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"Who locked you in?"
Once again, I directed a stupid question at Fushimi.
"I dunno... I waz walking in da hall, den I got pushed, and da lock was glicked..."
When Fushimi's voice got quiet like that, it sounded like almost every syllable had slurred into the next. How could such a scaredy-cat walk alone in the dark? ...Come to think of it, Kouzou-san's room was down this hall, if you turned right at the end. Could it be Fushimi was trying to steal the key to the basement?
"What do I do..."
A muffled sob leaked through the door as she murmured.
My thoughts wouldn't line up. These boiling ideas just flowed downstream, scalding my stomach.
Besides, if I were to calmly sort out the situation, it's pretty obvious the only thing that would be distilled is despair.
Read the room, idiot.

Can't open it. Can't get out. Can't escape. That's the situation. If left alone, the person inside will obviously starve to death. Writhing, cursing the world, driven mad by hunger. And then, there'll be no one left. All that will remain is the skin and bones of Fushimi Yuyu. ...... All of which applies just as well to us out here, outside the room.
What truly worries me, though, is the possibility that someone is hiding the key to this room, and, setting aside the physical aspect, the potential harm to Fushimi's mental equilibrium. If I just walk away from this door now, she might very well interpret it as being abandoned. If that happens, it feels like holes might open up in both our nerves, like in a lotus root.
"...What do I do?"
Break down the door. Sure, if everyone put their weight, strength, and maybe some tools into it, destroying it probably wouldn't be impossible.
But among the people gathered here, there's no one who would even hypocritically suggest rescuing Fushimi.
If anything, they'd probably welcome having one less suspect.
And while they're at it, one less freeloader departing would be just fine by them.
At least, Kouzou-san and Natane-san have that look on their faces.
And as for me, alone, I'm currently reduced to such spectacular clumsiness that I couldn't even manage a game of cat's cradle.
There isn't enough time for these injuries to heal naturally, either.
If that's the case...
I'm useless, and I can't make use of others.
Does that mean I have no choice but to become a murderer through neglect?
My forehead hits the door. *Thud*.
...Crap. It looks like the backlash is finally hitting me.
And in a rather novel direction, too.
Something just *snapped* in my frontal lobe.
"...I'm not a murderer."
It's truly nothing to brag about, nor be proud of, but despite the life I've led, I have never once killed a person.
I've only ever *broken* things.
Not things that broke indirectly because of me, but things I broke directly, with my own hands—those are what have built my past and shaped my future.
It's a far greater sin to keep associating nonchalantly with the people you've broken than it is to kill someone.
Even though guilt spins the threads of death.

I live on, nonchalantly, and I'll continue to break people.
Mayu, too, is one of the things I'm breaking.
If Mii-kun weren't by Maa-chan's side, her inner self wouldn't be unearthed.
Her facade would remain intact, unbroken.
What an ironic trait to inherit from my parents.
My interactions had, somewhere along the line, turned into mutual destruction.
I talk about being lovey-dovey idiots with girls, but even that is an act of destruction.
Where the other person becomes essential, an extension of myself, something that follows my will.
An exchange meant for gently, pleasantly causing mutual self-destruction.
Effortlessly ruining everything had become such a customary obligation that I mistook it for a talent. ......But, precisely because I'm like that.
A single purpose for me is being pointed out so very easily.
"............Perfect."
I'll drag this situation into being a part of that, too.
Because I know myself well enough to know I can't guarantee I'll still want to help Fushimi tomorrow.
That's why I'll destroy *now*.
I've long been aware of my broken parts.
And I don't think they can be fixed at this point.
In that case, I'll proactively embrace annihilation.
Once I've decided, it's best to let the impulse run its course.
This is the scene where I save Fushimi on the spur of the moment.
I can't afford to choose one of the countless escape routes of compromise and self-justification laid out before me.
Ooe Yuna, like hell I'm going to entertain you.

