5. Hiroshi Yamada Doesn't Object

When someone goes through hell, they might end up with post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD makes the mind relive past horrors, sometimes in an even more twisted form. Nightmares, anxiety, addiction, depression — it's the full package.

I've been plagued by nightmares almost every night. I'm addicted to caffeine, constantly teetering on the edge of alcoholism, gripped by anxiety, and have been stuck in a depression that spans years. No one has ever officially diagnosed me with PTSD, and I'll do my best to avoid that label in the future. It's hard enough scraping together a living for a bowl of rice and a can of MAX Coffee as it is.

My struggles aren't tied to the words I just heard from Ms. Yukinoshita. Their roots run deeper, planted firmly in those few months of hell called Mindanao. So why am I staring into the void with that infamous thousand-yard stare, memories of my youth swirling in my mind like the thunder of helicopters on a combat run?

Back then, in my third year of Sobu High, I was stupidly, absurdly, undeservedly happy. I offered Yukino Yukinoshita everything I had. And eventually she gave me a confession of love in return.

Philosophers can debate the nature and forms of happiness until their voices go hoarse and their wrists ache from writing. I have no use for their arguments.

I know exactly what happiness looks like. It's a raven-haired girl, showing up to every date with a new hairstyle.

I know what it tastes like. There were several, but the safest to mention is lip balm — Yukino never wore lipstick.

I know what it sounds like. Even now, I can remember hundreds of her lines — from biting remarks sharp as acid to words full of passion. They often followed one another in quick succession.

I know what it smells like. I worked a backbreaking job in a supermarket warehouse after school for a month just to buy her the perfume she liked. I don't remember its name, but I'd recognize the scent anywhere.

And I know what it feels like. From accidental brushes to the heated embraces of our first night together and beyond. Once we'd tasted the forbidden fruit, restraint was no longer on the table. No snakes tempted us — we'd earned our little paradise by avoiding them altogether.

Maybe I lied about my trauma. It's real. In every layer of my mind and subconscious, the image of Yukino Yukinoshita is seared in like a brand. I can bury it under work, daily routines, alcohol, and nightmares, but it will never go away. Any small trigger is enough to remind me that I loved, love, and will always love Yukino. The most other women could ever hope for is the role of a little sister. Of course, there's my actual little sister, Komachi, along with other relatives—my mother, my paternal grandmother. And then, there's the Yukinoshita family: my would-be mother-in-law and my sister-in-law.

I've worked hard to erase the image of Haruno Yukinoshita from my mind. Speak of the devil, and she'll appear.

Of all the women in the Yukinoshita clan, the eldest daughter was the boldest, most ruthless, cynical, and spiteful. A complete opposite of her cold-on-the-surface, but kind and deeply human younger sister. I'm lucky I fell for Yukino. Fighting Haruno would've required a scale of conflict that could end only by a capitulation aboard the USS Missouri. Maybe history preserved that ancient battleship in Honolulu as a warning against reckless ventures.

I snapped out of my thoughts and looked up. How much time had passed during my flashbacks? Judging by Ms. Yukinoshita's expression, which hadn't grown any harsher, it was still within acceptable limits.

I bowed again and fled. I needed a drink. Immediately. To hell with the time of day or workplace discipline. A bottle of whiskey or undiluted shochu was the only conversation partner I wanted right now.

Meanwhile, more cars had gathered around — vehicles unmistakably belonging to the police, even without their two-tone paint jobs and flashing lights. More Toyotas: Allions, Crowns, and even an Alphard parked in the second row with plates from the local prosecutor's office. Had the district prosecutor herself shown up? Sure enough, Mrs. Marimoto, flanked by aides and secretaries, emerged regally from the luxury minivan and headed into the house.

The entire law enforcement system in Chiba seemed determined to make a name for itself with this case. While I'd been questioning witnesses and then recovering from my conversation with Ms. Yukinoshita, officers from the city and prefectural headquarters must have joined the investigation. Given Mr. Yukinoshita's status, even bigwigs from the National Police Agency might get involved. The air gets pretty thin at those heights. I'd rather stay down here, where it's more comfortable.

The ability to avoid drawing attention is one of the 108 skills I perfected as a high school student and seamlessly adapted into my work as a detective. But right now, I needed the opposite. I had to convince Yamada to let me go home. I plastered one of those faces on — the kind Yukino used to mock me for relentlessly — and went to find my boss.

"Yamada-dono," I addressed the head of investigations with the military formality he was used to and never seemed to mind, "permission to go home. My shift is over, and it doesn't look like we're short on manpower here. If you let me eat, sleep for a few hours, shower, and change, I'll be much more useful for the investigation."

"You're free to go. Relevant updates will be sent to your email. I expect you at the station tomorrow morning as usual."

I bowed and started to leave, but something slipped my mind. I turned back and handed my boss the keys to the department car.

"That's our Allion over there," I said, pointing to a gray sedan. "Someone else might need it more than I do. I'm not in the right state to drive. If it's alright, I'll sign the logbook tomorrow morning."

"Alright," Yamada replied without objection.

I'd lied about being unfit to drive. I just didn't want to swing by the station. And if I broke protocol and drove the car home, where would I even park it? I didn't have a space of my own — I'd never needed one.

I got home via the monorail. On the way, I stopped by a store and grabbed a couple of tuna onigiri and a packet of instant miso soup. I can cook, but not when I'm trying to recover from critical mental damage.

Another skill of a good detective is noticing the strange amidst the ordinary. This time, it was a pastel-pink spot against the gray, peeling wall of an old apartment building and the faded white Mitsubishi Debonair belonging to an equally worn-out elderly landlord. A Nissan Dayz with Tokyo plates I knew by heart. My little sister's car.

Komachi... Komachi never changes.