Occasionally, he was hauled to the teacher's office for questioning, but always escaped scot-free. He used his height as a defense—everyone was taller than him. He was alone. How could he instigate fights if he was so diminutive? Besides, he consistently ranked among the top three students in his year, often coming first in math and science, and, unexpectedly, literature.

  “It was an accident,” young Ran would say when asked to explain his role in the fracas, fully aware that this was the umpteenth accident in the same month. They might not believe him, but they would take his side. In fights, he overpowered his opponents with speed and strength. In the teacher’s office, he won with his wits and a composed demeanor. He bowed, spoke formally, and even borrowed advanced grammar from classic literature. He was better than the delinquents dragged in with him, and he made sure the teachers knew that.

  “Report this to us earlier in the future,” the teachers would reply. “You’re a potential scholarship student; we wouldn’t want any trouble.”

  By the time he was seventeen, he’d developed a fearsome reputation. Students stopped messing with him. Some gossiped that he’d joined one of the local gangs in Utsunomiya and wore long sleeves to hide his tattoos. Even the teachers were wary of him. Word spread that he had dibs on them. That must be why he was never punished, no matter what he did. No one talked to him much either, except for Goro and a few others from his year at the kendo club.

  “It’s your hair,” Goro once pointed out. “More accurately, the lack of it. Makes you scary, like it’s always you against the world.”

  Aside from kendo and classes, he kept to himself. He never missed a day of school, but he never participated in activities outside of school or the club. He never showed up for summer festivals, despite Goro and his teammates’ endless pleas of “We want to see Miyamoto Ran in a yukata!”. Ran would rather hole up in the community library and read all day. The classics, the contemporary, a multitude of genres, the encyclopedia, history, mythology, anything and everything in between. In Japanese, translated from other languages.

  He read them all except romance. He'd once picked one up out of curiosity and put it back after the first page, convinced that he had opened doors best left closed to him. Sitting by himself in a corner of the library, he would read from morning to evening, returning to Morisawa for dinner. Otherwise, Aiko would nag at him until bedtime for abandoning her in favor of his books.

  Most people avoided him, but once in a blue moon, some curious souls would approach him and, for some inexplicable reason, attach themselves to him. A mere handful, that was all. It simply wasn’t in his nature to seek people out. He had nothing he wanted from them. Nothing he could give them in return. All he needed was to move forward, and the further he got away from the past, the less he would remember.

  * * *

  Ran knocked on Eizo’s door when he returned from the convenience store.

  The door clicked open instantly. Eizo stuck his head out, as if expecting a visit.

  “Booty call,” Ran greeted.

  Eizo slammed the door in his face.

  Ran rang the doorbell this time.

  The door flew open once more. Realizing it was Ran again, Eizo’s expression transformed into a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “You want my ass that much?”

  “More like you want me to want it, seeing how fast you are.”

  Eizo blanched. “I thought you were the delivery guy.”

  “You would say that to a delivery guy?”

  The younger man pursed his lips together into a petulant sulk, growing crosser by the second. Eizo did hate losing—the type to drop his wits when provoked. As much as the thought tempted him, Ran hadn’t come here to instigate. Not yet, at least. The time must be right. He had a plan, and he wasn’t leaving until he got what he wanted. Who knew when he could catch the elusive escape artist again? He didn’t need a prickly Eizo who fought every word cast at him. Depending on the situation, Eizo could be subdued. Aided perhaps by the type of food he ate. And alcohol. It helped that the writer was a light drinker with loose lips, traits that made achieving his goal very doable. Ran had beer in his fridge. He could always bring some over once Eizo relaxed around him.

  Ran held up the bag of chicken cutlets, swinging it under Eizo’s nose like a pendulum. “Two original, two black pepper, two in the latest spicy flavor.”

  Eizo’s eyes tracked the motion of the bag. Left, right, left, right. Before he could reach for the food, Ran swung it away.

  “Only if you let me in,” Ran said.

  “Why?”

  “My chicken, my say.”