"Fushimi, get away from the door."
I issue the command through the wood. Fushimi's crying stops, so I add,
"Don't stand directly in front of the door. Just stay still in a corner of the room."
There's no particular need to tremble uncontrollably, but she might be doing it naturally anyway.
"Um, hey..." "Hm?"
"Are your arms... okay?"
Fushimi asks, worrying about someone else's physical well-being in that simple, unadorned voice of hers, like a pillar riddled with termite holes.
Seriously, I want to believe that no one actually breaks their arms and then poses like, *'Hi! I'm Arm-Break Man!'*
Even factoring in that the subject is *me*, pain is still pain.
Geez, clueless even at a time like this, and such a good person too.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Everything's fine.
"So, I'll handle this."
With these hands, I'll set off a very practical party cracker.
"Really?"
"Of course."
*Do you think I'd lie?* I let a self-produced smile slip at my own fabrication.
I turn around. I square my shoulders. I start living again.
"Give me the gun. Now."
I directed my demand for the handy weapon towards Saka Natane, who was standing furthest from the door.
Without holding out a hand, without stepping forward, just with words and eyes.
Everyone's gaze converges midway between Natane-san and me. Even Natane-san's gaze isn't focused on me. Thrown by the sudden demand, she tries to conjure a smile, but the process seems to be hitting a snag partway through.
"Even if you don't have the key, you wouldn't have let go of the gun, right?"
Unlike a key, which might show signs of having been used, you can't afford to let go of a gun if you want to use it in a sudden emergency.
And I had already pegged Natane-san as its possessor back on the second day this whole "incident" started.
"What are you talking ab—" "I said, hurry up."
Dumbfounded, I walk past Kouzou-san—who's exposing his crooked teeth and yellow tongue to public view—and approach her. I strip away Natane-san's plastered-on smile.
I corner Natane-san, who's backing away, against the wall. Close enough to touch. My feet have done their job.
Now for the arm, the arm, the arm, the arm! Raise it! Raise it! Ignore the damage!
"Gah!" I grab Natane-san by the neck, forcing a gasp out of her. Just the friction of the yukata fabric against the injured area makes my consciousness threaten to fade, but Mayu's thread, tied around my little finger, casts out like a net and refuses to let it escape. Next, raise the left hand! It rises, it can be raised, it's all the way up! There was a sound of utter destruction. I could feel blood vessels popping, muscles grinding together. Putting that aside for later, I search Natane-san—literally fighting a battle of flesh and bone within myself, physiological tears streaming—but hey, there it is.
The old-fashioned revolver she always carried, hidden inside her clothes.
A toy purchased by the master of this mansion on a whim, a plaything that knew its place, destined to be used in childish games.
Still three bullets, unchanged? ......Well, I guess that makes sense. You can't silence the shots, and the main reason Natane-san carried it was likely for self-defense, not attack. Murderous intent could be achieved through other methods.
If you have it, you can shoot instantly if needed, and you won't get shot at any time.
With this, I have no more use for Natane-san. I release her neck, leave her groaning on the floor, and set about the task of hooking the gun onto my right hand. Once that's done, I let both arms hang limply for a moment. If I didn't take a short break, it felt like my arms would tear off or the bones would burst through the skin and start singing the joys of youth.
"Hey! Why does Natane have a gun...? Meaning, the culprit is... and then you... No, wait, what are you planning to do now?"
Kouzou-san, still half mentally swallowed by the shock, stammers, his tongue tripping over itself as he retreats, head reeling from the information overload.
Well, obviously, I'm going to shoot it.
Ah, perhaps you're jumping to the conclusion, dreaming up scenarios where I start shooting people, *bang bang*?
Give me a break.
Haven't I told you time and time again in my head?
In my hands, people aren't *killed*, they're *broken*.
Regrettably, being as clumsy as I am, I can't break people with a gun.
Ah, the "time and time again" part was a lie, though.
"You should stop being such a shut-in and go to the movies once in a while."
Detectives, mafia, spies, special agents. Their guns, and sturdy doors.
Combine the two, and there's only one thing to do.
I might not be able to handle something as formidable as the front door of this mansion, but this square plank right in front of me should be manageable.
"I'm going to blast the doorknob and lock to pieces with bullets."
I cocked the hammer with my big toe. It didn't have a safety. As if it had adapted to this mansion.

Once I'd moved them, the bones in my arm seemed slightly more cooperative. By focusing my refined concentration solely on my shoulder, my arm temporarily revived, accompanied by the sensation that my temple might tear off. Since my elbow was broken, the movement lacked any smooth curve, but I lowered my right arm slightly below horizontal and aimed the barrel. But that only lasted an instant; it immediately betrayed its unsteadiness, wavering up, down, left, and right.
There was no hope of maintaining stability with just my right hand.
But no matter how much I steeled my resolve, my left arm refused to respond, just hanging limply. It seemed that the earlier effort of grabbing Natane-san's neck had completely drained its strength and spirit, turning it into dead weight. I had no choice but to give up on getting help from it and manage with a one-handed shot.

