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I cursed myself.
And then, I sold the old woman’s body to her son. My main role was that of a corpse cleaner: changing the old woman’s clothes, carefully wiping away any dirt, and tidying her appearance. If my parents back in the countryside knew my job was to put makeup on corpses, they’d surely weep and mourn. Or so I mused. I only gained that kind of composure from the second time onward; the first time, I was overwhelmed by the creepiness of touching a dead body. Sakurayama was the negotiator, so I assisted him. That was the division of labor we’d agreed upon.
As I cleansed the old woman’s body, I recalled the words of an unlicensed doctor from a manga. *No matter how many hundreds of millions you price a mother at, it’s still cheap,* or something like that. I’d only read it in the middle school library, so I’d forgotten the details. But I imagined that people who would try to buy a corpse with money must feel something similar. Regardless, the act of touching a corpse was invariably accompanied by nausea.
The corpse had almost no damage and didn't look much different from a living person dozing off, yet I showed clear revulsion. Sakurayama, too, though he feigned composure, couldn't bring himself to eat, so it seemed impossible for him to approach this job as routine. Why do we perceive that "something" from a corpse? In the end, is it all down to the "life is beautiful" outlook?
Sakurayama photographed the corpse I prepared and used it as a bargaining tool. The glib-tongued Sakurayama apparently skillfully sweet-talked the other party, and as a result, the exchange of a large sum of money for the corpse was successfully completed the next day.
We didn't meet the trading partner face-to-face at the exchange location. That was a given, and we were almost neurotically vigilant about the surrounding area. However, the old woman’s son kept his promise, came alone, placed the bag with the requested amount of money, and took the old woman away, crying.
What worried Sakurayama and me was whether the person we sold to would go to the police. No, surely they’d think of us as murderers, so wasn't it dangerous? But when we consulted the Murder Contact about such worries the day before the transaction, he dismissed them with a laugh and replied, “It’ll be fine.” The words that followed were, *The police and all that, that side of things is probably fine. What’s truly scary are unforeseen circumstances.*
We had no choice but to believe him. A lack of money erodes one's ability to think and judge.
That lack of composure… was it a straw, or perhaps a spider's thread?
That mutter probably included the conviction that Sakurayama and I wouldn't run to the police. And indeed, that was the case. Because even if we talked to the police, our debts wouldn't decrease.
A large sum of money came into our hands. Without the need for daily, painstaking labor, the slot machine in my mind spun—*jara jara jara*. *Ching!* The amount that came out had eight digits. Ten million. *Are you kidding me? You’ve gotta be kidding me!* Sakurayama and I rejoiced together, roaring. To think the expression "a shabby business" would rain down upon me—life wasn't so bad after all. The two of us held hands, danced clumsily, and got carried away in the process. Ten million yen. Even divided equally, that was five million. Subtracting the money I immediately needed, it still wasn't enough.
But, being able to repay more than half in one go, it's true that a rosy hue spread across my vision.
Though it was winter, Sakurayama and I had preempted spring in this world, hogging it all to ourselves. When we called the Murder Contact to report our success, he rejoiced with an incredibly nonchalant “Good, good.”
And when Sakurayama, getting cocky, said, “Go ahead and make more bodies,どんどん (don don - rapidly/steadily),” the reply was, “That’s not possible.” The Murder Contact didn’t target people indiscriminately; his hobby, apparently, was to meticulously investigate whether people had strong “bonds”—in other words, whether they possessed “something important”—and then kill them. According to him, “It’s for my enjoyment. When you play a video game, it’s more fun on a big-screen TV, right?” Or so he said. I couldn’t understand it.
However, I was grateful for the logic that negotiations went smoothly precisely because such a selection process was in place. The Murder Contact seemed to understand this too, which is probably why he proposed this job to us. It was a truly rotten, self-staged act that exploited the sentiment of wanting to give a lavish burial to a mere意識のない肉の塊 (lump of unconscious flesh) like a corpse, but since it was profitable, no criticism escaped my lips.
