Actually, the reason Kaoru Hoshitani wanted Aina Saiten to take the day off from work was because he harbored a tiny, almost unspeakable shred of selfish hope.
If Aina didn’t go to work today, he could tell that yellow-haired woman: ‘My girlfriend is sick, I need to stay home to take care of her.’
How reasonable, how justified, how utterly unassailable that sentence would be.
A man staying home to care for his sick girlfriend was only natural and right.
Even if Rika Kawasaki was domineering and unreasonable, she couldn’t find fault with that, could she?
That way, he wouldn’t have to get on a plane to Osaka.
He wouldn’t have to deliver himself over a great distance, wouldn’t be unwrapped and used like a parcel.
He could stay at home, in this small, safe nest belonging to him and Aina, and go nowhere.
But his hope was utterly shattered the moment Aina said, “It’s fine, I’ve just been having trouble sleeping lately.”
She chose to go to work.
She didn’t know what he was thinking, didn’t know what he was hoping for, didn’t know about his pitiful, unspoken little wish.
In the end, Aina Saiten, worried that taking the day off might give Rika Kawasaki or Chinatsu Ayase, who were waiting in the shadows for an opportunity, leverage against her, ultimately chose to go to work.
What Aina Saiten didn’t know was that she had once again pushed her beloved boyfriend toward the abyss of depravity…
Kaoru Hoshitani kissed his girlfriend goodbye at the foyer.
The kiss was light, shallow, just lips touching lips, the same as countless other mornings.
She patted his shoulder, said “Be good at home,” then turned, opened the door, and walked out.
The door closed softly behind her.
Click. The lock bolt slid into place.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it felt like a verdict, completely separating him from the outside world.
Kaoru Hoshitani stood in the foyer, staring at the closed door for a long time.
Slowly, inch by inch, he crouched down, his back against the door, and slumped onto the cold floor.
The chill seeped through his pants, spreading from his buttocks to his back, from his back to his heart, so cold it made him shiver.
He hugged his knees, burying his face in the crook of his arm, curling up like a snail in its shell, making himself as small as possible.
In less than half an hour, that yellow-haired woman would send someone to pick him up downstairs.
Then, in another two hours, he would see the woman he feared and couldn’t resist.
She would look at him with those gray eyes, pinch his chin with that strong, large hand, pin him down somewhere, and do those things he didn’t even want to think about.
What would happen after that was almost a foregone conclusion.
He sat on the floor for five minutes, his fingers unconsciously picking at the gaps between the floor tiles, fingertips touching the cold ceramic, fine dust lodging under his nails.
Then, he struggled to his feet.
His knees felt weak, his legs were numb. He held onto the door frame for several seconds before he steadied himself.
Kaoru Hoshitani walked back to the bedroom and sat down at the vanity.
A pale face looked back at him from the mirror.
He’d been wearing full makeup almost every day lately, so he thought about applying it before going out.
He picked up the powder puff. Its soft fibers tickled his palm.
Then, he put it down again.
He stared at the bare face in the mirror, the unadorned face that was truly his own.
Why? Why should he put on makeup? Who was he putting it on for? For that yellow-haired woman? So she’d think he looked good, so she’d be more interested, so she’d enjoy herself more during those hours?
Why?
Why should he have to please her? Why should he have to make himself look pretty for her? What right did she have?
He tossed the powder puff back onto the table.
It bounced once on the surface, rolled to the base of the vanity mirror, and lay there limply, like a discarded lump of cotton candy.
He stood up, walked to the bed, and let himself fall heavily onto it.
The mattress bounced, the springs creaking. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
There was a long, thin crack on the ceiling, winding from near the light fixture to the corner, like a dried-up river.
He stared at that crack, motionless, like an empty shell abandoned on the bed.
The clock on the wall ticked, the second hand jumping forward with each beat, each step pushing him a little closer to that predetermined ending.
Then, his phone rang.
