—Chapter 16—Tuesday, May 10th, Late Afternoon—

Ren knew it wouldn't be safe to go back to Makoto's house for at least an hour. He hoped Makoto would recognize that too, and not go looking for him. Even if the cops left quickly, which he didn't believe would happen, there was a good chance that they would watch her house for at least a little while after they left. He thought about going to Emiko and Naomi's house in the meantime, but that didn't feel safe either—if they'd found Makoto, it was possible they'd found his other friends too.

As he walked through the streets and alleys behind the houses, Ren wondered how likely it was that the local residents had seen his face on the news. It was a workday, after all, and according to his watch, most working people would still be on the job at this moment. And seeing his face was one thing—being able to recognize it was another. He tried to imagine how he would react if he saw some rando on the street that bore a resemblance to someone he'd seen on the news. Would he seriously entertain the thought that it was the same person, or just pass it off as a ridiculous notion?

At any rate, without a hoodie to hide his face naturally, he could only try to make himself look less suspicious by not skulking around. In a residential neighborhood like this, there were no ideal places to just go sit while he waited things out. Anywhere that he could just hang out—sitting on the curb, leaning on a fence—would look out of place, so this is what he was left with. He was just a dude going for a late afternoon walk.

But that didn't make him any less nervous about the cars he would see driving slowly around the neighborhood. It stood to reason that at least some of those vehicles were unmarked police cars. When he needed to hide his face, he would pull out his turned-off phone and stare down at it as though it were on, shielding his face from view.

This strategy seemed to be working reasonably well so far. The cars just kept driving.

Ren had made it pretty far from Makoto's house when things finally took a turn. He'd been walking casually along the street when a shuttle stop conveniently presented itself just as another slow-moving car happened to cruise by. Standing in the shade behind the covered area, Ren pulled out his phone and began swiping through imaginary text messages. Just to make it that much more casual, he leaned up against the back of the waiting area and listened for the car to pass by. It did—Ren could hear its engine noise grow fainter and fainter.

Then, just as he was preparing to leave, someone walked out of the house directly in front of him. A woman carrying a purse and an empty shopping bag stepped out and locked her front door, then walked a few feet away from the door before she saw Ren standing there. She stopped in her tracks and locked eyes with him. Then, she promptly turned around and retreated back into her house.

Fuck. Time to head back—the streets were now officially a greater risk to him than finding shelter. He took as direct a route as possible without making himself too easy to track, and quickened his walking pace.

—

Jiro, Emiko and Naomi stepped nervously through the door and Makoto closed and locked it behind them.

"Ren still isn't back?" asked Jiro, a serious look on his face.

Makoto shook her head solemnly. "No, and I'm guessing you haven't heard from him either."

"Sure haven't."

Emiko went straight to the dining room table and started pulling the chairs around to one side. "Come on," she said, "we need to hurry and watch this surveillance footage. I only got to see the first minute or so before we got your message that the cops had left. It's a lot of Tetsuo hanging out behind a dumpster so far…"

"So he genuinely was lying in wait for Ren to show up?" asked Makoto, not that she had any doubt that that was the case.

"Yeah," said Jiro. "It's what happens later that doesn't add up."

"I got to watch over Jiro's shoulder," said Naomi. "I've seen it, but I don't believe it."

Jiro set his laptop down in the middle of the table and everyone crowded around so they could see. "So here we are at the very beginning. You can see from the timestamp in the bottom left that this was eleven-oh-eight PM. Ren had texted me at ten fifty-seven that you had just boarded the shuttle, so, if Tetsuo had been following you guys, this would've been right about the time he'd driven back to our dorm to beat Ren back there. Here's where he first gets here."

From the left side of the screen, Tetsuo is seen hurrying into the alley from the south street in front of the dorm. "I peeked at another camera's footage to confirm it, and yes, he parks his car in front of the building on the street, then comes immediately in here. You can see him hide himself behind the dumpster, pull out his knife, and wait. Periodically, he pops his head around the side of the dumpster to see if Ren is there yet."

Just as he says, there are several minutes of Tetsuo just waiting there, as the seconds on the timestamp tick by. "I'm gonna speed this part up, since it's just more of this for a while." Even at triple speed, it took a few minutes before they were done watching Tetsuo pop his head out every so often while he waited for Ren to get there.

