6. Komachi Kono is Ready to Help

As we grow older, we drift apart from childhood friends. We spend less time with family. I've always known this and never really tried to make friends in school. Why certain people decided we were friends, though — that's something I still don't understand. It's just one of those inevitable parts of life, like gray hairs, new episodes of One Piece, and global climate change.

What stings, though, is how we also end up growing distant from the people who truly matter to us. There was a time when Komachi and I were inseparable. Sure, my little sister and I argued constantly, but her cunning, social skills, and common sense saved me from countless messes. She even started cooking decently well by middle school. I did my best to help her in return, but for the most part, I simply enjoyed the privileges of being an older brother.

Komachi graduated from college, landed a job at a PR agency, got married, and had two kids. Komachi Kono: an adult woman with her own life, her own concerns, and her own problems… or still the same sarcastic, mischievous imouto who came up with insulting nicknames for me, tried to set me up with girls, and shared the quiet loneliness of the kitchen with me when no one else was home? The latter, of course. Komachi doesn't change. Something in this life has to stay constant, doesn't it? Something real? Something even I can't ruin?

My twelve tatami bachelor studio apartment was now occupied by my niece and nephew. Haruto and Riko Kono sat on the floor, building colorful towers out of blocks, competing by rules known only to them. Komachi sat on the bed, half-heartedly flipping through one of the latest volumes of Imōto Sae Ireba Ii while keeping an eye on the kids. Anyone accusing me of being a siscon or having bad taste can kindly throw themselves at a wall. I'm not a siscon. And I read what I want. Besides, Gagaga Bunko doesn't publish complete garbage.

By the way, how did Komachi even get into my apartment? She has a key. It's a natural precaution, considering I live alone. Someone has to call the coroner if I drop dead halfway between the bed and the bathroom. For the record, I also have a key to Komachi's house in Tokyo, despite her husband's objections. But his opinion doesn't concern me. If anything happens, I need to be able to help my sister and her kids.

"Hey, raccoon-nii-chan," Komachi smirked at me. "When was the last time you actually slept?"

"I think it was at least during the Reiwa era."

"Something wrong at work?"

"The night-shift detective is in the hospital. Appendicitis. We're taking turns covering for him."

I set a plastic bag from the convenience store on the tiny table near the stove.

"Sorry, but I've got nothing to offer you, Haruto, or Riko. I didn't know you were coming."

"I figured as much when you didn't read your sixth message of the morning or answer the second call."

Guiltily, I pulled one of my phones out of my pocket. I have three: one for work, one for informants, and one personal. The personal one is the least used, and sure enough, it was on ultra-power-saving mode at 9% battery, with silent mode enabled.

I skimmed through the missed messages and calls and put the phone on charge. The other two soon followed. With my devices taken care of, I considered my own breakfast options. I set a pot of water on the stove for instant miso soup and switched on the electric kettle.

"I'll just grab a quick bite, and then we can talk."

"More of that bland garbage? Open the fridge and be amazed. There's a treasure trove of Komachi Points waiting for you!"

Sure enough, there it was: a container of my sister's homemade curry—a royal gift and a balm for my weary soul. This kind of food could soothe my heart without the need for alcohol.

"Haruto! Riko! Do you want to eat something?"

"No!" they chorused, before going back to their game. They tolerated me the way our old cat Kamakura used to. It's not surprising, really — I'm an unpleasant person, and we rarely see each other. How would they know they're supposed to love their uncle unconditionally?

"I'll have something, though," Komachi said, gently placing a light novel on the shelf — already crammed with similar cheap paperbacks — and walking across the room. "Notice anything different?"

"A new hair clip. I haven't seen that one before."

"I'm amazed, Hikki. How do girls keep flocking around you when you're so oblivious to the most important things?"

"First of all, two girls ten years ago isn't 'flocking,' nor does it count as a 'harem.' That was just a typical rom-com love triangle that, for some reason, became my life in high school. And second, what's the 'most important thing'?"

Komachi frowned.

"Every year, I understand less and less about you, nii-chan. Are you dumb, or just pretending? Let's go back to high school for a moment. Yukinoshita, Yuigahama…"

"And that's it. I confessed to Yukinoshita. I rejected Yuigahama."

"…And then there's Isshiki, Kawasaki, Orimoto, Ebina. Enough for a proper harem anime — three full seasons, plus OVAs."

