Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On his way home from work, Murakse detoured to Ginza and purchased one necktie he had had his eye on for some time—a dark green base woven with rainbow-colored arabesque patterns.
It had cost over six yen.—Perhaps it was a bit too extravagant for someone of his station? Had he made a mistake?
With this slight unease and—separately—a secret thrill from having made a modest yet extravagant purchase, he briskly boarded the bus.
However, as he rode the swaying bus and continued to dwell on the necktie tucked in his pocket, that single tie—so unlike anything befitting a youth, so incongruous beside his perpetually drab existence—seemed to bloom suddenly like a beautiful flower out of place, and he found himself overcome with a flush of embarrassment.

"I might have gotten a bit too carried away!"

No sooner had he inadvertently muttered this under his breath than an uneasy fluttering rose in his chest, leaving him assailed by pangs of regret.
"If I were to wear something this flashy, the apartment crowd would have a field day teasing me!"

Thinking this way, Murakse grew increasingly self-conscious and found himself at a loss.

—Murakse’s six-story bachelor apartment was packed full of energetic, cheerful students and young workers.
Indeed, even a single necktie would spark speculation—how someone had suddenly become fashionable lately, how they must have acquired a lover—and they all got along so strangely well that whenever they gathered, they would trade youthful jests, much like students from Heidelberg.
Among them, Murakse alone was such a bashful person—an awkward blusher who couldn’t so much as tell a joke, let alone laugh aloud—that he stood out like a single shade-loving vine in a sunlit garden.
Naturally, he alone was treated as something apart—indeed, they regarded him with such a tendency toward mockery that they singled him out,

“Murakse-san—”

they had a way of adding “-san” when addressing him.
Murakse knew that in both attire and demeanor, he was the most unsophisticated compared to anyone, yet until now he had never given such matters a thought; however, lately he couldn’t help feeling that being a young man who lived up to youth’s ideals—cheerful, able to drink alcohol and sing songs, with clothing smartly tailored—must surely bring happiness.

"It must bring happiness…"

He couldn’t help but think this way.
He had developed a habit of frequently setting up a mirror on his desk and gazing intently at his own face.
And,

"This face of mine—there’s something quite dashing about it, isn’t there!"

he muttered, staring intently.
And then he would,

"Alright!"

And then he would clench his lower abdomen with resolve—it had become a habit.
"Starting tomorrow, I’ll become a cheerful man, like a reborn version of myself!"

Yet, though he repeatedly worked himself up to firm resolve in the solitude of his room, the moment he stepped outside and faced others’ gazes, an utterly irresistible, strangely oppressive feeling of “How mortifying!”—inexplicable and without cause—would overwhelm him.
The sensation constricted his entire body—as if bound by an ill-fitting coat, or armor, or shackles of indescribable force—and just as the adage “If only there were a hole to crawl into!” foretold, he flushed crimson without reason.
When he joined the company of cheerful people, those thoughts would race through his body like a fierce wind, and he would shrink to the size of a mouse.

“Hey, everyone…”

Just as Murakse—with his usual downcast tilt of the head and bashful demeanor—came slinking into the dining hall, his neighbor and friend Kato, still holding a water cup, rose from the central dining table wearing a bright smile.
Kato was a man who had graduated from the same university as Murakse the previous year—two years Murakse’s junior—and combined the vivacity that seemed to epitomize Murakse’s recent envy with an almost nonchalant attitude toward all things; he was the very image of a model modern young man.
He had been active in the social affairs department of a prominent newspaper company and had gained ever-growing fame—and rightly so!
Murakse was always compelled by a mix of admiration and pressure.
At times, Murakse—driven by vague, tormented emotions—would in the end,

“I should have quit being a middle school teacher and applied to become a newspaper reporter instead. Then this stodgy disposition of mine would’ve been blown away, and I think I could’ve become at least a somewhat more spirited man…”

He had carelessly blurted such things out to Kato. At the same time, Kato suddenly doubled over as if unable to contain himself,

“Ha ha ha… Murakse-san wants to be a—ha ha… a newspaper reporter, huh?! Ha ha ha… What an ambitious fellow you are!” he roared with laughter. “That’s just like a lame man hoping to run a marathon!”