"Okay, here's where shit starts to happen," he said, resuming normal playback speed. The timestamp read 11:23:14pm. "Aaaaaaaand bam. He leaps out and takes a swing."

Makoto's heart nearly jumped into her throat watching Ren dodge the attack, weapon already in hand. It was clear from Ren's actions that he wasn't caught completely by surprise, but what followed was certainly more than he'd bargained for.

"Looks like he catches Tetsuo in the arm there," said Jiro, pointing to the part of the screen where Ren slashes back at Tetsuo and he flinches in response. "So here's the fight, and it's just as Ren described," he said, and they all watched as the fight played out.

"This is clearly self-defense," said Emiko, appearing to finally feel confident that she'd made the right gamble. "I can't believe anyone would see this and think Ren was somehow the aggressor."

"Yet that is clearly what the cops believe," said Makoto. "They're sort of ignoring the things that don't add up, and just focusing on the fact that Ren was there, he was armed, and after he left… Tetsuo was dead."

"A set of facts which, when taken on their own, do suggest murder," admitted Emiko. "But this is clearly more complicated than that. I feel bad that I didn't believe him sooner."

"It's fine," said Makoto, eyes glued to the screen. "You believe him now."

"Okay, here's where we need to start paying close attention again. Watch," instructed Jiro, and they all got quiet. Onscreen, they watched as Tetsuo slammed his knife hand into the brick wall at Ren's back and dropped his weapon. Ren picks it up and throws it into the dumpster, removing it from the scuffle. Tetsuo, however, does not relent, continuing to swing his fists in Ren's direction. "This is also where the video quality appears to turn to shit," he said, noting the pixelated elementing that was beginning to creep in. "That can happen with digital cameras sometimes… Interference can affect the signals that get transmitted, and this happens. It sort of comes and goes throughout the rest of the sequence."

The team watched as the time ticked by. Periodic glitches made it hard to catch every detail, but the sequence of events was pretty clear. Finally, Ren punches Tetsuo in the stomach. The timestamp reads 11:24 and 47 seconds.

"Well, no elementing there…" noted Emiko.

"Yeah, looks like we have a perfect view of Ren hitting Tetsuo in the stomach. How lucky," said Makoto dryly.

"And he's on his hands and knees here…" said Jiro, narrating. "Looks like he's heaving, which comports with him having had the wind knocked out of him—a blow to the 'celiac plexus' will do that to you," he added facetiously, trying to sound smart. "Ren bends over, and—ooh, I didn't notice that before. Did you see that? He wipes his knife on his coat."

"Back it up," said Makoto.

Jiro did as she asked, and they watched it again. "Yeah, shit, he did. Black coat, so probably hard to see, but if that was Tetsuo's blood he was wiping off, that's going to be incriminating. We'll have to look into that."

"He's talking to him," said Makoto.

"Yeah, which would imply he was alive to listen," said Jiro. "Okay, here's where the elementing gets really bad again."

Ren had left the scene by this point. The image onscreen was of just Tetsuo kneeling there, apparently wheezing, but some bad pixelation makes it hard to see all of him. Eventually, the pixelation clears up again.

"Well," said Emiko. "Now he looks dead."

Tetsuo lay on his stomach, his head turned to the side and his hands buried underneath him. It looked like he had simply collapsed where he'd been kneeling. Everything in the video was still after that point.

"Yeah, he doesn't move again after this," agreed Jiro. "We're looking at a dead man."

"Jesus, this is really hard to watch," said Makoto, leaning back in her chair and letting her eyes wander around the room. Tetsuo's demise was finally really hitting her. "He really is dead…"

"Yeah, Mako-chan, he is," whispered Naomi, who had been quietly watching alongside her friends. "I'm sorry." As great a shitheel as Tetsuo had been, it was difficult for them to watch him die.

Makoto covered her face in her hands and started to cry. Jiro paused the video playback, giving her a moment.

"What the fuck happened?" she cried. "Ren didn't do it… I know he didn't do it… So why the hell…?" She shook her head back and forth as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

After Makoto had had a good cry, she wiped the tears from her face and cleared her throat. "I'm fine now," she said. "Sorry, go ahead. Hit play." She sniffled a bit more, but her face was serious again.

