Chapter 16. The Death of an Artist

When she awoke, she found herself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.

She tried to stand, only to realize her hands and feet were tightly bound to a chair with nylon rope.

It seemed she’d been drugged—her body was limp and powerless.

She couldn't move.

Her head throbbed with pain.

She struggled to recall what had happened.

She was an ordinary high school girl. After school one day, she went to karaoke with friends. On her way home, she’d seen a pregnant stray cat, and then...

“Ah!”

She remembered.

On her way home, someone had suddenly pressed a handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

She’d lost consciousness, only now awakening.

Had she been attacked?

The pain made it hard to think. She looked around and saw she was in a basement-like room.

Tools such as scissors, pliers, and chainsaws hung on the walls.

They must have been used for a long time; both the walls and the tools were stained with dark, grimy marks.

She saw a figure.

The shadow drew closer.

The person raised a hand.

She turned her head and saw slender, feminine hands.

“How adorable.”

Those hands touched her face, gently caressing her.

She hardly felt a thing—her heart was filled with cold dread.

“Don’t worry. It will be over soon.”

She heard the words.

And then saw the masked face.

The hair was not long, but the eyes shone with an eerie light.

Like a child seeing a beloved toy at last.

Then she noticed what was in the other hand.

A scalpel.

Terror flooded her heart.

Only now did she see, on a table in the room, several large transparent glass jars.

In them were things—dark red and flesh-colored, mingled together.

Objects she’d only ever seen in films and books, floating in liquid.

“No...”

She found she could still make a sound, and tried to struggle.

But the scalpel was already at her chest.

Rip—

Her clothes were sliced open, the strap of her bra severed.

Rip—

The scalpel plunged into her flesh.

“No...”

She felt nothing.

That was the most terrifying part.

Through a mirror beside her, she could see the scalpel parting her own body.

“No...”

Her voice was hoarse.

She hated.

Why me?

Why do this to me?

What did I do wrong?

Someone, someone, please save me...

Is there no one who can save me?

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die.

When she saw the figure extract “something” from her body, she lost the last thread of consciousness.

As if in answer to her resentment, somewhere, a forsaken stray cat cried out in the night.

...

Saturday.

Afternoon.

Four o’clock.

Qiao Qiao’s motorcycle, bought online, had long since arrived.

He’d already taken it out for a couple of rides in the evenings when he had assignments.

Afterward, Qiao Qiao regretted not buying a motorcycle sooner.

No more being robbed by Tokyo’s taxi drivers.

What a relief.

Qiao Qiao rode his ladies’ bike slowly down the road.

Trailing behind was a wooden crate.

Inside was a newly purchased rocket launcher.

He didn’t know if he’d need it for today’s job.

But better to have too much than too little, he thought.

Besides, he wanted to show the shrine maiden Asano where his half a million yen had gone.

So he brought it along.

Though Qiao Qiao wrapped it carefully so its contents couldn’t be seen, the massive wooden box was still quite conspicuous.

Fortunately, people here weren’t in the habit of meddling in others’ business, so no one asked.

A traffic officer even approached, kindly offering to help.

Probably thought it was club equipment or something.

Qiao Qiao politely declined.

Creeping along at just over twenty kilometers an hour, he arrived in a Shinjuku villa district.

This wasn’t the sort of cheap detached house Qiao Qiao lived in, but a true villa neighborhood.

There was plenty of space between each home, the gaps filled with lush green lawns.

The villas had four stories, and just looking at them, you could practically smell the money.

Each villa boasted a spacious yard and a swimming pool—sheer luxury.

This client must be very wealthy, Qiao Qiao mused.

As for Ariko Asano—

She’d arrived in her own car.

A black luxury limousine, stretched and gleaming.

With a snap, a man in a black suit and sunglasses stepped from the driver’s seat, respectfully opening the back door.

Ariko Asano alighted.

Her long hair was casually tied back with a red paper ribbon.

She wore an off-white cotton T-shirt, topped with a gray-blue denim jacket.

Her lower half was clad in black trousers and sneakers.

Her outfit was simple, but radiated youthful energy at every turn.

After giving a few instructions to her driver and watching the car pull away, she walked over to Qiao Qiao.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Qiao.”

Ariko Asano, the very picture of a refined young lady, greeted him with perfect politeness.

“Thank you for your help again today,” she said, bowing lightly.

“No, no, the pleasure is mine,” Qiao Qiao replied, bowing as well.

Though he felt something was amiss.

Now that he thought about it, people here really did love to bow.

They bowed upon meeting.

They bowed in farewell.

They bowed when making requests.

They even bowed when asked for help.

With bowing, nothing was unsolvable.

If once wasn’t enough, bow twice or three times!

And then there was the ultimate prostration apology.

Whether food safety scandals, political contributions, or nuclear fuel leaks—so long as you performed the prostration and apologized, all could be forgiven.

After showing their credentials to the security guard—

Qiao Qiao rode his little motorcycle, dragging the crate, while Ariko Asano and the guard walked beside him.

They reached Villa No. 19 in the neighborhood.

Qiao Qiao parked his bike in the yard, the crate left by the side.

This was a four-story villa, appearing quite spacious from outside.

But its design was noticeably different from the others.

Qiao Qiao couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the building exuded a tremendous sense of oppression.

Simply standing there, it felt hard to breathe.

“...It really is concerning,” the security guard commented as he briefed them along the way.

Of course, Qiao Qiao had already reviewed the case files.

The current owner of this villa was Mr. Kenji Iguchi, who ran a small art dealership.

However, the house was actually designed and built by his father, Tetsu Iguchi.

Tetsu Iguchi had once been an architect, but retired years ago.

The villa’s second and third floors had long been used as his studio.

Mr. Kenji Iguchi would sometimes stay here on weekends.

It had always been an ordinary house.

But a week ago—

Tetsu Iguchi committed suicide.

Right in the villa’s living room.

He hanged himself.

According to Kenji, his father had been despondent since retiring.

After hospital visits, he was suspected of suffering from depression.

In recent years, Tetsu’s work had declined in quality, and gossip from others only worsened his state.

Perhaps for an artist, being unable to create meant the end of life itself.

This country, after all, revered impermanence and found beauty in melancholy.

Since ancient times, suicidal artists and writers were not uncommon.

But the problem was—

After Tetsu Iguchi’s death, the villa became haunted.