Kato did nothing but continue laughing; he was far from showing any concern for Murakse’s sorrow.
Murakse pressed his forehead against the wall, overcome with shame and sorrow to the point of near tears.
The more he saw Murakse’s state, the more Kato’s laughter refused to cease.

“To think such torment exists within you, Murakse-san?!”
“But Murakse-san, that isn’t something you need to worry about so much.”
“Your problem is…”

Kato wiped the smile from his face and said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“In short, it’s that Girl-shy illness—and it’s relentlessly turned inward.”
“Of course, it’s in the realm of mental illness—but unlike ordinary nervous exhaustion, once a certain time comes, it’ll surely be cured—tomorrow even, no—rather, even in the next instant—”

Kato formed a wry smile.

"What do you mean by 'a certain time'?"

Murakse couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being teased, yet struck by something jarring, he couldn’t help retorting.

“Marriage—”

Kato, feigning solemnity with deliberate intent, growled in a low voice.

However, Murakse could not believe that this obstinate illness could be cured by something like mere marriage. He could not help but think it was rooted in some deeper causality of disposition. …“An illness causing utter panic upon encountering women—a type of perverse psychology—Girl-shy.”—Murakse had never wanted to think himself such a wretched patient, yet when stated so plainly, it undeniably matched. Such opportunities were exceedingly rare for him, yet whenever he happened to face a beautiful woman—regardless of who she was—all the blood in his body would rush to his head without reason, rendering him utterly incapable of speaking normally. No matter how much he strained, his knees would gradually begin to tremble; before long, his vision would blur, and assailed by violent palpitations, he couldn’t remain there for more than five minutes. When this intensified, even while out walking he would experience the same impulses toward women passing by; upon seeing stimulating paintings or text, or hearing others’ conversations, it would escalate into full-blown attacks—or so it was said—yet Murakse could clearly perceive that his own symptoms had progressed precisely to the brink of the third stage. This illness was no mere youthful melancholy but a legitimate sexual perversion comparable to masochism or sadism—one that doomed its patient to an irrevocably wretched marriage life. Kato had dismissed it so lightly, yet if he were indeed to diagnose it as such, Murakse would have no choice but to become that pitiful figure crushed beneath such a terrifying fate—but Murakse, not sharing Kato’s carefree perspective, already possessed his own understanding of the disease.

Ever since that incident, whenever Kato encountered Murakse, he would tease him with remarks like, “You ought to start thinking about marriage soon,” or “Everyone’s been saying how oddly you’ve been acting lately—could it be you’ve found yourself a sweetheart? Or is there some other happy news?” To avoid such encounters, Murakse had taken to eating meals outside whenever possible, scheming to keep his face unseen by the others—but on this day, distracted entirely by thoughts of his necktie, he carelessly returned home on an empty stomach. When he timidly appeared in the dining hall, it was just as Kato had risen to deliver one of his speeches.

II

According to the speech Kato had finally attempted with a slightly theatrical gesture—today as well, “the usual beauty”—that is to say, our Ketei—was visiting Room 28, Omori’s quarters.
Ketei had at last acknowledged Omori’s ardor and—ah!—been embraced as the cherished jewel of his heart; an incident from the night before last, as Omori himself had disclosed to me. Now gentlemen—nay, even I who stand before you am a lord of sorrow’s mire, feeling defeat’s sting no less than any here—but since matters have reached this pass, we cannot but raise both hands in blessing over them! And as they shall soon grace this dining hall with their presence, let us cast off all past grievances and welcome these love-struck comrades with thunderous applause—or so he declared.
Surrounded by cries of “Hear, hear!” and boisterous applause, Kato retrieved balloons and multicolored streamers from a nearby basket and distributed them to the group.—The one they nicknamed Ketei was a waitress at the café across from the apartment, whose regular patrons consisted almost entirely of the residents.
Murakse had occasionally been invited by Kato and Omori and gone along—but had that lovely girl already reached the point of speaking of such love?
And now, as if belatedly realizing it, he panicked.