Without a word, Jiro clicked to resume the playback. The seconds ticked by on the counter at the bottom, but nothing else onscreen changed. The elementing continued, but it wasn't anything that made it difficult to see all the nothing that was happening. After a few more minutes of staring at Tetsuo's body, and a bit more pixelated video, the police lights could be seen flashing on the screen.

"Enter: the cops," said Jiro.

"Look!" said Naomi. "I can see you guys in the window at the top!"

"Yeah, and other people are climbing out their own windows and watching from the fire escape…" said Jiro, grimacing. "Yeesh."

A few minutes later, some people in gray jumpsuits appeared on the scene. "Jesus, here come the paramedics…" Makoto had to look away again.

"Aaaaaand, there—that's Ren fainting," said Jiro, pointing to the window in the corner of the screen.

"Is there anything else to see at this point?" asked Emiko. "If not, please turn it off." Jiro pressed pause, and the screen froze. "Hit 'stop'," clarified Emiko. Sheepish, Jiro turned off the display. Makoto took a shaky breath.

"And so, we come to our big dilemma…" said Jiro.

"There's no other killer." Emiko shook her head, a blank look on her face.

"There's no other killer," parroted Jiro. "So what the fuck do we do now?"

—Tuesday, May 10th, Evening—

The sun had headed west, the sunset colored the sky a deep purple-red, and streetlights were beginning to ignite. Ren had been worming his way through neighborhood streets and access roads, trying not to be spotted by anyone else as he headed back to his friends. He was starving. Besides cup after cup of coffee this morning, he really hadn't taken any food today at all. He'd never gotten to eat the lunch that Naomi had prepared for him before being forced out of the house, and now that nighttime was beginning to fall, all the running around he'd done today was really starting to catch up to him.

He'd made good progress though. In a few blocks, he'd be at Emiko and Naomi's house. He hoped they were home, or he'd have to sneak in somehow. He debated turning on his phone to send a text, but Jiro had him feeling paranoid about that—he didn't want to resort to using his phone unless he had absolutely no other options. He'd feel really dumb if a ping led to his capture when he was so close to his destination.

Keeping his head down, Ren walked casually down the street. Approaching an intersection, Ren saw a car coming. He would have to wait for it to clear the intersection before he could cross.

I'm just a normal pedestrian, waiting at an intersection like anyone else would if they had a street to cross… Nothing weird about standing here…

The car pulled through the intersection. Though the windows were heavily tinted, Ren could feel eyes on him. As the car made it through, Ren started to cross, just like he would have done if he were a normal person crossing the street. Half a block past the intersection, the car pulled to the side of the street and turned off its headlights.

Fuck. Ren summarily headed down the street in the opposite direction from the car and picked up his pace. Another car approached from ahead of him, headlights blinding him from seeing the occupants. It was coming right towards him. Before it could get too close, Ren pulled off the sidewalk, hoping to squeeze through the line of houses to get to the next street over. The car sped up, and as soon as Ren felt that he was out of sight, he broke into a dash.

In spite of his empty stomach, adrenaline came through. Ren found it in himself to vault over the fence keeping him out of someone's courtyard, and bolted to the back of the property. Tires screeched on the street behind him. He jumped another fence, and was on a gravel service road, running.

He ran the full length of the service road and ducked behind some garbage bins. His heart pounded. He glanced out to see if the coast was clear. Approaching headlights gave him pause. Officers back the way he came could be heard shouting.

In short order, the headlights were right there, and the car screeched to a halt. Ren was fucked. Officers in front of him, and officers behind—there was nowhere else to run. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself invisible.

"Amamiya!" a man shouted. "Amamiya-san! Come with me! I know you're innocent!"

Ren's eyes popped open, and he looked out ahead of him, in the direction of the voice. An expensive-looking white car was stopped at the opening of the service road. A large, well-dressed man in the driver's seat was beckoning to him through his open window, urging him closer. "Get in! I want to help you!"

Out of options, Ren reached for the life preserver, praying it wasn't an anchor in disguise. Standing up, Ren dashed toward the vehicle and grabbed the handle. He tried to open the door, but it wouldn't give, and precious moments were wasted as the driver fiddled with the panel on his door, trying to remember which button opened the locks, and which one lowered the windows. Finally pulling it open, Ren dove into the back of the car, shutting the door behind him and ducking down low.

The driver pulled away and drove like everything was normal. Spying Ren in the rear-view mirror, the two met eyes. The man looked familiar.

