NOVEL NEXT Episode 17 - Boundary Line
Episode 17: Boundary Line
Five days after that incident.
“…I’m reaching my limit,” he muttered.
He relaxed his muscles completely, letting his full weight rest against the dirty yellow wall. Taking deep breaths, he tried to recover what little strength remained.
Faint shadows danced in his vision. When he closed his eyes, he could clearly see the darkness lurking behind his eyelids. The shadows imprinted on his retinas resembled a city at night.
To fulfill his duties as a “detective character” before spring break ended, he had journeyed to Nagawa City after visiting Dr. Shirakawa.
He spent three days there, examining documents from the city hall about disaster prevention drills and schools from eight years ago, confirming his suspicions.
Returning immediately to Tokyo, he tracked down clues about the cassette tape he’d discovered under the overpass, searching through department stores and electronics shops.
Since it was an older model no longer in stores, he finally obtained customer information from a secondhand shop in Akihabara.
That was fortunate! With more common items, finding leads wouldn’t have been so simple—it would have exceeded what a normal high school student could accomplish.
Still, the effort and energy expended went beyond what any novelist could endure. He hadn’t slept for three consecutive days. His mind and body hadn’t gotten proper rest since finishing his manuscript.
There hadn’t been any chances to rest along the way, constantly alternating between intense thinking and walking. Collapsing suddenly wouldn’t have been surprising.
‘Am I pushing myself too hard?’ The thought had crossed his mind, but he kept pressing forward toward the truth.
Someone who was neither clever nor talented could only chase the threads of the past. If he couldn’t even manage that much, realizing his life’s failure would hurt more than mere exhaustion.
Not far from where he stood were two weathered mailboxes by the entrance, their paint peeling, stuffed with overflowing advertisements and newspapers.
Green weeds sprouted through cracks in the floor near his hands and feet. The verdant leaves grew wild and abundant, completely overtaking the flower bed.
The building he leaned against was a small apartment complex. Its exterior gave off a desolate impression—in the three hours he’d sat here, no one had entered or left.
However, the moss and dirt showed various footprints, indicating it wasn’t uninhabited. Perhaps the residents worked night shifts.
Someone living here had purchased the same model of cassette tape, possibly someone who had met Otsuka Ken.
Would finding the killer be good for Miyagi-san? But that was irrelevant now. He couldn’t contact her anyway.
The novelist slowly stood up, supporting himself against the wall.
“…After visiting this person, I’ll rest.”
He hadn’t considered the possibility that no one would be home—or rather, he hadn’t wanted to imagine it. Could he ask them to let him rest for a while in an unfamiliar place?
…
Third floor.
Heavy footsteps, climbing the stairs one at a time.
He didn’t even remember reaching this person’s door; his mind had drifted, and suddenly he was at his destination.
“Hey, is anyone home?”
His drawn-out call was accompanied by “knock knock” sounds on the door.
Three long, one short.
Two long, three short.
One long, one short.
Tap tap tap.
His mind blank as he knocked out unknown signals, he began to accept that no one was inside.
“No way…”
The novelist banged his head against the doorframe.
THUD!
Then, from the slightly open door gap, a rush of rotting stench and the smell of blood flooded his nostrils and filled his lungs. His eyes widened involuntarily, and thanks to that, his mind cleared somewhat.
‘What’s going on?’
His limbs began to stiffen.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Opening and closing his hands revealed a sticky sensation.
Was it from the sweat secreted by his palms, or from touching the viscous air?
The novelist’s gaze darted around, searching for a makeshift weapon. He spotted a dust-covered fire extinguisher in the corner.
‘No, no, no, that won’t work…’ It was too heavy—suitable for a masked killer weighing 200 pounds to swing around, but excessive for self-defense. Besides, in his current state, he could barely lift a frying pan.
Even so, he crouched down and removed its safety pin. Just in case.
Then, taking a deep breath, he assumed a running stance.
He backed up to the opposite door,
Creating about three meters of running distance.
It didn’t matter if he cracked his head open—if anything, that might help him think more clearly.
…
THUD!
The sound was surprisingly dull, more muffled than expected. The impact brought dizziness from blood rushing to his head, his eardrums felt swollen, as if tiny insects were flying inside. He could clearly hear his heartbeat.
As he fell to the ground with the broken-down door, his vision plunged into darkness. Warm liquid trickled down his forehead, and when he tried to push himself up using the door, he lost balance and collapsed.
His nose couldn’t smell anything anymore.
The overwhelming sensory assault had numbed his sense of smell.
Trembling, he pulled out his phone from his pocket and turned on the screen. The faint white electronic glow illuminated the dark room. The firefly-like light gently enveloped the dust in the room.
…
The source of the stench lay on the floor.
Fallen bloated organs, flesh like fish scales, excrement. Above a chair that gleamed with a slimy sheen hung an emaciated figure. The mess flowing across the floor must have slid out from there.
Even though he’d had some idea of what to expect, witnessing the grotesque scene made the novelist, half-kneeling on the floor, tremble uncontrollably.
“Ugh… ugh…”
He wept unconsciously.
To prevent vomit from surging up from his stomach, he buried his head in his hands, prostrate on the ground, continuing to whimper.
His mouth filled with an acidic taste—was it from human internal fermentation, or from swallowing the rotting air of the dark room?
Where did the normal world end?
Where was the boundary line of madness?
His brain, as if determined to break itself, violently dragged his consciousness from exhaustion, abandoned self-recovery, and thought in irritating fragments. Pain shot through his skull. His forehead began to burn.
What happened after that remained unclear.
…
Early morning, February 9th.
Upon returning to Amazu Manor, the novelist fell into a prolonged fever.