Despite likely being more indifferent than anyone in the apartment—rarely doing more than catching an occasional glimpse—the moment he heard Kato’s speech, a fierce sense of envy arose within him, and he plunged into the deepest valley of melancholy of all.

At that moment, Kato raised his voice once more,

“Now then—our bride and groom’s grand procession seems quite laborious, does it not? For us, this verges on breathless anticipation! The stage stands ready—how progresses our leading man’s preparations? What news of his state?”
“I wish to entrust this mission to one among us, yet I surmise that neither myself nor any of you esteemed gentlemen possesses a warrior capable of ascending those staircases with resolute and composed steps.”
“Therefore—shall we not confer this valiant expedition upon our most honorable Mr. Murakse Gohatsu—”

and surveyed the group.

Murakse’s throat constricted until no voice emerged; he waved his hands frantically, but the overwhelming applause seemed to render him invisible to every eye.—As Murakse rose unsteadily like a sleepwalker and tried to flee the dining hall, Kato—misinterpreting this as consent—came chasing after him,

“Do be mindful of your footsteps.”
“You are the representative of the entire apartment, so there is absolutely no need to be apprehensive.”
“When you approach that door, after observing the interior for at least three minutes, please muffle your footsteps and return.”
“And it will suffice if you report in detail exactly what your hearing has perceived.”

The elevator door opened and he was shoved inside.
Kato entered with him and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
When it stopped, Kato meticulously opened the elevator door without a sound, ushered Murakse out, then quietly descended back down.

Omori’s room was at the end of the corridor that turned at a right angle from there.
With the dim lights left on, the corridor lay as silent as midnight. To walk without a sound, he would have to stifle even his breath—Murakse, fidgeting five times more nervously than necessary, clung to the shadows like a caretaker as he made his way toward Omori’s room.
But assaulted by tremors as though he had committed some grave crime, his legs stiffening at every turn, every few steps forward saw his knees buckle and curl up as he let out a sigh toward his chest.

He trudged like a blind man’s cane, yet finally reached Omori’s door, feeling as though he had transformed into a shadow-like figure, and gingerly pressed his ear against it.—Whether his own ear was assailed by a hollow ringing or whether the room truly lay dormant in silence’s depths, no matter how intently he strained to listen, not even an insect’s murmur reached him.

It was standard for every room’s door to have a dial made by layering two circular-cut cardboard pieces, displaying labels like “Out” or “In” as needed. Beyond just “In” and “Out,” they included various indicators like “Bathing,” “Dining Hall,” or “Out Walking” for visitors’ convenience. Around that time, it became fashionable to secretly scribble comical messages in the margins while residents were unaware—pranks where people would switch the dial to display these labels when occupants were away. Some particularly bold schemes emerged: “At Pawnshop on Errand” or “Out Carousing” paled next to others. Victims included those tagged with “Hospitalized—Venereal Disease Ward (No Need to Worry),” who suffered visits from provincial fathers at inopportune times, or those directed to “Proceed to Assignation House—Contact via Phone Number…”

“For inquiries, please call [number]—” Such elaborately vengeful pranks led to red-faced encounters when sisters visited targeted residents, yet this trend showed no sign of waning. They schemed during each other’s absences as if competing to vent their grudges.

Unless complaints came from the apartment manager, this prank war seemed unstoppable.—Murakse himself occasionally rotated his door dial to check the margins, but perhaps because he was forlornly “treated as a saint,” he never once discovered any mischief there.

Murakse’s dial offered only two options: “Out” and “In.”

Beyond his regular job, he worked twice weekly as a tutor.

Murakse had unwittingly forgotten all about this vogue for pranks.

That being said, Murakse—remaining utterly faithful to Kato and the others’ request—kept pressing his ear reverently against Omori’s door. Yet no matter how much time passed, not a single cough echoed from within; the room was as silent as a coffin.

“I must have carelessly let my footsteps be noticed—it seems I’ve failed—”

He turned back and thought of reporting thus to the people in the dining hall.
At that moment, he suddenly noticed the door dial before his eyes. Assuming it would show "Occupied," he looked carefully—but instead found a small-print annotation reading "Marriage Meeting in Progress."
Moreover, it had been scribbled in someone else’s pencil.
Indeed, that prank had finally developed to such an extent that someone had even proposed imposing a sort of tax on those who spent too long conversing with female visitors, but—

“This is it!”

