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It's hard for me to understand, but there are even guys out there whose justice is to deceive.
"Wonderful," the man clapped perfunctorily. "You're quite the hot-blooded type, aren't you? I get the feeling you've mistaken the stage you're supposed to be performing on," he offered, among other cryptic comments. The first half, at least, didn't feel too bad.
"But I can't just stand here chatting with you like this, you know."
"Well, if you're busy, you could just return the phone, and we could part ways immediately."
"That would be a straightforwardness that goes against my justice, so, rejected. ...Actually, a little while ago, someone showed up who saw my little game. If they seemed to know any more unnecessary things, I was thinking of dealing with them in the elevator, but I was interrupted, and then that girl... Ah, but that's none of your concern."
"No, please, it's quite interesting. Do continue."
"Well, I guess it just goes to show that things in this world don't always go the way you want," he concluded, with the kind of perfunctory and banal encouragement a homeroom teacher might offer a dejected student.
And then, the hand that had been holding out the cell phone was withdrawn.
"Still, you seem to have good intuition, just as you said. You see through to people's true nature, or something like that... How about becoming a street fortune-teller in town?"
I'd probably incur the wrath of a gang boss, so I'll pass.
"This time wasn't an exception to the rule, either."
"What rule is that?"
"Unfortunately, the only people I seem to get along with are lolicons and criminals..."
So, if you're not a glorious lolicon, then by process of elimination, that just makes you a common criminal.
Oh, and just for the record, my colleagues at the office and the chief apparently aren't lolicons.
"You're rather extreme, aren't you..." muttering, the man pressed the call button for the elevator. The light above the elevator to the far right began to blink green, signaling its imminent arrival.
Perhaps as a consideration to keep his intentions unreadable, the man smiled excessively. But it was an expression more than enough to make an observer wary, thinking, "Ah, this person is plotting something wicked."
And then, as the elevator arrived and its doors opened, the man casually tossed someone else's cell phone inside.
With a series of small, clattering sounds, the cell phone bounced off a wall and came to a stop.
"If you don't go get it, it'll become lost property, won't it?" he said, pointing at the cell phone with a handsome, refined face that betrayed no hint of malice on its surface.
"...You want me to get in the elevator?"
"Well, we can't just stand here talking. Why don't we incorporate some vertical movement?"
"This isn't an exercise class, you know."
So I'm supposed to get into a pseudo-confined space with this man who's just declared himself a criminal. If this were a little girl, my legs would be rushing in fast enough to break eleven seconds in a hundred-meter dash.
*Sigh.* After some hesitation, I ended up deciding to get in. If I'd made such a bold show and then run away, I'd be doomed to spend the rest of my life tasting a humiliation so profound it would damage my self-esteem. No matter how I tried to gloss over it, that wouldn't be healthy.

If I'm going to stand downwind, I'd rather it not be for anyone other than a girl in a skirt.
"As I said earlier, due to certain circumstances, I've lost my room key card."
As soon as I stepped into the elevator and picked up the cell phone, the man entered too. His movements were a collection of actions that combined elegance with eeriness, his footsteps barely audible.
I stood in the back corner of the elevator. The man positioned himself in front of the wall with the buttons, diagonally opposite me.
Since I'd also entrusted my key card to Touki, the elevator naturally wouldn't stop—not until someone else got on. I pray that key card isn't being treated with the same significance as giving an engagement ring before heading off to war. I don't have the slightest intention of dying yet. I'm the type who, even on his deathbed, would likely complain about not wanting to die.
"Is there a possibility you're simply not a hotel guest?"
"Not entirely out of the question."
"Haaah..."
He was perfectly composed, standing in his corner of the elevator, settled diagonally across from me.
"What was it now... Earlier, there was a lovely song playing on the radio. The lyrics were wonderful, so I decided I'd try to remember them, but..."
"Oh well. I'll try to recall it while I deal with you."
The man declared this with a smile, then began to rummage around in his pockets.
I pressed a hand to the top of my hat, watching him in a stance reminiscent of Michael Jackson in his prime. The only thing I had that could be called a weapon was the duralumin briefcase in my hand. If I smashed the side of it into his head with all my might, I could probably make him writhe in agony.
But.
Drops of sweat pricked the skin around my shoulder blades, soaking into my clothes. I can't escape, can I? I could imagine myself dashing outside, only to have my neck snapped immediately after. My intuition isn't as good as Touki's, but it's decent enough. My skin understood that this guy scored high on the criminal index.
The elevator doors closed.
The man took both hands out of his pockets and spread his palms, demonstrating his lack of a weapon.