Until I started this job, I was someone who could only find value in living humans, but now it’s different. Before a corpse decomposes, it produces gold. I interpret that as the radiance of a person’s soul. The condensation of the “meaningful time” that person cultivated throughout their life. The crystallization of the meaning of a person’s life is far more valuable than the dazzling jewels of this world, and selling it is our job.
Honestly, I didn’t feel any guilt. It wasn’t like Sakurayama and I had directly laid hands on them. Few people feel sinful every single time for a job like selling packaged meat at the supermarket. Rather, the more you sell, the happier you are; that’s what business is all about. At least, that’s the mindset I decided to adopt when washing corpses. About two months after the first time, when my wallet started feeling light, and the job of a corpse stylist came my way again, I even had the composure to try and wipe them down meticulously.
The second one was a recent college graduate, a new company employee, three years younger than me. On top of that, a newlywed. The corpse of a man whose happiness was in full bloom like cherry blossoms, as if even his lifespan was timed to match the falling of the petals.
It wasn’t just that I perceived him as “dirty”; this time, there was also “shame.” Wiping every nook and cranny was, as expected, embarrassing. Unlike Sakurayama, I didn’t have a specific romantic partner.
Sakurayama was married, but his wife was apparently a considerably dangerous woman. She wanted to control Sakurayama pathologically.
Since meeting Sakurayama, there hadn’t been a thirty-minute interval where electronic sounds ceased. Either an email or a phone call would invariably come in, and each time, Sakurayama would excuse himself with a click of his tongue.
“She’s really persistent, a dangerous woman,” Sakurayama would grumble, pulling out his cellphone. I heard this beside him countless times, and when I’d reply, “Then why don’t you break up with her?” he would invariably shake his head.
“How should I put it… that woman is a work of art. The surface is incredibly beautiful, but you have to pour an insane amount of money for upkeep, nerves, everything into her. Honestly, her personality is the worst, and she’s crazy. But somehow, she’s a work of art where even those abnormal parts could work in a good way. I want to live with her by my side.”
*What, you’re actually quite fond of her, aren’t you?* That was the impression I got from the way he spoke.
From my perspective, I’d refuse a noisy work of art that chases me around.
It’s fine if they’re just dressed up, behind glass. Not everything needs to be wastefully alive.
For example, the corpses sent to Sakurayama and me would be a problem if they were alive.
The second time too, Sakurayama and I skillfully achieved success. However, one thing we put our heads together and agonized over the second time was the amount of money to demand at the handover. Last time, considering both our financial situations, we asked for ten million, but if we repeated this job, we could live modestly while repaying our debts. Wouldn’t an amount sufficient for a humble life be enough? But, wanting to live extravagantly was also our true feeling. Despite the topic, after an all-night talk session, we settled on demanding ten million, same as last time.
Ten million was a light sum. My bag was also scanty and compact. If this became a hundred million, it would probably be like an overinflated balloon. I secretly resolved that if the Murder Contact ever killed a rich person, I’d hit them with an outrageous price.
We split the cash again, and I pocketed five million. Even if ordered to work, we were already immersed in a realm where it was impossible. This was paradise. Sakurayama, to avoid arousing suspicion from his fearsome wife, was apparently acting as if he was a company employee with frequent business trips, trying to smooth things over. Good luck with that.
That’s all become useless now, too.
Our heads hanging in the hotel, Sakurayama’s and mine. I didn’t mean to kill him. On TV and such, murderers say this as a standard excuse. I, who had always been on the watching side, used to retort to the screen, “Liar!” but now I felt like I’d earnestly say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it.”
*I never learned how much you have to strangle someone to kill them.* That’s the excuse I wanted to make. If Sakurayama were alive, how would he laugh at my ignorance? Would he scoff, or give a wry smile?