With what seemed like sympathy for the room’s occupants, Murakse stared wide-eyed.—But even so—were Omori and the others actually here?
Had I been deceived yet again?
Should I knock even harder— As he stiffened his resolve and straightened up— “Mr. Murakse, isn’t it!”

Suddenly, it was Omori’s voice—laced with a wry smile.
Murakse involuntarily leaped back from the door like a bat.

“Please…”

It was Ketei’s clear voice.
Then Omori pulled the door open from inside.—“Quite the role you were assigned, Mr. Murakse—did it have any effect?”

“...”

Murakse was simply bewildered, unable to comprehend the reason.

“Was my rough treatment too harsh? …Well, how about a glass of water…”

“……What on earth is that?”

Murakse’s fingertips were trembling to an absurd degree.

“Ketei has been coming to collect a debt since earlier—even though I’ve asked her to wait four or five days, she absolutely refuses to budge—”

“But Mr. Omori! Your ‘four or five days’ have stretched over a month now! Mother insists we mustn’t fall for that trick anymore…”

“Oh, come now!”

Omori pressed his large hand over Ketei’s mouth.
And he continued:

“By saying this, I’m breaking my promise with Kato—and I apologize—but seeing your pale, earnest face like this, I can’t stay silent… Listen, Mr. Murakse—we all devised this together to cure your illness.”

“But your marriage…”

“That’s a joke!”

Omori leaned back against the sofa, faced the ceiling, and laughed.
“Ketei says she dislikes me and Kato the most in this entire apartment.
“And she says she likes Mr. Murakse the most…”

“Mr. Omori, you idiot!”

Pretending not to see Ketei striking Omori’s back, Murakse panicked and dashed out into the corridor.

“Ugh, I’m starving…”

Murakse heard Omori’s yawn-like voice at the corridor’s bend.—He no longer had the courage to show his face in the dining hall, so he fled to his fourth-floor room, locked the door from inside, and burrowed into bed.

I wonder if what Omori said was true.
Murakse could no longer bring himself to set foot in Ketei’s shop.
Even so—why was it that despite being older than them—when I thought this, everything became so absurdly mortifying that the world turned pitch black.
“It seemed to have finally neared the third stage,” he groaned.

III

The boy whom Murakse tutored was Takefuyu—a third-year student at his own school who struggled with mathematics—but Murakse found himself perpetually tormented by Takefuyu’s older sister Fuyuko.
Fuyuko, a woman who appeared carefree yet possessed delicate nerves—a tennis player of striking clarity—overwhelmed Murakse from head to toe even when he merely became aware of her presence from afar. Yet whenever her brother’s study sessions began, she would invariably emerge to keep him company,

“I often whisper with Mother,” she said, “about whether there exists among modern youths anyone as dignified as Sensei…”

She paid that sort of respect.

“It’s not that I’m particularly dignified or anything...”

Murakse was so flushed all over that he couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her face, yet the more deferential she became, the more rigidly he stiffened—until he was overcome by a suffocating sensation as though a heavy stone had been placed on his back.
If only for a brief moment, how blissful it would be to interact with such a radiant girl in the same nonchalant manner as Kato and Omori and their group—he envied this deeply. Yet the mere thought of himself attempting such behavior would likely spiral into some preposterous act of madness, leaving him shuddering in dread.
Fuyuko had many male friends, but they were all dashing sportsman types who would gather cheerfully in salons and spend nights engaged in pleasant small talk.

“Sensei, won’t you join us too—”

When invited, Murakse—unable to call it unpleasant—would watch the lively scene, but even as conversations shifted from movies to sports to music to literature, he never managed to interject a single word.

“Fuyuko-san, you see—the question of who among us she favors most has been a major issue for ages now, but her social manner stays so perfectly balanced that we just can’t pin it down—”

There was someone who chattered such jokes while smoking a cigarette in a charming manner.

“After hearing that, we still want her to keep associating with us—it’s really bothering us.”

There was also someone who jested in such a manner and made the whole group laugh.

