I wanted to put this up yesterday, but yesterday was Valentine's Day (as well as Chinese New Year for some) and I didn't want to post something as morbid as this up on such a lovey-dovey day.

You guys are going to hate me after you read this. I'm completely serious. And I'm not going to say anymore, because then I might spoil it and that would be bad and you guys would kill me early. Shutting up now.

(Also, this chapter doesn't have much action. 'Cept at the end. That's a lot of action. Now you're probably going to skip to the end. Don't skip to the end. I'm warning you, if you skip to the end, the whole effect is ruined. I didn't make that last bit happen randomly. There's a method to my madness. Maybe.)

Shishido and Choutaro were sitting in a room, discussing something over coffee.

Shishido put his mug down, and said something. Choutaro stared, unable to comprehend. Shishido repeated it.

"But you're not!" Choutaro blurted. "It was—"

Choutaro stopped short, looking torn, and Shishido smiled sadly.

---

Yuushi always did have trouble waking up in the morning, even with the lively atmosphere of his flat.

The penthouse flat that Yuushi stayed in wasn't as fancy as his mansion, but it was closer to the office, and he found it home-like. To be truthful, he never really liked the mansion—it was always too roomy, too fancy, too unused, almost. The mansion had three guest rooms that Yuushi had yet to set foot in, but he suspected they were like all the other rooms in his house—enormous, empty, cold.

He'd been given the mansion for his eighteenth birthday, when he'd asked to move out. It was on the edge of Tokyo, and Yuushi still had the keys somewhere in his drawer. He wanted to live there someday—maybe someday—but at the moment, he didn't want to settle down in a huge, elaborate, empty mansion and sip tea all day like a fifty-year old.

The penthouse, on the other hand, was smaller, livelier, and more modern, in a sense. Given, it only had two rooms in comparison to the eight rooms the mansion had, and the rooms were considerably smaller, but sunshine streamed in through the windows despite the earliness of morning, and illuminated the hardwood floors, cast a warm, golden glow over the furniture and bathed it in sunlight. The luminosity was something lacking in the mansion; the penthouse felt more like home.

That wasn't to say it was simple, or tacky. Yuushi, in the end, was still a member of the Oshitari family, and his flat was probably the best in Tokyo, with a beautiful view of the city. The penthouse still had two rooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, and a reading room. Aside from size, there wasn't much of a difference between the mansion and the penthouse.

He supposed that the penthouse just felt more . . . lived in.

It seemed more suited to Gakuto, somehow. For an instance, he wondered what it'd be like to have Gakuto there, with him. The penthouse was too big for one person, anyway. He could almost imagine it—Gakuto bouncing around, darting from one room to the next, making a mess of the kitchen and waking up all the neighbors.

That was fourteen year old Gakuto, Yuushi reminded himself. Not anymore. Not ever.

It took a few moments for him to clear his head, remember it was a new year, and remember that he had a case to solve. He stood slowly and reached for a comb. His hair always looked ridiculous in the morning. There was a slight buzz in his ear, and he felt faint, almost dizzy—perhaps he'd woken too early.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Yuushi turned in annoyance. His phone was vibrating violently, and was threatening to fall off the table. He glanced at the clock—six AM. Who called at such an unholy hour in the morning?

The phone number was one that looked vaguely familiar, but didn't recognize. He answered it anyway. "Good morning. Can I help you?" He realized that he probably sounded snappy, but at thathour, he really couldn't have cared less.

"Oshitari. Are you busy?"

It took Yuushi a moment to recognize the voice. "For God's sake, Shishido, don't you sleep?" He sat back down on the bed, glancing out the window. There were barely any people outside—in fact, it was still kind of dark.

Shishido seemed oddly determined. "I have something important to tell you, and it can't wait."

"Not a declaration of love, I hope?" Yuushi asked wryly. "I'm sorry, but I don't feel the same way. Can we stay friends?"

The voice at the other end wasn't amused in the least. "You don't understand; it's serious. It's to do with the case."

This caught Yuushi's attention. "Really, now? Why didn't you say something during the interrogation, then?"

Shishido hesitated before answering, "I wasn't ready, and I wasn't sure if I should. But it's the right thing to do. I know that now."