"Amamiya-san, thank you for trusting me. I know you're not a killer, and I can help you."

Ren's adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, and his brain struggled to get on top of what was happening. "Who are you?" was all he could manage to say.

"My name is Giichi Yoshinora. I'm the dean of the Academy. Just sit tight. I'll have you in a safe place very soon."

—

"So okay, if you were Ren, what would you be doing right now?" asked Jiro.

"Trying to avoid the cops, whom I would assume are probably patrolling the neighborhood," said Emiko.

"Why would you assume that?" asked Naomi, trying to understand.

"Because they've figured out that I'm in a relationship with Ren, so they're watching me to see if he shows up here," said Makoto.

"Is it okay for us to all be talking here?" asked Jiro.

Makoto nodded. "For now, at least. It takes days to get the kind of court orders that would allow them to properly surveil me. Any evidence they collect illegally is inadmissible in court, so there are lines they can't cross. There's nothing to stop them from moving around the neighborhood and periodically driving past my house, but there won't be any bugs or cameras. Not if they follow the law."

"They need a court order to access Location Services and Google Timelines, too," said Emiko. She had spent a good chunk of the afternoon doing her own research into the tech aspect of evidence collection, and the laws limiting access. "So they wouldn't be able to use that to find any of us—yet—but there are no rules limiting their use of real-time cell tower pings," she added, shrugging.

"So if he's smart," said Jiro, "he's keeping his phone off, just like I told him."

Makoto slumped over her arms. "So how is he supposed to know when or where it's safe to go? Is he supposed to just roam the streets forever? How is that safer? At some point he has to make a play to be somewhere besides the streets."

"Crap—you're right. We should probably get back to our house, in case he shows up there," said Emiko. "If I were him, I would think our place would be less risky than here as a place to flee to."

"Are you going to be okay here by yourself?" asked Naomi.

"I'll be fine—the police are watching my house, after all," Makoto smiled sadly. "Just try not to be followed home…"

"If it looks like we're being followed, we'll split up—hopefully they can't follow all three of us at once," said Jiro, gathering his things.

"And hope none of us run into the real killer…" Naomi shivered.

"About that… We still have the question of what to do about the fact that our 'other killer' hypothesis is currently without legs," said Emiko. "But I guess for right now, that's a future problem."

"If you find yourself sitting around with nothing else to think about, try to come up with some other explanations that might fit," said Makoto. "I know I won't be thinking about much else…"

"Alright, we'll get right on it," said Naomi, going in for a hug. "Take care, Mako-chan. We'll let you know if we find anything—I just know we're missing something."

"Thank you," Makoto replied, hugging her back. "Same here. Bye guys, be safe." Her friends waved a last goodbye and walked out the door. Makoto closed and locked it behind them. Returning to the kitchen, she clicked on an electric kettle and opened a cabinet. Pulling out a mug and dropping a tea bag into it, she took a seat at her dining room table and studied the pile of mail she'd been handed an eternity ago, earlier that same day.

Among the pieces of mail she'd received were a utility bill, her official Academy-issued aikido certificate, and something from the Utsunomiya Courthouse. It had a proper postmark, or she might have thought the detectives themselves had hand-delivered it, its timing was so coincidental. Sliding her finger under the seal, she ripped the envelope open and pulled out its contents.

Makoto might've laughed if she hadn't been so stunned by the contents of the envelope. Inside, in all of its ironic glory, was Makoto's notification of her court date—on Monday, May 23rd, she would be able to present her case that Tetsuo Watanabe was a danger to her, and that she deserved to have a permanent order of protection put in place against him. Squeezing the papers in her fists, she put her head down on the table and let herself sob a bit more.

—

The omnipresent chatter of the police scanner served as the soundtrack for the entire ride back to the dean's house. It was eerie, listening to his own name being repeated by the team of officers trying to track him down. From the sound of things, they had well and truly lost track of him, and for that, Ren had Dean Yoshinora to thank.

From his place on the floor of the dean's back seat, Ren had no view of the street, and had no idea where he'd been taken. A bit of jostling, coupled by a drop in speed, were Ren's only indicators that they'd arrived at their destination. Dean Yoshinora pressed a button on the ceiling of his vehicle, and the sound of an automatic garage door being closed accompanied the darkening of the space he was in. "Here we are," said the dean.

"Is this your home?" asked Ren.