Even Murakse had cut out photographs of Fuyuko that frequently appeared in sports and women’s magazines to gaze at them in secret, but such acts were treated as grave secrets.

“I’ve already collected as many as twenty photos of Fuyuko-san. Eventually, what kind of guy will marry her, or will I draw the lucky lot—indulging in such fantasies… Ha ha ha…”

There were even those who, while Murakse had resolutely abandoned all but the mere utterance of “Perhaps I—,” would blithely recount his most secretly imagined tormented dreams right before Fuyuko’s very eyes. No matter how much he bolstered his dreams, Murakse could not muster the courage to place himself beside her. Not even in his dreams could he touch her hand. His gloomy disposition was fatal.

“Oh, you say such creepy things—”

Fuyuko showed no sign of finding it off-putting; instead, she laughed with apparent delight.
Indeed—no matter what those elegantly dressed, quick-witted young men might say to her, it could hardly come across as unsettling—so Murakse reasoned.

“As for me, marriage…”

“You’ll never marry, huh?! Cut it out. Who’d be dumb enough to fall for that sentimental crap?”

“That’s not it. I don’t intend to marry for love—idiot!”

Even as Murakse listened to such talk—the speakers forgetting each word as soon as it left their mouths with such nonchalance—he felt a pain like being struck in the chest by jagged lightning bolts with every utterance.

Just two or three days prior, when her brother’s studies had finished, Fuyuko brought in tea and invited him to share a car partway since she was heading out to Ginza—

“Is it acceptable for a woman to visit the apartment?”

Suddenly, Fuyuko asked that.

“It seems there is no issue.”

Murakse thought it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him.
“Is it someone you know? Visits from women don’t seem particularly unusual.”

“Would there be no issue if I were to visit you?”

“Wh—?!”

Murakse let out a frantic cry.

“Oh my, am I being a bother?”

“…No!”

There was indeed a photo of Fuyuko—one showing her mid-competition in a pose unclear to others—that should have been pasted on the wall, but if she were to come now, it would be troublesome—Murakse found himself flustered in that critical moment.

“As for me—what could a room belonging to someone like Sensei possibly be like? I have such an interest, you see—and in the entirety of the place called an apartment as well—”

“My room is just a desk and a bookshelf…”

He had started to say there was just a desk, a bookshelf, and a bed—but even uttering the word “bed” made him feel awkward.

“Sensei, have you ever been in love?”

“I… never——”

“Is that the opposite of a feminist?”

“I know women should be worshipped, but someone like me…”

Murakse’s tongue stiffened, and no voice emerged.

“Mother says that from now on, I mustn’t associate with any male friends whatsoever. And yet Sensei—though you’re a man—you’re an exception. Because Mother believes in your integrity threefold—not just as my brother’s tutor, but as a friend to me.”
“My other male friends aren’t nearly as bad as rumors suggest, but they speak so brazenly about such matters that Mother grew thoroughly displeased.”
“Moreover, before I knew it, I too had grown weary of such interactions...”

Fuyuko had been muttering to herself half-amusedly, but soon she quietly rested one arm on Murakse’s shoulder.
“Whenever people meet or talk, it’s all marriage this, love that—I wonder if there are no other dreams beyond those.”
“Marriage and love are fine in themselves, but I find their human aspect utterly detestable.”
“I can’t help but think you must be someone who harbors the kind of beautiful dreams I imagine—because there’s something hatefully pure shining through your melancholy.”

When spoken to like that, Murakse felt endlessly lonely, yet he experienced a strange invigoration.

IV

Fuyuko began sending letters to Murakse with increasing frequency.
Though she visited twice weekly—rendering letters seemingly superfluous—each morning when Murakse awoke, an envelope in feminine script would come tumbling from his door’s mail slot.
They contained requests like waiting at Colombin in Ginza at a set hour or proposals to attend films—none bearing any trace of heartfelt sentiment—so that Murakse occasionally wondered: Was he merely a safe companion not even recognized as a man?!
He let slip a bitter smile.