Doing so, however, brought about a new problem. I couldn't pull the trigger. My bones felt weak, I was too hungry, probably lacking calcium too. Consequently, I lacked the strength to control my index finger. Just putting the slightest bit of force into it made my body tremble, and a cold sweat broke out. My joints felt cold, as if metal had seeped deep inside. My finger, hooked on the trigger, slipped off. ...... Calm down.
Slowly, I relaxed my shoulder. If brute force wasn't working, the only option was to pile on mental strength.
I don't have guts, or pinpoint accuracy, or soul, or inspiration, or burning passion, but...
"Men-tal fo-cus."
*Don't forget the image of controlling it with your shoulder, imagine it, believe it, hypnotize yourself.*
Remember the time you broke chopsticks with a business card.
"...Ready, set,"
*If you try, you'll succeed, if you try, you'll succeed, if you try, you'll succeed... Pay the price now for a life where things always happened without you even trying... If you try, you'll succeed, if you try, if you try, you'll succeed!*
My index finger wraps around the trigger, distorting under the strain.
And then, like the starter pistol for the hundred-meter dash at a sports festival, but with actual substance behind it—the sound of a gunshot.
The gunshot, heard up close, had a weight that resonated in my gut more than I'd expected.
Conversely, I was hit by a shock so intense I almost suspected the part of me from the shoulder down had been showered with bullets.
Grazing the right side of the doorknob, the bullet pierced the door. The smell of burnt metal and the dramatically gouged wood grain stood as proof that the bullet had done its job. Anyone would admit that this was far more effective and elegant than me just screaming and writhing from the recoil I was currently enduring.
Strange utterances like "#" and ". ~ +" spilled from my mouth, but being in such oversupply, they held no value. Ignoring them, the break time was over. I started to get up again and prepare for the next shot. Fumbling around and taking too long to fire the second and third shots, boring the audience, would surely earn me scornful laughter from fireworks artisans, who also work with gunpowder. Cock the hammer, take aim, don't wipe away the tears,
"Fi-i-ire—"
The sound was closer to a smiling salesman than a dramatic *Bang!*, and definitely not a *Zkyuuun!*

By the second shot, maybe my index finger had started to enjoy itself? *"##%&"* It fired with surprising ease. But my aim was imperfect, *"=~==+"* and it passed through a spot similar to the first shot. *"(88&())"* *Shut up, I'll kill you!* If I don't damage the internal mechanism properly, it won't be "Open Sesame." Seems the world would currently rate this second shot as a waste of ammo.
I stood up and delivered a heel drop to the doorknob, and it easily snapped off at the base. The sound of it falling became a meal for the carpet. Then I peered inside to check the extent of the damage. The part where the key inserts was destroyed, but the rotating spindle was still intact. If I didn't lay off this workaholic remnant of the Japanese spirit, both Fushimi and I would end up wasting our spring break, so we were both desperate. That's a total lie, though.
I shoved the gun barrel into the hole in place of a key. All that remained was to defy the Swords and Firearms Control Law with a single fingertip.
Looking back, this would put me in a tie for the highest number of gunshots fired inside this mansion.
However, while others had used theirs to take down humans, I had fired three shots to destroy a single doorknob. That was my limit.
[...] Couldn't think of a preamble, so I fired the third shot in silence.
It made the worst sound yet. Not the clash of metal on metal; the vast majority of the repulsive noise was me, screaming "Gugyaaahhh!" at my dangling right arm as a ritual to endure the agony, unable even to treat it with my useless left hand.
This scream was the rawest, most concretely pathetic one so far. Apparently, I didn't even have the composure left to unconsciously hide my shame. I fell onto my backside, wanting nothing more than to stay perfectly still for a while, neither getting up nor lying down.
That last shot might have been unnecessary, or perhaps, fatal—to my arm, anyway.
Glancing around with my fragmented attention, Kouzou-san was covering his ears, looking like he might foam at the mouth and faint any second. He probably couldn't handle the gunshots. Natane-san seemed to be suffering somewhere between my level and Kouzou-san's, clutching her throat. She hadn't fully returned to bipedalism yet, still kneeling on one knee.
Akane's gaze was fixed on the now-empty gun, and what's more, it looked reproachful. The easy solution occurred to me belatedly: maybe I should have just asked her to do the shooting.
The gun, having achieved independence from my hand, had bounced off the wall and ultimately U-turned back to land near me. Annoying as it was, picking it up and cradling it to my chest was already impossible. The injured part of my right arm was swelling up, announcing a happy event. About three months pregnant, I'd estimate. An objection started to form—*But I haven't been binge-eating or anything...*—but well, the sense of touch is in charge of the arm, so it's outside my jurisdiction. Not a problem worth commenting on.

