around people! Maybe it was someone’s pet and got lost or something.”

That seemed to convince them both. Shimizu nodded. “Yeah, could be.”

“If it’s a lost pet, maybe we should take it to the police?” he added. “Though it doesn’t look too well. D’you think it’s okay?”

“Maybe it’s just scared?” Sasaki-chan offered.

The two of them kept chatting in circles. Al wished they would just stick him in a box and carry him to a dressing room with spare clothes. If they did, he could walk out the front door carrying the sack like it was nothing. Of course, he’d return the borrowed clothes properly laundered later. He was completely exhausted, and unsure if he'd even be able to walk after transforming back into a human—but even if he couldn’t, once he was human, he could speak. He could ask someone to contact Nukariya for him.

“I mean, I don’t really know anything about bats,” Shimizu muttered, scratching his head.

Just then, an older man nearby said, “Oh! I think there’s a producer here who keeps a bat.”

“A producer?” Shimizu tilted his head.

“Yeah, kind of a flashy guy. Showed me a picture once, all proud. Pretty sure I saw him over by Studio 3 earlier. If you explain the situation, he might know what to do.”

“Studio 3? That’d be Producer Sakairi, probably. I’ll go ask!” chirped Sasaki-chan cheerfully.

The moment Al heard the name Sakairi, his ears perked up. Could it be? He waited, hopeful—and sure enough, a familiar voice soon drifted over, saying, “This is a problem…”

“I’ve never kept a bat, you know? The picture I showed them? That was my friend’s pet bat, not mine.”

“Still, you’re probably the most knowledgeable person about bats in this studio, so could you at least take a quick look~?”

Sakairi, dragged along by Sasaki-chan and grinning like a fool, leaned over to peer into the container.

“Gya gya!” Al cried out, aiming his voice directly at Sakairi, trying his best to say, “I’m Al, Akira’s pet!”

“Oh wow, Producer Sakairi! It’s like he’s happy to see you,” Sasaki-chan said delightedly.

Sakairi furrowed his brow and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Man… what a scruff little bat.”

Forget the scruff. Just take me in and hand me over to Nukariya, Al thought desperately.

After a few thoughtful grunts, Sakairi looked serious and asked, “You... are you Akira’s pet?”

Al nodded firmly.

“EHHH?!”

Sasaki-chan shrieked in surprise.

“Th-the bat just nodded! Wait, does it actually understand what we’re saying? No way!”

“I knew it,” Sakairi muttered, then declared in a somber tone, “This little guy belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Oh, so the owner’s been found! That’s great! Then please make sure they get him back,” Sasaki-chan said cheerfully.

“Well...,” Sakairi hesitated. He knew Akira was currently being held at the police station under suspicion of murder. No wonder he faltered.

“For now, I’ll take responsibility for him,” Sakairi said. “Got a box? Just a small cardboard one will do.”

Al clutched the burlap sack tightly in his claws. When Sakairi tried to transfer him from the container to the cardboard box and tugged on the sack, Al refused to let go.

“Uh, hey, is this thing yours?” Sakairi asked, pointing to the sack Al was clinging to.

“Nope, not mine. And I don’t think it’s studio property either,” Shimizu replied, shaking his head.

“Well, then whatever,” Sakairi said, plopping Al—with the sack still held tight—into the cardboard box.

They left the studio and brought him into a room roughly 300 square feet in size (about fifteen tatami mats). It had just a table and chairs—no mirrors or costume racks—so it was probably a meeting room. Al glanced at the wall clock and saw it was just past 3:10 p.m. Finally, he had a sense of what time it was.

"…This is troublesome," Sakairi muttered, folding his arms and looking down at the bat in the cardboard box.

"Takatsuka's been arrested and is in the detention center, and I’ve never dealt with a bat before either..."

He groaned, and then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Ah, I know! I’ll just leave it to Nukariya. He’s Takatsuka's best friend after all!"

Al couldn’t help but admire the carelessness. If he could leave it to Nukariya, that would be a big help. Sakairi immediately pulled out his phone and dialed, but after about ten rings, he clicked his tongue in frustration. "He's not picking up," he muttered, then shrugged.