So when his apartment friends teased him with remarks like “Mr. Murakse’s ‘girl-shy’ condition has made quite the leap forward!” or “You simply must invite us to the wedding!”—having seen him out on walks or noticed the frequent letters—Murakse found himself utterly unable to defend against their jabs.
Moreover, even when walking through town, Fuyuko’s figure—growing more alluring by the day and radiating vivacity—could never appear in anyone’s eyes as a delightful companion to someone as uncouth as himself. Yet for some reason, this very fact brought Murakse a sense of relief.

“How did the apartment visit go?”

Murakse thought that if she were to visit，Omori and Kato and the others would make quite a commotion.
At such an opportunity，should I too engage in some bold mischief and pass her off as my lover?
He found himself thinking such things.

“Since I’ve stopped keeping company with male friends lately, I find myself strangely reluctant to enter spaces dominated by men.”

Takefuyu Fuyuko had apparently retired from her athletic career to immerse herself in domestic duties ahead of marriage—but was her match truly settled? In sporting circles, this had become quite the gossip-worthy issue—

“Shouldn’t you have some inkling about that by now, Mr. Murakse?”

Murakse had even been questioned by Kato with remarks like that.
"She’s always preferred poor, timid scholars over sharp modern youths—so wouldn’t the candidate be hiding in some utterly unexpected place?"

"—Then I’ll promise."

Fuyuko declared resolutely.
“I shall visit you tomorrow.
What time is the quietest?”

“In the early evening, almost all rooms seem empty.”

“I’ll bring sandwiches—we can eat them in your room—”

“I should clean up.—But why would she have any interest in a room like mine?”

“I’ve never once visited places like boarding houses or apartments—but more than that, Sensei, someone of your integrity—”

“There you go with ‘integrity’ again!”
“Don’t come—”

“Most athletes’ cheerfulness feels so predetermined, but—”
“—Somehow what I’ve been craving lately is the opposite—that Hamlet-like type of…”

“Melancholy—you mean?”
Murakse involuntarily reddened and looked down.

“……I feel as though I’ve been entirely reborn these days.
“My thoughts grow absurdly sentimental—things like wanting to die while still a virgin—or believing marriage should only be permitted between virgins and male virgins—such notions keep possessing me…”

—

“If it were your room, I feel I could truly speak of my own matters with a quiet heart—”

Before he knew it, they had crossed Sukiyabashi Bridge and were making their way toward Hibiya Park.
Murakse had heard rumors about Fuyuko here and there before.
He had heard rumors that she was a sturdy modern girl completely lacking in sentimentality—a veritable champion of playful romance.
But could she have suffered a heartbreak?
Murakse found himself wondering.

When they drew near the pond, Fuyuko’s footsteps gradually grew sluggish, and she seemed on the verge of stopping to let out a sigh. And whenever passing men tossed teasing remarks their way, Fuyuko would giggle nervously, but each time, Murakse’s chest would tighten. When Murakse thought it only natural that young men and women lingering with such gait in the shadows of dark thickets would be met with scornful glances, he was so tormented by something akin to conscience that he couldn’t help but urge her toward brighter areas.

"But I’ve grown to find it utterly unbearable—having my face seen by others in bright places."
"I want to talk where there’s no one around..."
Fuyuko started to speak, then laughed lightly.
"What kind of—talk…?"

“I hate—people who only pursue things so earnestly!”

“I’m sorry.”
When Murakse reached for the brim of his hat, Fuyuko laughed even harder,

“You’re so terribly restless.”
“Even a walk in the park is no good—” she murmured.
“Of course, the rooms in the apartment have locks that can be secured, don’t they?”

“Y-yes.”
Murakse answered with a strange sensation.
White breath curled from the fur coat’s collar, and Fuyuko’s profile, emerging in the bluish-white lamplight, appeared dreamlike—coldly beautiful—to Murakse’s eyes.

5

Murakse had steeled himself to wear that gaudy necktie and waited for Fuyuko’s visit, yet even stepping into the hallway felt too daunting—clutching his tightly trembling chest all the while, he remained steeped in a “questionable happiness.”
Unusually for that hour, laughter seeped from Kato’s occupied room next door—Murakse even suspected they might be laughing at him and stifled his breath.—But staying shut in his room had grown equally agonizing; muffling his footsteps as he opened the door, he wandered up and down the deserted stairs between the second and third floors.
Suddenly glimpsing what appeared to be Fuyuko’s coat-clad figure—vividly imprinted in his memory—inside the ascending elevator, Murakse frantically scrambled up the stairway.

