Romantic Troubles of Duanmu-kun

Episode 11: The Mystery Writer’s Nightmare

“Most aimless twenty-somethings fancy themselves as writers.”

***

Besides being a high school student, Duanmu Liang held another occupation. Specifically, he was a novelist. In this society, writing was one of the few legitimate ways for even a teenager to earn a steady income.

At his age, luck played a significant role. In short, he had placed in a New Writers’ Mystery Novel Competition one year, which opened the door to getting his work published—and thus, he began earning a living through his writing.

Along the way, his living conditions improved somewhat. Of course, the life of a writer wasn’t without its drawbacks. For instance, when he was deep in thought over a story—mired in difficult circumstances—he would often pluck his hair in frustration, worrying he might go bald at such a young age.

Still, he couldn’t imagine life without being a novelist.

…

Duanmu Liang had been living alone in Japan for five years.

In his childhood, he had suffered from a period of autism. He barely spoke, feared strangers, and was jolted awake nearly every night. He spent a nightmarish childhood in a sanatorium.

No matter what treatments were tried during that time, his autism showed no improvement.

The following three years were spent in welfare institutions and in the homes of relatives.

At the age of twelve, he inherited a legacy from a relative—of uncertain origin—settled in Japan. With no parents, no family, and no friends, he chose to study abroad alone in a foreign land.

He could no longer recall exactly when his symptoms began to ease.

Looking back, he realized that even then he had always felt out of place in the world—as if he were a stranger in his own life. He even doubted his own existence. In retrospect, what might have been seen as precociousness was more like an adolescent phase occurring ten years too early.

Even now, Duanmu Liang often found himself lost in pointless, wandering thoughts—perhaps remnants of his troubled past.

Were these thoughts truly his own? What if Duanmu Liang were nothing more than a bioengineered human—or even a robot—created by a nefarious scientist, with someone remotely controlling his every thought? What if the images in his mind were not his own, but simply programs being fed into his brain?

Or, perhaps, somewhere in the world there exists a zombie called “Duanmu Liang” who feels pain and believes it is conscious. Even if someone were to slice open his brain and find the same cells and connections as any other person, that “Duanmu Liang” might lack true consciousness or a soul—merely a puppet controlled by dark magic.

In any case, these were nothing more than meaningless delusions.

Many memories gradually fade, but the unforgettable nights and nightmares of his childhood treatment remained indelibly imprinted in his mind.

Only when he hid beneath warm blankets, sketching childish stories in his notebook and imagining a fantastical world far removed from reality, did young Duanmu Liang truly feel what it meant to be alive.

Perhaps it was at that moment he resolved to pursue a career as a writer.

Should those childhood terrors ever return, he feared he might once again spiral into the bewildering thought: “I’m nothing more than a machine programmed to write—a mere automaton, endlessly scribbling away.”

Only by enduring the agony of clawing one’s way out of a thicket of hardships and creating something entirely one’s own could he grasp the true essence of being human. This bittersweet experience, indescribable to anyone who had not lived it, also fueled a peculiar obsession in Duanmu Liang that others found hard to understand.

To outsiders, he was undoubtedly seen as a reclusive oddity—isolated at school—and Duanmu Liang never felt the need to dispute that label.

He treated everyone equally and held in high regard those who managed to live independently. For now, he was content with his way of life.

And yet…

***

Miyagi-san had been gone for a while now.

He sat cross-legged on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall clock.

In fact, he had maintained that very posture for quite some time—lost in hesitation, endlessly wavering.

“…To avoid revealing my location, I’ve had to disable certain communication channels. All I have left are deductions drawn from the available information. If I’m to neutralize those who threaten me, I must grasp even the smallest clue.”

That was how she had explained her fixation on tracking down the Naegawa City murderer.

“So it’s not just a matter of personal interest,” he thought.

“Sure, interest plays a part… but preserving myself is paramount.”

Those were the last words she had spoken to him before leaving.

“By the way, landlord-san—have you seen the videotape?”

The girl had asked lightly, with a carefree expression.

Duanmu Liang said nothing.

“Consider it a parting gift,” she had replied with a smile, seemingly unfazed by his silence.

…

From the videotape package, the medical reports and dossiers on the murderer were carefully laid out on the table by Duanmu Liang.

Even the handgun had been safely stored away.

To receive such a dangerous item casually presented as a gift made it impossible for him to remain calm; after all, avoiding trouble was his only means of survival.

…

—There probably wouldn’t be many chances to see Miyagi-san again.

When that thought crossed his mind, an unexpected surge of emotion overwhelmed him—so intense it surprised him.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling. After all, wasn’t this, in its own way, a good thing? Because…

“Even though I’m a mystery novelist who conjures up bizarre cases every day, being entangled in a real murder investigation is no laughing matter.”

Of course, on the bright side, such an experience might provide extraordinary material for his writing.

…

…

“Ah, right. That’s it!”

The novelist’s eyes suddenly sparkled, as if he had just had an epiphany.

“Even if it’s a vicious murder case, I could treat it as nothing more than a puzzle on paper…”

Could I write it down?

I’ll record every detail of these past two weeks—as if it were a novel. And in the end, my fictional detective, ‘Duanmu-kun’, will piece together the truth behind the incident.

Not that I’m truly concerned about that strikingly attractive, well-proportioned college girl who might make an ideal wife—just kidding.

“If I were the protagonist…”

He opened his laptop, placing his fingers on the keyboard. Looking at the documents spread out on the table, the young novelist’s expression turned serious.

“Let’s begin the story with the moment the male lead discovers his female neighbor dragging a corpse into her home—”