"As you can see, I'm empty-handed. I really didn't plan on doing anything today, you see. Now, this is a predicament."
"And this 'not planning on doing anything,' is that still ongoing?"
"No, that was only until noon."
Whoa, this guy looks like he's already killed one or two people in this hotel. Having to spend at least one night in a hotel where a dead body is sleeping somewhere is going to negatively affect both falling asleep and waking up.
"What's your name?" the man asked, after clenching his open palms into tight fists.
"Hanasaki Tarou. Detective specializing in finding animals."
For someone not exactly overflowing with chivalry, I always end up either introducing myself or being found out, so this time I went ahead and stated my profession too. It's less disheartening than being seen through.
"And you are?"
"My, my. So you're getting involved in something outside of your professional duties, then? Tough work."
"Me? Well, I suppose I'm a highwayman. I'm not very good at stealing things, so I tend to take lives along with them," the man introduced himself modestly, as if presenting a piece of work that wasn't exactly praiseworthy.
And then, without being given a destination, the elevator began to ascend.

I've never honed a single skill that seems like it could handle a serious situation.

Shiina Kouji
3:55 PM

The storm of seriousness and my daughter departed. Hmm, did my daughter depart like a storm? Hmm, did a storm depart as my daughter? The image of my daughter and that man standing side-by-side in the hotel corridor will probably be burned into my mind for the rest of my life. Whoa, whoa, whoa? My upper body is restless, like a puppet with a faulty command system performing pantomime. Bzz, bzzt, I'm short-circuiting. My consciousness is adrift, and the world distorts as if my semicircular canals are paralyzed.
My vision spins round and round, in an impossible vertical rotation. The outlines of objects are lost, colors melting together in the rotation as if thrown into a blender. Ah, my wife's face is being drawn... I was dangerously close to mistaking the elevator door for the gates of heaven and passing right through.
What whipped my consciousness back was the sound of a vending machine activating, *ka-thunk, ka-thunk*, as juice cans dropped into the retrieval slot. My feverish eyes cooled as if sprayed with liquid nitrogen, and the jumbled blocks of color that had been tossed onto a palette sorted themselves back into their proper places.
The woman had apparently bought some juice. She was squatting down, her hand stuck in the retrieval slot.
Her ability to compartmentalize the situation, or rather, her thoroughly detached demeanor, was something to be admired. Her eyes, unsuited to her sleepy face, shone even brighter bathed in the light of the vending machine. What kind of irony was it that a woman with brighter eyes than anyone I'd ever met was the first suicidal person I'd ever encountered in my life?
The woman, still crouching, looked up at me while pressing a juice can to her cheek. "Aren't you going to chase them?" she seemed to be asking, questioning my dazed state. Chase them? My daughter, who ran off with a man? "U-uhh..." How could I face Natsumi, after half a year apart, reunited in a hotel, and what could I even say? Was that man her boyfriend? Besides, I don't have time to worry about that problem right now! I glared down the empty stretch of corridor. I have to get back into that room at the very end.
But how do I do that either? I left the key card in the room, but there were signs on the window that someone had entered... The cleaning staff? No, if that were the case, the body would have already been discovered, it would be a police matter, and a huge commotion would be arriving with sirens. If that's the case... how am I supposed to get into the room? That question wedged itself into my train of thought. Of course, I'm frantic to go, but the physical barrier is formidable. If a guy like me could break in, hotel burglary would be a beginner-friendly business, no skills required. "Aaargh!" I clutched my head, feeling like I was about to break.
I remembered a puzzle game I played with my son and daughter this April. It was a game where you line up and clear colored jelly-like things or manju buns. An image unfolded behind my eyelids: different colored, mismatched manju buns from that game, raining down one after another on me as I lay at the bottom of the screen. I knew my priorities perfectly well, but I couldn't think of any way to solve things. It was wrong to expect anything from an old guy's few brain cells, but since everyone only gets one brain, I had no choice but to rely on my own.
The woman still hadn't stood up; she was fumbling with the pull-tab, trying to open the can, it clicking and resisting. Was she clumsy? Come to think of it, if I don't stick with this woman, I won't even have a room to hide in. What a day, so full of restrictions on my actions, I thought, covering my face with both hands. I was being tossed around by the situation too much, and the stress seeping out from the unresolved problems was making me feel like I was about to cry. I'm useless.
I slapped my covered face hard with an open palm. It made a crisp sound, and the woman turned around.
Calm down and remember. The moment I stood on the window ledge. I made a decision then, and I was able to move. I didn't stop, and I didn't jump. Looking back on that process... It wasn't because I had courage. It was because I was cornered and had no choice but to act. This must be the same kind of situation now. If I stop, I'm finished. It's human nature to try to live even one second longer, so struggling is only natural.
