Deperado Blues

1

Tokyo's one scary city.

I mean, there I am mindimg my own biz, and a spear shoots out at me!

We're in some back alley of a nighttime entertainment district when that sharp pointy thing shoots right at me.

Well, that's the image that popped into my head.

In reality, it's just a straight right hook, but that image of a spear being thrust at me flashes through my mind and makes my hair stand on end. Of course, it isn't a real spear, just a guy's fist. It's deflectable, blockable. Hell, even if it lands, it ain't gonna kill you.

But say it were a spear, you couldn't deflect that. You tried to block it, or took the hit, and you'd be dead.

That was the deadliness of that punch.

Honestly, I was stunned. Anyone would be when they get sucker punched like that out of nowhere. Nobody expects to get jumped while walking down the street. And it isn't like we had some grudge or anything—this was just a random attack in a dark back alley.

The clean hit to my jaw knocks me senseless.

My ass hit the dirt. Even though I'm not tired, exhaustion suddenly comes crashing over me. The pain doesn't show its ugly head right away. But there's a strong urge to stay crouched there. I really had been knocked senseless. I might even have passed out completely if things had gone differently. Yeah, Tokyo really is a scary city.

There is just one attacker. He's wearing a clichéd ski mask over his face.

But not long after, I can sense three more coming out of the darkness.

Man, that's a hell of a punch. My whole body went numb, and I didn't want to do anything. I really was in a que sera sera kind of mood.

Nice one, Konny. Same as always.

One of the newcomers spits casual remarks. I don't move a muscle, but I'm desperately fighting the urge to lose consciousness.

Did it again, huh? Picking on the strong? Wonder if he's got any money.

Someone else chimes in, followed by laughter. The Konny guy who'd taken me down in one hit doesn't say anything.

Hold up. What was that about picking on the strong?

Yeah, he's got money on him. These day laborer punks hate the fees and hassle of putting money in the bank.

Honestly, I'd rather go after women though. Like hostesses—they got money, and once you knock them out you can do whatever you want, and not just fill your wallet, if you catch my drift.

But that'd be picking on the weak, so it's a no-go. Though just because they're women doesn't necessarily make them weak, you know?

What a pain-in-the-ass rule though.

What rules are they even talking about?

Konny, that wrestler the other day, didn't you drop him in one hit too?

Yeah, but he was boozed up to the eyeballs.

He says this modestly, but being drunk wouldn't have mattered anyway.

That spear-like straight right is a deadly weapon. A single blow that, if it lands right, will knock your lights right out.

Any guy who throws that as a sucker punch can drop his target before the other fella even knows what's hit him. After that, he's free to do whatever he wants to the fella.

Plain and simple, this is a knockout robbery.

That's basically what this is about. Drop your opponent in one hit without giving them a chance to resist, then rob them blind. It sounds like an implausible crime, but knocking someone unconscious with one blow is entirely doable with a sucker punch against an amateur. I've heard that even when it's reported to the police, investigations rarely go anywhere. I mean, say it does happen to you and you report that someone knocked you out in a back alley of an entertainment district and when you came to your wallet was gone . . . Well, the cops aren't psychics; there's no way for them to track down whodunit.

At most, if it keeps happening, they can only take reactive measures like increasing patrols. In the worst cases, the victim might not even understand what the hell had happened to them.

I'm still conscious. I'd reflexively shifted my body, so the hit didn't land square, but I'm still momentarily dazed. The blow wasn't clean enough to knock me cold completely. If I'd wanted, I could have stayed on my feet, but I decided to follow my instincts and go down.

Four against one, including this Konny guy, who sucker-punched me. And yeah, I've got about thirty thousand yen in cash on me.

The question is whether to let them take that thirty thousand or not.

That's about three days' pay for me.

. . . These obvious day laborers who come out drinking are surprisingly good targets, you know? They don't bother with banks—too cheap to pay the fees. Their pay gets handed to them in cash too. Plus, they get all turned on and come out drinking. Him? He's bound to be carrying a decent amount.

Still, I wish we could avoid situations like the other day. I thought the guy looked tough; turned out he was just some scary-faced otaku who had a thing for cute girls. The bastard only had a few thousand yen on him.

Yeah, those types don't carry much cash. Maybe if there's an event or something, but checking their event schedules all the time would be stupid.

What I'm saying is, don't walk around looking like a tough guy if you're not actually tough. It's false advertizin'.

But a lot of those creepy fans are fighters, too. So, some of them are strong. Besides, there's that stereotype, right? That otaku dress shabby and can't throw a punch to save their lives. Some of them hit the gym and train pretty seriously as a reaction to that.

Whatever. That fanboy, though, just looked tough on the outside but was completely weak inside.

More laughter. It's getting on my nerves.

A hand reaches for the wallet in my back pocket. Thirty thousand yen. a mere thirty thousand yen. Earned with three days of labor. And these guys are going to steal it in five minutes. With four of them, that's just over seven thousand yen each.

I made that through grueling labor. In hourly terms, it's less than a thousand yen.

They're about to steal the culmination of all that work. And when they do, they'll probably bitch about how little there is.

I can't accept this. But I'm outnumbered, and one of them's packing moves.

So what do I do? Just let them steal my thirty thousand and call it done?