"Who's Kawasaki?"

Komachi gave me the kind of look you reserve for the mentally unwell. Not that she was entirely wrong, but she was digging in the wrong place.

"Your classmate. Tall. Looked like a delinquent. She had a cool little brother, Taishi."

"You could've just said 'the brocon girl and the sister of the cockroach!' Kawasaki-whatever-her-name-was… How could she possibly have 'flocked' around me when it was her bug of a brother constantly circling you? I have no idea what you're talking about."

The fridge revealed a bounty: proper homemade miso soup with authentic dashi, natto, pickled onions, and other little treasures that elevate breakfast. I microwaved the curry while setting the soup to warm.

"I lost 600 grams in the last two months! You're so oblivious, nii-chan. That's minus a million Hachiman Points!"

Komachi had gained weight during her two back-to-back pregnancies, and for the past three years, she'd been trying to lose it. She'd never get back to her high school or college figure, but, to be fair, the progress was noticeable. I'd simply trained myself since childhood to never pay attention to my sister's body — unless she was about to get into a fight (hasn't happened since she was five) or needed help (hasn't happened since we started living apart).

"You're wearing an oversized sweatshirt meant for someone 50% bigger than you. There's no way to tell whether you've lost or gained weight. Your complaint is invalid, and your report won't be filed. Have a good day, Kono-san."

"This is exactly why irresponsible cops like you…" Komachi began what was meant to be an indignant tirade but trailed off, unable to come up with a proper retort. The police in Japan work well; crime rates are low, and public safety is excellent. Many Hachiman Points to me!

Finally, we sat down to eat. The kids got chocolate senbei.

"Itadakimasu!"

"Itadakimasu!"

We had breakfast in relative silence, with only the occasional interjection from Komachi, telling the kids not to play with their food or steal bites from each other.

"Komachi, I love you, Haruto, and Riko dearly, and I'm always happy to see you. But you didn't come all the way from another prefecture just for fun, did you? Do you need help?" I asked as we cleaned up. The kids had returned to their blocks but seemed to be building an arch instead of two towers now.

"Not me. I'm afraid it's you who might need help—a warning, really."

"What, like an open grave? Thanks, but I already dug one for myself this morning at work."

"You're not far off, nii-chan. I've been contacted by Yukino Yukinoshita."

My reaction was as predictable as it was cliché. I dropped a plate. In a TV drama, it would've shattered in silence. But this is real life, and it was just cheap, reusable plastic.

"Knew it. You're already half-dead. But Komachi has an even bigger bomb to drop: Yukino needs your help."

"What happened to her?"

"In the ten years since you stopped talking? A lot, I imagine."

"Did she ask to contact me?"

"No. She called me this morning. Asked me to use my work connections."

Komachi wiped her hands on the dirty kitchen towel I always forget to throw in the wash and pulled a tablet out of her backpack. We sat together on the bed as she began explaining.

"In case you're not aware, Yukinoshita is a lawyer. Specializes in labor rights and lawsuits against corporations."

"Changing the world for the better, one case at a time. Very Yukino…"

"Lately, she's noticed a quiet smear campaign against her. A wave of identical negative reviews popping up across various platforms within minutes of each other. A few critical blog posts. Even a laughable petition to revoke her license for incompetence, hosted on a site where anyone can vote without verification. Register a throwaway email, and you're in. Our firm doesn't handle black PR or countermeasures, but I know specialists who can analyze campaigns like this. You wouldn't believe how much can be deduced from basic statistical analysis of the texts!"

"Unfortunately, I'm no specialist."

"That's not all. According to Yukino, Haruno has been stalked. She didn't want to talk about it but let it slip when she got drunk at a banquet."

"Haruno never says anything by accident. I've seen her completely wasted, and even then, she's in full control of her words. I doubt she's lost that skill over the years in business."

"And that's not all. Last night, burglars broke into the Yukinoshita family home."

"Seven paintings by Kenji Takahara from the living room were taken. Chiba landscapes. According to the insurance, their value ranges from 90,000 to 250,000 yen. They hold significant sentimental value for Mr. and Mrs. Yukinoshita. A criminal case has been opened. The Chiba Prefecture police are investigating."

"Nii-chan…"

"They've involved everyone, even me. I met with Mrs. Yukinoshita. Don't ask. Mindanao was easier."