I have to do something. Make a move. For now, I'll abandon thinking about priorities or danger levels and just move my limbs.
I peeled my hands from my face and dug my nails tightly into my palms.
Dragging my toes on the carpet with a *shhh* sound, I started walking, stumbling. I approached the vending machine and took the juice can from the woman's hand. "Ah," she said, perhaps wary of it being stolen, and sluggishly reached out to take it back. Before she could, I opened the can's pull-tab and handed it back to her, "Here."
The woman reacted again with a short "Ah," and took the can, cupping it with both hands. "Thanks..." she mumbled her gratitude, then started sipping it bit by bit. Her movements reminded me of an animal lapping water from a dish.
"Hey," I called out. The woman still hadn't stood up.
"Yes?"
"I know this is a lot to ask of someone I've only known for about an hour, but..."
"Haaah..."
"It's, uh... if I come running back again... please let me in your room."
The courage a coward can muster is just about right for securing an escape route. Otherwise, I'll get cornered, panic, and end up crushed. It would be cool if I could just turn defiant in that situation, though.
The woman remained unresponsive, looking up at me without moving. She stared intently, as if sizing me up. However, perhaps her crouching legs had reached their limit, as she halfway stood up and rubbed her ankle.
"P-please, I'm counting on you," I pleaded again. I haven't had to bow my head much recently, even for work.
The woman stared for a while at the orange surface of the liquid visible through the can's opening, watching it sway.
"Alright. ...Assuming I haven't gone out, that is."
Her phrasing was detached, as usual, but she agreed.
"Thank you," I said, and decided to go after Natsumi and the man. It felt like that was the only problem that seemed solvable. Though, even if I do catch up with my daughter, I have no idea what to say or how to resolve the situation to call it "case closed." But, I reconsidered that just being able to talk things out was better than nothing.
...Or rather, what exactly are the problems I'm facing? The most important is Room "1701." Next, my daughter, whom I ran into at the hotel. And then, the suicidal woman who was in the room I entered through the window. I've tried listing them by priority; are these three the difficult challenges bestowed upon me? I don't feel like any of them can be solved easily.
I ran past the elevators. On the way, I passed a little girl coming out of an elevator. "...Hmph." I twisted around at the waist to get a look at her face. It was her—the girl who had been leaning out the window, looking at me. The girl noticed my movement and turned back, letting out an exaggerated "Oh my." Her eyes and mouth rippled as if she were trying too hard to suppress a smirk; she certainly didn't look scared of a suspicious person. A wave of anxiety hit me—did she report me after all?
The girl mouthed something to me. I don't know how to lip-read. Even when I pleaded with my eyes, "I don't understaaand," the girl, as if to say, "I'm not saying it twice," turned back around and quickly walked away. I wanted to chase her and demand an explanation, but her companion, the man in the green hat, was watching me. Reluctantly, trying not to think about the consequences, I returned to my pursuit.
I ran to the corner of the corridor, using my hand against the wall as a cushion as I turned left. Natsumi and the others had fled this way. Steeling myself, I peered down the corridor with my aging eyes, but there wasn't a single person in sight. "......Uh." There's a chance they have a room this way. But, a room. Staying here. This floor has twin rooms, so... Uwaah, this is complicated. Didn't I just witness something I wasn't supposed to see? Natsumi clearly misunderstands me, too. Besides, my wife is already dead, so strictly speaking, it's not cheating... or rather, that's not the issue. What caught my eye in the corridor was an old-fashioned fire extinguisher that looked past its expiry date, and a cleaning cart with bundled bed sheets and clean bath towels placed beside it. I turned back and scanned the other end of the corridor, my eyes bloodshot. There was no vending machine in this corridor; instead, there seemed to be a machine that dispenses ice. What was this machine called again? Ice-ice agent, ice medium... No! What am I doing getting sidetracked by that? The important thing is, where is Natsumi's room?
I don't intend to be a Peeping Tom, but as a father, I don't want to leave that misunderstanding unresolved. And while I'm not some stubborn, old-fashioned dad, so I wouldn't mind who my daughter dates... that's a lie, so I want to try talking to that man at least once. I'm the only family that girl has left. It's the role of the parent left behind to run around frantically, however unseemly, for the sake of my wife and son too. Daughter, you're not an adult yet, so just let your parent meddle a bit.
