---

---

The boy and girl standing side-by-side—the boy looked down at me with lifeless eyes, while the girl seemed on the verge of closing her eyes, as if after a small yawn. My own face, which had been quite slack until a moment ago, must now be contorted into an unwatchable, ugly grimace, my cheeks twitching.
The couple, frozen at the entrance, was rather strange, or perhaps peculiar. They each had a red string threaded through their pinky fingers—wait, huh, are those really threaded *through* holes in their fingers? In that case, that red color… is it blood, or something?
“This is a non-smoking room, you know.”
The boy made this incredibly out-of-place remark in a flat, monotonous voice.
“Eh, ah, oh.” Even as my mind reeled, wondering what on earth he was doing, I found myself reacting, drawn in despite myself.
I looked down to put out the cigarette in my hand, but I couldn’t just rub it out on the floor, and if it’s non-smoking, there wouldn’t be an ashtray— “Guoh, gyaah!” I was stomped on. Definitely, with the sole of a foot, right on the back of my head. I was sure of it from the sensation.
Two feet mercilessly stomped and crushed my head, thud, thud. Licking the ground, I seethed at how the floor had now become part of what was tormenting me. But I wasn’t given a chance to voice it. My back, my waist, the nape of my neck—two feet, without hesitation or restraint, trampled me as if trying to process me into a replacement mat.
Normally, if there was a suspicious person in the room, wouldn’t you be scared, scream, or run away? Are these two heretics, just as those strings on their fingers suggest? Trying to somehow lessen the impact of the rain of blows, I curled my back like a turtle into a defensive posture. Or rather, my body automatically assumed that position. Because I have no experience with this. I’ve never been in a fistfight or a situation where I was unilaterally subjected to violence, so I have absolutely no ingrained knowledge of how to move my body or deal with it.
I keenly felt that I lacked the “process” for protecting myself from danger. Especially my neck and the base of my skull. Getting kicked in the medulla oblongata is the most effective. Tears, casting aside the framework of "a grown adult of a respectable age," were practically yelping “Yoo-hoo!” from the corners of my eyes. If I get crushed like this, will my second life as a two-dimensional old man begin?
However, no matter how disadvantaged I was as the intruder, there’s no way I wouldn’t feel anger after being kicked this much. There’s a common saying that young people snap easily, but old guys like me were once young too. And humans, once they become adults, aren’t likely to go out of their way to dig through the accumulated dirt of vanity and appearances just to correct their fundamental nature. In other words, I was still, at heart, an incredibly short-tempered and cowardly man.
“N-No, wai—stop, sto—” I called for a ceasefire, but in this one-sided situation, there was no way they’d listen. I had no choice but to focus on moving my body rather than my mouth.
Still in my turtle posture, I flailed my arms around wildly. I just wanted to bat away these two damned legs. My vision was still fixed on the floor, but I could tell from the shared sting that my hand-chops had connected with their ankles or calves a few times. Seizing the moment when the feet, which had been raining down like an evening shower, paused for an instant, I rolled around on the floor like an animal trying to put out a fire on its back. Luckily, I was grateful that my body rolled towards the window without me even consciously trying.
Partway through, as the stomping subsided, I managed to get into a half-crouch and reached for the cigarette pack rolling on the floor. But, as if my depth perception was malfunctioning, my left hand merely grazed the floor in front of the pack, grasping only emptiness. My back, neck, and waist refused to take any more attacks, and driven by that, I cut off my lingering attachment to the cigarettes and bolted.
Three large strides, like a triple jump—leaps that would surely bother the people on the floor below—brought me scrambling to the window. The very picture of a desperate escape, I pushed my body out. This wasn't a situation I could escape by reluctantly shaking my head. I anticipated being reported to the hotel or, worst-case, the police; I couldn't afford to postpone the inevitable by pleading some phobia.