"Well, alright." Yuushi was bemused, but decided to go with it. "You can go to my office, then."

"Now?"

"If possible, though it is awfully early," Yuushi commented. "Or is it possible to tell me over the phone?"

"It is," Shishido affirmed calmly. "But it's probably better if I explain in person."

"Alright, then. I'll see you there." Out of curiosity, Yuushi added, "But what is it that you want to tell me?"

Shishido said, monotonously, "I know who the murderer is."

Yuushi stood in amazement, gripping the bedpost in an attempt to stay balanced. He flinched. Shouldn't have stood up so quickly, he told himself. "Who?" he asked.

There was no sign of hesitation, no sign of regret as Shishido replied, "Me."

---

It was an unbelievable theory, but the way Shishido had said it made it seem genuine. He'd had no qualms about it, and he was almost expressionless when he walked into Yuushi's office, showing only the slightest bit of surprise as he asked, "Where are the police officers?"

"They're not needed," Yuushi replied. "We need to confirm your story, first."

Shishido bristled. "You don't believe me?"

"It's not that," Yuushi said. "But we need to get the facts straight. You say you killed Niou. First, why?"

"I hated him," he replied simply. "He was so condescending—to Choutaro, especially." He looked heartbroken, almost. "His father was—acquainted—with Choutaro's father, and neither of them approved of Choutaro's choice of career. They wanted him to be a musician, or a lawyer. Niou supported it, and he fueled his father's opinion, fanned it, even. He threatened to ruin our business altogether, if Choutaro didn't leave. It sent him into a slump for months. At the reunion, he made another jab, and you should've seen Choutaro's expression—I couldn't take it anymore."

Yuushi remained expressionless. "And how did you kill him?"

"I knew Niou carried a gun with him, and I'd brought a pair of gloves with me—it was cold that day, anyway—so that accounted for the lack of fingerprints. We talked politely for a few moments, and in between the small talk, I told him to meet me in the main room upstairs." His voice was toneless but still determined as he said, "He saw my expression, and he knew what I meant. When we got there, I shot him. He didn't resist it, or anything."

"I see."

Shishido suddenly seemed weary. "Then it was over and done with. I went back down, pretended nothing happened, and that was it."

"You're lying." It wasn't a realization, just a statement, and it took Shishido a moment to process.

"I—what?"

Yuushi folded his hands calmly. "You're lying," he repeated. "I'm not sure why, but you're lying. You weren't the murderer. It's an intricately woven story, though, I'll give you that. Very nice details."

Shishido seemed astonished, then livid. "I'm confessing, you moron. Why would I do that if I'm not the killer? I just told you what freaking happened!"

Yuushi shook his head. "You're not the murderer. Now, who are you covering for?"

"What makes you think I'm covering for anybody?" he demanded, his face growing redder by the second. "The facts are right in your freaking face and you won't freaking accept it. The case is over. It was me."

Yuushi sighed. "You can't fool me; I'm the detective; the case is over when I say it is, and it isn't."

"What is wrong with you?"

Yuushi explained, "You wouldn't confess—not after you'd gone to such extremes to kill Niou, who was a major celebrity figure. You're not the type to make decisions lightly—or regret them afterwards. And if you were, you'd keep it to yourself, if only to keep from causing those around you anguish. Besides, you had no real reason to kill Niou—you barely associated with him. If there were a reason, it'd have to be minor, and you, level-headed Shishido, would never kill over something petty." He propped his chin up against one hand. "And if it were a major reason—which is already very unlikely—you'd never feel guilty enough to confess to it, because you'd deem it justified." He decided to leave out the fact that Niou had been killed in a game of Russian roulette—the less people who knew, the better.

There was a moment of silence, and then Shishido began laughing. "You're an idiot, Oshitari. I have no reason to confess if I'm not the murderer. I killed Niou and I have a conscience, so accept it!"

Yuushi replied, "You're lucky it's me. If it were an investigator you were unfamiliar with, he might have put you in jail already. But I know you, and I know you couldn't have committed the murder. You're mentally stable and you're sensible. That's all there is to it."

"People change," Shishido snarled, slamming both hands on the table. Yuushi barely blinked. "People change, and don't you dare tell me you didn't notice it at the reunion. We've changed, all of us, and not necessarily for the better. I hated Niou and I killed him, it's true."