"Yes, it is. However, I need to ask you to stay in the car for a bit longer. My wife is home, and I don't think she would appreciate having you over for dinner," he said, smiling apologetically. "Let me take care of her, and I'll be back to fetch you once the coast is clear."

"Okay," said Ren. "Thank you."

The dean nodded at Ren from his open doorway before closing it behind him, extinguishing the cabin light and leaving Ren to sit alone in the dark. Ren listened as another door opened and closed, and the resulting echo faded to nothing. He sat for a minute, just listening to his own breathing, before sitting up and hazarding a look around.

It was an enormous garage, probably big enough for four cars—in the dark, it was hard to tell. A single window on the far wall was the only source of light in the large space, and there were at least two cars in between Ren and that window. Ren leaned back against the leather headrest and closed his eyes. His stomach groaned painfully.

After a moment, Ren opened his eyes, pleased to see that they had adjusted somewhat to the darkness of his environment. However, looking around the garage produced no new inferences for him to draw. Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He needed to contact his friends. Had he been caught, it would be breaking news, so in the absence of that, they could only assume he was still at large somewhere. But where? At this point, not even Ren knew where he was. However, he wanted more than anything to tell them he was alright.

Ren reached into his other pocket and pulled out the token that Makoto had pressed into his palm as she shoved him out her back door. Here in the dark, he could only run his fingers over the cool metal, and trace the ridges of its edge. A key. She'd handed him a key to her home—a promise that he was welcome there, and an expectation that he would return.

Closing his eyes once more, he raised it to his lips and held it there. A few seconds later, it was back in his pocket, his phone once again the center of his attention. Frustrated by indecision, he sighed and reluctantly powered up his phone.

The white of the screen was blinding in the darkness. When it was done booting up, Ren could see the time: 7:38pm. But he had no bars. Ren checked the WiFi, and found two password-protected options: WiFidelity, and Nothing to see here, move along. Ren smirked. Just to try his luck, he entered 'password' for both networks, plus differently capitalized versions thereof, but all attempts came up short. He would have to wait for the dean. He quickly opened his contacts list and memorized the phone numbers for each of his friends, just in case he had a chance to call them later. Ren powered down his phone, and continued to sit alone in the dark.

With nothing to do, and no phone to help him count the minutes, Ren completely lost track of how long he'd been waiting there. The churning of his stomach had intensified, but that alone was a poor indicator of the passage of time. He imagined this was similar to what being in a sensory deprivation tank was like. Except hungrier.

At long last, the dean returned. With the glow from the open door, Ren could see well enough to find the door handle on the inside of the back seat and let himself out of the car. He'd been in an expensive Mercedes sedan. He couldn't make out the identities of the other cars in the garage, but he could tell that they, too, were higher-end vehicles in excellent condition.

"Are you hungry?" asked the dean. "I could hear your stomach rumbling the whole way here."

"I'm starving, yes."

"Can I get you something? I'm no cook, but I'm sure there are some cold cuts or something in the fridge."

"Thank you so much," said Ren. "I would truly appreciate that."

"My pleasure, son. Come with me."

Ren followed the dean through an opulent billiards room and into a grand foyer with wraparound staircases on either side. An enormous crystal chandelier loomed overhead, and various works of art adorned every wall. "You have a beautiful home," said Ren, trying to be conversational with his host.

"Thank you," said the dean. "It's all my wife, really. She makes more money than I do, and I don't really have an eye for aesthetics. But thank you anyway," he said, beckoning him further along. "The kitchen is this way."

Ren entered a chef's kitchen decked out with the newest stainless steel appliances, granite counters, and an elaborate mosaic tile backsplash from counter to ceiling. A large kitchen island with bar-style seating stood between him and the refrigerator.

"Have a seat," said the dean, gesturing to one of the stools at the counter. "I'll make you a plate."

Ren did as his host suggested and sat down at the island. He was practically faint from lack of food, and watching his host pull things out of the refrigerator made his desire for sustenance that much more urgent. His mouth watered in anticipation.

"Excuse me, Dean? Can you tell me the WiFi password here? I'm trying to contact my friends to let them know I'm alright, but I don't have a signal here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't help you there. I'm afraid I don't have WiFi. All my devices are hard-wired. I don't even have a cell phone!" he laughed. "If you like, we can head up to my office in a bit and you can use the landline to contact your friends."