Or . . .

Hypothetically, even if I fought back against all four of these guys, I wouldn't get any prize money for it. Self-defense is one thing, taking their money is another. If I screwed up, I'd become the perp.

Do I flip that switch or not?

Will they fight strategically or use dirty tricks? If they do that, I'd be better off just taking the punches. The more I'm beaten up, the better it is for me. There's no need to win this fight. I can endure the shame of being a victim and let them beat the hell out of me.

Me? Honestly, I'm not cut out for calculated strategy.

I'm not down with handing over my cash either.

And I don't want to become a victim.

I try to stand up, but stealth isn't an option. My movements are obvious enough that my opponents immediately realize I'm not unconscious.

That second, something slams into the top of my head. A foot—and it actually feels like a foot, not a spear. This is a strike meant to kill my momentum before it starts. It's followed up with a hard stomp to my chest and heart while I'm still lying there. This blow's the real attack.

Huh, it's rare for Konny not to finish someone in one hit.

Commentary from the peanut gallery. I can hear Konny clicking his tongue too. That stomp hurts like hell. I'm tempted to just let myself lose consciousness. But I'm still holding on. I hide that fact for now, acting like I've finally passed out this time, and wait for my chance.

These guys are experienced. They're definitely career criminals. That means established patterns—tried-and-true methods and combinations. Even that follow-up attack was calculated; a planned contingency.

Konny looks down at me from within his ski mask.

He's trying to figure out whether I'm really unconscious or faking it.

Of course, I'm faking it. Konny's strikes are accurate but light. They're not connecting properly with me.

But counterattacking from flat on my back requires perfect timing.

. . . Something about this guy's breathing bothers me.

Konny's voice.

Seems kinda fake, you know?

He talks like he's seen through me, but there's no strength in his tone. I can tell he's only vaguely suspicious. Whether this is an opening I can exploit—that's also a judgment call on my part. If I were Konny, I'd kick the hell out of me from this completely advantageous position before I could stand up, but that would be pretty conspicuous.

These guys want to knock out their targets as cleanly as possible.

Why the hell did I have to run into knockout robbers in a place like this?

Tokyo scares the crap outta me. I'd never experienced anything like this back home. I knew there were people doing this kind of thing, but they never came after me. Part of it is that I'm not exactly weak, but mostly it's because rural people don't pull this kind of reckless shit.

This lot, however, can pull this off because they're targeting complete strangers—people they have absolutely no connection to.

Sure, you'll find a few targets like that in rural areas too, unless it's some ghost town. But out there, perps're much easier to track down.

That's what makes Tokyo utterly terrifying. The city's overflowing with people who moved here from the countryside, creating such chaos that nobody knows anybody in the same neighborhood, let alone who's living right next door. There's this constant, high-stakes risk that if you drop your guard for even a second, you'll get sucker-punched and robbed.

Not everyone goes through something like this, but the odds are pretty high.

And here I am, the lucky winner.

So much luck on my side! All of it bad.

If I'm going to win something, why couldn't it be the lottery instead?

I slipped away from this boring drinking party with a bunch of old farts, figured I'd wait by the car, ducked into a back alley, and ended up like this. For the record, I wasn't drinking anything alcoholic since I volunteered to drive.

If I'd been drunk, I might have blacked out completely.

My wallet's in my back pocket, and it's the folding kind. That means they have to roll my body over and fish around to drag it out. Time's a factor here. While Konny keeps watch, the other three work together to handle this task. They're clearly experienced.

If I'd been wearing stiff jeans it would be different, but work clothes make wallet extraction easy. Good thing it's not a long wallet. It only takes a moment, and I can grab their fingers when they reach in.

I drive my fist upward into the diaphragm of the guy who crouched down to roll me over, stopping him cold. Twist my fingers around the ones stuck in my pocket and dislocate one of them with a pop. It only takes me an instant. I can do this because I have the advantage of a surprise attack from this position; a moment of complete invincibility.

While my window of invincibility is still open, I want to close the distance and go after Konny, but he's too far away. So instead I take down the remaining guy nearby. As I climb to my feet, I grapple with him. Then we both drop to the ground together. I get behind him and lock my arm around his neck in a chokehold. I can feel his consciousness slip away instantly. A judo buddy had taught me this one. It's an incredibly useful technique.

I turn the guy I'm holding toward Konny like a human shield as he tries to step in toward me. The foot he's about to lash out with stops mid-motion. Rather than caring about his buddy, it seems more like he didn't want to create an opening by accidentally hitting the guy I'm using as a shield instead of me.

He's that experienced.

Neither of us is in a fighting stance. I can't make a move either since I'm still holding someone. The guy I hit in the diaphragm is writhing in pain. The one whose finger I dislocated is also groaning and hunched forward—I can't sense any fight left in him.

I glare back at eyes that shine white even in the darkness through that ski mask.

Ska jacket and jeans. The other guys are dressed similarly. At first glance, they look neat and put-together, and just by appearance they seem to have better finances than someone in work clothes like me.

. . . Hey, Konny. How about we start over and go at it head-on?

The surprise attack invincibility window had closed. So, there is nothing left but to start fresh. I don't mind that at all. It reminds me of home and gets my blood pumping. There had definitely been a part of me that felt intimidated coming to this unfamiliar place called Tokyo; supposedly the big urban metropolis.

