Chapter 1
Prologue
. . . I think we have no choice but to kill him.
These words emerged from the depths of darkness while I regained some consciousness.
I tried to move my arms and legs, but they wouldn't even twitch. How's my brain? It seems to be barely intact.
First, my name. Hayata Takiyanagi, fifteen years old, a freshman in high school. Okay, my memory still works.
I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids merely fluttered, seemingly unwilling to obey. And there was a slight pain deep inside my nose. What exactly happened? Where am I?
. . . It happened suddenly, so it can't be helped.
And who does this clearly female voice I've been hearing belong to? Who is she talking to, and what is she talking about?
. . . We're running out of time.
I'm not opposed to killing. I'm just saying it can't be decided unilaterally.
And after all, disposing of the body costs money . . .
I heard one unsettling word after another. Cold sweat stains streaked across my back.
I don't want to die!
As I wished this fervently, a light burst in. Finally, my eyelids cracked opened. Through the still spasming slits, I could faintly make out a face.
My eyes were finally able to focus on someone—it was a girl with refined features and she was looking down at me.
But still, I think we have to kill him.
What in the world did I do to deserve this?
Chapter 1: In short, I was to be killed.
I remember the events leading up to now.
It was two weeks ago that I said goodbye to my grandparents, who raised me after my parents died in an accident when I was little, and moved to Kokubunji City.
Last night, I quickly took care of all the miscellaneous paperwork for the high school I would be attending, feeling relieved that the next three years would be peaceful.
Since my range of activities were limited to the route connecting my apartment, school, the convenience store, and the supermarket, I decided a few hours ago that it wouldn't be a bad idea to expand where I went a bit.
The nights were still chilly, even though it was mid-April, so I put on a jacket and went outside.
Determined to focus on walking around my new neighborhood, I left my smartphone behind and only took my coin purse.
. . . If I can't find my way back, I should head for the area under the Chuo Line tracks.
I reassured myself, and set out to explore.
Drawing a map in my head, I wandered through Kokubunji City at night, thinking it was about time to head back home.
That's when I saw the arcade.
In the middle of the residential area, a small arcade stood silently like an open door. Illuminated by a weak fluorescent light, the faded sign read “Hinode Market Street.”
Drawn to the weak fluorescent light, I approached and entered the arcade.
. . . This is more like a back alley than a street.
It was narrow, barely wide enough for one person to pass through, and short, probably only about fifteen meters. Along this short road were several shops: a butcher, a greengrocer, a second-hand bookstore, and a café . . . There were two bars still open, but everything else had their shutters down.
At the end of the small shopping street was an abandoned theater. The shutter on the right side was rusty, with the words “Mawaruza Theater” barely readable.
To the left in front, a staircase descended to the basement, and its entrance was sealed with wooden boards at the reception window. Beneath the window, a black cat with a silver-tipped tail was curled up.
Are you the caretaker?
Meow.
With a small cry, the cat relunctantly stood up and vanished into the darkness at a leisurely pace.
This theater probably hasn't been in operation for many years.
It reminded me of a small theater my grandpa had taken me to when I was a kid.
A local university club had been performing a play there and I didn't understand its story at all, but I remembered that it was interesting.
Compelled by these memories, I descended the stairs leading to the theater's basement.
In hindsight, this was my first mistake.
The theater doors opened easily, and as soon as I stepped inside—I heard a voice.
It was a faint, weak voice.
Not expecting anyone to be there, I almost shouted in surprise.
Could I have misheard? Though, perhaps it was just—the voice repeated itself.
No mistake. That was definitely someone groaning.
A groan heard in a completely unknown building in an unfamiliar town.
Usually, I would have run away at the first chance.
However, perhaps because it was a theater, the words my grandfather had said while we were on our way back from that play long ago suddenly came to mind.
If you find someone in need of help, you must reach out to them.
If someone inside needed help . . .
I knew better than to get involved. Yet my feet moved towards the source of the voice.
That was my second mistake.
As expected, the inside of the theater was dark.
No performances seemed to be happening, but there was still electricity, and a dim orange light could be seen at the end of a narrow corridor. The groaning came from that direction.
Passing through the narrow corridor, a small stage, dimly lit by stage lights came into view, with someone lying there.
Their face was stained with blood.
At that moment, fear vanished, replaced only by the thought that I had to do something so I rushed over.
Are you okay?
Uh . . . who are you?
The person was a man.