Chapter 34

"H-how did you know his surname is Natsume?"

Sweat beaded on Yoshimura Yu's forehead as he shot a sidelong glance at Instructor Shirata, silently pleading for someone to shut Tamako up.

He had always been the top-scoring cadet in the class, the undisputed star of every drill. This final exam should have been his solo performance. Deep down, he believed policing was a man's profession; policewomen were mere ornaments. Tiny things like Tamako ought to comfort victims, pour tea for their superiors, tackle trivial paperwork, then marry some dependable man. Women should stay women—this battlefield belonged to men. No place for chatterboxes.

He wasn't alone. In a force still steeped in Showa-era machismo, ninety percent of officers thought the same. In 1990s Japan, workplace sexism was brutal, and the "gentlemanly courtesies" offered to female officers never matched their paychecks.

Tamako turned; patches of dappled light swam across her irises beneath the trees.

"His full name is Natsume Shiro. It's on the horse-racing ticket. He's the owner and head chef of an izakaya—calluses from years of knife work, cooking-oil scent on his change, and the restaurant's name printed on his wallet: 'Shiro Izakaya.'"

The forest fell silent; a lone bird called in the distance.

Yoshimura told himself anyone could have noticed that. Tamako had simply been faster. If he'd inspected the scene first, he'd have reached the same conclusions...

"Furthermore, the killer was almost certainly someone the victim knew," Tamako continued.

"Huh?" All three stared.

"This lighter is custom-made. The engraving shows a six-path wood plant whose flower language is 'prosperous wealth.' When you flick it left-handed, the lid opens smoothly and the pattern always faces the user."

She held the metal lighter up for everyone to see. "Meaning the original owner wasn't the victim, but a close friend. Gamblers never lend their 'lucky items'—they believe it loans away their fortune."

The others' thoughts lagged behind. Yoshimura watched her with a complicated expression; no one spoke.

"In short," Tamako concluded, pocketing the lighter, "given the cigarette butts beside the body, it's clearly an inside job."

Hidenori felt like he'd been teleported back to high-school math class—one moment reviewing times tables, the next staring at a blackboard full of algebraic letters.

"Um... why does the lighter prove it wasn't the victim's?" the braided girl asked timidly. "And what do cigarette butts have to do with an acquaintance?"

The moment the word "why" hit her ears, Tamako lit up—so this was how it felt to be asked for an explanation! No wonder Fushimi loved playing the cryptic sage.

She beamed, cheeks aching with glee. "Ah, actually it's super simple—listen and I'll tell you—"

Yoshimura cut her off. "Enough! We've ID'd the victim. Time to reach the sighting location. No more dawdling—let's move!"

Tamako swallowed her disappointment. If someone hadn't followed her logic, she'd itch to explain every detail.

She'd hoped to chat with the braided girl along the way, but never got the chance. Yoshimura set a blistering pace; Tamako had to jog just to keep up.

Less than an hour later she was drenched in sweat, her blue-and-white uniform plastered translucent against her skin.

"My heart's about to explode," she panted. "How... how much farther?"

"Almost there—another thirty minutes," Yoshimura answered, not even breathing hard.

"Seriously? Another half hour..." Tamako's head drooped.

Exactly, Yoshimura thought. Girls' stamina can't match men's. Even if she's a little more meticulous, she'll never chase down a suspect. Back-office analysis is all she's good for.

He halted, turned, and smiled. "If you're wiped, I could carry you—or at least give you an arm to lean on. Save some energy."

Finally, my moment to shine. Yoshimura pictured how soft she'd feel, how she'd gasp, "Class Leader, you're so manly, so chivalrous..." when she clung to his sturdy arm.

Tamako blinked, stunned. Seriously? Your ulterior motive is showing, and Instructor Shirata is watching! Helping me now is an automatic point deduction.

Natural counters are brutal.

Wait—this exam is ranked; everyone's a rival. The class leader's already scheming to eliminate competition. A worthy adversary indeed.

Before she could refuse, Yoshimura's foot slipped. He plunged into the underbrush with a shriek.

"—Ahhh!!"

The braided girl shrieked even louder, a glass-shattering wail. Birds exploded from the trees.

Fushimi Shika sat on a boulder at the ridge, hands tucked into his sleeves. The wind knifed across his frozen cheeks.

Hearing the distant cries, he stood and stamped life back into his legs.

"Finally—someone took the bait."

Last night, Instructor Shirata had summoned him to the office. They needed a cadet to play the mock murderer. Did he want the role? He'd said no, of course, but it wasn't a request.

At first it sounded easy—play a killer? No problem. Just run fast, no actual bloodshed.

Only after being airlifted to the summit did he realize the trap: no map, no compass, just three jugs of water and a backpack of biscuits. Good luck.

No map—how was he supposed to reach the north-slope assembly point?

No escort—what if he got lost?

When Fushimi protested, Shirata had only clapped his shoulder and said, "I never intended to let you graduate. Remember what I told you on day one? Miss too many roll-calls and you repeat the year, even if you're on your deathbed."

Fushimi rolled his neck; vertebrae cracked like popping corn.

"Fine. Then nobody graduates."

Time to stop being human. Time to eliminate them all.

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