Because I didn’t know how much strength to use, Sakurayama died. Next time, I’m confident I won’t kill him.
A nasty sweat beaded on my skin. It didn't flow, just stayed at my hairline, irritating. I clawed at my hair and scalp, flinging sweat around. There was a time limit even for calming down. I checked the clock again. I probably didn't have time.
The old woman’s husband, the old guy, was supposed to come pick up her body. Sometime in the afternoon, I didn’t know when. Sakurayama had been managing today’s schedule, and his breath had stopped before he could tell me, so I had no way of knowing.
This was the third time for a corpse exchange transaction. A dangerous period where pride and complacency from two successful attempts were budding. In company work too, it’s when you arbitrarily think you’ve moved past the beginner stage that the most deeply wounding failures sneak up on you.
What’s scary are unforeseen circumstances.
Today, I know that those words the Murder Contact hinted at were correct. Because the trigger for my hand reaching for Sakurayama’s neck was, in fact, something utterly trivial—the fault of that “work of art.”
Sakurayama’s cellphone had been ringing incessantly since morning. Moreover, because he had the volume set high, it was unbearably jarring. It was so loud I could barely hear any other sounds. I, who had been sleep-deprived since the previous day, protested to Sakurayama about that phone, which was like an ill-behaved mutt, after tolerating it twice. Sakurayama brushed off my complaint with a reply that, even recalling it now, made no sense: “Can’t be helped,” and then面倒そうに (annoyedly) answered the call from his wife. This repetition dominated the morning. Even when I told him to put it on silent mode, Sakurayama wouldn’t budge, saying, “It’s fine, isn’t it? Besides, it’s a promise, sort of.” This guy had a personality where he hated it when someone pointed something out and he had to fix it obediently. I get that feeling, I get it very well. But I’m not you.
I endured it until past eleven. But that was my limit. First, my hand reached not for his neck, but for the cellphone. I decided to throw it out the window and smash it. Sakurayama, naturally, tried to stop me, waving his hands or pushing me away. A scuffle of hands. The falling cellphone landed beside the bed and, what’s more, continued to ring. My hand couldn't reach it, I was being blocked, obstructed…
My snapping blood vessel made my blood boil and commanded me: *Change what you’re grabbing.* Impulsively, though my vision blurred, my aim was true. Evading Sakurayama’s hands, my hands clamped onto his neck, both of them. The color of Sakurayama’s eyes changed. The quality of his anger transformed, its矛先 (spearhead/focus) spinning like the needle of a broken compass. Before its direction could be fixed, Sakurayama’s consciousness and life were punctuated with a “。”
In my life, up until now, I’ve used this “。” mark many times. But a new sentence always followed. For Sakurayama, that no longer exists. Blank and white, yet pitch black.
How many seconds, I wonder, did I spend on the futile act of strangling a corpse before I realized I’d killed him? The phone stopped ringing, and sanity, like a gust of wind, returned to me, and then, a scream.
Recoiling as if kicking Sakurayama’s stomach, I hit my hip on the bed. Groans and cries echoed in the room.
I didn’t mean to kill him!
Even if I were the only person left in the world right now, I couldn’t have helped but scream that.
It was out of a pathetic concern for appearances and a sense of guilt, thinking that even if the dead have no mouth, they might have ears.

(Nakazaki Zakuro – Murderer)
12:10 PM

By the time I stopped screaming and wailing and calmed down, it was past twelve. The phone had also rung dozens of times.
But I must have been so stunned in the corner of the room that I didn’t even notice the electronic sound.
The fact that I had committed murder made me tremble. For the first time, I felt like I was staring at the underside of packaged meat from the supermarket. The sensation of Sakurayama’s skin still lingered on my hands. It was like I had鷲掴み (grabbed a handful) of a squishy swarm of bugs. My past self, who had urged the Murder Contact to quickly turn over the corpses, seemed foolish.
“...What should I do?”
I tried to somehow arrange my jumbled, confused memories in order and consider my next move.