"Is that… safe?" he asked.

"Son, it's no less safe than you calling them from your cell phone."

"I suppose you're right," said Ren, shrugging his shoulders.

The dean handed him a plate of sliced meats, cheeses, and assorted veggies. It was modest, but to Ren, it looked like a feast. "Oh, sir, thank you so much. I haven't eaten all day," said Ren, gratefully plucking a bite of food from the plate and stuffing it in his mouth. It was the tastiest thing he'd eaten since Sojiro's curry.

"Let's go upstairs," said the dean, stepping back around the kitchen island and jerking his head toward the foyer. Taking his plate with him, Ren preceded the dean out of the kitchen and waited for him in the foyer, allowing the dean to take the lead. Dean Yoshinora took the stair rail in his hand, and dragged himself up the steps. He was a large man, not in good shape, and climbing the stairs took a lot of effort. By the time they'd reached the top, the dean was breathing audibly. "My wife is always on me about exercising," said the dean, snickering at himself. "Don't get old, son."

Ren smiled, stuffing a bite of cheese into his mouth as he followed the dean to his office. The upstairs of the house was no less opulent than the downstairs had been, but it was more labyrinthine. They wound their way through several rooms, the purpose of which Ren couldn't discern, until eventually coming to a solid oak door with an extravagant, ornamented knob—if you could even call it a knob. It looked more like a medieval latch. It clacked when it opened.

The dean's office was like something out of an Agatha Christie novel—or the board game Clue. On one side of the room was a huge, free-standing Earth globe and a pair of leather armchairs. On the other side, an elegant carved table with a miniature reproduction of Michaelangelo's David standing upon it. On the far wall, an enormous wooden desk overhung by a large framed photograph of the dean and a woman Ren could only assume was his wife. On either side of that were rows of bookcases built into the wall.

"Have a seat. Let's talk," said the dean, sitting down at his desk and leaning back in his office chair. "It's lucky I have a police scanner, or I'd never have found you before they did. Since I have you here, I'd like to get to know you a bit, if you don't mind. You're a fascinating character, Ren Amamiya."

Ren blinked. "'Fascinating', sir?" he said, swallowing the last of his modest dinner. He didn't want to be rude, but he wished the dean would offer him something more to eat. He held the empty plate in his lap.

His other great hope, however, was that the dean would let him use the phone. Niceties first, he supposed.

"Yes, quite fascinating," said the dean, studying him from his expensive desk chair. "You have such a checkered past—it's been so easy for the police to peg you as a suspect."

Ren looked down at the plate in his lap. "I swear, Dean, I didn't do it."

The dean chuckled. "Oh, I know you didn't do it, son."

Ren took in a sudden intake of breath, staring wide-eyed at the dean. "Wait—you know? But… How come you believe me so easily?"

"I was a detective myself, back in the day. I still have friends there—I'm privy to all sorts of information that doesn't always make it into the public discourse. I know what the police know, and I know what they have on you doesn't prove you're a serial killer. On top of that, I've read the glowing letters of recommendation from your superiors back in Tokyo."

Ren's eyes completely lit up. "Oh my god, I can't tell you how it feels to hear you say all of that! Dean Yoshinora, is there anything you can say to the police to help me? Whatever surveillance footage they have is being taken out of context!"

"I'll say something soon, son, I promise. I have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow with the lead detective—he too was a graduate of the Academy, you know. For tonight though, let's try to relax. You're safe here. I'm glad I have this chance to talk to you—you really are an incredible talent. I'd heard your name all over the place, well before you were a suspect. It took me a little while to remember where I'd first heard your name, and why it sounded so familiar, but I eventually figured it out. When your teacher told me that you, a first-year, were testing into the Advanced Bladed Arts class, I knew I had to watch. Your skills are really amazing."

Ren dipped his head, bowing as deeply as he could from his leather armchair. "Thank you sir."

"That knife on your ankle… is it weighted for throwing?"

Ren blinked at the mention of his stiletto, but then he remembered: Whether from the news, his own access to CCTV footage, or his contacts with the police, the fact that Ren carried a knife was no longer a secret. Ren couldn't quash a twinge of embarrassment as he answered. "Uh, yes it is, actually."

The dean raised his eyebrows. "Would you be willing to demonstrate for me?"