Weren't they going to try and grab me themselves? There was no sign of the boy and girl dashing to the window to grab my legs. Paying just the bare minimum of attention not to fall, and otherwise roughly, I desperately gripped the window frame and flung my body out the window as if dancing. My unstable footing slipped a few times, and I almost fell headfirst to the ground, but when humans are cornered, they can surprisingly move their bodies quite efficiently. Pulling my whole body with the fingertips gripping the window, I quickly managed to get my feet onto the narrow ledge of the wall.
From inside the room, two sets of footsteps approached the window. I had intended to go left, but I instantly started moving my feet to the right. It was a split-second decision: I didn't want anyone to see me heading towards Room 1701 on the left. Those kids would probably look out the window and spot me, so first, I wanted to move a bit to the right to give them the opposite impression of my escape direction. After all, there was only one room to the left, and that would be a huge problem.
However, while my overthinking brain might be pleased with making a rational choice, my body was screaming bloody murder all over. Like a subordinate forced to do unreasonable work by a boss, I was full of complaints. Adopting that attitude, I tried to tell myself I wasn't frozen purely by a fear of heights, no sir.
And so, the desperate crab-walk began again. Frightened by the gazes I imagined from behind, awed by the wind, unable even to spare a hand to rub my aching back, I overworked my limbs—limbs that had never belonged to any sports club—trying to escape from everything, to shake off the bonds that held me, for a few hours at most, or so it felt. As I crossed windows, a new problem arose—what if the guests inside saw me?—but I was too preoccupied, so I decided to pretend I hadn't noticed. I could only pray they'd mistake me for a ghost or something.
What the hell is wrong with me this year?
I've lost my son, my fortune, a dead body, a card key, and my cigarettes.
Why am I losing things one after another like this? Will I end up in just my underwear after all this?
The tears that had welled in the corners of my eyes were scattered by the wind, making my eyes feel cold and exposed.
Mixed with the sound of the wind, I was caught in the illusion that the white cat was leisurely meowing somewhere to my left or right.
“Damn it!”
The memory of losing badly in a fight with my daughter—who was as noisy as a cat in heat—from six months ago resurfaced.
In the trembling of my fingertips, a vague anger towards my unreasonable predicament mixed with, and was enveloped by, a core of fear.
Wasn't it a *black* cat crossing your path that was supposed to be unlucky?!

---
**Sakurayama Eko**
**12:10 PM**

First, I had to ascertain whether *this* was unlucky for *me* or not.
Phone still pressed to my ear, I paced back and forth in the hallway at home. The pitter-patter of my slippers brushing against the wooden floor was a pleasant sound. Now then, how should I deal with the fact that this call isn't connecting? Should I hang up, or keep trying to connect? That is the question, I suppose?
I've been calling my husband, who left three days ago saying it was a business trip, but it just won't connect. He was answering his phone just fine until yesterday. Well, this morning he seemed strangely busy and hung up quickly, but he did at least press the call button for me. The fact that he doesn't find it a bother and always indulges me in such things is one of his good points, which I, as his wife, sincerely appreciate. I was attracted to that sort of, well, earnest part of him even before we married, so what I seek in my husband, even now, hasn't wavered a bit.
For such a considerate husband to stop answering all his calls after around eleven in the morning, it was only natural for me to be in a state of forgetting to eat or sleep, repeatedly calling him. I wonder what happened? He should know that today's a holiday, so he can't use work as an excuse. We were talking normally on the phone until the call I made at 11:17 AM today, and it's impossible that he's sick in bed with a cold, so is it reasonable to assume some sudden incident has befallen him?
My husband, though the details are unclear, seems to earn our living through some kind of work that skirts danger. He made excuses, saying it was a normal job, and even showed me his business card, but I know. Because I'm his wife. Of course, I'm not the type to get all dreamy and think, "Oh, how romantic..." over something like that, but still, welcoming him home when he returns, proud of finishing that work, is deeply moving for me as his wife. ...Oh dear, how embarrassing, I got carried away gushing all by myself. And the phone still isn't connecting.