Who the fuck you think you are?

There is displeasure in his voice, but no fear.

We're about the same height, but I get the impression I'm slightly heavier. He doesn't look like someone who could drop opponents instantly with a single punch.

Dropping people with sucker punches really is easy, huh? With that method, you could probably take down sumo and professional wrestlers.

You think you wouldn't lose to me if we did this properly?

Nah. I'm just trying to push your buttons.

Konny glares at me. It would help if he took the bait. I could confirm how skilled I really am. I haven't done any sparring in a long time. When Konny moves like he is about to engage, I start to loosen both arms from around the neck of the guy I'm still holding. Then, something shocks me again.

An iron fence with a No Bicycle Parking sign hanging from it is hurled at me.

This guy doesn't hesitate to do anything! Part of me still couldn't accept that these are people who won't think twice about sucker-punching complete strangers. I guess you could call it naive, but I live by the assumption that normal people don't do that kind of thing and don't have it done to them.

I drop the guy I'm holding and quickly back away. Start to stand up, but he won't let me get to my feet. Konny slides smoothly toward me while I'm in an awkward position. His fist comes down from above like a harpoon, and for a moment I feel like a fish about to be speared. I block with my folded arms, but the impact is intense, forcing me to drop to my knees again.

While catching his incoming kick, I grab hold of Konny's leg. Using the force of him trying to pull it back in irritation, I push forward while standing up. I forcibly drive Konny back against the wall of the back alley.

The moment he sees me take an attacking stance, Konny immediately puts both arms into a defensive posture to protect his head. He's probably willing to let me hit his stomach. Maybe he's confident in his abs.

Then I'll hit you there. As I think this, I jump back. My automatically going through the motions.

Konny's raised, bent arms aren't a guard after all. His right arm is cocked back in a throwing position, like he's some Spartan warrior. If I'd rushed in, he'd have countered me. And I'd likely have been knocked out.

Somehow, our timing has been off this whole time.

I'm getting punched and kicked, beaten up completely. Each individual hit is light, so there's no real damage, but when my attacks keep getting disrupted like this, it's irritating.

Well, now I can start fresh.

But I sense movement behind me. I click my tongue in frustration. The guy whose finger I dislocated is still crouching, but the one I hit in the diaphragm is starting to recover. Since I took him down so cleanly, he doesn't understand what happened to him, so he's not even scared of me, just pissed off. Even though I should be the one with more reason to be angry, I can feel this unreasonable rage radiating from him with such intensity that I almost feel that maybe I'm in the wrong.

. . . This bastard's just fighting however the hell he wants!

Sorry. I got sloppy. I'll do it properly next time.

The guy looks puzzled. I flash him a puzzled look right back.

Then, I tilt my head and approach him casually. It's a pretty simple technique—don't engage with their taunts. When you ignore them like that, they usually drop their guard.

I drive my knee up into his stomach from below, and when he doubles over, I strike his diaphragm again. As I don't hold back this time, he pukes and collapses. Seeing that, I turn around without bothering to check on him.

Oi, Konny. Take off that mask. It's gotta be hard to fight with that thing on.

I could tell he was hesitating after watching me take down a guy head-on with a single strike. That made two unconscious. The third one lost his will to fight just from getting one finger dislocated. I start to feel like I'm picking on kids. Though I'm the one they picked on first.

You just a kid too, Konny?

Don't call me that so casually, acting all relaxed and shit.

Maybe his irritation finally peaked, because he grabs his ski mask, ripping it off, and throws it aside. What I see emerge is a kid who looks about my age, maybe younger. Since I'm twenty, anyone younger than me is technically a minor. So, calling him a kid works.

I'll fucking destroy you, you bottom-feeding piece of trash!

Oh wow, loaded with prejudice, aren't you. Damn brat.

I point to my chest pocket. There's embroidery there.

I'm Byakuya Kakei from Hlidskjalf Corporation. Put the company name first on any receipts.

What the hell, man? What are you doing introducing yourself like that?

Huh. Thought it'd be cool. And you are?

I'm nobody from nowhere, quit screwing around, asshole. I'm . . .

There's hesitation about giving his name. Well, can't blame him. Right now I'm overwhelmingly and unequivocally the victim here. If the police get involved, I automatically win.

Come on, what's wrong? I was thinking, opportunities to fight while properly introducing yourself like this don't come around often. I'm having a blast right now, so you should give your full name too, Konny.

Arrogant bastard. I'll fucking kill you.

When you're living a normal life, killing and being killed basically never happens.

You ever shut the hell up, Kakei? Whatever. I'm Ichikawa.

Ichikawa?

Konny Ichikawa. Underestimate me, and I'll put you in the ground.

. . . Konny Ichikawa, you . . .

What about it?

. . . Nah, it's nothing. I don't really watch movies much—waste of money.

Something vaguely came to mind, so I decided to test the waters.

Well, it isn't that important. There's something else I'm more curious about.

So, Konny, what's this picking on the strong thing about?

Call me by that name one more time and I'll rip your head off. And that's for me to know and you to never find out!

Konny, am I strong? Stronger than you?