"Ugh, it’s already this late. I have to get back to the studio. I’ll just send him a message for now."

While speaking, Sakairi hurriedly left the room that seemed to be a meeting space. Al figured that even though he couldn't reach Nukariya, he had sent the message. If Nukariya noticed, he would eventually come to pick him up.

Al sighed with relief, feeling like things were finally looking up. His thoughts shifted to the belongings he had left at the inn in Kyushu. He had left his smartphone and wallet there and hadn’t requested an extension for his stay. Once everything calmed down, he’d explain the situation to the inn and make sure to pay what was owed, arranging for his belongings to be sent over.

His stomach growled. He was so hungry. He wanted blood. Kyiv had told him, "You should be able to drink blood with your own fangs now," but he still felt hesitant. He had been getting the leftover blood from the embalming process, but now that he was back in Japan, he couldn’t rely on the supply from the pads.

An idea sparked in Al’s mind: maybe he could bite a cow or pig while still in bat form and take a little blood. If he could drink as a human, then surely he could do the same as a bat, with fangs. Twice a month, he could visit a farm and take a little from a few different animals. Kyiv had reassured him, "While you're feeding, the animal shouldn't feel any pain." Al decided he would apologize for taking the blood by buying cheese, milk, and meat directly from the farm. But... Tokyo was a huge city. Would there even be farms here?

While he was pondering, the door suddenly slammed open. Al raised his head, hoping it was Nukariya come to pick him up.

"Is this good enough?" a voice said.

It wasn’t Nukariya. A young man, dressed in a T-shirt and work pants, walked in with an air of someone who worked behind the scenes, followed by a man in a suit, who appeared to be a little older than the young man.

The young man was carrying a plastic carry case in his right hand. From inside, Al heard the sound of a cat meowing. It was fairly loud.

"I’ll let the manager at Nakajima Animal Agency know to leave the cat carrier in Conference Room 3," the young man said crisply.

The man in the suit scratched his head and muttered, "Ugh, we can’t leave it in the same room as the humans."

"It can’t be helped," the young man replied. "One of the performers has a cat allergy. But if we keep it in the studio, the cat will get anxious and keep meowing. This meeting room is empty, so it’ll be fine."

Al watched them both, still wondering what was going on.

The cat that was meowing seemed to be a talent cat. After placing the carrier on the floor, the two of them left the meeting room. Even after they left, the cat kept meowing loudly with a sad sound. It was quite noisy. Al tried to wait, hoping it would quiet down, but soon the sound of the cat struggling in the carrier mixed with its meowing, becoming a rattling noise.

A loud clunk echoed. The carrier tipped over, and with that, the door popped open. A black-and-white cat slowly emerged from inside. It was fairly large, about the size of a small dog. The cat wandered around the narrow meeting room floor. Al had a bad feeling and mentally urged it not to come near the table, but his hopes were in vain as the cat lightly jumped onto the table with a soft thunk.

It went straight to the cardboard box and peeked inside. When it got close to Al, it sniffed him, making little sniff sniff sounds. In the cat's eyes, Al could see his own reflection. He saw the gleam of a predator spotting its prey. This is bad, I’m gonna get eaten! He might not die, but it would definitely hurt. He tried to flap his wings to escape, but once again, he couldn’t muster enough strength to fly. What do I do? How should I get out of this?

The cat opened its mouth wide. There was no time left. Al shouted in his head: "Become human!" At the exact same moment, pain shot through his shoulder—it felt like the cat had bitten him. But the sensation lasted only a moment, and he could feel his body transforming into human form.

He ended up transforming while still on the table. The cardboard box beneath his now-prone torso was crushed flat. Al let out a deep breath. He’d had no choice but to turn human to avoid being eaten, but the fatigue that followed was immense. Being a bat had been hard, but being human was no less exhausting. His limbs felt completely limp.

The cat that had bitten him now huddled in the corner of the room, trembling. Al felt sorry for scaring it, but he hadn’t had a choice—he couldn’t let himself get eaten. Still… now what? There were no clothes in the meeting room, and he was completely naked. If someone saw him like this, it’d be a total disaster. Maybe he should turn back into a bat. But if he did, the cat might attack again. That’s it—he just needed to get the cat back into the carrier. If he did that, he wouldn’t get eaten even if he turned back into a bat.