"What should I do?" I turned to the wall and asked the wood grain. No answer. Since I don't have any other friends, I wonder if the spirits dwelling in the house or some supernatural entity could answer me? It's unfair, I grumbled.
I slammed my phone, its screen sticky with my sweat, onto the floor for a moment, releasing the stress lurking in my peaceful daily life. Relieving it naturally like this is the secret to not harming your health. A housewife's wisdom, you know.
"What should I dooo, what should I dooo!" I sang to an improvised tune, twirling around and around. The fabric of my apron danced in the air, and I think that cool breeze was worthy of being described as "finding a little piece of autumn."
Pretending to be worried, I twirled around and headed to the back room to prepare my clothes for going out.
After all, there's no way I can just be a bystander when my husband is in danger, can I?
Since he kept his business trip destination and hotel a secret from me, I just happened to "take note" of them. Unfortunately, I don't know which room he's staying in, but I've got the hotel location down pat. I can go anytime.
Checking the time on the pink clock in the living room, it's currently fifteen minutes past twelve. If I leave now, using a bus, train, bullet train, and taxi, I wonder if I can reach the hotel a little after three?
Matching the bus schedule I had memorized, I accelerated my twirling and snatched clothes from their hangers. These were clothes I'd prepared to wear on my next date with my husband, but oh well.
The reason I didn't prepare listening devices, track him myself, or hire a detective to tail him was, of course, because I trust my husband more than anyone in the world, but perhaps I was a little too lenient. When he gets back, I'll have to give him a stern talking-to.
Twirling around, I moved to the room where my makeup is. "I have to hurry, I haaave to hurry—but on the surface, I'm leisurely. My husband has been praising me for that calm demeanor since way back, no, for about two years and four months now, so I cherish it veeery much."
"Ufufufufu..." Kicking aside the phone that was on the floor, I sat down on the chair placed at the vanity.
To you, Anata, whose phone my signal can't reach.
Hey, Anata?
Actually, there's just one thing I'm moooore worried about.
Ufufufufu, my lips in the mirror twisted into a crimson smile. Even though I hadn't put on *that* much lipstick.
There's no way you're having an affair, it's impossible, but just in case—or rather, the very probability of it existing is impossible—but... you wouldn't betray me like that, would you, Anata?
I smiled at the honeymoon photo displayed on the vanity and breathed a sigh of relief.
Mm-hmm, of course not, not when it comes to you and me, Anata.
My husband must be caught up in some major incident, something life-threatening. That's still better. Isn't it somehow charming when my dependable husband has an occasional blunder?
At times like that, I have to properly support him from behind the scenes.

---
**Tanetorii Hibiki**
**(College Student)**
**2:50 PM**

I experienced a shock so profound it felt like my heart might flip inside out—for the very first time.
My cell phone rang. As it blared loudly in the hotel hallway, I fumbled, "Oh, whoops," and dropped it. Most of the sound was swallowed by the hallway carpet, and the quietly fallen phone vibrated minutely, emitting the ringtone I had set. I bent down as if performing a dogeza and reached for the phone. I tried to snatch it up gracefully, like a third baseman fielding a bunt, but my fingers only managed to graze it—splendidly in their failure. I bent down again, and this time, carefully picked it up.
On the hastily opened phone, the name of *the* girl, my number one crush, was displayed in plain black characters. Almost pressing the hang-up button by mistake, I answered the phone in a state of utter disarray.
"Hyahi— I mean, uh, yeah, hello?" Still kneeling on the hallway floor, I covered my mouth with my hand.
"Oh, Senpaaai?"
"Y-Yeah," I trembled as I spoke.
Her unique way of speaking, with drawn-out, almost tedious words, reached my ears without any distortion. It was unmistakably her voice. The background noise sounded rather jumbled and loud.
"Right. Senpaaai, it is." I even replicated the drawn-out part and nodded awkwardly, vaguely remembering someone once pointing out that I should fix my habit of nodding at the person on the other end of the phone.
"Hey, I just got to the station, so wait for me a little bit longer, okay?"