  He seemed torn between declining Ran and succumbing to his salivation from the aroma of fried food wafting into his nose. Food that was right at his doorstep, inches from popping into his mouth, with crunchy skin melting beneath the layer of fat. Moist, succulent thigh meat bursting with flavor at the first bite. Ran knew that look. Eizo had acted exactly like that when Ran had eaten the last piece of chicken at Family Mart.

  Desire palpable in his eyes, Eizo folded in a matter of seconds and held the door open for Ran.

  44

  It was Ran’s first time in Eizo’s home.

  The elderly couple who occupied this unit before Eizo had once complained to Ran about the odd structure. Useless balcony, too far out in the sun. As the day heated up, the house did too, giving them a headache. Ran examined the apartment. Classic heat capacity issues. Not much of a problem if you stayed for a short while. Next to be repaired, probably in another two years, was the piping infrastructure, dulled from environmental exposure and a lack of protection from the higher units.

  Eizo didn’t need to worry about that. He wouldn’t stay here for long. Merely liking the neighborhood to justify his staying at Oakwood had to be a lie, if not a frivolous truth. With his background and wealth, he had more affluent options. Soon, the novelty would wear off, and he’d return to Azabudai for good.

  That explained the sparseness of Eizo’s home, despite him having moved in four months ago. A two-seater sofa with a round coffee table and a TV bench. Judging by the thin layer of dust on the remote control, the TV hadn’t been used at all. By the bench was Eizo’s backpack, zipped and ready to go. A sliding partition separated the sleeping area from the rest of the apartment. He would never have thought it was for resting, if not for the futon on the floor and a laptop, a stack of books, and a bundle of notes next to it. The barest of furniture, akin to a student dormitory.

  He could count on his fingers the number of personal items Eizo had on display. Technically, all of them could fit into a box. Eizo could vanish in the middle of the night and no one would know. The apartment would return to its original state, erasing the previous occupant's traces with one move. If Ran failed to trap him here, he would slip away like E in the story.

  Suigetsu’s contract wasn’t enough. Reika and Takeru’s supervision of New World wasn’t enough. Ran knew that if he stood by and let events run their course, Eizo would scoot along with the bare minimum as he collected his paycheck, the true meaning of what he wanted to say obscured and buried under his words.

  Eizo returned with a bowl of cut peaches and two glasses of water. “I only have coffee. But you don’t drink that.”

  Ran took a glass from him. “You knew.”

  The younger man grinned in response. He clambered onto the sofa, angling himself so their shoulders wouldn’t touch. They ate their cutlets together, Eizo making occasional sounds of awe as he chomped away. Was he making up for his past abstinence from junk food? Seemed to like them spicy too, chowing down his three cutlets in record speed and then hungrily eyeing Ran’s uneaten one.

  Ran bit into the skin, eliciting a satisfying crunch that sent Eizo reeling in silent agony, his lips pressed together into a line, as if that could curb his craving. Lips coated with a thin film of grease, glistening and moist. Ran swallowed, his pulse quickening.

  “It’s already ten. Are you sure the deliveryman is coming?”

  Eizo checked his phone and frowned at the notification. “They rescheduled it for tomorrow morning.”

  “Another box of books?”

  “Moka pot.” Eizo flashed a tiny grin. “I’m tired of instant coffee. I’ve been drinking it for months. Can’t afford to have Mugino every day, you know.” He peeked at Ran, the usual peevishness returning. “Not until you guys accept my work.”

  “You should be grateful for Reika and Takeru. They are always speaking up for you and making sure your late ass gets paid on time.”

  “Enough about my ass,” Eizo grumbled as he bit into the peach.

  Like any standard publishing contract, Eizo received an advance upon signing with periodic payments made after meeting his milestones. So far, they paid him twice: once for the concept and synopsis, and another for the first ten chapters. Next was Suigetsu’s acceptance of the first season, amounting to thirty chapters. The contract was renegotiable after three years, with conditions written to allow Suigetsu to either cull his story or extend his contract, depending on New World’s performance.

