Romantic Troubles of Duanmu-kun

The driver sitting in the front seat—black suit, black sunglasses, large and muscular build, taciturn attitude—was a figure that gave the Novelist a strong sense of déjà vu.

The Class Rep had obviously noticed too that the person coming to pick them up was from the Niwa household. But she didn’t seem to mind this point, sitting properly with both hands placed neatly on her skirt at her knees, maintaining perfect posture on the leather seat.

The Novelist sat with her in the back of the sedan, a handbag between them. Soon after, the car’s engine started with a steady rumble, and the tires began rolling forward. They drove quietly along the main road.

“The weather is so nice.”

The Class Rep gazed intently at the scenery flashing past the car window, her voice softer than usual. The warm, bright sunlight fell on her profile. The girl’s already fair skin took on a translucent, glass-like luster.

“Mm… yeah.”

The Novelist nodded unconsciously. He was frowning intensely while staring at the content on his phone screen. He clearly wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.

“Misao and Aunt Kaori… they should be okay, right?”

The Class Rep asked, as if worried.

The Novelist’s fingers holding the phone stiffened, then slowly relaxed again.

“…Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well… I’ve never seen Aunt Kaori interact with other adults. And Misao has such a cold personality. Without family and friends looking after them, it must be really difficult?”

“Ah right. Speaking of which, Kaori-san asked me yesterday to look after Fujishima-san at school, both of us.”

“Eh, is that so? Aunt Kaori really… I would have done that even without being asked.”

Though it sounded like a complaint, Itou Maho’s face showed a smile that was both happy and somewhat shy.

“Liang-kun thinks so too, right?”

The Novelist didn’t answer immediately. Instead, after thinking for a few seconds, he spoke with a serious expression.

“I think Fujishima-san is the type who doesn’t need… no, shouldn’t learn to rely on others, but should live by depending on herself.”

“Mmm—”

The Class Rep puffed up her cheeks.

“Really! You shouldn’t say things like that right now! No matter who it is, when facing difficulties they can’t overcome, everyone hopes for help from others!”

“…Perhaps that’s true. However, if you want to save someone, you first need to hear them say ‘save me.'”

The Class Rep still seemed dissatisfied. But after a moment, as if remembering something, she couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“…What is it?”

“Last night’s game was fun.”

“…?”

“You know! The mystery game! Even though it was my first time trying it, and it got interrupted halfway through, I still found it really interesting! The atmosphere of everyone thinking together and telling stories, it feels nostalgic.”

“Mm-hmm, you’re right.”

The Novelist nodded in strong agreement.

He himself quite enjoyed these types of social games. And unlike playing with a group of men at writer gatherings in the past, this time it was conducted while surrounded by two cute high school girls, naturally making for a completely different experience.

“Oh, speaking of that—”

The Novelist sat up straight in his seat.

“Regarding the first story that Fujishima-san told, although there’s already an accepted solution, there was actually another small trick hidden inside.”

“Eh, really?”

Itou Maho’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes. Simply put, just like with the second story, it comes down to differences in perspective. Who do you think was the ‘protagonist’ in Fujishima-san’s story?”

“Um… what do you mean?”

“Just like I explained when telling my story, in my narrative, the protagonist and narrator was undoubtedly ‘Fujishima Misao.’ Whether as the murderer or the dismembered victim, the ‘protagonist’ was unquestionably her.”

“Uh… but in the first story, wasn’t it Fujishima-san?”

“That’s the general assumption if you’re unconsciously led by habitual thinking. But if you think back carefully, the story never mentioned the protagonist’s gender or identity, right? Because it always used ‘I’ as self-reference.”

“…”

The Class Rep stared at him blankly.

“Actually, all we know is that ‘I’ engaged in voyeurism, and that ‘I’ had a mother. If we limit the scope to the six households in that apartment complex, there were others who ‘met the conditions,’ right?”

In fact, there were at least two others.

“…I see.”

The girl let out a soft breath, her expression somewhat complicated. Probably because Fujishima-san hadn’t revealed this point at all.

“But what does it explain? Maybe Misao hadn’t thought of this point herself. No, that possibility is more likely…”

“Yeah, what does it mean? Probably explains nothing at all.”

The Novelist showed an ambiguous expression, relaxing his body and leaning back into the seat.

…

In truth, that wasn’t the only concerning point in Fujishima-san’s story.

For instance—

The deer antler ornament that finally killed “me.”

As far as stories go, this image was far too specific. For example, when he described the dismemberment murder, he unconsciously chose a knife as the weapon, and it wasn’t important;

But unlike him, when Fujishima-san described the weapon, both its appearance and location were very concrete, almost as if… she had witnessed the scene firsthand.

Come to think of it, Fujishima-san had mentioned that she really disliked the mother and son from Building Five, and had initially used them as examples. Because she found that high school student’s expression unlikeable. It seemed she had never actively interacted with them.

“Thinking about these things now seems pointless.”

“…That’s true.”

“Let’s ask Misao when we see her next time. She should be back at school in another week.”

Half an hour later.

The car slowly came to a stop at Yuihara High School’s gate.

“Thank you…”

The Class Rep, who had been chatting with the Novelist, only now realized they had reached their destination and thanked him.

“Don’t thank me. It was Yayoi who sent the driver.”

“I’ll thank Ogiwara-san too. If I get the chance.”

…

After they got out of the car one after another, they walked toward the school gate while talking. Viewed from above, high school students coming from various directions looked like tributaries merging into a river, the figures of boys and girls quickly disappearing into the flow.

As mentioned before, this was the life the Novelist had always hoped for. Precisely this.

Love & Peace.

Long live peace.

The road to school bathed in morning sunlight. It was the same as always—the flowing time of an ordinary male high school student’s daily life, moving steadily forward.