The earth suddenly shook. All of a sudden, my gaze met the ground in front of me. The next second, I realized I was falling, and I collapsed face-first, despite placing both my hands out to catch myself. My vision blurred. I felt sick. When I looked at my hands, they were covered in a sticky blue liquid; that ball had been coated in it. The parts of my hand covered in the liquid tingled uncomfortably. Major alarm bells rang wildly in my head.
The vision ended there.
I stood among the debris. The worst thing about the vision ending was that I was already holding the handball. I immediately threw it away, but it was too late. I started to feel dizzy just like a moment ago. I rubbed my palms on my coat to wipe off the blue slime, but it had already been absorbed into my skin and infiltrated my body. My skill, Flawless, allowed me to see a few seconds—more than five but less than six—into the future in my head. That was how I was able to avoid surprise attacks like sniper fire and explosions.
However, if I were to realize I was in danger after falling into the trap…there was no way for me to avoid it even if I did have a vision just like the moment before. I had been holding the handball for over six seconds. It was too late. Whoever did this knew about my skill inside and out. There weren’t many people who did. Nervously sweating, I tried to warn Ango, but I couldn’t talk. A dark shadow appeared noiselessly behind him; it was four—no, five people dressed in field tunics as dark as the night with gas masks hiding their faces. They weren’t Mimic. None of them were carrying old-fashioned gray pistols, but rather state-of-the-art precision-guided rifles. They were with the Special Forces. One of the men in black tapped Ango on the shoulder. Ango turned around and nodded as if to say he understood.
“Odasaku, I apologize for the trouble I caused you.”
Ango walked over and placed the handkerchief I had just given him in my hand. I couldn’t brace myself, never mind hold the handkerchief. Ango took a white silk glove out of his pocket, then pulled it over his right hand before picking up the blue handball.
“You are free to speak of everything that happened here. Everything I told you about Mimic was true. I just wish I could have had a drink with you and Dazai one last time at the usual place and time…”
A Special Forces soldier tapped Ango on the arm, seemingly giving him a signal. After responding with his gaze, Ango looked down at me and smiled as if he had given up.
“Take care of yourself.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ango turn his back to me before leaving with the Special Forces. I wasn’t even able to move my neck or eyes at that point. The world in front of me was slowly swallowed by darkness. My tongue numb, I called out to Ango as he left, but even I didn’t know what I was saying. An indescribable feeling of loneliness was the only thing filling my heart…as if I were floating at the end of the universe.
Even that was swallowed by darkness.
My consciousness faded to black.
CHAPTER III
It had been raining that day. I was sitting. Time slowly, indistinctly passed by, and all sound was drowned out by the vague noise of falling rain. The world itself felt like an apparition. The rain poured down before my eyes at a slant, drenching the scenery and turning everything blue. Fog mixed with ocean mist intertwined with the downpour. The wet landscape and I sat face-to-face, though separated by glass.
I was fourteen years old at the time. I’d been at a café reading a book—an old book. The cover’s corners were worn down, and a part of it was torn. The print was old, with some letters faded here and there. I’d found this book after a hit and brought it back with me, since the owner wouldn’t be needing it anymore. I turned the pages.
I was a much simpler person at age fourteen. I’d been working as a freelance hit man doing contract assassinations, and not once did I ever fail. The wealthy original owner of this book along with his family were mere stains on the wall at that point. I could no longer remember why I brought this book back with me. Something about it—something slight—had just stuck in the back of my mind. I didn’t have a habit of reading books at that stage in my life, but this one was different. It was an old novel. The story took p
lace in a certain town, and it was about a myriad of characters. All the characters, though, were weak and pitiful—even the smallest things caused them panic. But mysteriously enough, it was a very engaging story.
After work, I always went to the same café and sat in the same seat to read this novel. It had become a daily routine, which was why I’d read that book so many times. I was reading it that day, too.
“You’re always reading that same book, boy. Is it really that interesting?”
I looked up in the direction of the sudden voice.
Standing before me, straight as a ramrod, was a lanky middle-aged man with a cane and a short mustache that accentuated his faint smile. I’d seen him a few times at this café before. When I told him it was a good book, he looked at me curiously.
“You’re a strange lad. There are plenty of stories out in this world that are much more interesting than that novel.”
I stared at the man without saying a word. To tell the truth, I didn’t even know how to explain to someone why I read this book so often.
“Where’s the last volume?”
I looked at the stack on the table where the first two books lay. There was one major drawback about this novel: I had found only the first two volumes. Therefore, I had no idea how the story concluded. I went to every possible used bookstore I could come by, but I still couldn’t find the final volume. I told the man I didn’t own it.
“Now it makes sense. You’re a lucky kid. The last volume to that series is the worst of the worst. It’s so bad that you’ll want to wash out your brain once you’ve finished it. Be happy with just the first two volumes. It’s for your own good.”
I told him I couldn’t do that.
“Then you write what happens next,” the man with the mustache said. “That’s the only way to preserve its perfection.”
I was dumbfounded. I’d never even thought about writing something myself.
“Writing novels is writing people,” the man said. “It’s about how they live and how they die. From what I can see, you’re perfectly qualified.”