(Just as Kuchiba Hiro was immersed in a mess of clues and cold conjectures, the doorbell suddenly rang, breaking the dead silence of the room.
He was slightly startled. Who could it be at this time? The police? Or... He cautiously walked to the door and looked out through the peephole.
Standing outside the door was his homeroom teacher, Ms. Hiratsuka Shizuka. There was an obvious look of worry on her face, and she was carrying a bag of fruit and a bento box, seemingly as a condolence gift.
Kuchiba Hiro hesitated for a moment but opened the door anyway.
"Kuchiba." Looking at the young man before her, who seemed to have grown even more haggard overnight, Hiratsuka Shizuka's voice softened involuntarily. Her eyes were filled with genuine affection and concern. "I heard about your father... I'm sorry to bother you. Are you... alright?"
To her, Kuchiba Hiro was a child with a pitiful background and an ill-fated destiny. She knew about that ridiculous lawsuit years ago and had never believed that this reticent boy with clear eyes could be some kind of molester.
She always believed that social injustice, prejudice, and terrible rumors had forced a child who might have once been cheerful into his current state—withdrawn, silent, and almost completely isolated from human contact. She truly felt that Kuchiba Hiro was a good kid at heart; he had simply been hurt too deeply and didn't know how to interact with others.
Faced with his teacher's blunt concern, Kuchiba Hiro was clearly at a loss. His social skills were practically non-existent, especially in situations that required expressing or receiving emotions.
He instinctively avoided Hiratsuka Shizuka's gaze, his eyes wandering as he didn't know where to look. It felt as if something was blocking his throat.
It wasn't that he didn't like to speak; he truly didn't know how to speak, or how to respond to such well-meaning care.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, he finally squeezed out a few dry syllables from his throat, like squeezing toothpaste from a tube: "...Thank you for your concern."
His voice was raspy and devoid of any inflection.
Seeing him like this made Hiratsuka Shizuka feel even worse. She sighed, walked into the house, and placed the gifts on the table. Looking around the frighteningly desolate living room, she said softly, "I know you're hurting right now, but you must be strong. Please don't do anything foolish. If you have any trouble or just need someone to talk to, you can come to me anytime, okay?"
Kuchiba Hiro crossed his arms and turned his head away, giving only a slight nod and letting out a barely audible "...Mm" from his nose.
There was another silence. Hiratsuka Shizuka tried to find a topic to break the ice, asking if he needed help with the funeral arrangements or contacting other relatives.
Kuchiba Hiro suddenly looked up, though his gaze was still somewhat wandering, not daring to meet Hiratsuka Shizuka's eyes directly. In an extremely flat and even stiff tone, he stated his plan:
"Teacher... I want to take a leave of absence. To rest for a while."
He paused, seemingly organizing his words, and then added in a tone like he was reciting a reason that had nothing to do with him: "I... need time... to handle my father's affairs. To adjust."
This was actually the most logical excuse he could think of to cover his true purpose—investigating the cause of his father's death. However, his clumsy way of expressing it made him sound more like someone who was too grief-stricken to study normally.
Hiratsuka Shizuka immediately understood, and her heart grew even more heavy. She nodded without hesitation. "Of course you can. Don't worry about the leave request; I'll handle it for you. Get some rest and don't put too much pressure on yourself."
She gave a few more words of advice. Seeing that Kuchiba Hiro only responded with repeated nods or extremely brief phrases like "Okay," "Thank you," and "I understand," she knew the boy truly needed space to be alone. She didn't disturb him further and left, filled with worry.
After seeing his teacher off, Kuchiba Hiro closed the door and leaned against it, breathing a slight sigh of relief. Engaging in such caring social interaction was, for him, even more mentally taxing than facing cold code and complex mysteries, and it filled him with an indescribable tension and pressure.
He turned his gaze back to the pile of eerie newspaper clippings on the desk and the computer screen, his eyes becoming firm and cold once more.
That was the only "battlefield" he knew how to handle at this moment.
Although he had already provided the suspect's license plate number to the police, Kuchiba Hiro knew that waiting for news was no different from waiting for death. He never placed his hopes entirely on others. He carefully put away the clippings containing the list of scholars who had died under bizarre circumstances, specifically noting the addresses and information of several scholars who lived nearby or had died most recently, and decided to investigate in person.
But before that, the last shred of his reason told him he had to replenish his energy and rest. Extreme grief and tensed nerves were rapidly consuming his already dwindling physical strength.
He walked toward his room. Unlike the traditional and warm style of his father's study, his room exuded a minimalist, almost cold and hard, utilitarian style.
There were no superfluous decorations; everything was in perfect order, like a base camp ready for departure at any moment.
He opened a specially made storage cabinet, revealing a sight that would make any outdoor enthusiast's eyes light up—a dazzling array of various canned foods and different types of individual military rations from around the world were neatly stacked, like a small emergency supply depot.
Kuchiba Hiro was a loyal fan of canned food and military rations. These foods had long shelf lives, balanced nutrition, and were convenient to eat, perfectly matching his pursuit of efficiency and practicality.
He picked up a hotpot-flavored can and a pack of self-heating rice and went to the kitchen to heat them up. Soon, a rich, steaming aroma filled the air. He ate the food silently and quickly, finishing every bit as if he were simply completing a necessary energy replenishment procedure.
Afterward, he forced himself to lie in bed and set an alarm for a few hours later. Despite the thousands of thoughts racing through his mind, his powerful willpower allowed him to fall into a brief but extremely deep sleep.
When the alarm rang, he opened his eyes instantly, much of his previous fatigue having dissipated. He got up and began to organize his equipment methodically.
He put on the long black trench coat he wore most often. Black allowed him to blend better into the night, giving him a psychological sense of security and concealment. The coat's wide hem and sharp cut not only hid his figure but also perfectly concealed some unconventional 'tools' tucked behind his waist.
The placement of every item was carefully considered to ensure they could be retrieved and used as quickly as possible.
Once ready, he glanced at the crow, Fukurai, perched quietly on the back of a chair. Fukurai tilted its head, its pitch-black eyes reflecting his currently grim appearance.
"Let's go, Fukurai," he said in a low voice.
The crow flapped its wings, took flight lightly, and landed on his shoulder.
Kuchiba Hiro took one last look at this home that once held his father's presence but now contained only cold mysteries, and turned to leave without hesitation.
He started his chevrolet camaro, the engine letting out a low roar. The black sports car, carrying a young man burdened with secrets and his extraordinary crow companion, drove into the city traffic, embarking on an unknown journey in pursuit of truth and danger.)