"Ah, but I might get a little lost, so yeah, wait for me a little, liiittle bit longer, okay?"
"Leave it t'me-ro." I didn't dare correct my unintelligible reply. Because I bit my tongue.
"Okay, see ya then... Oh, and about getting to the hotel..." Just before she hung up, it sounded like she turned her face away from the phone and was talking to someone next to her. I wonder who it was? Maybe she was asking a station attendant for directions?
Wincing at the metallic taste spreading on my tongue, I ended the call. As I pressed the button, my upper arm twitched.
Then, I glanced at the two figures nearby to check their reaction. Our eyes met, but they quickly looked away, so it seemed they weren't paying much attention to me.
For a little while now, two men had been talking about something in front of Room 1707 in the same hallway. One was a man in beach sandals who had come out of the room, and the other was that guy with the green hat from earlier. The beach sandal man was talking a mile a minute, a one-sided tirade, and it didn't seem like a very friendly atmosphere. The beach sandal man kept complaining about room service or something, and the hat man seemed slightly exasperated by him—that was the picture.
I don't know if my phone ringing had anything to do with it, but it looked like they'd come to some sort of understanding, and the beach sandal man invited the hat man into his room.
Am I... going to be creating *that* kind of scene with her in an hour or so...? No, no, keep it wholesome, wholesome.
A hotel is just a place where you can do as you please! (Putting aside minor details like it being someone else's property.) If I think of it as a girl coming over to play at my house, then there's nothing to be nervous about... No, wait, this hasn't happened since middle school.
Ah, I was so innocent back then... A regret for my youth, similar to nostalgia, welled up inside me.
Haaah... I stood up, trying to calm my racing heart with a sigh. As I looked down to brush the dust off my knees, "Huh?" A white cat was sitting at my feet, having appeared out of nowhere.
It seemed to have been sitting behind me while I was agonizing just now. Was it using me as a wall to hide from something?
A slender cat, like the bleached shadow of a long-tailed fish swimming underwater.
In its small mouth, it held a rectangular, ultramarine blue object.
The cat looked up at me as if to threaten, "What're you lookin' at, punk?"
And to add to that, its tail drew an arc as if to say, "And why're you standing up and getting all big, huh, punk?"
"...I'm not really a fan of animals, you know."
I'm generally not good with creatures I can't communicate with through words.
While I somewhat kept my distance from the white cat like that, finding it a bit of a nuisance...
...the face of a friend who had passionately declared "I love cats!" at the university cafeteria resurfaced in sepia tones. Ah, the color of funerals—that final memory came back at the same time.
...Slowly, "That..." "Whoa!" Any leisure to leisurely chew on memories vanished.
I jumped and fell on my butt. The cat, as if to avoid getting caught in my mess, quickly dodged.
When I realized it, a woman with strangely shining eyes was standing opposite the cat. In her hand was a small woman's wallet. She was beautiful. And her skin was also white and fine-textured.
Flanked by white on both sides.
If this were Othello, I vaguely wondered which part of me would turn white.

---
**Yamana Misato**
**Suicide Aspirant**
**2:30 PM**

*Bibanonne.* "And what good will that do?" the stream of water seemed to scold as it poured down on me. Did I fail to adjust the faucet properly? The shower temperature was ridiculously high, and the pressure was strong too. If I opened my mouth to try and improvise a line of poetry, a sound like "Vovava," like someone in the throes of death, escaped me. This is why these slightly fancier business hotels are annoying; adjusting the water volume is a pain. But the greatest feeling of disgust was probably the fact that I, who should have jumped by now and wouldn't have the luxury of complaining about the hot water or strong pressure, was still alive like this.
For some reason, on my twenty-first attempt to make up my mind, I had failed to follow the same fate as my older sister.
Or rather, it hurts. It's throbbing. The affected area is hot, as if scalding water is dripping from it. After seeing that white cat, when I tried to jump out the window with force, I slammed my knee hard against the wall. That unintentional flying knee kick produced a strange cry of "Kyo-myoeeh!" from my mouth. I cried at the beauty of the stars that scattered before my eyes.