"...Mmmh." Is there space inside that cart? I suddenly wondered as I looked at it. There's cloth draped on the sides, so I can't hear what's inside. I thought, "No way," but just as I approached to take a quick look,
"Sir, is something the matter?" The door of the room next to the cart opened, and a member of the cleaning staff appeared. Beyond the door, I could also see the face of what looked like a hotel guest. I flinched like a child caught red-handed doing something naughty. "No, nothing," I said, moving away from the cart. The cleaner quickly placed sheets and bath towels onto the cart, grabbed the handle, and said, "Excuse me," with a slight bow. Then, pushing the heavy-looking cart, they began to move it towards the elevators. *Clack-clack*, the small wheels under the cart turned, drawing four tracks. Surely, if someone were inside, they'd notice something was off from the feel of pushing it.

So, they must be in a room after all. Now, what are my remaining options?
If I knock on every door and boldly ask to see the room, I'll definitely find them. But my ingrained common sense and shame rebuked me, asking if I could really do such a thing. It's true that everyone's different, but exposing oneself outside the bounds of personal common sense is uncomfortable. A shiver runs down my spine, my skin crawls, and an irresolvable stress attacks me, like my insides are being twisted and pained.
...But. The corridor doesn't feel like it stretches on endlessly.
Compared to walking outside the window, what hesitation could arise from walking down a corridor like this? Today's acrobatic feat of movement was a good experience. It puts pain and fear on the scales.
I made a fist and advanced. Past the fire extinguisher, the cleaning supplies, and the bed sheets, towards the end of the corridor.
The room at the very end was "1784."
Steeling myself, I knocked on the door. *Knock, knock*, twice with the second knuckle of my finger, and then it hit me.
Shouldn't I just try contacting Natsumi's cell phone?
Even considering I forgot my own cell phone today, it's a valid method.
My withered brain cells are always late to arrive at a good judgment.
Is no one inside? They still haven't come out. *Don't come out*, I silently prayed.
If there's another way, I don't need to needlessly expose myself.
Creating any more unnecessary witnesses is bad.
You're only realizing that now? Seriously? Think about the consequences first, hey!
The instant I made that judgment, my body went rigid, as if my feet were impaled into the ground.
The gaps in my tensed muscles were crushed, and my thoughts turned completely white.
*No good, I have to run!* I turned, but the door opened from inside the room, slamming right into my nose.
This was the first time I regretted not having a middle-aged paunch.

Tanetorii Hibiki
(College Student)
3:55 PM

When I was a child, I was often warned.
Not to accept sweets from the kind old man in the neighborhood.
Which of my parents was it that warned me? Probably my mother. My father was slovenly; not that he was neglectful in raising me, but he didn't exactly interact with me with fervent enthusiasm. Come to think of it, I haven't been back home in nearly two years. My mother calls me occasionally, but I haven't spoken to my father at all. Well, it's more like, what would we even talk about? I'm an adult now, so maybe he wants me to have a drink with him or something.
But I digress.
My house is in the kind of countryside where if you buried vegetable seeds in the road, it might just turn into a green paradise. Long story short, the ground isn't paved with asphalt. It's a town—or rather, a village—that modernity hasn't encroached upon. The sort of place that seems like it could be the setting for "My Summer Vacation," and the people were laid-back too.
The neighborhood old man, whose job was a mystery, was also an exceptionally good person. Perhaps because he himself loved sweets, he always carried chocolates or rice crackers with him. So, whenever he saw me, he'd give me a treat, which made me happy, but... when I reported that I'd received them and come home, my mother warned me.
I had thanked the old man. Thinking I was going to be scolded for it, I said that first. My mother praised me, saying that was correct, but then she refuted me. She said that until I completely trusted that old man, I shouldn't blindly accept his kindness or goodwill. At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about.
Only now has the outline of those words vaguely begun to come into view, making me think, "Ah, I see." All while she's pulling me by the hand, making me run frantically down the corridor.
The carpet in the corridor swallows the sound, so despite our momentum, it's not noisy. She's charging towards the end of the corridor, but I wonder how she plans to deal with the dead end. Or rather, what is she running from?
That "damn old geezer" she called him earlier, her father (probably)? He seemed pretty shaken up too, so even if he is chasing us, it feels like we still have some time. But there's nowhere to hide.
"Hey, H-ey!" I try calling out to her, though the air rushing into my mouth obstructs my words. She kept clicking her tongue without turning around, shaking her head left and right as if looking for an escape route. Eventually, her gaze fixed on a cart placed in front of a guest room.