Still lying face-down, Al began inching his body into position. But he couldn't even get his hands under him—he didn't have the strength. Can I even walk like this? He decided to test it by lowering just his legs off the edge of the table. His feet touched the floor, and he tried to push off—but no strength came, and his legs just trembled. Worse yet, he couldn’t lift them back up onto the table again.

This pose, with his butt sticking up, was really bad. If anyone walked in now, it’d be a catastrophe. At the very least, he wanted to cover his waist. He desperately moved his arms, dragging the now-crushed cardboard box he’d been in over his hips. But it just slid off his backside and dropped to the floor with a thud.

Al’s ears caught the sound of footsteps clicking toward him. Someone was coming. This was bad—really bad. Anyone seeing him like this would be a disaster, but if it had to be someone, he prayed it would be Sakairi. That wish, at least, was granted.

The door flew open with a bang. Sakaire stormed into the room, and the moment he saw Al—completely naked, only his upper body resting on the table—he let out a strangled cry, "Fuaaaaah?!"

"W-who the hell are you?" Sakairi stuttered in a trembling voice, backing away.

"...I'm Kane," Al said weakly, struggling to speak.

"Kane... Kane...?" Sakairi repeated, his voice rising. "Ehh, it’s you, Kane-san!" he exclaimed in a bewildered tone.

"The hair color’s different though! Well, never mind that—what are you doing here? Is this… a shoot or something?"

Al wanted to ask what exactly someone would shoot in a situation like this. Instead, he pleaded, “Give clothes…”

“What happened to the clothes you were wearing?”

At that moment, multiple footsteps and voices approached.

“We’ve temporarily moved the cat into this room…”

That was the voice of the man in the suit from earlier.

“Thank you very much, sorry for the trouble.”

A middle-aged woman in a jumper entered the room. As soon as she laid eyes on the scene, she froze in place and screamed, “Kyaaaaaaaaaah!!”

“What happened?!”

The man in the suit entered as well, and the moment he saw the naked Al and Sakairi, his face went ghostly pale.

“Producer Sakairi-san, what on earth are you doing!?”

“I-I didn’t do anything… I just came to retrieve the bat…”

Sakairi raised both hands in surrender. The man in the suit hurried over to Al and gently draped his suit jacket over Al’s waist. Then, glaring fiercely at Sakairi with a face like a demon, he shouted:

“In an age where compliance is everything, how could you do something so outrageous?! If you forced him, that’s a crime!”

Because Al was naked and in a strange pose, it seemed they now believed Sakairi was some kind of perverted producer doing indecent things in the studio. The woman in the jumper also glared at Sakairi with a look sharp enough to pierce armor.

“This is a misunderstanding! He’s the boyfriend of someone I know—he’s an actor!”

Despair etched itself across the suited man’s face.

“You made a move on a friend’s boyfriend in the studio? That’s beyond terrible.”

“I-I’m innocent! I came into the meeting room, and Kane-san was already naked in here! And I like girls! I prefer girls, girls are better than guys!!”

If things kept going like this, Sakairi would be left totally misunderstood. Al tried to defend him with “I okay,” but his voice was barely louder than a mosquito’s hum.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to force yourself.”

The man in the suit was being gentle with Al.

“Me and Sakairi… not nyan-nyan.”

Even when Al insisted Sakairi hadn’t done anything, the man replied, “You don’t have to protect him,” and still didn’t believe it.

“I don’t even get what’s going on,” Sakairi muttered, still wandering the room with his hands raised in surrender. Then another man, looking like a staff member, poked his head in and said, “Sorry to bother you.”

“Ah, Producer Sakairi, there you are. You weren’t answering your phone, we’ve been looking for you. There’s a visitor waiting at reception. A detective—someone named Yanagawa…”

The suited man turned around and widened his eyes. “Wait, you called the police yourself!?”

“No, no! I didn’t!” Sakairi cried, on the verge of tears.

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