Rolling around, the pain of smashing the back of my head against a chair leg didn't bother me at all. I screamed my lungs out at a level that would warrant calling a doctor— "Duha hadou hahha uyo hhyiii!"—and between suffering and agony, I witnessed the gates to a new, light-filled world open. If I had let go of the reins of my consciousness for about three more seconds then, the incredibly rare cause of death, "Died from hitting her head hard," would probably have been broadcast on tomorrow's radio for about twenty seconds. And all the listeners would immediately shift their interest to the weather forecast that followed, and that would be the end of it. Like a forward-looking revolving lantern of memories, I writhed while rapidly envisioning my own afterlife.
Supporting my body with my forehead and my uninjured left knee, I writhed in an inchworm-like posture. If you just listened to the sounds, "Unyohohohoho," it might seem like I was indulging in some flowery, hedonistic pleasure, but in reality, like someone attempting to circumnavigate the world on their hands, cold sweat streamed down my contorted face relentlessly. For over five minutes, I held abstruse poses that looked like they could be models for avant-garde art, engaged in the task of letting the pain flow through me. During that time, "I felt like crying" changed to "I cried" after the fact.
How many years had it been since I couldn't hold back the overflowing tears? At my sister's funeral, I didn't cry... probably. Honestly, I don't remember. Though, of course, I remember my sister dying.
Though ungracefully, I got my body up, and with a bruise on my right knee the color of a blue hole photographed from above, I fled into the bathroom. Thrashing, screaming, aching, drenched in sweat—it felt awful. Being naturally fond of baths, I wanted to dash in there if possible, but agile movements were lost to me now. Hopping on just my left foot, pyon-pyoko, I jumped into the bathroom. Wondering why I was worrying about trivial things like sweat before dying, my open mouth from exasperation and self-loathing, and my ragged breaths remained unresolved as I turned the hot water faucet all the way, surrendering my five senses to the sound of the water. The adjustment was insufficient, and it was incredibly hot.
End of flashback. Sitting with my knees drawn up and hugged by both arms, gym-class style, I enjoyed the shower water like a waterfall. At my middle school sports festival, the Red Team's cheering squad would douse themselves with buckets of water to get fired up before the cheering competition. "Idiots," I had thought back then, watching them with a cool detachment, but yes, Japan did have customs like that, didn't it? *Misogi*, purification, that's what it's called. If I think of myself now, soaking in the tub and spacing out, as a part of that, maybe it'll be easier to make up my mind. Purifying myself before taking my own life.
"...Ugh, it looks moldy." The bruise on my right knee was a dark, bluish-black, as if the pigment had set, eroding my skin in the shape of a crushed amoeba. I avoided shock death from the pain, but my muddled feeling still hasn't cleared. It's like that feeling when pool water full of chlorine gets up your nose and even threatens your face. Something is stirring restlessly inside me, going around and around. But I'm tired and listless, so my skin prickles and tingles. Not moving creates a strange tension, giving rise to an impulse to casually go mad, but I feel too lethargic to do anything to resolve it. As a result, only the unpleasant feeling precipitates and settles at the bottom of my stomach.
Me, on the verge of depression just from hitting my knee against a wall—I started to worry if I could really jump and die. Imagining it would be tens of times more painful than this, I've definitely shrunk back.
Because I'm a coward. I was never the kind of kid who could live up to expectations, whether from my parents, friends... or lovers. In the end, I tried my best, in my own cowardly way. Still, I'm the younger sister of someone who committed suicide so easily; there's no doubt I'm fundamentally a coward.
"...Or perhaps," my heart seemed to clench tightly around my hugged knees. Are people who decide to commit suicide and go through with it actually strong-willed? No, that's wrong. My sister was an advanced coward, meaning upper-lower class, and I'm lower-lower class, I guess. The very bottom tier, huh.