Ren looked away. "Oh, I don't know, sir… I'm not really in the right place mentally."

"Come now. You know you're innocent. I know you're innocent. Your skills don't make you guilty. Please demonstrate for me. I have a great appreciation for what you can do."

Ren was reluctant—now didn't seem like the time to be showing off—but the dean had been very gracious to take Ren in and shelter him at this time. There was nowhere else Ren could go right now, so he decided he would try to satisfy his host. "Alright," he said begrudgingly.

"Wonderful, thank you," said the dean, clapping his hands together. "Now… Let's see it."

Ren set his plate on a nearby table and bent over to produce his knife from where he kept it on his ankle. Holding it in his hands, it looked so simple, so delicate. Its long, thin blade, only sharp on its final third. Steel from end to end. Ren ran his fingers over the fine engravings on the base of the blade and the handle. Holding it, his heart ached for Makoto.

"Gorgeous," said the dean, pulling Ren from his reverie. "The Italian stiletto. Do you know its history?" he asked.

"I know they were used primarily by assassins," Ren answered, embarrassed by the unfortunate origin of the knife he happened to carry—his reason for carrying an assassin's blade was really fairly innocuous. "They're designed to be concealed."

"That's correct, but the design is for more than just concealment. The thin blade penetrates easily, with little friction. Once inside, the assassin turns the handle, drawing a circle, and the blade tears through the victim's organs. The injury produces only a small puncture wound, and bleeds very little, but the internal damage is immense."

Ren knew all that—but that wasn't why he'd selected this particular knife to carry. He just wanted something beautiful that he could keep with him without anyone else knowing about it. His knife had become a little too famous lately—he missed the days when it was his own private little talisman.

"Now, throw," instructed the dean.

Ren stood up, looking uncertainly around the palatial study. "Uh, where would you like me to throw it?" asked Ren. "I'll damage whatever I hit."

"Right here is fine," he said, pointing to the framed photograph of him and his wife that hung on the wall behind his desk.

Ren balked. "You want me to throw it at you and your wife?"

The dean gave a short chuckle. "It's fine, don't worry. It's embarrassing, but my wife and I are actually getting divorced—the portrait is coming down soon anyway. Really, please—aim for my fat nose."

Ren gave a small shrug and prepared himself to throw the blade. Planting his feet and gauging the distance, he took the knife by the blade end. With a quick pullback and subsequent release, the knife flew toward the target, embedding itself right in Dean Yoshinora's left nostril.

The dean guffawed in amusement. "Ha! Fantastic! Perfect placement! Oh, Amamiya, you truly are a delight!"

Ren shrugged modestly. "Thank you, sir."

"Oh, I wish there were more like you," said the dean, shaking his head. "Do you know I've been the dean of this academy for fifteen years? In that time, I've watched the police department fail at its job, time and time again. I tried so hard to produce graduates who could improve things, but the mediocrity continues. They really don't know what they're doing."

Ren couldn't speak to the veracity of that claim, but it was hard to deny that he was feeling stung by what was happening to him—he stole this moment to commiserate just a little. "It does seem a bit like they fail to follow the evidence where it leads," he said, sitting back down against the supple leather armchair. "I get the distinct impression that they begin with a conclusion first, then go back and look for the evidence to support their preconceived notions."

"Well, that's so much easier," said the dean, agreeing. "Evidence can be messy. It can lead to confusion. You have to be able to analyze and synthesize the facts in order to infer a proper conclusion, but that all takes work. And then there's the complication that ensues when the truth is inconvenient—what then? No, it's so much simpler to have a neat conclusion that fits enough of the facts that you can support it in court; instead of following the evidence, you cherrypick the information that fits with your narrative: A still photo of a boy standing over a prone man, holding a knife. Fingerprints on a weapon found at the scene. A prior conviction for assault. They get that, and that's something that they can understand—and more importantly, that they can sell. And so they pounce on it. They don't see what happened before, or what happened after, and they don't care—they don't want to see. Anything that points away from their tidy conclusion is just a problem to be ignored or explained away."

Ren took a breath. "But you'll help them see the truth? So they'll understand that it wasn't me?"

"I'm so frustrated by the failures of the police department," the dean continued, barely acknowledging Ren's plea. "I'm frustrated that after fifteen years of overseeing what is supposed to be the best police academy in the country, our graduates still can't catch killers who are right under their noses." The dean let out a long sigh. "I think… I think it's time for me to retire," he said.

