Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

The sky outside the window was a deep cobalt blue, a hue unique to the pre-dawn period.

After a night of turmoil, Kondo Masahiko's modified motorcycle never returned.

Kitahara Iwa stood in the entryway, adjusting the collar of his coat, his expression returning to its usual indifference.

He knew very well how much of last night's hug was genuine.

That's the instinct of people to grab onto driftwood in a desperate situation; it's a typical suspension bridge effect.

Although Kitahara Iwao did consider contacting Nakamori Akina, he didn't need such an illusory dependence.

Therefore, Kitahara Iwa did not take advantage of the situation, nor did he offer any extra tenderness.

This just-right sense of distance, however, makes the relationship seem even more solemn in the cool morning air.

"Get a good night's sleep."

Kitahara Iwao stood at the doorway, turning back to look at Nakamori Akina, who was standing at the end of the corridor.

Although her eyes were still swollen, she no longer looked as distraught as she had the night before.

"As long as you dare to resist, you will not be afraid of Masahiko Kondo."

"What evil people fear most is not the tears of good people, but the knife of good people."

Hearing Kitahara Iwao's words, Nakamori Akina took a deep breath, then bowed deeply, her voice soft but filled with an unprecedented firmness as she said, "...Kitahara-sensei, I understand."

Click.

The door closed.

Kitahara Iwa stepped out of the apartment building, and the five o'clock morning air rushed towards him, instantly filling his lungs.

Then Kitahara Iwa looked up at the pale sun that had just risen between the buildings in the distance.

With personal matters settled, it's time to get down to business.

After returning to his residence, Kitahara Iwa didn't go to catch up on sleep, and didn't even take off his coat. He went straight to his desk, which was piled with cigarette butts and scraps of paper, and his eyes fell on the manuscript in the center.

The cover features two large characters written in bold black ink: "Confession".

But until last night, Kitahara Iwa was still thinking about whether to soften some of the descriptions of human nature in the book.

After all, some of the content is quite explicit, and once it's published, it's hard to guarantee that it won't cause a negative controversy.

But now, it's not necessary.

Last night, Kondo Masahiko's enraged and even self-righteous attitude in shifting the blame to the victim convinced Kitahara Iwao of one thing:

The things I wrote in my book about the darkness of human nature, arrogance, and incurability are absolutely true.

After all, reality is often more absurd and ugly than fiction.

"No changes are needed. Not a single word."

Kitahara Iwa muttered to himself, then opened a drawer, found a sturdy brown paper bag, and put a thick stack of manuscripts inside.

Seal the opening and wrap it with thread.

Nine o'clock in the morning, at a coffee shop near Shinchosha.

This old-fashioned coffee shop, filled with Showa-era charm, was packed with writers rushing to finish their manuscripts and editors urging them to complete them.

The air was filled with the bitter smell of tobacco and dark roast coffee.

Sato, the chief editor of Shinchosha, was sitting by the window, reading a morning news report, with his coffee still steaming in front of him.

He looked somewhat bored at this moment, occasionally raising his wrist to check his watch.

jingle.

The wind chimes at the door rang.

Sato looked up and saw Kitahara Iwao, who had dark circles under his eyes, walk in.

Although he looked like he hadn't slept all night, Kitahara Iwa was in a frighteningly excited state, his eyes shining so brightly they seemed to be on fire.

Kitahara Iwa went straight to the table without exchanging pleasantries or ordering anything.

"Sato-san, this is the complete version."

Kitahara Iwa pulled out a chair, and before the waiter even came over, he expertly took a cigarette from Sato's cigarette case, saying to himself, "I showed you the first three chapters of The Cleric before, and you kept urging me to read the ending. Now, the ending is here."

Editor-in-Chief Sato raised an eyebrow and put down the tabloid news about Masahiko Kondo's midnight car chase.

"Oh? Kitahara-sensei, you've finally decided to spit out the second half?"