What did I fucking tell you?

That's the spirit!

I guess I wasn't going to find out about that this strong stuff.

Konny keeps threatening to kill me, but could he actually do it? Hell, could he kill anyone? Say, a guy who had butchered his family and who he'd vowed revenge on. Could he even kill a guy like that?

I was taught repeatedly that killing itself is actually simple. It only seems difficult because you think about fighting someone and then killing them, but if you just suddenly attack someone from behind on the street with a rock and keep beating them until they die, you can kill them. This works on pretty much anyone.

It's just too crude, though. You'd def get caught. Someone might interfere . . . and there was the possibility the rock you choose wouldn't crack their skull. That's where refinement comes in.

Konny's spear-like right straight represents that kind of refined approach to murder.

First, knock them unconscious. Whether your opponent is a wrestler or not, drop them in one hit. After that it's easy, though there would probably be psychological barriers to actually killing them.

Just knocking them unconscious isn't enough.

There's an even more advanced level of technique—one that kills your opponent without hesitation, without giving yourself time to waver. You can do all the second-guessing and soul-searching you want after they're dead. Konny probably doesn't have that kind of technique in his repertoire. Even if he does, he probably can't use it.

He charges at me while pretending to be enraged. It's an act. He's trying to lure me in.

Feigning carelessness and acting overconfident, he comes at me with what looks like an unguarded approach. I've traded blows like this plenty of times back home. It's all about experience. I can see three or four moves ahead.

Here comes his signature straight punch, like a spear thrust. But this time it's not a sucker punch. The strike itself is light. As long as I don't take it directly to a vital spot, it's nothing to worry about.

One and a half more steps. When that distance closes, we'll both know which of us is stronger.

The tension is electric. This is fun. The most fun I've had in ages.

I feel so comfortable here.

Just as we reach the perfect moment to engage, a jarring, shrill sound suddenly blares from behind me. Both Konny and I freeze at that bizarre noise. All the energy drains from my body at once. I watch with regret as all that built-up tension dissipates.

Abandoning his comrades completely, Konny quickly grabs his ski mask and bolts.

His retreat is clean. The other conscious guy follows him. Only the two I knocked out are left behind. Ignoring them, I look toward the source of the sound.

An incredibly huge guy stands there. He's fat, but he's got a big frame to begin with.

He's wearing the same work clothes as me because he works for the same company. Complete with Hlidskjalf embroidery on his chest.

. . . Boss?

What's this, Byakuya? You fighting?

That jarring sound still blares from the cell phone in his left hand.

Great sound, right? Like it was designed specifically to scramble human brains.

What the hell is that?

What, you don't play pachinko? Kids these days don't, huh? Well, that stuff's dead now, anyway. All regulations and no thrill, but they still get your blood pumping with sounds and effects like this. This is the sound when you hit the jackpot. Even if you're only up a few thousand yen, when they blast this noise at you, you're gonna feel like a winner, right?

That's what Hasegawa says. I forgot his first name. Besides, I try to avoid getting close to people at work. Even make an effort not to remember names, first or last. I only remember his last name because it's common as bird crap, and so, safe to remember.

Fighting isn't popular these days. Want to know why?

Enlighten me.

Because there're only two outcomes: you either beat a guy to a pulp or get beaten to a pulp. You beat a guy, you take his money and run. You get beaten, you whine to the police then sue. Who's stronger in a one-on-one bare-handed fight, don't matter. That shit doesn't fly in the real world.

Kokuyo.

I remeber now.

This Hasegawa guy's first name is Kokuyo. Some weird shit like that.

I don't give a damn about any of that. Can you not interfere, boss?

You really have no charm at all, do you? At least have a drink with us.

Designated drivers shouldn't be drinking alcohol.

That level-headed attitude of yours is why everyone dislikes you, Byakuya.

That's fine by me.

So what d'you wanna do? Go to the police? Or take these guys' wallets?

. . . Then I'd be a criminal too.

Kokuyo proudly holds up his cell phone.

Got the whole thing on video.

You were watching?

The bar's toilet was occupied, so I figured I'd take a slash out back, and when I came over here, things had gotten interesting.

How long were you there?

Since you got hit in the face.

Without the initial scene where I got taken down, it would be hard for me to claim I'm the victim. But if I take their wallets, I become the criminal.

While I try to figure out what to do, Kokuyo starts going through the pockets of the two unconscious guys without waiting for my answer.

Yo, boss, what are you doing?

Going to the police won't get you much money. Might as well take what you can . . . Oh, they're loaded.

Kokuyo pulls out both their wallets and removes just the bills. He also takes their driver's licenses. The man's like a scavenger picking over roadkill. I should probably tell him to stop, but I can't bring myself to say it.

I'd been ready to face off with Konny without worrying about what came after, and having that moment interrupted like this left me genuinely unsure what I should do. Meanwhile, Kokuyo calmly goes about his business of claiming donations.

A moment later, he hands me a thick wad of bills.

You're only giving me half?

Like you'd have taken it if I wasn't here.

You get this is theft, right?

You think these guys are gonna report it? Besides, I'm the one who took it. If they want to press charges, they can come after me. You just received money from me.

Why would you do that?

