Suicide had long been the most common form of homicide in Japan, and the protagonist's schemes were disturbingly effective.
Even after being summoned to the police station three times in a row and placed under close surveillance, there was still no evidence linking him to the murders.
To craft such flawless tricks, it wasn't just his transformation through darkness that mattered—he also owed much to his brilliant mother-in-law's guidance.
The Ten Commandments of Detective Fiction, the Eighteen Laws, the Twenty Rules… under the generous instruction of his mentor, Judge C, he truly honed his craft.
At last, the protagonist stood before the only judge who had refused him entry.
His feelings toward this man were complicated—jealousy and envy toward the friend who had been chosen instead of him.
Hatred for casting his vote on someone with no chance of winning while withholding it from him, and yet, deep down, a faint admiration for his uncompromising purity.
Judge E spotted him through the door, tense and wary, shotgun already in hand.
The protagonist spoke with conflicted emotion.
"Tell me… were you satisfied with my trick this time?"
"You lunatic! What the hell does your trick have to do with me?!" Judge E barked back.
And so, the protagonist was dragged away by his three-hundred-and-seventy-two-pound wife.
Until the very end, he never asked anyone the one question burning inside him—
"Did you see through my trick this time?"
But anyone who had read the novel knew: that line wasn't just for the judges, or for the ridiculous awards, but a challenge hurled straight at society itself.
His fellow writers—those who had mocked him at the award ceremony, those graceful mystery novelists speaking with polished Kansai accents—were drinking elegantly when the news broke on TV: another string of mystery novelists had been murdered.
Wine glasses slipped from trembling hands and shattered against polished shoes.
They exchanged dumbstruck glances, then, as one, shouted the protagonist's name.
Without even paying their tabs, they grabbed their coats and bolted out of the bar.
Why linger? They all wrote mysteries—of course they knew what happens when sworn enemies gather together: it always ends in a chain of murders.
Even as they ran, some were already whispering, wondering who had invited them in the first place.
Surely, that person must be the protagonist's accomplice!
The protagonist never won an award. But his book went viral.
The publishers didn't care whether he had really killed those three judges.
As long as people wanted to read, they would print.
Reprints! New editions!
And as he looked down at the check in his hand, the protagonist finally had his answer.
This time, everyone really was satisfied with his trick.
The End.
———————————————————————
"Honestly, if I hadn't watched you type out every single word myself, Kyousuke, I wouldn't believe anyone could finish a novel like this in such a short time. It's…" Kasumigaoka Utaha exhaled in awe, finally letting go of the mouse.
Brilliant. No—perfect.
Aside from some grammatical slips and small details of daily life, she couldn't find a single flaw.
The novel wasn't long—about 130,000 words—and this was already her second read-through.
The first time, she had been stunned by its brilliance, but she worried she might just be biased because of her feelings for Kyousuke.
So she reread it with the harshest, most critical eye possible.
Still flawless.
If anything, her only complaint was that it left her wanting more.
Why stop at killing just three judges?
With such dazzling tricks, she desperately wanted to see more!
Why leave the protagonist with even a single safe haven?
If he had lost absolutely everything, his transformation would've been even more magnificent.
As for Judge E—Toyosaka Sanjurou—she could understand.
That was Kyousuke's little game, a playful literary nod toward Osaka Gou.
But those were just her personal wishes, her desire to see Kyousuke unleash his full brilliance without restraint.
"To release something this outstanding just for the sake of that incident… what a waste," she murmured.
In truth, this novel could easily have been used to compete for the next round of awards.
Publishing it in such a rush felt criminally wasteful.
Beside her, Yukari tilted her head slightly, as if about to say something, but in the end only pressed her lips into a faint smile.
She gave no critique, no agreement—just knelt gracefully at Utaha's side as she had during proofreading.
"It's not a waste. I can write stories like this anytime I feel like it," Kyousuke replied with an easy smile, hitting the print command to produce the final draft.
And why wouldn't he be confident?
Though it was presented as his solo work, in truth it was the ultimate patchwork.
The early chapters had come naturally—such scenes were child's play for him now.
But the real weight lay in the tricks at the end.
Those, he had simply lifted straight from the masterpieces of his memory.
Other writers build entire novels around a single murder method.
He? He crammed in three.
If this still wasn't enough to be considered brilliant, then the problem wasn't with him—it was with society's taste and judgment!
At his words, Yukari, quietly organizing the documents, allowed herself the tiniest smile.
She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and stole a glance at her god.
'Yes… there was nothing in this world Kyousuke couldn't do.'
Warm pages fresh from the copier were neatly bound into sets.
Kyousuke handed one copy to Kisaki Tetta, who had been waiting outside.
After a respectful bow, Kisaki departed in a black sedan toward his assigned destination.
Back at the low table, Kyousuke sat once more.
Utaha's wine-red eyes brimmed with infatuation as she gazed at him.
This was her beloved.
Noticing her stare, Kyousuke lifted his head with a smile, ready to say something—only to be stunned by the heat in her eyes, so thick with desire it was almost tangible.
'Wait a second.'
'Didn't I just write a mystery novel? Why does it feel like Utaha-senpai just finished reading smut?'
Startled, Kyousuke froze.
Could his writing really be so good that even a serious mystery stirred that kind of reaction?
And just then, something tickled against his knee.
He didn't even need to look down—he already knew.
A small foot, wrapped in stockings, was brushing against him.
A quick glance told him Yukari had already slipped out with a copy to show Mitsuha and the others.
She was meticulous—she'd never miss the chance to share a new work right away.
As for Eriri, sitting to his right, she looked frustrated.
Clearly stung by Utaha finishing her proofreading first, she was furiously sketching, biting her lip in determination.
Which meant…
Without moving his upper body, Kyousuke let one hand slide down, smoothly capturing the little foot teasing him.