  Ran adjusted himself on the sofa for a better look at Eizo. Under the fluorescent lights, the dark rings under his eyes became obvious. His cheekbones appeared sharper than the last time Ran had seen him. He seemed to have lost some weight.

  “Mugino is chump change to you anyway,” Ran said.

  “I spend what I earn.”

  Ran arched a brow at him.

  “Why do you look so surprised?” Eizo frowned. “Some of us do take pride in our independence.”

  “That’s just my usual face,” Ran deadpanned.

  Eizo stared at him for a second, then looked away.

  “What do you think of the story?” he asked.

  “Not my typical genre,” Ran said, “but I can understand why the premise would hook readers.”

  “I thought you hated it.”

  “I don’t hate stories.”

  Eizo shot him a doubtful look. “Then it’s me you hate.”

  “I don’t hate anything, for that matter. I dislike it only when someone executes a story poorly. To use New World as an example, the juniors like what they are seeing. They think your voice is unique. It’s no mean feat that you’ve developed a signature sound this early in your career.”

  “But what do you think of it?”

  “I’m the contrarian in the group.”

  Eizo sank back into the sofa, his legs so long that his knees hit the edge of the coffee table. His shorts rode up to his thighs, exposing a surgical scar that ran along the outer side of his right kneecap.

  “What if I stick to my guns and write the story the way I see fit?” Eizo asked, staring at the ceiling.

  “Are you so certain that a professional’s opinion won’t improve your work?”

  “If I write it the way it should be written.”

  “You think we can’t grasp the way you want it written?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Why did you sign with us? You can continue writing and uploading the story you want, on the platform you already have, without editorial input to dictate how it should go.” Ran looked at him questioningly. “It can’t be for the money.”

  “I like money.”

  “Fine. What else?”

  “I needed a bigger platform. Mr. Konishi said he could give me that.”

  While Yoeisha hosted the largest web novel platform in Japan, Eizo was also the classic case of a small fish in a big pond. He might have scaled the ranks, but others above him received the lion’s share of attention and Yoeisha’s marketing budgets. Now, he wanted more investment in his work.

  “You want fame?” Ran asked.

  A shake of his head.

  “Then what?”

  Eizo was still staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. Seeing the bowl of peaches languishing on his lap, Ran reached over, his hand resting on Eizo’s bare thigh as he plunged his fork into a slice of fruit. For a moment, he felt Eizo’s eyes on him, a silent inquisition perhaps, before looking away.

  Ran returned the fork to the bowl, the back of his fingers brushing against the scar as he casually dragged his hand across Eizo’s shorts. Eizo’s right leg twitched at the contact, an infinitesimal jerk of the limb that normally would have gone unnoticed. But Ran caught it. He’d been watching Eizo closely from the moment he entered the writer’s home, searching for a visceral reaction he had toward Ran for infiltrating his space. An awareness of them occupying the same space at the same time. Eizo’s gaze slowly flicked back to him. This time, it stayed on Ran’s face, soundlessly searching for an explanation.

  Is this why you stopped playing? Ran almost asked.

  Suddenly conscious of his actions, he removed his hand from Eizo’s knee. The feel of the smooth, raised tissue clung to his fingertips, commingling with the hot dampness of Eizo’s lips from that afternoon. He balled his fist, grinding his thoughts to a halt. He came here for one reason, and this was not it.

  Ran stood up from the sofa, ready to leave, when Eizo spoke. “A means to the end,” he said at last.

  “The end?”

  “Let me write my story, and you will know.”

  “At this stage, it’s no longer just the author and their work. This is publishing, the world you entered.”

  “I’m not writing for myself,” Eizo said. “I have a reader in mind.”

  “Reader or readers?”

  Eizo affirmed the singular but didn’t explain further.

  “Then convince me of your vision. Lay all your cards on the table. One by one, we pick them apart. We will dissect them until only the bones remain. Whatever survives gets to stay on the page. How’s that?”

