Chapter 8: Yukino Yukinoshita's Determination to Change
For the first three days Yukino Yukinoshita read other people's stories through the diary and spent only a sliver of her Reading Points to feel the life energy stirring in her body. Prudence kept her from burning through her points too fast—she wanted a buffer in case her mind needed it.
Today the diary showed a different face. The handwriting—so candid this time—revealed a personal affection for Kyoto Animation. The tone was unexpectedly fond, almost frivolous, as if the writer were confessing a private hobby.
The same entry had called its owner a "corporate slave." Yukino dismissed that with a raised eyebrow. Gods or fate may have clustered many protagonists in the same age band, but that didn't mean the diary's author was what he claimed. More likely, the phrase was a disguise: the owner might be a student near her age, wrapped in a false identity.
She reasoned from first principles. If this mysterious writer suspected others would check the names he mentioned, he would avoid broadcasting where he actually was. So the people named in the diary were probably those he wouldn't contact directly—familiar faces from other works, not immediate neighbors.
The entry nudged at her future. A boy who saved a dog, injured and sidelined—was he the protagonist of her own story? Yukino's classical reserve tinged with curiosity. The diary had even hinted at a fondness for that kind of character. She wondered, briefly and clinically, about the author's orientation. But such speculation was a distraction. Yukino's concerns were steadier: the diary showed her data, and data informed strategy.
She looked at the portrait the diary sketched of her own future male counterpart—awkward, difficult, reclusive. The words pricked. Once, she would have rejected them outright; now she could step back and observe herself with the cool attention of a reader. The girl who had lived in her sister's shadow, who had polished intellect into armor, might indeed be described that way from an outside perspective.
Yukino closed the book and breathed. She had practiced restraint—never defying her family—but the diary rewired something within her. She did not want to play a part in some scripted mutual salvation with a boy she'd never met. Her priorities reasserted themselves: claim autonomy from her family first, find the other diary-holders, form alliances or cautious friendships, and then—if she chose—engage with the rest.
That choice would be hard. Even the power she'd just felt—Ripple humming beneath the ribs—didn't erase the weight of her mother's expectations. Still, she resolved to try. Small rebellions came first: a corrected answer in class, a withheld apology at home, a private practice of the breathing rhythm she had learned. Each felt like a step.
Across the prefecture, Renji Miyauchi sat staring at a property deed and trying not to smile too broadly.
After he finished his diary entry that day, the reward system had given him something extravagant: a fully furnished Western‑style house in Tokyo, two stories, courtyard, and a vast underground level. An absurd, improbable mansion in Mihana Town—number 2‑chome, address 23—suddenly belonged to him.
The location bothered him more than the value. Numbers 21 and 22 were familiar from old cases: Kudo Shinichi and Dr. Agasa. 23 was the house beside Agasa's—a slot that the manga had never filled. Renji was old enough a Conan fan to know that Mihana could be dangerous. The Black Organization lurked in rumors, and Agasa's workshops sometimes attracted trouble. Still, a house next to Dr. Agasa also meant convenient access to curious gadgets.
"Whatever," Renji muttered. The diary had cleaned up tax and title formalities; he didn't have to worry about paperwork. If the house attracted trouble later, he could treat it as a warehouse. For now, it solved a problem: when he was in Tokyo for school he needed a stable base—especially if Kouka couldn't live with him for long.
The Miyauchi siblings were due to leave for Tokyo sooner than planned. Kouka wanted the city life; Kazuho had time to spare for a short trip; Renka—nervous about the distance—needed reassurance. Renji sent a quick message to Kazuho and told Kouka to pack that night. The idea of exploring the new house, checking its wiring, and seeing how it connected to the neighborhood had him keyed up.
Kouka's shriek of delight pulled the whole household into the living room. Renka, bouncing at the center, announced she would run around and say goodbye. The countryside farewells were small—pets, neighbors, and rice fields—but each felt like a ritual.
They drove for four hours. The city air folded over them as the car slid into the metropolitan sprawl. Kouka dozed, head lolling on Renji's shoulder, leaving a damp crescent from her forgotten drool. Renji tried not to laugh. The childlike intimacy soothed a corner of him; it made the coming uncertainty manageable.
On the drive, Renji talked through Ripple with his parents. The technique was safe, he emphasized, a disciplined breathing method. Renka absorbed the rhythm like a sponge. Even asleep, Kouka's breathing tucked toward the pattern Renji had taught earlier—small, almost automatic adjustments he'd seeded while she slept.
Renka peered out at the skyscrapers and asked with wide eyes whether Asahigaoka would one day look like this. Renji hugged her and answered honestly: not unless she wanted it. The revitalization he had shepherded began with the countryside's charms; what made Asahigaoka precious was what it already was. Renka clapped and insisted she liked the village just as it was.
Kazuho navigated to the Mihana Town address. The deeper she drove, the more she felt the map tensing under her—the route's small alleys tight, the air carrying the faint scent of machinery and broadcast towers. The GPS nudged her down a narrow side street, the kind of lane that felt like a backstage to the city's polished scenes. The houses here were improbably close, a dense mix of old and new.
She slowed. Something was off—not hostile, but uncanny, like a prop set slightly misaligned. A streetlight hummed in a frequency that set her teeth on edge. A cat darted across the road without sound. A poster for a disappearing stage play hung half‑torn but impeccably lit. Kazuho's hands tightened on the wheel.
"Is everything okay?" Renji asked in the passenger seat, sensing her tension.
Kazuho blinked, then shrugged. "Just… a weird vibe. Like someone staged everything to look normal but forgot to finish it. Maybe I'm being dramatic."
"I don't like it either." Renji frowned. When he'd opened the deed earlier, the address had felt safe. Now the street answered with a small, cold silence. He tugged the satchel with his writing utensils closer—the diary's updates had taught him that ordinary places could hold oddness.
They pulled up in front of the house. It looked at once ordinary and slightly theatrical: a tidy façade, potted plants, and a frosted glass window that reflected the road like a mirror. Dr. Agasa's workshop sat two houses down; a small robot waved from a balcony as if on schedule.
Renji stepped out and inhaled. The city smelled like hot metal and wet stone. He forced a smile and knocked on the door.
Inside, the house unfolded into a tidy, oddly personal space—shelves lined with books, a kitchen that smelled faintly of instant coffee, a lab corner with assembled parts, and a stair that led down to an underground that hummed with hidden rooms. Someone had furnished it with care. Whoever the diary had gifted it to had left a small note on the table:
Welcome home.
Renji's smile finally broke. Whatever the diary's designs were, whatever quirks this stitched‑together world contained, he had a foothold now. And Yukino—reading in her room, watching her own hands spark—had taken the first private step toward change.
Each diary-holder was moving in their own small orbit; each orbit was beginning to pull at the others. The world felt a fraction less fiction and a little more dangerous, and that, for better or worse, promised to make life interesting.