The Untold Origins of the Detective Agency (Bungo Stray Dogs 3)

“Just give it a try.”

“Hmm…” Ranpo crossed his arms before continuing. “You’re in your early thirties. A bodyguard. You’re a master of the martial arts; after all, you threw down an assassin like it was nothing. You’re single. You work alone. Right-handed. When you sat down at the café, you unconsciously made sure to sit with the wall to your right, so you used to practice swordsmanship as well. After all, if the wall was on the left side, you wouldn’t be able to swiftly draw your sword if something happened. You sat where the entrance was visible, which shows me you’ve seen your fair share of carnage in your lifetime. The reason why you barely make any noise even while walking on the hard theater floors is that you’ve trained for street and indoor combat. And the reason why you started to walk with one eye closed a little before we went through the unlit service entrance was so that you could immediately see your surroundings the moment you stepped into the darkness. In other words, you’re trained for ambushes in dark places.”

Fukuzawa could feel his body gradually get colder. He slowly lost the feeling in his toes. His throat dried and tensed up as his palms began to sweat.

“You have a good reputation as a bodyguard, but you haven’t been in the business long. A bodyguard’s job is to protect people, so you wouldn’t need to sneak around in the dark without making a sound. You quit your previous job, but you weren’t working in the shadows to kill people for money like that hit man from earlier. You made that clear when you didn’t show any real emotion when you talked about assassins. Plus, you didn’t seem to be on your guard when you talked to the police. That’s why your previous job wasn’t some sort of illicit, shadowy gig. But you don’t use a sword anymore, despite it being your area of expertise, and that’s because you did something you’re ashamed of at your last job.”

Fukuzawa felt an intense pain in his chest. His throat was so dry he could scarcely breathe. Everything was flickering red and black.

“But what kind of job where you use your sword to ambush people would be both lawful and shameful? Come to think of it, a few years ago there was a lot of dispute over the cease-fire agreement. Some war hawk bureaucrats were advocating for maintaining and expanding the front line. But one by one, they were found dead along with the leaders of the foreign military parties who backed them up. I noticed you grimaced at the newspaper stand when you saw the follow-up article on it, which makes me wonder—”

“Shut up!”

Fukuzawa exploded. As if his spirit were physically gushing into the room, the glass shook, the lights clicked, and a theater employee walking in the distance let out a slight yelp. Martial arts masters employed a similar phenomenon when they attacked with their chi. Being right next to him, Ranpo took the brunt of Fukuzawa’s unconscious yet fiery attack. After being pushed back a few steps, Ranpo fell

on his rear as he if had been hit with a large invisible mallet. He blinked, still sitting, with a perplexed expression. The master class–level chi energy attack had knocked him unconscious for a second. Fukuzawa suddenly returned to his senses, albeit startled.

“Sorry… You all right?” He approached Ranpo and helped him up.

“Buh…?”

Ranpo was still idly blinking. Fukuzawa was overcome with a sense of shame. It was inexcusable for a martial arts master to use what could be considered condensed bloodlust on an ordinary person. It was evidence of just how disturbed Fukuzawa was. He never thought he would be this upset. It was something he had already come to terms with; it was a past he had already cut ties with. The only ones who knew the truth were his past comrades.

It wasn’t an act of evil. The mayhem probably would have gone on without Fukuzawa’s blade, thus leading to thousands of more victims. But it was a shady job that must never see the light of day. Everyone involved in Fukuzawa’s work was a high-ranking government official, but he hadn’t contacted them since then. Every one of them had kept their mouth shut about the incident, and Fukuzawa had planned to take this secret to the grave. And yet, a boy he had just met saw right through him—very easily at that.

“Don’t…talk about that,” Fukuzawa finally managed to say. “I get it now. You’re the real thing.”

No secrets were safe in Ranpo’s presence, but he had no idea he was special, which was exactly why this wasn’t the time to be getting worked up. There had to be a way to get Ranpo to recognize his abilities; Fukuzawa would need to think of something.

Just then, a bell rang over the intercom, signaling that the performance was to start in five minutes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin. Please come inside,” said the worker in front of the door.

“Come on.”

Fukuzawa grabbed Ranpo, whose eyes were still glazed over, and headed toward the door to the auditorium.

He would have Ranpo observe the stage. The boy might be able to figure something out that way.

Thoughts raced through Fukuzawa’s jumbled mind. He still felt on edge. Having his secret known startled him, and he was taken aback by Ranpo’s powers of observation. But was that it? It was as if something else lurked in the depths of Fukuzawa’s uneasiness—something he was in no place to deal with right now.

The show started the moment Fukuzawa and Ranpo took their seats, front row center. The seats were too close to the stage, which made them far from fit for theatergoing. But Fukuzawa chose them because they were nearest to the stage in case he needed to rush over to protect a performer from an attack. Ranpo sat next to him. His legs were trembling while he idly stared off into space, as if he was still shaken up from earlier.

The theater seated roughly four hundred people. Looking around, almost all the seats were filled. The audience was a mix of ages and genders, but the biggest demographic by and large were women in their twenties.

As the chime sounded and the curtains rose, the show finally began. Fukuzawa had already read the script, so he knew what the play was about.

The death threat said, “An angel shall bring death, in the truest sense of the word, to the performer.” The use of the word angel was probably not a coincidence or joke. After all, this play was a story about an angel.

Fukuzawa thought back to the script. If the play were summarized in one phrase, it would be: a story about an angel who murders. It was a story in which each of the twelve characters are killed by the angel one after another.

The characters killed in the story have no idea they are being massacred by an angel because there is nothing unique about the ways they are murdered: stabbed with a knife, a fatal fall, strangulation, poison. Furthermore, nobody ever sees any of the murders take place; they simply die one by one. Therefore, the characters have no idea if they are being supernaturally judged by an angel or murdered by a serial killer.

One of the characters posed an idea. “If it was an angel, they would use the divine blade in their hand. There would be no reason for them to wait until someone is alone to kill them in some physical manner.” That’s why he claims that one of the twelve characters is a serial killer who is making it seem like the killer is an angel.

Another character said: “If this was the work of man, then that would mean the killer was one of us. But that’s impossible. There is no reason for us to kill one another. The angel would have a motive, though. We are sinners who disobeyed the angel, and it is an angel’s job to purge those who have done evil. To look at it from another perspective, all twelve of us are the same. We have all sinned, and we are connected through our fear of the angel. What would killing a fellow runaway help?”

The protagonist, Murakami, was like a leader who kept them together. Standing on the stage, Murakami yelled out, “O Lord, we have sinned. You have clipped us of our wings and left us on this planet to punish us. Wasn’t that enough to atone? Why must we suffer such cruelty?”