I don't think for a second they'll go crying to the police. Plus, I get money too. Even after giving you some, it's decent earnings for doing basically nothing. Think of it as prize money. Mine's a service fee with risk factored in.

That's skimming.

Don't call every business profit margin skimming, okay?

Our work runs on third-party subcontracting as a matter of course, sometimes even fourth or fifth-tier subcontracting. The word "skimming" has such a negative connotation. Sometimes when clients casually mention what they're actually paying in conversation, I really feel like I'm getting screwed over. Sometimes the amount has been cut in half by the time it reaches us.

Take right now, for instance. What I was handed was probably over a hundred thousand yen.

. . . What are you planning to do with the licenses?

Hmm? Well, these guys were wearing masks and all, so I figure they're probably repeat offenders.

And if they are?

I'll just connect them to the next job. Don't expect you to get involved in that, though.

He says this with a laugh.

Something about it sent a chill down my spine. This person I'd thought of as dull and lifeless, someone I'd kept at arm's length, had suddenly come alive—and there was something menacing about that transformation.

Earlier at the drinking party, he'd been nothing more than a boring old man.

But when I got into this fight, he showed up and suddenly became a force to be recKonnyed with.

You know, I saw your hometown on the new hire paperwork.

. . . What about it? And could you stop snooping through people's files? It makes my skin crawl.

Sure, there's part of me that wants to say, "So what if I came to Tokyo from some backwater town?" But more than that, it feels like a violation of privacy, and that's just stalker levels of creepy. I know my personal information isn't worth much. That's not the point—it's just the discomfort of not wanting to share things, not wanting people to know.

This company hires without even asking for a resume, so most job sites are pretty informal and many seem legally questionable. But occasionally, when you work at a legitimate site, they make you fill out personal information forms. It's probably for emergencies, but unfortunately, if something happened to me, I don't have an emergency contact. Normally, you'd list your parents back home.

That's what Kokuyo was referring to, those new hire forms. Naturally, I just make stuff up. It's not exactly lying, but, for instance, there's no point in honestly saying I don't have parents. I write it as if I do. As long as no problems come up, it's fine. For the health section, even if I'm sleep-deprived or have a cold, I don't report it. If I did, I wouldn't be able to work.

I don't get the impression they're looking out for us at all.

It feels more like they're covering their asses with a "we won't take responsibility, so you do you" attitude.

The major general contractors are professional enough that personal information doesn't get misused, and the details are basically just a meaningless list, anyway. So that's fine. These details only become significant when the day laborers who've been thrown together—people who don't know each other's faces or names—try to form bonds.

Bonds based on similar ages or being from nearby hometowns. I want nothing to do with any of that.

. . . Well, I was thinking we're from the same area, Byakuya. I'm from there too, see. Same town, even. If we'd been neighbors, it wouldn't be weird for us to know each other, but no matter how hard I think about it, I can't place you. Guess the age gap's just too big.

While saying this, Kokuyo returns the money he'd taken from one wallet to the unconscious guy. He looked conflicted, but he returned the license too. Since he's giving me all the money from the other guy, his cut becomes zero. At most, he gets one license.

Hometown aside, what are you doing, Kokuyo?

Hmm? I was torn, but it's an investment.

Investment?

Having both guys lose their money and licenses—well, that's understandable. These guys can accept that level of risk. They can brace themselves for it. But what if only one gets robbed while the other gets his stuff back? Their partnership would fall apart easily, and that would set things in motion. Basically, it's about stirring the pot.

What's the point of stirring things up?

As long as something's happening, that's fine by me. It'd be boring if everything just stayed quiet.

What did he mean by that?

What is he expecting from this?

I can't figure out what would have to happen for him to find it interesting.

. . . Kamukura Town, Kamukura City.

I name my hometown.

That's where I'm from too, Byakuya.

So what about it?

I may not recognize your face, but I know what happened to the Kakei family in that town. We were neighbors, after all.

I suddenly feel like my heart has been seized by a claw.

Words with more power than Konny's right straight pierce through me. This goes beyond a spear—this must be what it feels like to be shot. My breath catches, and I can't respond.

I want to cry out, to beg him to stop talkings, to spare me from it.

. . . I'll be waiting in the van.

I say and flee. I'm clearly running away from the topic, turning my back on it. The ill-gotten money stuffed in my wallet takes on a sinister quality, like a curse cast by Kokuyo. I want to check over and over whether there are really no problems.

No matter how many times I check, he will probably smile and assure me it's fine.

And I'm starting to feel like no matter how many times I check, this anxiety will never disappear.

I was a victim who got attacked and almost had my money stolen. Even after fighting them off, I was still the victim. But that line was well and truly crossed. Now, the guilt that perpetrators carry comes flooding in. Meanwhile, my git of a boss, Kokuyo, made sure to return the money.

Whether it's investment or provocation, I don't know, but I suspect he stepped in just to mess with me.

The van seats ten people. Nine more will definitely get in. Nine mysterious people, including Kokuyo. If he had calmly joined the fray while I desperately fought to come away unscathed and helped himself from the sidelines, I could understand that. But the fact he just hands the money to me then keeps none for himself really bothers me.

