"Thank you for your hard work, Haruki-sensei."
"It's truly an honor to have you here today."
After the program ended and the live audience filed out in orderly lines, the backstage area buzzed with the afterglow of the recording. Matsuo Takashi stepped forward, shaking Haruki's hand with genuine gratitude.
Nagai Ayako followed, bowing deeply.
"Not at all," Haruki replied modestly. "It's I who should be thanking both of you. This was my first time on a television program, and it really opened my eyes to how much effort the hosts put in."
Matsuo chuckled. "I'm surprised you weren't nervous at all, Haruki-sensei. Most cross-industry guests freeze up the moment the red light goes on."
"Actually," Haruki said with a calm smile, "I was just very good at hiding it."
"Haha! Then could I trouble you for an autograph?"
"Of course."
The conversation was light, easy—filled with the kind of warmth that lingers after shared success.
Eri Kisaki, poised and elegant in her professional suit, entered backstage alongside Haruki's editor, Asamiya Nanae.
"Where's the director?" Nanae asked, frowning slightly. Director Suwa's absence was conspicuous. Normally, the director would appear immediately to greet the guests, offer thanks, and ensure everything wrapped smoothly. Yet the staff were rushing about, and Suwa was nowhere to be seen.
Just as Nanae began to suspect the man was deliberately being arrogant, a staff member came running, pale-faced.
"Mr. Matsuo—Director Suwa seems to be missing."
"Huh?"
"I tried calling the mixing room on the fourth floor. No answer. His phone's off too."
Matsuo frowned. "That's strange. Could you go check the mixing room?"
"Understood."
The staffer hurried off. Matsuo turned to Haruki, forcing a bitter smile. "I have no idea what's gotten into Suwa lately. I'm really sorry to keep you waiting."
"Don't worry about it," Haruki said mildly. "He's probably just tied up with something."
Eri Kisaki crossed her arms, watching Haruki with an approving smile. "You did very well today, Haruki."
"Then, how about we celebrate afterward, Auntie Eri?"
"Alright," she said with a small laugh. If her daughter weren't out on a date, Eri would have gladly taken this chance to introduce them.
They waited a while longer. Suddenly, the landline phone beside them rang sharply. A staff member answered—then froze.
"What?! Suwa's covered in blood?!"
Everyone turned.
The staffer's face was tight with horror as he hung up. "The call said Director Suwa… he's dead—in the mixing room."
"What?!"
"That's impossible!"
"Let's go!"
Disbelief hung thick in the air as they rushed out.
The mixing room was on the fourth floor, while they were on the ninth. When they reached the elevator, it was blocked—out of service. They had to take the stairs.
But halfway down, on the seventh floor, the stairwell was cluttered with stacked material boxes, completely blocking the path. Forced to backtrack, they switched to the stairs on the opposite side.
By the time they reached the fourth floor, a crowd had already gathered around the mixing room.
"Excuse me—please make way!"
They pushed through—and then froze.
Director Suwa Michihiko's body lay slumped against the soundproof window, blood smeared across the glass. A bullet hole marked his temple. The metallic scent of blood filled the room.
Screams broke out immediately.
"Someone call the police!"
"I already did!"
"Until they arrive—no one enters the room."
Haruki's calm, steady voice cut through the chaos. He stepped forward, standing at the doorway like a quiet observer of fate. His eyes were unreadable—cold, analytical. The others fell silent, instinctively stepping back.
Twenty minutes later, the police arrived.
At their head was a slightly plump, kind-faced inspector who moved with practiced authority. Officers cordoned off the scene, the coroner began examining the body, and witnesses were gathered for questioning.
A firearm case—rare in Japan, and infinitely more serious than a knife killing.
"Inspector Megure."
He turned, frowning—then blinked in surprise. "Oh my! Attorney Eri! What are you doing here?"
"I came with this young man for a program recording," Eri replied, gesturing toward Haruki.
Megure's eyes shifted. "And this is…?"
"Haruki," she said. "My nephew. A mystery novelist."
"Pleasure to meet you, Inspector Megure."
Megure's eyes lit up with interest. "A mystery novelist, huh? Then perhaps your insight will come in handy today."
The term "mystery novelist" caught Inspector Megure's attention. The last one he'd met—Kudō Shinichi—had been anything but ordinary.
So hearing the same title again sent a faint spark of anticipation through him.
Coming back to himself, Megure grasped Haruki's extended hand firmly.
Before they could speak further, an officer hurried over from the mixing room, saluting sharply.
"Report, Inspector Megure!"
"The victim has been identified as Suwa Michihiko, thirty-seven, producer at this TV station. Cause of death—gunshot wound to the head. The bullet passed through the skull and embedded itself in the flip-up window behind him."
Another officer followed up immediately.
"Sir, we also located additional bullets. Two beneath the poster by the window, and one beside the wall clock."
A third called out, "Four shell casings recovered in the corner of the room!"
Information poured in with practiced precision, the air thick with urgency and the sterile scent of gunpowder.
Perhaps out of respect for Eri Kisaki, Inspector Megure didn't send Haruki away from the discussion. The young novelist stood quietly nearby, observing the scene with unreadable eyes.
Megure stroked his chin, thinking aloud. "Four bullets fired… four shell casings. The number matches. The room has only one entrance and that window—no railing outside, nothing to stand on."
He looked up, voice firm. "There's no mistake. The killer must have come through the door, fired wildly to drive the victim toward the window, and then delivered the fatal shot."
Behind him, Matsuo Takashi's expression twitched—a faint, fleeting smirk that vanished as quickly as it came.
Haruki's gaze flicked toward him for a moment, then back to the body.
"Inspector Megure," he said suddenly, breaking the tense silence. "Would you mind if I entered the room to take a look?"
Megure raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do you have something in mind, Mr. Haruki?"
"Not exactly a conclusion," Haruki replied mildly, "but… as a mystery writer, I often imagine possible crime methods. And I just thought of a few—one of which might explain what happened here."
Megure stared at him for a moment, sweat forming near his temple.
(Imagine crime methods?)
He sighed inwardly.
No, no, this kid's way of talking… sounds a bit dangerous.