".........Forgive me." I bowed my head. The shower water poured down like a torrent, drenching my hair completely. To my deceased lover, I apologized for my pathetic self. There's no one here to gently pat my head like he did, so it's actually just right. I even feel like begging some passerby to scold me. Self-loathing, full blast.
I casually reached out, twisted the faucet, and turned off the shower. I can at least do that much.
Ever since I was little, I had the kind of personality that got written on my report card as "a passive child lacking initiative." In a way, I was the complete opposite of my sister; my parents were grateful for me as a quiet, low-maintenance child. But now, at twenty, I resent this unchangeable personality of mine.
For example, if I encountered the culprit who killed my lover. If someone asked me, "What would you do?"
"......I'd probably just break down crying, and that'd be it, glub-glub." In the end, the bathwater level rose, and hot water mixed into my mouth. Overcome with emotion, I'd string together incoherent, unworded characters, and that would be the end. The thought of revenge wouldn't even cross my mind. It's scary. Being able to kill someone seems like an act only possible for people with a certain disposition. I don't think I could ever do it. Murder was something that happened on TV. That was enough, but then that dream became reality and stole something precious from me, so now, my consciousness is half-dreaming. ......No, maybe I'm just lightheaded from a long bath.
"Yeah, if I'm gonna die, I guess jumping is the way... Drowning seems a bit too painful."
Time to get out. Then, I'll jump. That should solve various things. Probably.
Steam densely filled the bathroom, and moving away from the tub made the humid air even more uncomfortable.
"Whee," with just a bath towel around my neck, I popped out of the bathroom with the steam. "Sooo hoooot," I let my body practice tackles against the wall in front of me, chirping "Eee, eee, eee," like a cicada that refuses to die. Pressing my cheek flat against the wall, I slowly slid down, zuuuruuuruuu.
When I'm alone in my room, unconventional actions and lines just pop out one after another. My mind is at ease because I don't have to worry about people's gazes. Before university, I was always looking down to avoid eye contact.
I "don't want" others to look at me, but I *do* care about "how *he* sees me."
This difference emerged, and the magazines I subscribed to and the stores where I bought clothes changed significantly. Until then, I had no hobbies and was oblivious to my empty pockets, but it's true that I started proactively looking for part-time jobs, and my vector began to point forward. All of that was thanks to him. And now, here I am, alone and lonely in a hotel, preparing to jump to my death.
"Dreaaams toooo, hooope toooo!" Our eyes met. "..." With whom? "...." At least, it didn't seem like someone I should greet with a "Hello."
"...Oui?"
I froze in a forward-leaning posture, like a skater in the middle of gliding.
In my room, where I had come to stay alone, there was, for some reason, another person.
My eyes met with that person again.
Not some blue robot from the future, just a plain suspicious person. A drab appearance, seemingly devoid of dreams, hope, or sweetness.
A strangely worn-out old guy was leaning against the wall, relaxing.
The lighter the old guy had been fiddling with in his hand fell to the floor with a soft thud.
If I jumped, would this problem right in front of my eyes really be solved too? For a moment, I seriously pondered that.

---
**Hanasaki Tarou (Detective) &**
**Touki (Girl)**
**2:40 PM**

Grumbling, with an overinflated pride, and a personality that falls into the worst category.
The client's unreserved assessment of the man named Tachibana Eiji had been, for the most part, correct.
I came to know this less than ten minutes after meeting him.
“I'm calling from this room, dammit! You should be able to identify it, normally, easily. What the hell is room service for, anyway? Sure, I even went out of my way to specify the room number, asking them to bring it to Room 1707 to prevent any screw-ups on their end, but how could they mishear that and try to deliver it to Room 1701? You knocked how many times and no one answered, huh? Like I give a damn, idiot! Why the hell should *I* have to take responsibility for someone else not being in their room?!”
“Right, right.”
*Isn't it because you talk too fast? Even I just heard "shichi" as "ichi." Or rather, this guy reads "1707" as "ichi-nana-zero-shichi." What a weirdo.*