Distal radius fractures typically take months to heal.
But Hayashi Yoshiki had the bandages and support removed in just under three weeks.
"Still... it's not ready for weight training."
Yoshiki tried clenching his fist. There was slight weakness, but nothing that would interfere with writing.
"At this rate, you'll be fully recovered soon," said Seiran Hoshi, standing nearby with a towel.
"I'm not rushing anything."
Yoshiki's voice was calm.
He finished the last set of exercises, put down the dumbbell in his left hand, and pushed back his damp bangs with bony fingers.
Even such a small movement changed the mood—his soft features gained sharpness, and his gentle demeanor shifted into something more intense.
Seiran quickly stepped forward and wiped his face.
Yoshiki had resumed physical training the moment his doctor allowed it.
There's something clarifying about a good sweat, he thought.
As he reviewed his recent plans mentally and confirmed nothing had been overlooked, he quietly thanked Seiran Hoshi and stepped into the bathroom.
Steam quickly filled the space as the hot water ran over him.
Yesterday, Vodka had sent confirmation: everything had been handled.
Their team had traced the anonymous posters using the fake IPs—but predictably, found nothing of value.
Yoshiki had long ago hypnotized people close to the deceased into believing they were the ones who posted those messages—ensuring layers of plausible deniability before Vodka had even acted.
Usurping the spider's ability was the smartest move I ever made.
He had no regrets about stealing that power—if it served his goals, he took it without hesitation.
Drip, drip...
The sound of water hitting tile echoed softly.
Then—
the faint sound of the front door opening.
Yoshiki didn't look back.
Pu Siqinglan's voice came from behind him:
"Please, let me help you."
Her tone was calm—deliberately so.
Yoshiki glanced over.
She was wearing a nearly transparent bathrobe. Through the fabric, her skin and figure were barely obscured. If the robe got wet, there'd be nothing left to the imagination.
Yoshiki smiled gently.
"Thank you, Miss Seiran."
"I... I'm sorry..."
She stepped closer.
As she neared him, her breathing grew shallow. She parted her lips slightly, gaze fixed on his face.
His body had mostly recovered.
A dark scar remained across his right shoulder and chest—from Izu. But it didn't detract from his appearance. If anything, it gave him a rough edge.
"Miss Seiran."
"...Yes?"
"You look adorable right now."
The steam had reddened her face even more.
She was beautiful, vulnerable, mature in all the right ways.
But just as their skin nearly touched, Yoshiki spoke again:
"Sorry. I have something important to do later."
Silence.
"...I see."
Disappointment laced her voice.
Yoshiki said nothing further.
He let her assist him, got dressed, and left the private gym.
His next stop: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
Toshiro Odagiri greeted him at the entrance.
"Are you certain it was an accident?"
"...Yes."
Odagiri's voice was low, his expression sharp.
"I'm sure it was him. No doubt about it."
"Then we may be one step closer to the murderer."
They didn't speak much on the way in.
The investigation office was, as always, dull.
About twenty officers filled the room. Some sat in front of computers gathering intel. Others pored over reports or discussed leads over coffee.
"Minister."
"Minister."
As soon as Odagiri entered, the officers saluted him.
"Kaneyuki, is the report ready?" he asked.
"Yes, Minister."
The officer stood and began reading:
"The deceased, Demachi Daisora, left his home at 1:17 a.m. and rode his motorcycle to the bar district to sell drugs. In route, the front wheel swerved unexpectedly, causing him to fall and hit several cooking oil containers that had fallen from a passing truck. The oil ignited from a lighter in his jacket pocket. Although nearby officers tried to extinguish the flames and brought him to the hospital, he died from severe burn-related infections."
"The motorcycle and road conditions were inspected. No abnormalities were found. The truck driver was questioned and released—nothing suspicious there either."
"Of note: two days before Demachi's death, an anonymous online post alleged he had been selling drugs to college students in his neighborhood. We assigned officers to track him immediately, but during that time, no suspicious contact or behavior was observed."
"End of report."
Silence.
Yoshiki stared at the files in front of him, deeply focused.
"No suspicious contact... yet he died so precisely..."
He thought about it for a long time.
Eventually, even the other officers grew restless in the stifling quiet.
Yoshiki finally gave a soft, resigned smile.
"I can't think of any method unless the killer exposes himself. At this point... it's like dealing with superpowers."
"...Superpowers?" Odagiri frowned.
"Yes. And this makes the third case like this."
"Another scumbag exposed online, dead a few days later in a supposed 'accident.'"
"Including earlier cases, even with conservative estimates, I'd say there's a 75% chance the killer uses online information to choose victims."
"We should assign more people to the cyber division."
"Also, if similar posts appear online, I suggest deleting them as soon as possible."
The officers fell silent, taking his words seriously.
Odagiri folded his arms.
"Can we trace the IPs of the readers of those posts?"
"We can, but it may result in too many data points."
"Try cross-referencing readers across multiple posts. It's unlikely the killer would be that sloppy, but it's still a lead worth checking."
"Understood."
A young officer raised his hand.
"If the killer really is using the internet, won't deleting posts enrage him? Could we provoke him?"
Yoshiki paused.
Then:
"It's possible... but unlikely."
"From what little I've sensed—especially from the crossroads incident—this killer is extremely arrogant. He enjoys toying with us."
"If he gets angry just because we block his posts... he's not the elite predator he wants us to think he is."
"Besides, he can still use old posts. There are plenty of records of bullying and scumbags in Japan."
"Still... his targets have all had fresh exposure before they died."
No one contradicted him.
Odagiri nodded in agreement.
"All the victims so far were criminals or lowlifes. Even the celebrity and Consultant Hayashi were clearly test cases—he never intended to kill them."
"If he really believes in punishing evil... then let him prove it."
Yoshiki looked at Odagiri.
He's bolder than I thought.
Odagiri was taking a risk—if the killer lashed out, he would be blamed.
But the plan was set.
And Yoshiki had nothing more to add.
After the meeting, Yoshiki walked alone toward the building's rear entrance.
"Hey, Brother Hayashi?"
Megure Juzo, from Division 1, spotted him.
"Good afternoon, Officer Megure."
"What brings you here?"
"I've done something wrong... and I want to turn myself in."
"What!?"
Megure's outburst drew stares from nearby officers.
Embarrassed, he leaned in and whispered:
"What did you do?"
"Played a joke on the police."
"..."
Megure stared blankly as Yoshiki flashed him a bright smile.
"I'm serious!"
"Counselor, I brought your coffee."
Another familiar voice cut in.
Megure turned to see Odagiri Toshiro, face as unreadable as ever.
"Sir!"
"Everything going smoothly with the recent cases?"
"Yes, sir. No issues."
Sensing the minister had business with Yoshiki, Megure stepped aside.
Wait... did he just call him 'consultant'?
He'd heard about the special task force, but hadn't been involved.
All he knew was that it dealt with a string of "accidental deaths."
"Thank you for assisting the task force. Just... be more careful next time."
"Understood, Minister."
"...About the killer—"
Odagiri began to speak, then hesitated.
"No, never mind."
Yoshiki was surprised but said nothing.
What was he about to say? Maybe... that he planned to use criminals as bait?
From what Yoshiki had seen, Odagiri was ruthless. He probably wanted Demachi dead. But Japan rarely handed out death sentences.
In the end, though, Odagiri held back.