The ringtone was especially piercing in the quiet bedroom, like a knife slicing through all pretense of calm.
Kaoru Hoshitani didn’t move.
He just stared at the ceiling, at the crack, letting the phone vibrate beside him, its screen lighting up and dimming, dimming and lighting up.
The first call rang for a long time before finally stopping.
A few seconds of silence.
Then, it rang again.
This time, he didn’t wait.
He reached out, his movements slow as if underwater, found the phone, picked it up, pressed the answer button, and held it to his ear.
He didn’t speak, didn’t even say “hello.” He just held the phone to his ear, listening to the breathing coming from the receiver.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone just now?”
Rika Kawasaki’s voice came through the receiver, laced with clear displeasure.
The voice was low and husky, each word carrying an unquestionable, matter-of-fact demand.
“The person picking you up will be downstairs in five minutes. Are you ready or not?”
Kaoru Hoshitani still didn’t make a sound.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to that woman’s voice come through the phone as if it were a broadcast unrelated to him.
His lips were pressed tightly together, his throat felt blocked, unable to squeeze out a single word.
Rika Kawasaki waited and waited, but only silence came from the receiver.
She knew this little man was throwing a tantrum. She took a deep breath, suppressing the irritation in her heart.
To see him, she could be patient.
Anyway, he’d be here soon. The plane ticket was booked. He couldn’t run away.
Once she got to Osaka, once she had him firmly in her grasp, there would be plenty of time to deal with him slowly.
Her voice softened a little, as if coaxing a disobedient child:
“Alright. When you get here, I’ll take you shopping for clothes, okay? And I’ll take you to eat good food. You can eat whatever you want.”
Her tone held a deliberate, clumsy tenderness, like a predator trying to retract its claws, the movement awkward and unnatural.
But still, no sound came from the other end of the line.
Rika Kawasaki waited a few seconds, then a few more. Her patience was wearing thin. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone, her gray eyes narrowing a little.
Fine. Playing mute, is it?
She’d see if he could still be this stubborn when she saw him.
Her voice returned to its usual, unyielding hardness:
“I’m not talking to you anymore. Get ready and come downstairs. Otherwise…”
She paused, her tone taking on a threatening edge,
“I’ll fly to Tokyo myself.”
Then, she hung up.
Beep— beep— beep—
The busy tone sounded in his ear, hollow and mechanical, like the final notes of a countdown.
Kaoru Hoshitani lowered the phone and threw it onto the quilt beside the bed.
It bounced once on the covers, landing screen-down, lying there like a dead insect.
He stared at the ceiling, at the crack, lying motionless for a few more minutes.
Then, he sat up.
It wasn’t because her words had an effect, not because he was scared by the threat. It was because he knew she wasn’t joking.
If he didn’t go, she really would fly back, she really would appear downstairs at his building.
She really would, like countless times before, corner him in the stairwell, pin him against the wall, stare at him with those gray eyes, pinch his chin with that strong hand and say:
‘You think you can run away?’
He had never gotten away. Not once.
He stood up and walked to the wardrobe, pulling open the door.
He chose the most ordinary items—a dark-colored hoodie, loose-fitting jeans, and a thin black down jacket.
After putting them on, he stood in front of the mirror for a moment.
The man in the mirror wore the most ordinary clothes, looking no different from any other man on the street.
He picked up his phone, walked to the door, bent down to put on his shoes, then stood up, grasped the doorknob, and pulled the door open.
The motion-sensor light in the corridor flicked on, casting a stark white light on his face, stretching his shadow long and thin on the floor behind him, like a black, silent tail.
He walked out, gently pulled the door shut behind him. It closed with a soft click.
When Kaoru Hoshitani took the elevator downstairs, he saw the black luxury sedan parked there. Standing beside the car was a bespectacled woman in a suit.
“Good day, Mr. Hoshitani. I am Miss Kawasaki’s secretary. I’m here to take you to Osaka. Please get in the car.”
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