  Ran expected Eizo to rise to the challenge, to grab him by the scruff of the collar again and insist with fervor that it was his authorial prowess that had scored him Suigetsu’s first-ever contract for a flagship serial. Of course, he had a vision—his and his only. Who were the plebeians to argue with him?

  Instead, the writer laughed. A mirthless sound that mimicked the shape of a laugh but sounded nothing like one. If Ran had to put an emotion to it, he would draw a blank.

  45

  Ran confirmed Goro’s presence at the izakaya in Shinjuku East before he entered. At first, he thought Goro had sent the wrong address. His friend hardly visited pubs, preferring jazz lounges with chaise chairs and wood-paneled interiors.

  Goro waved at him from a table by the windowsill. He was already on his second pint and had helped himself to chicken skin skewers. “Don’t mind me. I was famished.” He pushed the menu toward Ran. “These are half price until eight.”

  Ran studied the ratty, oil-stained menu, placed his order, and topped up two pints of Sapporo Gold before happy hour ended.

  He removed his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, jacket draped on the back of the chair. A look identical to Goro and all other salaried workers in a smoky pub on a Wednesday night. Some dined solo at the counter, while others had a friend or colleague with them. In the middle of the pub were rows of long tables that accommodated large groups, boisterous ones who sometimes drank late into closing hours, their laughter growing more hysterical with alcohol. He supposed the common thread tying them together was work exhaustion and middle-aged cynicism.

  “Heard Suigetsu’s undergoing restructuring soon,” Goro began. “The big move’s finally happening for you, huh?”

  Ran pushed up his sleeves to avoid the fabric bunching around his elbows. He made sure not to move it too high above his wrist. The point where his pulse throbbed was the limit.

  “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” Ran grabbed a fistful of peanuts and threw them back into his mouth in one go.

  “Nah, they are hatching. Things are working out in your favor.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your cutie pie agreed to it.”

  Ran nearly spat out his peanuts. “My what⁠—?”

  “I mean Eizo.” Goro took a bite of the baked potato slathered with mayonnaise, spring onions and bacon bits. “And I mean, he’s cute. Younger men are not my type, but you can’t deny that he’s got this boyish charm that sets your heart on fire a little. Those sculpted cheekbones. Those almond-shaped, thick-lashed eyes. How can anyone’s eyes be that shade of brown? And that height. Damn. That build. Makes me feel like I’m twenty again, ogling fine specimens flexing their God-given talents on the field.” He surveyed the pub crawlers. “Now I’m thirty-two, sitting in an office shooting emails and shaking sweaty palms at events. Where did the years go?”

  “Don’t most of those palms belong to rich old fuckers?”

  “I like them older, not old.”

  Goro had come out when he was eighteen. They were filling out career guidance forms with their preferred college choice when he told Ran he would enroll in Meiji University. He had attended a course preview for the Literary Arts and Media program and fallen for the assistant professor, whose mature charm and airy way of speech had beguiled him like no other person before. Unfortunately for Goro, love at first sight hardly worked out. Goro had bemoaned his ill fate for a month before dating a senior from the Film Studies club.

  Ran continued to chew on his peanuts. “What did he agree to?”

  “Using his real name for Suigetsu.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago. We had a call. Well, I texted him back at the end of October. Told him to think about it, and if he wanted, we could meet up and talk more. He didn’t answer until the middle of last month.” Goro drank his beer. “I have dealt with many writers who can’t decide whether to use a pseudonym or their real name. The first question that often comes up is privacy, especially for female writers. But names are just names, right?”

  “And?”

  “Eizo knows he isn’t a nobody author. He doesn’t seem very bothered by the loss of privacy. When the person behind a popular pseudonym stands in front of his work, he’s bound to get more attention. He knows that. Although he doesn’t have an author social media account, the hashtag with his pseudonym ranks high whenever he releases a new chapter. His number one fanboy, Jun-chan, takes screenshots of the latest updates and posts them along with his theories everywhere. Recently, some fans have been speculating whether the actor is Baka Nori. We both know it’s not. I wonder if that’s making Eizo want to take a stand.”