What's going on here?
The yellow-haired youth stared at the black cat, whose soft baby-like voice was still mewing at Roland even as he lifted it by the back of its neck. His face showed obvious confusion.
Back when he was still in school, he'd gone with friends to hunt stray cats. Based on the typical behavior of such animals, once frightened, they'd always be on edge toward anyone nearby. But this black cat, even after being smacked and chased, had bumped into that guy and then behaved like nothing was wrong, like it was just a regular pet.
Is there something off about this guy?
The yellow-haired punk turned his gaze sideways, studying Roland, who was standing there dazed with the black cat in his arms. The man's clothes were neat, the style looked refined, and everything looked brand-new. He gave off this aura of cold detachment.
What stood out most were probably his long fingernails, easily three centimeters long. How long has it been since this guy last cut them? Yet his hands were spotless, no dirt under the nails.
At first glance, he looked like the type who worked a solid corporate job, maybe in some high-rise office, someone with a bright future ahead, completely different from himself, someone who constantly got fired or drifted between gigs.
Tch. Yellow-hair secretly clicked his tongue. A thought naturally crept into his mind.
—Let's squeeze some cash out of this guy.
As someone with a reputation for petty troublemaking, yellow-hair was already a veteran at this kind of setup.
He pulled two cans of beer from his bag and swaggered over to Roland.
"Yo, you okay? That cat didn't scratch you, right?"
Roland glanced at the scattered beer cans lying near the youth, then at the wet splash marks where beer had stained the wall. He quickly grasped what had happened here earlier. Slowly squatting down, he set the black cat gently on the ground, softly stroking its fur and giving its tail a light pat, signaling for it to hurry off.
Strangely, while interacting with other animals usually had no effect, Roland had recently become incredibly favored by cats. No matter how feral or aggressive, cats would obediently flip onto their backs before him, ready to be petted or picked up however he pleased.
In the end, Roland couldn't figure out the reason and simply chalked it up to the influence of his Killer Queen's cat ears.
He had no intention of chatting with the yellow-haired punk. After watching the cat disappear after a few cautious steps, he stood up again, picked up the bag in his hand, and prepared to continue deeper into the alley.
The yellow-haired youth, seeing his approach rebuffed, didn't feel embarrassed. Smirking, he moved to block Roland's path, shoving an unopened can of beer toward him with a greasy, sleazy grin.
"Hey, you deaf or what, punk? Ah, whatever, it's fate we ran into each other. Drinking alone's boring. Come have a drink. You're not gonna brush me off, right?"
Roland frowned slightly, avoiding direct contact by gently pushing aside the youth's sleeve instead of touching his skin.
"No, I already have an appointment tonight."
Yellow-hair's face twitched with frustration, ready to lash out, but then, slyly, his eyes shifted and he stepped aside on his own.
Seeing the guy was at least tactful enough to move, Roland didn't bother engaging further. He walked on under the streetlights, ignoring the other entirely.
But just as Roland was passing him, yellow-hair snatched at the paper bag tucked at Roland's side, his eyes gleaming with greedy excitement.
"Late at night, sneaking around with something you're hiding like that… can't be anything good, eh, kid!"
Yellow-hair's fingers clamped hard onto the kraft paper bag, like a crow's claws clutching its prize. This type of bag was sturdy, not easy to rip apart, but his real aim had been to tear it open all along.
RIP.
Something tightly packed in foam tumbled from inside and hit the ground — a hard plastic display case. Under the dim glow of the streetlight, yellow-hair squinted, trying to get a clearer look.
Inside was a pair of delicate, pale, lifeless severed hands.
"AAAAAHHH—!"
Under the dark night sky, under dim lights, the sight of those severed hands was a terrifying shock. Yellow-hair stumbled back, panic blooming on his face as he fell to the ground, wide eyes staring up at Roland.
Up till now, Roland's expression had been blank, unreadable. But now, his pupils had gone cold, deeper, like an unfathomable glacier.
Casually tossing aside the torn brown bag, Roland looked down at the trembling yellow-hair, his voice calm and indifferent.
"So… didn't I tell you? I have an appointment tonight."
Ignoring him, Roland walked toward where the severed hands had fallen. Seeing that Roland wasn't planning to kill anyone, yellow-hair's pounding heart eased slightly.
Once he calmed down a bit, he glanced again at the severed hands. Stripped of the shocking atmosphere, he quickly realized something was off.
The cross-section was too clean, the color too pale and uniform, like a… model.
Spotting this key detail, he rapidly pieced it together, as if desperate to redeem himself for his earlier embarrassing freakout.
In the corner of the box, subtly engraved, was the name of a specialty shop. These weren't real severed hands, they were ultra-detailed hand molds.
Damn it — I got spooked by something like this?!
Fueled by lingering embarrassment (and no small amount of beer), yellow-hair glanced at the retreating cat and clenched his teeth. He scrambled forward a few steps, grabbing for another beer can, intending to hurl it at the delicate-looking hand model on the ground.
Roland turned his head slightly, calmly watching the youth's actions without saying a word.
The moment yellow-hair's fingers touched the beer can, a silent crackle of thunder slammed through his body.
"AAAHHH! My hand… my hand—!"
Yellow-hair let out a shriek far more bloodcurdling than before, clutching at the wrist where his hand had just exploded, watching blood gush out uncontrollably. Terror swelled up from his chest, consuming him.
Meanwhile, Roland, unhurried, opened the box, gently pressed the pair of severed hand models against his face, and lightly rubbed them against his cheeks.
Only now did yellow-hair realize — the model hands looked almost exactly like Roland's own. They had been custom-made, modeled precisely after himself.
But at this point, yellow-hair no longer had time to care about such details.
"Someone help! Help! It hurts, it hurts!"
As his screams grew louder and more frantic, Roland calmly slipped the fake hands into his inner jacket, slowly walked toward him, then casually kicked the crawling yellow-hair back into the alley.
"Did you know? That pair of custom hand models cost me sixty thousand yen. I spent my entire bonus, the one my shop manager specially awarded me, plus my past salary, just to get them made. And sure, I could easily earn more money… but I live carefully, step by step. Do you know what that says?"
"I....I don't know… please help me…"
Before yellow-hair could finish, Roland sharply kicked his face aside, cutting him off.
"It says that I'm content with my life. That I live cleanly. That I'm upright, honest, trustworthy. I, Roland, just want to live a peaceful life."
His voice rose, sharper, more biting. And as if his anger still hadn't been fully vented, he stomped repeatedly on the severed hand, grinding it under his heel.
"—So tell me… why should I have to be tangled up with dirty scum like you?"