Sato smiled expectantly, skillfully untying the cotton thread sealing the package while teasing like an old friend, "Ever since Sadako became a hit, the board of directors above has been keeping an eye on me for your new manuscript."

"And the clergyman in the first chapter of your confession is simply a stroke of genius."

"At the graduation ceremony, female teacher Yuko Moriguchi calmly announced that she had added the blood of an AIDS patient to your milk, just to avenge her four-year-old daughter... This opening is so explosive, it's a textbook hook."

"But I'm very worried, Kitahara-sensei."

Sato looked up, his eyes holding a scrutinizing gaze befitting an editor-in-chief, and said, "You started with a royal flush; how are you going to respond?"

"If the rest of the book just consists of the cliché plot of how the two students fall ill, how the police get involved in the investigation, or their tearful confessions, then the book will have started strong but ended weak."

"After all, the reader's threshold has already been set to the maximum by your first chapter."

Kitahara Iwa didn't answer, but simply beckoned to the waiter, ordered a cup of the bitterest black coffee, and then looked at Editor-in-Chief Sato with a meaningful gaze.

"Just think of it as watching a horror movie without ghosts. No one has a seizure later on, but it's even scarier than a seizure."

As Kitahara Iwa's voice rang out, Editor-in-Chief Sato casually flipped through Chapter Two, "Martyrs," even taking a sip of his coffee while his fingertips tapped lightly on the table in rhythm.

Oh? Has the perspective changed? From that overly enthusiastic, idiotic new teacher to Naoki Shimomura, the boy from Boy B...

Sato nodded to himself and took a sip of his coffee.

He found this Rashomon-style multi-perspective narrative ingenious, as it allowed the truth to be pieced together through the monologues of different characters.

However, as his gaze swept over the text of Chapter Four, "The Seeker of the Way," Editor-in-Chief Sato's legs, which had been swaying rhythmically, suddenly stopped.

This is a chilling script:

I heard footsteps going upstairs.

It's Mom.

Perhaps she would say, "Let's go to the police station tomorrow."

I happily came out of my room and waited for my mother at the top of the stairs. But...

The mother who came upstairs was holding a kitchen knife.

What's going on?

"What is this? Aren't you going to the police station?"

"I'm not going. Xiaozhi, even if I went, we couldn't start over. Xiaozhi isn't the kind Xiaozhi she used to be."

At this moment, the relaxed smile of complete control on Sato's face had vanished without a trace, replaced by a tightly furrowed brow.

He began to frequently change his sitting posture, as if the soft red velvet sofa beneath him had suddenly sprouted sharp thorns.

The plot is sliding into an abyss he could never have foreseen.

The boy, Naoki Shimomura, who drank the AIDS-infected milk, did not develop the disease.

However, the boy went completely insane amidst the daily fear and his mother's suffocating and boundless pampering and protection.

Sato's gaze was fixed on the end of this chapter, a monologue written from the perspective of young boy Naoki Shimomura about killing his own family:

"Xiao Zhi is Mommy's precious child... Xiao Zhi, I'm sorry. It's all Mommy's fault that you've become like this. I didn't raise you properly, I'm sorry. I failed, I'm sorry."

I'm sorry for the failure.

It failed, failed... a failed project!

Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure...

My mother let go of me and reached out to touch my head.

I gently stroked my mother.

The mother's face showed great sadness.

"I failed, I'm sorry..."

No, no, no!

I am not a failure! I am not a failure!

Something warm splashed onto my face.

Blood, blood, blood, this is my mother's blood.

The mother's slender body tumbled down the stairs.

Wait, Mom! Don't leave me!

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!

...Take me with you.

"No virus... yet killed by fear and maternal love? This kind of psychological suggestion..."

Upon seeing this, a bead of cold sweat appeared on Sato's forehead.

This is not your average detective novel; it's a scalpel coldly dissecting the festering wounds of human nature.