Right now, more than anything else, I wanted to deal with my eyeballs, which were crying nonstop under the influence of the pain signals.
"Hi, hi, ffuu. Hih, hih, hih, fuu..."
Just kidding. Aren't I providing full support for childbirth? Retorting again, just kidding.
Once my volume control returned to operational levels, I finally assigned the task to the person inside.
"Fushimi! Try opening it!"
If this doesn't work, you can come haunt my bedside. Ah, but please do it so Mayu doesn't notice.
Everyone was watching the door's progress with bated breath... Why, though? Doesn't Kouzou-san, for instance, have anything better to do? Natane-san, too, is glaring at the door while coughing. It's weird.
From inside, there was the sound of a hand turning the doorknob. And then, though it caught slightly, the door responded even to this unorthodox method of being unlocked and swung open. Appearing from within was a young girl.
Looking haggard and malnourished enough to fit the description "just freed from a hundred years' sleep," Fushimi Yuyu scraped her body against the door, using it for support, and made her return to the hallway.
Looking at her again, she was worn out, frayed—a bundle of health and goodness turned into a mess of scratches.
Fushimi stumbled towards me with unsteady steps. Barefoot, clothes smudged with dirt, for a second she looked like someone who had just escaped a burning building.
"Ua, ah... scared... ca... gonna die..."
She stumbled and crumpled in front of me, sobbing dramatically.
*Ah, geez, this kid gets so shy around strangers...* Stop joking, I need to do something. Aftercare is part of the job.
Uhh, standard procedure when a girl is crying is...
"I overslept a little, so I was late getting here. Sorry."
I apologized for now. Comparing it to past experiences, this felt like the natural course of action. That time I was late meeting Nagase and made the excuse, "Heroes are supposed to show up late," she was seriously put off by it—which, looking back now, serves as good fertilizer for experience. Mind you, later on, when our relationship had further ripened to the point of rotting right off the vine, her response to the same exchange was something like, "Then I guess I'm Tooru's heroine, kyaa~".
Fushimi showed a variety of reactions: nodding, shaking her head, covering her face with both hands. I found her face, utterly collapsed under the combined efforts of tears and facial muscles, quite endearing, and I impulsively lost my self-control.
"You've got a face that looks like it could go down in legend for doing a bread-eating race against a Namahage."
Who, I wonder, ought to be judged for that remark? If my limbs were fully functional, I might have even given a thumbs-up, which would have only further confused the verdict.
"Nama... *hic*..." Fushimi hiccupped, sobbing.
I glimpsed the future three seconds from now and felt an intense desire to run for the nearest air-raid shelter.
"There is absolutely no doubt that 'Namahage' is a type of compliment, and in the context I just used it—"
"Waaah! You idiot!" She started lightly thumping my collarbone in protest. While profusely offering flat apologies—"Sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me"—I simultaneously noted, with some concern for our food situation, that the taste of blood in my mouth felt several times more rank than usual.

Perhaps reaching peak embarrassment, Fushimi hugged my waist, hiding her face from view. The fact that she avoided wrapping her arms around mine could be considered conscientious. If this had been Mayu, it would have been a hug devoid of restraint or consideration, and I likely would have been forced to faint from such an intense expression of emotion.
I quickly scanned Fushimi's exterior, checking for any issues.
"...Mm, looks like you're okay. Good, good. Glad you weren't hit by any bullets."
I took some uncharacteristically hot-blooded, idiotic action, and since the person I was doing it for was you, that was my main concern."