Sakurayama was dead. But the client coming here was probably an unchangeable fact. There was no bag in this room prepared to carry away two bodies. Besides, if that thing couldn’t be turned into money, it was just raw garbage that would become carrion.
“Think, think, think…”
Unable to stop my muttering from increasing, I paced around the room. Making a solitary decision without anyone to consult was an area I was bad at. I could handle assigned tasks, but I wasn’t the type to come up with plans myself. Even in school, I was the type to go along with what the central figures said and get by safely. I didn’t want to be the main character. I didn’t want any responsibility.
First, what to do with the old woman’s body, which still had value? Naturally, the ideal scenario was to exchange it for cash, have the client take it, and then say goodbye to this place. Better yet, secure the cash, wash my hands of this job, and flee. That was the only way for me to avoid being charged with a crime and head towards happiness. I keenly felt that killing someone truly limits your life’s path.
The problem was Sakurayama’s body, which was nothing but a disadvantage. How to dispose of it? I couldn’t possibly sell it to Sakurayama’s wife. I wasn’t capable of such negotiation. Ah, if I had died, and Sakurayama was me… but such fantasies were irrelevant. Either way, I had no choice but to take this corpse with me. Fortunately, there was the trunk that had been used to transport the old woman’s body, so I could just put him in it and check out. …See, if I calm down, the situation can be handled easily, can’t it?
I wanted to start packing Sakurayama’s body into the bag right away, but I couldn’t. I had to go through the inner pockets of Sakurayama’s suit, his belongings, and his bag to grasp even a few details about this transaction’s client. The person coming to pick up the body was supposed to arrive in the afternoon. That was all the information I had. The bill for leaving everything to Sakurayama had come due, and I grimaced at the pain in my back teeth. The tears had already stopped, but it felt like they could overflow again with the slightest stimulus. This was probably sadness for losing a smooth and prosperous life. The feelings of a business owner who had failed in their enterprise resonated deeply with me.
I pounced on Sakurayama’s work bag, opened it, turned it upside down, and dumped its contents onto the floor. What rolled out were a black fountain pen engraved with “So-and-so Anniversary,” a business card case, a glasses case, and a leather planner. I picked it up and opened it. Flipping through the pages, I manually searched for September. ………Useless, I slammed the planner down. It only had “Work Day” written in red. I resentfully recalled Sakurayama once saying that he didn’t leave evidence because it was a dangerous job. If I cut open his head and peeked inside, would I be able to properly view his memos? My mind arbitrarily produced such thoughts, and I was tormented by a self-inflicted nausea. I was not cut out for being the Murder Contact. This might have been a case of the right person in the right place, but how would *he* react if he knew about this situation? Would he ask for cooperation from yet another person because he was having trouble disposing of a body? ……No, he might have mentioned it before.
Yes, he’d said something about having his eye on several other people besides us and offering them work. He’d said something about efficiency or whatever, but in short, I now felt, belatedly, that he probably hadn’t trusted our skills. And in fact, I had just made such a stupid mistake.
I shoved the business cards, fountain pen, and other things scattered on the floor into the bag, tidied up, and then threw it against the wall. I couldn’t afford to show any mercy to useless things. They were an eyesore. Though, since I had mistakenly broken Sakurayama, who was rich in uses, and rendered him unusable, I couldn’t talk big. Next, I rushed over to Sakurayama’s corpse and, while I was at it, kicked the ringing cellphone away with the back of my foot. I shot it with a snap of my ankle, praying for it to break. In the first place, if that phone hadn’t rung so damn clamorously so many times, I wouldn’t have ended up being cornered in such a stupid way. I kicked it, intending to curse the “work of art” on the other end of the line to death.
Tch, still ringing. He said that, but isn’t this woman a stalker or something?