"You don't want to be the dean anymore? You're just going to quit?" Ren asked.

"Quit being the dean, yes," he nodded. "Quit my marriage—quit everything, really. A new start." He gave a long, refreshed sigh, looking at Ren in appreciation. "Really, I have you to thank."

Ren cocked his head. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand what you mean."

"Yes, you see, without you, I had no escape plan. Things were just crumbling around me, and I got desperate—tumbling out of control. But thanks to you, I can quit." The dean smiled. "I can even be a hero."

Ren crinkled up his brow. He really didn't understand what the dean was saying. "Sir?"

The dean opened a drawer at his desk and reached inside. "Ren Amamiya," he said, "you've been very helpful. Thank you." And then, with unexpected dexterity, the dean pulled a pistol from his desk drawer and leveled it at Ren.

Out of pure instinct, Ren juked sideways, and the bullet grazed his arm, blasting its way through the leather armchair Ren had been sitting in and sending bits of stuffing into the air. Ren dropped into a crouch, diving behind the armchair and knocking his empty dinner plate from the nearby table, sending it crashing to the floor. The dean fired into the chair again, and the bullets shot out the back. One bullet caught Ren in the shoulder, and for an instant, his vision went white. The rest of the bullets missed, shattering various knicknacks on the shelves behind him. The dean emptied his clip, cursing. Ren could hear him shuffling around to reload his weapon, so he stole the opportunity to dart out from behind the chair, throwing open the heavy office door and fleeing the room.

The dean reloaded, and gave chase. Ren struggled to remember exactly what route to take through the winding hallways. After a few turns, he was back at the stairwell overlooking the front foyer. Tearing ass down the wraparound stairs, he skidded against the wall, dotting it with smears of his blood from where he'd been shot. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the dean was at the banister on the floor above him, training his weapon down upon Ren.

The dean fired, catching Ren in his left leg. Through the pain, Ren wrenched the front door open and fled into the courtyard, moving as quickly as he could on his injured leg.

The dean cursed. "Well, shit. God dammit, that complicates things. Fuck." He sighed heavily. "I can still make this work though." The dean came down the stairs and went to the door, looking out. Ren Amamiya was nowhere to be seen. Closing the door, the dean retreated into the kitchen, where the light was still on from earlier. Going around the kitchen island where he'd served his guest cold cuts and veggies just not long ago, he reached for the phone hidden in the corner of the kitchen, and dialed the number for emergency services.

—

Under the cover of darkness, Ren ran from the dean's home, silhouetted ominously against the moonlit sky as it towered behind him. The searing pain in his calf and shoulder pulsed with every step he took, but he could only do his best to ignore it as he fled what would have been the scene of his own murder. He would surely leave a trail of blood behind him as he went, but for now, that couldn't be helped. He just needed to get away.

Many of the dean's neighbors had equally lovely and well-manicured front yards, and Ren did his best to keep himself off the cement as he made his escape. At the end of the block, kitty-corner across the intersection, was a lush city park. If he really was leaving breadcrumbs in his wake, he would do well to use it. He cut straight through the intersection and hobbled gratefully into the park.

As he moved through the grass, weaving between trees and shrubs, he realized something troubling: He didn't know where he was. He'd been unable to follow the direction of the car as the dean had driven him to his home, and he didn't know Utsunomiya nearly well enough to guess where he might be. And even if he did, the likelihood that he would find respite at a safe house before he passed out was slim. He was already getting light-headed.

Ren paused in his escape, considering his options. Leaning up against a tree and heaving with dry breath, Ren pulled out his phone. Cursing, he turned it on and waited for it to power up as he studied the pervasive blackness, looking for a good hiding place. Not too far from where he stood was a collection of bushes that looked promising. With what were quickly proving to be his last reserves of strength, he crawled under the bushes and rolled onto his back.

His phone was ready—it even had bars. "Okay Google, turn on Location Services," he commanded his phone. Dutifully, it responded: 'Opening Location'. Ren still had to press the button that would turn it from off to on. "Okay Google, send my location to Makoto Niijima." After a few more prompts from his phone, the message bearing his precise global location had been sent. Ren swallowed, his tongue smacking uncomfortably against the dry roof of his mouth. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back against the dirt. Praying silently, he let himself pass out.