"Then you wouldn't confess to it," Yuushi pointed out calmly. "You wouldn't kill simply because you hated him, either. Go home, Shishido. Whomever you're covering for appreciates your effort, I'm sure."

Shishido seemed stricken, then said, "You're a pathetic excuse for a detective, Oshitari. I killed Niou, I know it, and you're a damned fool if you don't believe me." He turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

---

This is a familiar situation, Yuushi mused. Sitting alone at my desk, dark room, blinds shut, soundless.

He considered going over the facts of the crime, but decided against it. He'd reviewed them so often he felt he had it memorized. In any case, there was only one murder to go on. The murderer had remained surprisingly adept at hiding himself, and had yet to do anything. A foolish few criminals in the past had been so egoistic as to leave a note, claiming that Yuushi would never discover their identities.

Needless to say, with the note as evidence, uncovering the murderers' identities had been predictably easy. But this one, he was intelligent. Clever.

He wondered who it could be, simply for the fun of it. Most of—no, all of—his past acquaintances had been intelligent—and even if they weren't, they'd certainly matured over the years.

(Gakuto, a voice said.)

Like—like Momoshiro, for instance. He'd become much more than the blundering, reckless jock he'd been in middle school. He was a psychiatrist, was going to one of the premier colleges in Japan.

(Stop ignoring it.)

Or Kirihara Akaya. He'd retained his innocence to some extent (which was ironic, considering the type of tennis he played), but had otherwise matured into an intelligent young man, and while he didn't show signs of quitting tennis anytime soon, he was apparently very gifted in the humanities and sciences, and definitely had a fallback career in mind.

(It won't go away because you're not thinking about it.)

And then there were those who had been mature to begin with. Fuji Syusuke, for example, was a shrewd individual from the start. Who knew what he was capable of now?

(And Gakuto? What of him?)

It bothered him that one of them was the murderer. It was possible, in fact, that it was more than one of them—it could've been a group effort. But it was in their own circle—what could the murderer possibly have had against someone like Niou? Niou, who was so charismatic, so likable.

But then, Niou was also the type to make enemies, was he not?

That was right—he'd remained isolated from almost all his former acquaintances ever since—

(Say it.)

—since college. Yes, college.

Well, that was inaccurate. Since the end of high school. When students decided on their futures, when they decided what colleges they'd be attending, when they decided they'd leave, leave for another country, leave for another continent, leave for France, of all places . . .!

(There's more.)

He supposed it was partially his fault—he was the one who cut off contact with everybody. Hiyoshi, and his colleagues, his family—they were the only ones left. And even Hiyoshi, he'd only regained contact with a year or so ago.

But Yuushi was grateful for him, for them, all of them. They were people he could trust. They were the only ones left he could trust.

Don't trust anybody.

That was one of the first things they taught you in law—that there were almost no allies, never any real allies, that anything, anybody could be used against you. And if, by any rare chance, that you did find an ally, then you were to hold onto him or her, never let that person out of your sight, into danger—for even then, that could be used against you. Something could always be used against you, always, always—

(Gakuto, it said. You're thinking about Gakuto.)

No, Yuushi thought. No, I'm not.

(You are, now.)

(What will it be? Friend versus law. Sentiment versus fact. Bias versus reality. What will it be, Yuushi? Not so easy now, is it . . .?)

---

Shishido stared in disbelief at who was lying on the floor in his and Choutaro's flat. He could feel tears coming, but they didn't quite reach his eyes.

That . . . that's . . .

---

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Yuushi glanced at the phone. Shishido again? "Hello?"

"The police are coming," Shishido said, his voice weak. "You have to hurry." He sounded as though he wanted to say more, but all Yuushi heard was a choking sound, followed by shallow gasps for breath and strangled sobs.

Yuushi inhaled sharply and stood again. "Shishido, what's wrong? What happened?" he asked steadily, hoping the stability of his tone would soothe Shishido, if only slightly. "Take a deep breath. What happened?"

"H-he's d-d-dead," Shishido managed, still hysterical.

"Who?" Yuushi demanded. He grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. "Who's dead?"

"Ch-Choutaro."