It was soft and warm to the touch.
Despite the rain outside, the room was well heated, and Utaha's foot was perfectly toasty.
The unique texture of black stockings—slick, luxurious fabric overlaying smooth, tender skin—was irresistible beneath his fingers.
He first cupped her entire foot in his palm, marveling at its delicate size, then slowly began to trace over her round little toes, one by one.
With every touch, her toes curled shyly, then stretched out again, playfully pressing against his palm.
Kyousuke's fingers trailed upward from Utaha's dainty toes, savoring the delicate curve of her foot.
Through the thin veil of black stockings, he could feel each fragile bone beneath her skin, like something that might snap with the gentlest tap. Exquisite.
Fragile. The very essence of youthful grace, all in the shape of her soft little foot.
And simply touching her wasn't enough. His hand slipped up past her ankle, gliding along her calf.
The stockings were thickest around the toes, with a cotton-like texture.
But by the time he reached her shapely calves, the material stretched thinner, silk rubbing lightly beneath his fingertips, taut and smooth with every flex.
Higher still, and his palm pressed against the fullness of her thighs.
When it came to showing off her assets, Kasumigaoka Utaha was a master.
She had more than enough knowledge and discipline to maintain a body that was both elegant and dangerously alluring.
Even in something as ordinary as sitting, she knew exactly how to angle herself to show her most irresistible side.
So when Kyousuke's hand crept upward, Utaha shifted subtly, stretching her legs beneath the low table, angling them just so.
Perfectly hidden. No one could see a thing.
His hand brushed against the firm muscle beneath her thigh, and in his mind's eye it was like an HD image came to life.
Then his palm rolled upward, sinking into her rounded thigh.
The stockings stretched tighter here, thin enough that it almost felt like bare skin beneath his touch.
Almost.
That tiny barrier—thin yet undeniable—was maddening.
Like scratching an itch through cloth, it left him hungrier with every stroke.
The more he touched, the more he wanted to tear those black stockings off and feel her thighs without anything in the way.
And these stockings weren't just any pair.
Utaha never wasted money on overpriced Western brands.
Instead, she adored rare, high-quality local ones, chosen with a meticulous eye.
She had her own philosophy—matching stockings not just to her outfit but even to the weather.
Like today.
The rain had left the air damp and unpleasant, the tatami mats clammy to the touch.
Yet her legs—smooth, sleek, and warm—were as flawless as ever.
From her tiny feet to her long calves and her full thighs, every part of her felt like it had been made for him to savor.
Kyousuke's grip tightened.
Caresses weren't enough anymore—he was kneading her thigh, hungry for more.
But with the stockings in the way, the supple flesh slipped teasingly from his grasp each time.
He glanced around guiltily.
Eriri was still furiously sketching, teeth clenched, totally lost in her work.
Good assistant, he praised silently.
Then his eyes slid back to Utaha.
Her wine-red eyes, already sultry before, were now molten—so hot, so thick with desire they seemed to drip.
Her flawless face practically glowed with spring heat.
Even her blouse… when had it come undone?
Every little detail screamed invitation, and Kyousuke's heart skipped.
With his sharp eye for micro-expressions, he could read the unspoken words in her gaze clearly: Rip them. That's what stockings are for.
His fingers pressed deeper into her thigh, sinking into the soft, yielding flesh.
'Should I… tear them?'
He wasn't really conflicted.
His body had already made its choice.
And then—
Eriri suddenly stretched with a groan, raising her arms overhead.
One small foot, wrapped in white over-the-knee socks, kicked out lazily… and bumped straight into Kyousuke's hand.
'Huh? What's this? That doesn't feel like a knee…'
Suspicion flickered across her face as she turned, blue eyes narrowing at the shameless "assistant" making her do all the work.
Kyousuke met her stare with a perfectly polite, natural smile.
Eriri's foot shifted again, nudging against his hand. Her brow furrowed.
'Is that… Kyousuke's hand?'
What's his hand doing down there?
Her sapphire eyes widened, shock flashing across her delicate face. And before she could say a word, her foot was seized.
Her breath caught. Those bright blue eyes widened like crystal spheres.
'M-my foot… Kyousuke is holding my foot in his hand?!'
She raised her brows in disbelief, glancing at the shameless culprit.
But he still wore that same calm, polite smile.
'This guy… he knows exactly what he's doing!'
Cold sweat beaded at Kyousuke's temple.
Good thing he grabbed Eriri's foot in time—otherwise, she might have noticed Utaha's black-silk-clad leg draped across his lap.
Under the table, the situation was… complicated.
Eriri sat cross-legged, her right foot stretched out—now firmly in Kyousuke's grasp.
Utaha's long, stockinged leg was sprawled across his lap, angled so it hovered just above Eriri's shin.
'K-Kyousuke… he…'
Eriri's porcelain cheeks flushed pink, her sharp mind racing at full speed.
Kyousuke's been holding my foot this whole time… and his hand was already down there, doing who-knows-what…
Like flowing water, like a drifting wind—the pieces fell into place in her brilliant mind.
Beneath her golden hair and princess-like airs, the true genius detective awoke: Eriri, master of deduction!
There could only be one truth.
'Kyousuke… has been secretly trying to touch my foot all along!'
'Yes—that must be it!'
After pouring his passion into a finished novel, his fire hadn't cooled.
On the contrary, it burned hotter, fiercer, until the emptiness inside him demanded release.
And to soothe that hunger, he longed for her—for the exquisite, art-like beauty of her delicate little feet!
It was the only explanation!
"Hmph…" Though it was embarrassing, she had to admit—Kyousuke's taste was as impeccable as ever.
Of course he would recognize the truth: her feet were priceless treasures, one of a kind in all of history.
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