I don't feel much guilt about punching and kicking people. Hell, I probably wouldn't feel this way even if I'd stolen the money myself. I unlock the van and slide into the driver's seat, taking deep breaths over and over. My agitation won't settle down at all.

I want to throw the money away.

But since it's a considerable amount, I can't do that either. They were thieves who tried to knock a guy out cold and steal his cash in the first place. No matter how much I try to justify it to myself, these dark, confused feelings won't subside.

All I want now is to go home and sleep.

I had no choice but to believe that once I slept and morning came, everything would somehow resolve itself.

Kokuyo Hasegawa destabilized me. Even though until the end of work today—hell, until just moments ago—I'd written him off as some irrelevant old man, he suddenly stuck me with a dirty syringe. Its poison slowly spreading within me.

It's not lethal, but its effects are nauseating and long-lasting.

Kokuyo. Even in my rural area, that's a common surname that doesn't leave much of an impression. Kakei, on the other hand, was rare. Rare enough that you might find it if you looked a little, but that's about it. My parents had moved to that town from elsewhere, partly for work reasons. They weren't people who had put down roots and lived their whole lives there. With a surname like that, if you search it along with Kamukura Town, it comes up easily on your phone screen.

Alongside it, a headline: Entire Family Brutally Murdered.

It happened two years ago. Meaning it's old news that nobody looks at anymore. It was apparently a home invasion robbery, which isn't much different from what happened to me tonight. I survived because I'd been at the dojo that day and came home late. Even if I'd been there, I don't know if I could have fought them off.

My parents and sister—if you hadn't known that's who they were supposed to be, you never would have recognized them. Though their faces hadn't changed much, just having the blood drained out, just not breathing, just being dead changed them so drastically that I was stunned. It felt completely unreal.

Anything of value in the house had been stolen. My father's fishing gear, a painting my mother liked, the first necklace my sister had bought with money she'd saved up, even the CDs I'd accumulated from what my seniors at the dojo had given me. All of it gone, and I felt more of a sense of loss over those things. But thinking about it now, would home invasion robbers really bother stealing CDs?

They'd even left a different CD in my father's old stereo system.

The speakers were blasting some completely unfamiliar, obnoxious song at full volume. I couldn't understand a word the vocalist was screaming. It was just a flashy rock or metal track. The low-quality, momentum-heavy indie vibe of that song was something neither I, nor my sister, and certainly not my parents, would ever listen to.

My family's corpses had lain there while that obnoxious music continued playing throughout the house.

Looking at the bodies in front of me in that environment, I really could only think, What is this? Even when I turned off the stereo completely and stopped the music, that sense of detachment didn't change much.

I don't know if I'm callous or just don't think things through, but either way, sadness and pain didn't hit me right away. Just questions like, what the hell is this? kept bubbling up.

The fact that I didn't immediately grieve without hesitation or second thought turned into guilt that later made me depressed. It even created the illusion that I'd somehow sided with whoever attacked my family. Even now, thinking about it fills me with self-loathing.

Maybe it would have been different if I'd seen them murdered right in front of me, or if I'd rushed over and they were still alive but died in my arms. What I saw, though, were blood-soaked bodies giving off a foul stench, with their limbs thrown in unnatural directions like broken marionettes, not moving a muscle. I almost didn't recognize them.

I feel the self-loathing well up inside me.

I want to sleep. I want to knock back some strong liquor and just pass out.

I want to believe that by tomorrow this won't matter to me anymore.

I spend the evening in the van, playing games on my smartphone. Those free ones where you don't have to drop down cash. They aren't fun at all, just pure time-wasting, and that's the point. Entertainment is an afterthought. Besides, all the while, I'm paranoid about the police showing up. An hour or so later, Kokuyo and the others come back.

Kokuyo blends in with the group, giving no sign that anything had happened an hour ago. If that incident hadn't occurred, tonight would have passed with me still writing everyone here off as irrelevant nobodies. My boss casually crams his massive frame into the passenger seat, carrying himself like someone who'd been drinking.

He doesn't say anything to me. He doesn't even look my way.

He should feel like an accomplice—hell, more like the mastermind—but there's none of that vibe at all. I'm just sitting here freaking out by myself. If it's just my own cowardice, that's fine. If I'm simply scared, then fine, there's nothing to it. But if someone else planted this feeling in me, manipulated me into it . . .

No matter how much I speculate, I can't come up with any good answers, and thinking about it feels like a waste of effort. The more I speculate and think, the more damage seems to build up inside me. It would be more efficient to just fool myself into thinking it was nothing.

Byakuya.

Kokuyo's sudden drunken voice calls out to me.

Drive safe. Don't hit anyone.

I know.

I find myself wondering if there's some hidden meaning behind even a simple comment like that.

Resisting the urge to press the accelerator too hard, I drive the van toward the dormitory.

2

I wake up at four in the morning. It's become a habit regardless of what time I go to bed.

Kokuyo, who shares the small room with me, is still fast asleep. Our beds are separated by a single tatami mat. There's a third in the room, too, but it's been empty for quite a while now.

I sleep in a tracksuit. It saves me the trouble of changing clothes when I get up.

I put on my sneakers and leave the room, walking down the single-story shared corridor as quietly as possible. The bare concrete hallway makes little sound except for the scraping of shoe soles. I walk softly, trying not to make even that much noise.