It was indeed Fuyuko.
But upon seeing her retreating figure turning down the hallway, Murakse involuntarily let out an "Ah—!"
The sound started to escape his lips.
She was walking shoulder to shoulder with Kato, Omori, and the others in a familiar manner, looking at the doors Kato pointed to left and right while laughing together with apparent amusement.
Murakse was surprised that they knew her, but upon reflection, Omori was a member of the photography department at a sports magazine.

Wondering what they had found so amusing, Murakse waited until their figures had turned the corner at the end of the hallway before checking each door dial one after another—only to find the usual prank writing there.
As usual, all sorts of teasing messages had been written there.

Once past that moment, he couldn’t even laugh at the ridiculous prank—but when he discovered those plausibly written characters on his deserted and silent door in that instant, Murakse found himself unable to suppress a bitter smile.
But realizing he hadn’t even noticed his own room’s door, he was profoundly flustered.
At any moment now, Fuyuko—her face crimson—might come stomping back with the violent clatter of enraged footsteps; seized by this terror, Murakse panickedly dashed away.

At the end of the hallway before Murakse’s door, Fuyuko stood alone.
"What had become of Kato and Omori and the others?"
Almost as soon as Murakse grew perplexed by this thought, Fuyuko—turning at the sound of his footsteps—

“Who could this be for...?” she inquired with a lavish smile, indicating Murakse’s dial—noticeably larger than those on other doors.
Murakse lacked leisure to ascertain whose pen had wrought this mischief, yet there it materialized: “Welcome”—those very characters.

“……”

“May I try turning it?”
“This one of yours—Mr. Murakse—you made it yourself after all?”

Unaware of Murakse’s eyes darting wildly beneath their lids，Fuyuko turned the dial with her fingertips．

“Even ‘Occupied’ comes in quite varied forms!”

“No, that’s…”
Murakse stammered.

“I know.”

Fuyuko hunched her shoulders.
And with words of praise, she touched Murakse’s necktie with her fingertips.

As Murakse, feeling dizzy, tumbled into the room, Omori and Kato, who had been lying in wait inside,

“Did the medicine work a bit too well, Mr. Murakse!”

Amidst such clamor, they supported him from either side.

“I thank you all!”

Fuyuko suddenly declared this and attempted to wrest Murakse from the two men’s grasp.
Omori and Kato, startled, released Murakse.
Murakse lay on the sofa as though unconscious.—“At first, you see, I joined you all simply to help cure Mr. Murakse’s timidity… but now that I’ve gained confidence to manage alone…”
“Please don’t bully Mr. Murakse anymore—”

――――――

“...(Wedding march in progress—no visitors)—so you’re the one who wrote this?”

“It was simply imposing a tax on Murakse’s necktie—oh ho ho!”

“That faint was clearly an act!”

“You’ve treated him rather cruelly.”
“I could say the same!”

“I’m resolutely going to start training to become timid from now on.”

“Wasn’t it you who suggested I write letters to Mr. Murakse?”

“But our show of kindness backfired unexpectedly—it’s rather disheartening.”

Omori and Kato exchanged these whispers while winking at Murakse’s door before retreating to the cafeteria.

Soon after, they resolved to welcome the engaged couple back into the cafeteria and shower them with tape like before—yet no one stepped forward to undertake the mission of approaching Murakse’s room.
“If it were Ketei and Omori, we’d manage fine—but this time it’s us trembling like Mr. Murakse! Whether going ourselves or sending someone, it’s downright suffocating.”

“The sight of Mr. Murakse embracing his lover for the first time would surely be a spectacle so terrifying it’d send shivers down your spine.”

When someone muttered such a thing, the entire group erupted in a roar.
And so, all the more urgently determined to select a single Joker to leave behind as their messenger as quickly as possible, the group formed a circle and united their voices in a chorus of jan-ken calls.