I grabbed the phone right after it stopped ringing and tried to put it on silent mode. …I didn’t know how to operate it. How do I put it on silent mode? Things weren’t going as I wished, and I got even more irritated and just gave up. The phone started ringing again, and I was afraid I’d accidentally answer it if I carelessly tried to operate it.
I slammed the phone down beside the bed, spat out a curse, “Die,” and decided to ignore it.
Clicking my tongue repeatedly, I rummaged through Sakurayama’s suit. I didn’t care about fingerprints. They were already smeared all over his neck anyway. Besides, fingerprints would only become an issue after Sakurayama was discovered as a corpse. If he wasn’t discovered, there would be no room for evidence to be established in the first place.
Sakurayama’s suit didn’t contain any important transaction documents or items that could save me from this predicament. I involuntarily slammed my fist into the corpse’s chest, blasting his sloppiness in this job. *Idiot, idiot,* he was truly lacking in awareness to prepare for unforeseen circumstances. Why did the Murder Contact choose a guy like this as a negotiator?

(Nakazaki Zakuro – Murderer)
12:20 PM

Don’t you think it’s more human to live to kill, rather than kill to live?
*Shut up,* I mentally commanded. That was a line the Murder Contact had uttered, speaking about murder in a nonchalant tone, as if it were a life philosophy. As I listened to him, I had scorned him in the back of my mind for justifying himself.
He just wanted to cling to the idea that he was still human, even though he had stained his hands with murder. I, at least, would not justify murder. I wasn’t living to kill.
Acknowledging that I had, as a result, killed him, well, first I had to pack Sakurayama’s body into the bag and make it easier to carry.
I was used to touching corpses. But Sakurayama’s complexion was overwhelmingly worse than any corpse I had handled so far. It gave a glimpse of the Murder Contact’s meticulous work, and nausea surged up again.
To be able to enjoy the process of creating something like this, he was truly insane. I absolutely never wanted to meet him.
I carried the old woman’s body out from somewhere and laid it in the bathtub. I’d wondered where to put it, but it was somewhat better than on the bed. But what if the cleaning staff came? This room hadn’t been cleaned yet today.
Whatever, just prepare to escape. Worst case, even if I don’t get the money, it’s fine, I thought, turning on my heel and returning to the other corpse.
Next, I folded Sakurayama, who lay collapsed on the floor, and transferred him to the bag. I pushed Sakurayama, who had become like a folded rock about to explode, into the bag. Ironically, having proven my physical strength through murder, a strange confidence in carrying this had sprouted. After stuffing even Sakurayama’s hair in, I tried to close the other zipper. “Gu, gii,” it wouldn’t close completely. Sakurayama was larger than that old woman, so he wouldn’t fit into the size of the bag that had brought *her* corpse. And the plan had been for the client to take this whole bag home.
“Fungiii, giiii!” I wrestled with the bag for nearly ten minutes, and with the truly disgusting measure of forcefully pushing the corpse’s head, I somehow succeeded in closing the bag. But it was being pressed from the inside so tightly that there was no telling when the zipper might burst open and a right arm or something might say hello to the outside world. Just imagining having to carry this and get on a Shinkansen made my arrest seem certain. I tried lifting it; it wasn’t so heavy that I wanted to throw it down. But my spirit felt like it was about to break. This was worse than expected. When the partner you could banter with becomes an *iri* (this seems like a typo, should be 入り or 入 in context of being *in* the bag), my sense of helplessness immediately doubled. More than the presence of the corpse, I was tormented by loneliness and felt like bursting into tears.
I understood why the Murder Contact had trouble disposing of corpses and wanted to return them to someone. What was I supposed to do with this thing if I took it home? Dump it in a garbage disposal area? No, but news on TV often reported discovered bodies, so casually dumping it would be difficult. Even if I were to dispose of it, I should at least burn it completely or bury it in the ground. ……What to do? Should I bury it in the hotel courtyard, in a densely wooded area?
That felt better than carrying an ill-fitting corpse for a long time. For my mental sanity.