Without hesitation, she dove into the space underneath the cart, dragging me with her. She ripped off the white cloth draped below and slid her body in. My shoulders and cheekbones hit the cart's frame without reserve; I was like a pinball that wouldn't bounce around. Inside the cart, "Isn't this a garbage bag?!" Before such complaints could form, a scream like someone mimicking a pressure-point attack, "A-ta-ta-ta-ta!" flowed out, riding the pain. She, too, once had her chin jolted upwards against the top of the cart, like when the neck of a mascot costume gets caught on the ceiling and you're almost sent flying. It was a satisfyingly sharp bend, the kind that might earn praise in a driving school for being an ideal curve. I worried her neck might be broken, but she didn't stop.
Pressed up against garbage bags as if sharing a ride on a crowded train, I also settled myself under the cart.
"The cloth!" she barked a sharp, short command at me, as if by habit.
"Pull it down, quick!"
"O-okay." I reached for the pulled-up cloth from my cramped position and lowered it. With this, we could hide the contents of the cart from anyone looking from the outside. However, if her father came chasing us, this cart is the only conspicuous object in the corridor, so I doubt he'd ignore it and just walk past.
And then, as the rushing wind and the situation came to a temporary halt and the momentum subsided... In the near-total darkness, the fact that my elbow, shoulder, and hair were brushing against hers caused my heart to reactivate once more.
I was closer to her, Shiina Natsumi, than if we were sitting next to each other on a rollercoaster. It wasn't about speed per second; her cells were within a five-centimeter radius. Her sounds were so close, it made me anxious that we might fuse or something.
When she adjusted the position of her head, the hair on the side of her head brushed against my cheek. Goosebumps rose all over, like a sandbox stirred by an evening breeze. Her eyes, at extremely close range, caught my face.
Since it's a hotel, few guests throw out organic waste in their rooms, so the artificial smell of paper and plastic bags predominates. What else... a burnt sort of smell, or is this the smell of carbon? There's a faint, unfamiliar odor mixed in. And, of course, her scent is mixed in too. Is this perfume, I wonder?
Her breath made the air in our enclosed world tremble.
"Looks like my cover's blown, huh?"
"Senpai." A one-liner assessment of the situation, heavily tinged with self-deprecation.
"Y-yeah."
"My act... do you think it still works?"
"Act...? Hmm..." She was probably asking about the difference between the passionate side she'd just shown and her personality when interacting with people at university. It was true that her attitude towards her father—the harsh language and tone of voice—was the polar opposite of what I'd imagined. But isn't that just because there's some kind of conflict between them, so she just spoke harshly?
"Do you like girls who respond in polite language, all fawning, with a smile blooming for every little thing?"
With a joking tone, she pressed me to choose whether to continue or discard it.
Which one is her true self...? Well, given that she's asking, it means the personality she's shown me so far has been a facade.
Ah... I wonder. When I look back at the reasons I developed feelings for her...
"It's true that you, being like that, somehow gave me a real sense of fulfillment."
"That's all a big lie. I'm actually the kind of woman who wouldn't hesitate to hit someone."
Her elbow brushed against my upper arm. I tried to imagine her swinging a fist in the darkness before me, but nothing played on the screen of my mind.
"Okay."
"No, but, more or less, everyone puts on an act, right? Even I, when I go on dates with girls, have tried to force myself to show only my good side."
"Is that kind of understanding answer also part of your act?"
"Hmm, well, yeah. There's an element of that."
"And admitting it somewhat honestly like that is also..." "An act. See? We're going in circles."
I emphasized it to avoid getting stuck in a conversational loop. As if to say she wasn't convinced, she adjusted the position of her elbow and jabbed me under the armpit. It made a grinding, grating sound. It felt like my bones were being scraped.
"This acting stuff, if you're forcing yourself because you think you have to, well, it's probably better to stop."
"I'm just putting on a front, so it's not like I'm forcing myself, but it is a pain."
"Then let's go without it." It's not like her appearance will completely change or anything, so, yeah.
"Okay, I'll stop acting then."
After her reply, a short silence. She was giving off an air of being lost in thought.
"Actually, I'll still mix in about fifty percent acting."
"The blend ratio is up to you."
"So, like, it kinda stinks in here, doesn't it?"
Suddenly, the polite language ended. Her tone, which had been rounded like stones in the lower reaches of a riverbed, became jagged like a bird's nest, and her so-called natural voice flew out, unadorned.
"Don't you think so too, Senpai?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, it definitely smells kinda burnt."
"Right? Anyway, Senpai, can't you move over a little more? It's super cramped in here," she said, poking me repeatedly with her elbow. Liquid invaded my stomach and throat, leaving no empty space. But if I unleashed a Bubble Beam from my mouth here, various futures seemed likely to be lost, so I bit my tongue and endured.