Hachiman leaned back in his chair, ready to pack his things and head back.
He wasn’t in any club anyway, so he briefly scrolled through the content of the safety briefing in his mind, leaving behind only one image.
It wasn’t the police officer’s exaggerated gestures demonstrating self-defense, nor the principal’s trembling fingers as he took off his glasses, but the exchange of glances among the audience when the academic director read the phrase “Try not to go home alone.”
In their eyes flashed a restrained panic, like an animal locked in a cage hearing the hunter’s approaching footsteps — probably a timid person or a lone wolf like himself.
Then Hachiman thought about another question: how many people in the class lived alone?
If the killer was really only targeting their classmates,
The first to be killed, Tobe and Ooka, both lived alone, so the first group eliminated from them should be those living alone.
Hachiman knew he wasn’t familiar with his classmates, and only a few could name them, let alone know whether someone lived alone.
But Hachiman stopped thinking about it.
He didn’t know exactly how many students lived alone, and he wasn’t going to ask.
Such questions were beyond what a marginalized person like him should worry about.
He wasn’t some top-tier detective.
There were only a few people left in the classroom.
The empty seats stood out under the classroom lights, like chess pieces removed from the board, leaving empty spaces and throwing the entire board off balance.
“Maybe one day this game will be eaten down to one piece.”
As he packed his things, Hachiman couldn’t help but think.
Hachiman packed his backpack and left the classroom with Renji.
The people in the hallway were sparse; most had already left or were still in the club rooms.
When they exited the school gates, the sky finally couldn’t hold back.
A light rain began to fall softly.
Hachiman felt a bit unlucky — next he would have to ride his bike in the rain.
“When it rains, it always reminds me of one of Holmes’s cases — ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery.'”
“Holmes was afraid that the rain would wash away the key clues at the scene. For this killer, rainy days couldn’t be more perfect, right?”
Renji spoke unhurriedly, pulling out an umbrella from his shoulder bag.
His words made Hachiman nod, feeling that way right after the speech ended.
Renji truly was a friend he recognized; their thoughts were always on the same wavelength.
“But fortunately, there’s no thick fog of Britain here.”
Hachiman thought that the Fog City Killer was far more terrifying than an ordinary killer.
“I’ll go this way.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Renji pointed in another direction toward his home.
“See you tomorrow.”
Renji held his umbrella and turned into the rain curtain, his shoulder bag slung across his shoulder.
His steps were light, and the small puddles only rippled slightly.
Hachiman stood and watched Renji’s back for two seconds, then turned to ride his bike as well.
The raindrops hit his face and were a bit cool at first, but as he rode, he didn’t feel anything anymore, as if the accustomed cold was gradually lowering his body temperature.
“If nothing happens tonight, then tomorrow morning when I turn on the TV, I won’t see any new names. But if the killer makes a move today?”
Hachiman stopped at the sidewalk, waiting for the traffic light.
The road surface was wet, reflecting the hazy gray light.
The gray sky created a strangely oppressive feeling, and pedestrians without umbrellas hurried along the road.
“Rainy nights are probably perfect for something — whether for those hiding at home or those wandering the streets.”
For some reason, Hachiman suddenly remembered Renji’s last mention of “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” — rain washes away the key clues at the scene.
If he were the culprit, he definitely wouldn’t miss such good weather, unless the culprit had OCD and didn’t like breaking the sequence of attacks.
Seeing the green light for pedestrians, Hachiman started pedaling again.
Meanwhile, the automatic door of the Ito-Yokado supermarket opened in front of Renji.
A burst of warm air from the air conditioner rushed out.
Renji put away his umbrella, gently wiped the water droplets off the porch, and entered the supermarket.
It was right after school, and the supermarket was gradually becoming more lively.
The fluorescent lights above illuminated the entire supermarket, the goods on the shelves were neatly arranged, and the background music was a lively melody that Renji couldn’t even remember.
Entering the Ito-Yokado supermarket, Renji went straight to the beverage section without hesitation.
The freezer in the beverage area lined the entire wall.
Renji opened the door on the left, and the cold air immediately rushed out, hitting his face.
Rows of plastic bottles were neatly arranged by brand and flavor: oolong tea, green tea, sports drinks, carbonated drinks.
Renji switched between Coca-Cola and Pepsi twice, finally pulling out a bottle of ice-cold Sprite from the innermost part.
The neon Sprite seemed less sweet and was still unavailable in some places.
Renji casually closed the glass freezer door with his other hand.
When the door closed, it made a dull suction sound.
Putting the Sprite into his shopping basket, he turned and walked toward the bento section.
The bento section was at the very end of the supermarket, right next to the prepared food counter.
Renji stood in front of the bento case, examining each one for purchase.
The only reason to buy bentos was that sometimes he was too lazy to cook, and these bentos were convenient — just heat them up and they’re ready.
Fried pork cutlet bento, teriyaki chicken bento, grilled mackerel bento, mapo tofu bento — there were quite a few types, but some popular bentos were already sold out.
Renji looked around and casually picked up a fried pork cutlet bento.
The reason was simple: Ooka, whom he had taken down last night, had been eating exactly this, so Renji suddenly wanted to eat it too.
“Foie gras-flavored tofu?” 298 yen?
Renji looked at the description on the tofu package in front of him with confusion, thought for a moment, and decided to take a pack to try, then bought some prepared food.
At the checkout, there were three or four people in line.
Renji stood at the end of the queue, his gaze aimlessly sweeping over the impulse buys at the counter: mint candies, batteries, magazines, and baby burp bags.
On the cover of a weekly gossip magazine was a headline about a certain idol group’s breakup last week.
The font was large, and the colors were bright, but under the supermarket lights, it looked cheap and noisy.
A middle-aged man in a suit ahead of him was on the phone, speaking quietly and repeatedly saying, “Private Marcel.”
When it was his turn to pay, the cashier was a young woman with a ponytail, wearing light pink lipstick, skillfully scanning items through the scanner to announce the price.
“Do you need a plastic bag?”
“Yes.”
Renji took out his wallet, pulled out two bills, and handed them over.
“That’ll be 2,000 yen, your change is 300 yen.”
“Thank you for your patronage.”
Renji took the bag, nodded slightly, and turned to head toward the exit.
The moment he pushed open the supermarket door, the smell of rain filled his nose again.
Renji stood under the porch and looked at the sky.
The rain was slightly lighter than before but hadn’t stopped completely.
He opened his umbrella again, switched the plastic bag to his other hand, and walked into the rain.
The road from the supermarket to his apartment wasn’t far.