I wasn’t calm right now. I was definitely not making the right decisions. But I had no time.
Sakurayama had contacted this time’s client this morning, so they probably knew the room number. I, too, had at least heard the client’s name. Apparently, the surname was Shiina. Considering the old woman’s age, he was probably an old man. Since I couldn’t predict when this Mr. Shiina would visit, it was better to get rid of the extra things quickly, have him collect the old woman’s body, and aim for a clean getaway. So it’s okay, go. Sakurayama in the bag is cautious, so he’d definitely try to stop my actions first, I thought, as I picked up the bag and, almost tripping, left the room.
When I stepped into the hallway, my heart felt like it would retreat back into the room. There was a cleaning staff member cleaning the next room, ‘1702’. Her cart was in the hallway, and she was folding the changed sheets. She noticed me and, with a professional smile, greeted me with a “Konnichiwa” that had a strange intonation.
I wanted to turn right around and retreat, but I put strength into my toes to keep my body from turning.
No, this is an opportunity. A gift from fate to tell them no cleaning is needed without arousing suspicion.
If I had been any later, I would have had to deal with this cleaning staff member with my room door open, so coming out now was a good decision.
So, don’t be scared, don’t flinch, just smile and approach.
“Um, excuse me?”
“Yes?”
“Yes, what is it?” Her pronunciation was off in places, missing the notes. *Is this person foreign?* Come to think of it, a lot of hotel cleaning staff are foreigners, I recalled, as I quickly stated my business.
“This room, no cleaning today, it’s fine.”
She tilted her head with a smile, as if to say she couldn’t understand. Being treated with such a carefree attitude in this cornered situation, my scalp felt like it was about to peel off from irritation. My head heated up, and I couldn’t control my voice. The moment I raised it and said, “I SAID!” a loud sound of a zipper bursting open tore my world vertically.
What said hello from the bag was a left hand, with a shining wedding ring.
The cleaning staff member failed to inhale, her throat making a *hyurururu* sound as she stared at Sakurayama’s hand.
She looked up at my face, her chin jerking upwards, and apparently sensed something from my expression.
Before I could make the excuse, “It’s a doll,” I had thrown down the bag, and my hands were reaching for the cleaning staff.
And when I realized it, there were two corpses in the hallway.
I wouldn’t scream anymore. I wouldn’t lament anymore. I wouldn’t collapse in tears anymore.
My reactions were dull, as if half my brain had been eaten by the corpse.
Because I’d gotten used to it, become numb.
Is “rolling down a slippery slope” the kind of idiom you use at times like this? A life that wouldn’t even kill a mosquito had turned on a dime in just one hour, and I had stepped onto the path of a monster who had murdered two people. No matter how I excused it, I had now become the Murder Contact.
Leaving the left arm sticking out of the bag, I dragged the other newly produced corpse back into room ‘1701’. After leaving the two at the room’s entrance, I went out into the hallway. Confirming that the bed-making in the adjacent room, ‘1702’, was finished, I closed its door and went to the cart. After forcibly loading the sheets stacked beside it onto the cart, I checked that no one was in the hallway (or rather, if there had been, they would have already seen the crime), and pulled the cart into the room as well. I was worried if it would fit due to its width, but by tilting it sideways and pushing, I somehow managed to squeeze it through.
With everything secured in the now-sealed room, I leaned against the door.
“I didn’t mean to kill them…”
If only I’d made them shut up forever, that would have been fine.
The phone was still ringing nonchalantly in the room.
I was irritated.
I dug my nails into the door behind me, scratching it. *Gari gari.*
My fingertips twitched, as if they were broken. *Kari kari.*
It wouldn’t stop.
*Gari gari,* I kept scratching.
The trembling of my breath wouldn’t subside, not for the longest time.

(Nakazaki Zakuro – Murderer)
12:40 PM

Inside the cellphone, the root of all this trouble, a single email remained as a hint.