Doors line both sides of the hallway.

There's a shared washroom and one toilet. Just the one, and there's not a single woman in this building.

Behind each door, sleep two or three men. It's a relief not having to worry about bathroom etiquette.

I slide open the front door and step outside.

Early spring mornings are still chilly at five o'clock. Even though this is technically Tokyo, we're up in the mountains. Tokyo's twenty-three wards might be the metropolitan heart, but Tokyo as an administrative unit includes remote mountains and isolated islands. I'm staying in the mountains near a place called Ome, with scenery so wild that hermits wouldn't look out of place.

That's why it's cold. If I went down to the city center, it would probably feel quite spring-like, but up here it feels like early February.

Well, it's not a problem. Your body might shrivel from the cold at first, but once you get your blood pumping with calisthenics and stretching, you stop noticing it. After finishing a proper warm-up, I run for thirty minutes. I don't bother tracking my running records. Getting my body moving is what matters.

I do this every day, waking up earlier than anyone else.

By the time I return, I'm sweating buckets. The single shower room sees little use in the morning. Everyone sleeps until the last possible moment. I bring a change of clothes and rinse off. But even after the shower, yesterday's guilt and anxiety still cling faintly.

It came flooding back the moment I woke up, faded while I was running, and now it's back again. I keep remembering what Kokuyo said to me yesterday.

It's not like I particularly mind if people know about my family being murdered. I just don't mention it because it's not something to bring up in conversation.

And yet, this guy, who I'd barely made small talk with before, suddenly closes the distance because we're from the same hometown and presents me with personal information about myself. It's probably well-known back home, so it's not that strange, but the combination of this coincidental hometown connection and what he laid out for me was unsettling beyond words.

I wipe down my whole body with the hand towel I wore around my neck while running. Then wring out the moisture and put it around my neck again. I don't dry my hair—just leave it be. There's no hairdryer anyway. I go back to my room, toss the damp hand towel into the laundry box, and rub my hair with a dry towel just enough so water doesn't drip everywhere. That's about it.

I can't be bothered with hairstyles. I'll be wearing a helmet at work, after all, and by the time I get back, my hair will be matted down with sweat once more.

When I start ruffling my hair, Kokuyo wakes up.

It's a reasonable time to wake up. I'm the weirdo for getting up early to run.

Everyone changes into unwashed work clothes without even showering. They only wash them when they get really dirty, or every other day even in summer. We have spares, and they're basically disposable.

Did you go running again today, Byakuya?

Yeah, I can't settle down if I don't run.

You sure are dedicated, doing that every single day when you're about to do manual labor.

Sure, the work requires physical strength, but if you look around, you'll see it's not just middle-aged guys onsite; there's a bunch of old crusties, too. The situations that truly demand physical strength are limited, and once you get the hang of it, it's not that exhausting. This job is more mentally draining than anything.

People come out of their rooms and slowly gather around the vehicles before getting shuttled into the city in two vans. We have plenty of time, so we stop at convenience stores along the way, buy lunch boxes and cup noodles, and use the hot water from their service dispensers.

Don't get the wrong impression; we're not doing anything wrong. While we might not care about manners, we didn't act like total heathens, either. But the sight of us eating in the parked vans, with some guys smoking, others sitting cross-legged on the tarmac because it's cramped in the vans, well, this whole scene probably looks pretty weird to regular customers. For the record, the vibe we gave off wasn't like that of delinquent kids obviously causing trouble.

Besides, even if someone wags a finger and tells us we shouldn't be hanging around eating at our age, there's nowhere else to go, so what choice do we have? We're not bothering anyone, so what's the problem? That's how our sense of what's normal gradually drifts away from that of society at large.

I don't smoke. Since several people are smoking in the van, I step outside and sit on the convenience store bench, waiting for departure.

Kokuyo plonks his butt down next to me. Talk about awkward.

. . . What are we doing today, boss?

Digging holes. That group over there is doing house demolition.

He points to another van. It seems we're heading in separate directions from here. Kokuyo is our foreman and also serves as the coordinator. He receives instructions from the higher-ups onsite and handles all the reporting and liaising, so he seems busier than those of us who just need to do what we're told.

You're gonna get real dirty.

I was planning to wash my clothes soon anyway, so it's fine.

That's not what I mean. It's a mental thing. Before you know it, you'll turn into an oddball.

From digging holes?

Look, it's not about the work itself, and it's not about the profession either. When people keep repeating the same thing without any purpose, their mental state absolutely deteriorates. I've seen it happen to plenty of guys . . . Well, construction temp work like this falls into the category of not-so-great jobs, but even so, it's not the job's fault.

Man, Kokuyo keeps on talking. I had the impression he was usually just a guy who made small talk about trivial things in a businesslike, slightly cheerful way, but here we are.

. . . Look, even if a worthless piece of trash becomes a craftsman, he develops a sense of responsibility and grows attached to the site and company. That becomes their goal, so they get motivated to really focus on their work there. But the guys here only think about getting by day to day. The sites keep changing, so they never develop any sense of attachment. It might be efficient for making money, but even then, there's only so much you can earn.

What are you getting at?

I'm talking about your mental state.

What's with you this morning? Are you still drunk?