"I wanted to shoot too—"
Released from Yuna's hand covering her mouth, Akane, having regained her freedom of speech, pouted. Puffy-faced, she toddled over and picked up the gun lying near me.
"Hey, Mom. Are there no more bullets?" Akane asked Natane, handing her the pistol as if begging for another turn at a festival shooting gallery. Kouzou-san checked the empty cylinder, then distractedly denied his daughter's plea, "No, there aren't any." That was good; now there were no firearms left in the mansion. The remaining weapons were just blunt objects and bladed ones. Ah, although, human bodies themselves, and the humans attached to them, were still numerous and intact.
"Natane had the gun... Three shots fired... So she didn't shoot anyone then, but... Natane? No way... Touka? And Kiyoshi? Keiko too, Takahiro... Did Natane kill them all?" Kouzou-san muttered the dazed litany of questions, as if talking in his sleep.
Natane-san, having recovered somewhat from her earlier distress, stood stock-still, her lips slightly parted, not even responding to her employer Kouzou-san's troubled inquiries. I, too, was busy dealing with Fushimi, so I decided to postpone seeking answers.
Fushimi was crying face down, trying hard not to let out her natural voice, which she hated, so I, the one being cried upon, was actually feeling a little bored.
Turning just my head, my eyes met Yuna's. She had the gaze and posture of someone idly watching a TV nature documentary about the peculiar habits of animals, cheek resting on her hand, just to kill time.
Her expression was dry, like a corpse in winter.
It seemed my failure to act like a complete hypocrite meant she couldn't quite maintain her facade of detached amusement.
She must have been eagerly anticipating what miserable, rock-bottom excuses I'd concoct to appease my conscience before leaving Fushimi to die. This outcome must have been quite the disappointment for her.
That ill-fitting smile she wore was no more than child's play, like me trying my best to imitate Natane-san's mannerisms.
"How was that? Did I manage to properly ruin your mood?"
Even in response to my ill-bred sarcasm, she merely snorted, her composure unshaken. Unlike Kouzou-san. Akane, grumpy now that she knew the gun couldn't be used as a toy, approached Yuna, seeking attention. Yuna discarded her interest in me and accepted Akane with a soft but unsmiling expression.
It felt like watching a reflection of myself when I face Mayu.

"Um, everyone," I called out to the members of the Ooe household.
I felt strangely refreshed, as if all the blood in my body had been flushed out in a hot stone sauna.
At times like this, one really ought to try and see if they can produce bath salts (blue, ingredients unknown) from their mouth, but I decided against it.
Without ceremony, I bowed my head deeply.
"Thank you for not stopping me, and for your cooperation."
Well, yeah, it's hardly surprising that no one would step forward from the distant crowd to get involved with a murder suspect aiming a loaded gun, clearly intending to shoot it.
I savored the feeling of instability that accompanied the quiet elation.
A sense of accomplishment and euphoria soothed my entire body in the form of utter exhaustion.
Having rescued the heroine, I wore a strained smile, covered head to toe in wounds.
The surroundings were subtly buzzing too; as a curtain fall, it was perfect.
But, in reality, almost nothing had been resolved yet.
Natane-san stood alone, positioned apart from the rest of us.
Standing perfectly still, unresisting, precisely because she understood there was nowhere left to run.
Her eyes looked down at me as if pitying me, while simultaneously holding a quiet resignation at her side.
Meaning, this story... is gonna continue just a little bit longer, folks.

**Chapter 4: Rock Bottom Mystery Dining**

*What are doubts?*
*Are they necessary for me to be Mom and Dad's child in this house?*

This was the first time I'd ever woken up from my own sleep-talking.
Apparently, while sitting in a chair in the dining room, silently observing the others' grim expressions, I had drifted off. The faint candlelight, as my eyes tracked its flicker, had also played a part in lulling me to sleep.
"...Why was I reciting something about 'rocks blocking the way'?" (TN: Reference to Semimaru's poem in the Hyakunin Isshu poetry anthology.)
Was it the influence of being in the Hyakunin Isshu club back in elementary school? That part's actually not a lie. I felt like rubbing my eyes, stretching, and washing my face with cold water like it was early morning, but then reality and my mind finally reconnected, reminding me that my physical condition wouldn't permit any of those actions. And besides, it was the middle of the night.
`You're awake` `Question mark`
*Pop.* The notebook suddenly jutted out from my side. Oh, Fushimi's notebook-speak. Felt kind of nostalgic, somehow. The situation hadn't improved at all, yet my mood lightened. If I actually said aloud, *'What am I gonna do getting any lighter than this?'* someone would probably materialize out of nowhere to retort.
"Morning. Sleeping like this reminds me of being in class."
Even though it's still spring break, I'm a real model student, aren't I? Just kidding, though.
Fushimi nodded and started flipping the pages of her notebook again. If this were Mayu, this is the point where she'd jump on me for a good morning kiss. ...I've really neglected Mayu for quite a while. I feel bad for Koibi-sensei, too.
I'd like to wrap up this stay sooner rather than later, but this isn't exactly a place where personal convenience holds sway.
`It's` `Okay` `To sleep` `More` `Okay` `Yo`
Perhaps because the dining room was silent, the sound of Fushimi's finger rubbing against the notebook paper echoed clearly, pleasantly. I didn't feel indignant about being treated half like a baby by a younger girl; I simply stared back with sleepy eyes.