Sorry if it sounded like I was lecturing you.

It's time to leave. If that wasn't a lecture, then what was it? I have this feeling that he's trying to get closer to me, and it's somehow suffocating. I can only see him as a dangerous person. It's similar to how ordinary people unconsciously avoid us when we're taking breaks on the street.

Still, we're roommates and he's the foreman. Makes it difficult to intentionally keep my distance. Meaning I have little choice but to keep things the same as before.

The construction site isn't that large. They seemed to be working on the foundations, given they are completely exposed. Basically, it's just a conspicuously large hole with water seeping in. I see, so that's why we'll get dirty.

Although the job description is digging holes, the actual digging is done by specialist craftsmen. We just keep carrying the small bags of dirt. Once the workflow settles into a rhythm, Kokuyo joins in proactively too. Despite his age, he moves well.

I start to zone out.

Is this the kind of repetition he was talking about? Is it really such a bad thing to do work where you just silently follow orders without any personality or innovation, then go home? Kokuyo had added that it wasn't the job's fault, though.

. . . No fulfillment, no purpose, and yet the money piles up decently. Even if you decide to cut loose and start spending frivolously, you can still get by. You end up settling in here without really meaning to.

That's what he tells me. He also says he's been here for ten years now. I don't know what job he had before, and I'm not interested.

The work's supposed to be temporary, so you can focus on what you really want to do, but you end up settling in. Even when you get treated like shit, you get used to it. Young people usually fall into this trap with this kind of work. Especially those who start at the bottom.

Meaning?

People who haven't had their shot at climbing up in life yet. They realize that there really aren't that many people in the world who get to do what they want to do.

Kokuyo isn't the type to follow up with questions about my dreams and goals in life. That's why I'm not bothered by has rambling. In fact, until yesterday I really couldn't have cared less. If I hadn't been attacked, my impression would probably be the same today.

Maybe there are things you don't notice in the midst of cookie-cutter days, or maybe I'm just reading too much into things because of what happened. At the very least, getting robbed isn't something that happens very often, even in Tokyo.

It feels like a whole year of such days has passed in the blink of an eye.

Left alone, another year would slip by. For now, it's just the four hours ahead of me. Helmet in hand, I crawl out from the corner of the break room and am about to climb down via the scaffolding when a commotion breaks out near the main gate.

The site supervisor's yelling about something. Rather than a scolding, it looks more like he's picking a fight, but actual fights hardly ever break out. In all the crappy sites I've worked this past year, that never happened. His tone might be harsh, but that's just his way of giving warnings.

Right now, he's bickering with two security guards.

Construction site security guards are somehow always on the periphery. Their job is guarding the gate. You know, watching to make sure random people don't wander in out of curiosity. Other than that, they just direct vehicles. If it's a site where guiding traffic is complicated, you need someone halfway competent, but normally they're not really necessary.

Maybe that's why you don't see many young people doing it. Since it's not physically demanding, you get the impression it's mostly old folks because they can't find other work. Apparently, it's a different story for road work and facility security, but you rarely see energetic types in construction security. Though occasionally you get someone with energy to burn.

This is discrimination against security guards, ain't it. You total git.

His voice has a mischievous, needling quality rather than being truly combative. This security guard facing down the supervisor is absolutely massive, capable of intimidation through sheer presence alone. The type you normally don't see around construction work. Actually, he looks better suited to airport security or armored transport.

As it happens, he's from another Hlidskjalf division. One that focuses on security. Not that it's anything grand, but whenever I see guys with no apparent physical strength desperately doing manual labor, I think they'd be better off doing security work instead.

The supervisor visibly backs down.

The security guard causing trouble—or rather, being aggressive—is named Motoharu Samejima. He's not young, but he has this youthful vibe, like a guy in his thirties. Probably because of his long hair, which is another oddity for a security guard.

Mr. Supervisor, saying it's none of my beeswax is a little hurtful, don't you think? That's totally discrimination, right? All I did was, out of curiosity, ask how deep you're taking the foundation work.

Completely irrelevant to security work.

You should watch your tongue, supervisor. That kind of thing's a real pain in the ass these days.

Apparently, he's just teasing. Pretty malicious teasing, but since that supervisor's always yelling at people, the whole site had an atmosphere of suppressed laughter. Motoharu returned to his position and gave a casual thumbs up to his partner stationed on the opposite side of the gate. The other guy remained expressionless with a jaded look, like he might mutter "What the hell are you doing?" That guy's pretty built too—more obviously a power type than Motoharu.

His name is Fukada. Shiranui Fukada.

That guy sure loves messing with people.

Beside me, Kokuyo is laughing too. They say it's a different Hlidskjalf division, but they usually operate separately from us, so it's rare for our sites to overlap like this.

Byakuya, think you could take those guys? In a fistfight, I mean?

Besides the warning light, they're carrying batons they have no use for, and look at the size of them. What's their background anyway?

Well, I forget which is which, but one's ex-GSDF and the other's ex-riot police, so they can probably handle themselves.

Formidable opponents.

Even if that Konny guy from yesterday landed a surprise attack with his right spear thrust, they might not go down. Just like the cops, these types basically deal with strong opponents and usually have to subdue people on the street, so they're used to surprise attacks.