Chapter Six: All I Desire Is a Peaceful Life

What was going on? The blond youth stared, bewildered, at the black cat cradled in Roland’s hand, still mewling softly even after being picked up. Back in school, he’d joined his friends in chasing stray cats. With animals like these, once frightened, they were supposed to be wary of any human approaching. Yet this black cat, attacked only moments ago, now cozied up to that guy as if nothing had happened, purring and nuzzling for affection.

Was there something strange about that guy? The blond youth turned and sized up Roland, who was holding the cat with an air of mild confusion—his clothes were spotless, stylish and clearly new, every detail from head to toe arranged with meticulous care. There was an aura about him, something between cold indifference and quiet detachment.

What struck the blond youth most, though, were those unusually long fingernails—at least three centimeters, uncut for who knows how long, though his hands themselves were impeccably clean.

He looked every inch the type who’d landed a decent job in some high-rise office, a promising future ahead—nothing like the likes of himself, always on the verge of getting fired.

Tsk. The blond spat inwardly, and a thought surfaced naturally in his mind.

—Let’s see if I can squeeze something out of this guy.

With a reputation already infamous in these parts, the blond was no stranger to such schemes. He fished two cans of beer from his bag and sauntered toward Roland.

“Hey, you alright? That cat didn’t hurt you, did it?”

Roland’s gaze slipped over the beer cans scattered at the youth’s feet and a wet streak of spilled beer against the wall—he’d already pieced together what had happened. He crouched down, set the black cat gently on the ground, stroked its fur, and patted its tail, motioning for it to hurry along.

Strangely, though other animals never reacted this way, cats had taken to Roland lately. No matter how fierce, they’d roll over, expose their bellies, let him pet, hold, and cuddle them as much as he wished. He’d never found a reason for it, except perhaps the cat ears left over from the Killer Queen.

He had no intention of conversing with the blond youth. Once the cat had finally trotted off, pausing every few steps to glance back, Roland stood, adjusted the bag in his hand, and continued deeper into the alley.

The blond, undeterred by the rebuff, stepped in front of Roland, blocking his path. He held out a sealed can of beer, voice dripping with sleazy friendliness.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me, pal? Ah, whatever, it’s fate we ran into each other. Drinking alone is boring—come on, have a drink. You’re not going to turn me down, are you?”

Roland frowned, brushed the outstretched hand away by the edge of the youth’s sleeve without letting their skin touch.

“No, thanks. I already have plans tonight.”

The blond bristled at the rejection, but then his eyes narrowed cunningly and he stepped aside. Satisfied that the youth knew his place, Roland ignored him and continued under the streetlight. But just as he passed, the blond lunged at the paper bag Roland held close, greed gleaming in his eyes.

“Out this late, sneaking something home? That can’t be anything good, can it? Not a chance, pal!”

He clawed at the sturdy kraft bag, his intent not so much to snatch it as to tear it open like a crow going after prey.

With a harsh rip, the contents—carefully wrapped in foam—tumbled to the ground. Under the glow of the streetlamp, the blond squinted and finally made out what it was.

—A pair of pale, delicate, lifeless severed hands.

“Aaaahhh!”

In the dimly lit alley, the shock of those severed hands was too much. The blond staggered back and collapsed in panic, staring up at Roland, frozen where he stood.

Roland’s expression hadn’t changed in the slightest; only his eyes seemed to grow darker, as if filled with an unmelting, ancient ice.

He tossed the torn paper bag aside and, looking down at the cowering blond, spoke with utter indifference.

“Didn’t I tell you? I have an appointment tonight.”

Ignoring the youth, Roland walked over to retrieve the fallen hands. Seeing there was no intent to silence him, the blond’s pounding heart finally slowed a little.

Once his nerves had settled, he stole another look at the severed hands. Free from the initial shock, he quickly spotted what was off.

The cross-section was too clean, the color uniformly pale—just like a model hand…

Spotting the clue, eager to recover his dignity, the blond looked more closely for details.

In a corner of the box, he spotted an inconspicuous shop name. The severed hands were nothing more than a finely crafted mannequin hand.

Damn it, fooled by something like this!

Fueled by drink, the blond shot a glance at the black cat and decided to take out his frustration the same way as before. He crawled over, reaching for a can of beer to hurl at the hand model lying on the ground.

Roland turned, watching the blond’s movements without expression. The instant the youth touched the beer can, a silent thunderclap roared through his body.

“Ahhh! My hand—!”

The blond screamed, far louder than before, clutching the hand that had suddenly burst open at the wrist, blood streaming down as terror filled his heart.

Roland, meanwhile, calmly opened the box, lifted the mannequin hands, and gently pressed them to his cheek, caressing them softly. Only then did the blond notice how similar the hand model was to Roland’s own hands—clearly custom-made in his likeness.

But at this point, the blond could think of nothing but his agony.

“Somebody—help! Please, help me, it hurts, it hurts!”

As the youth’s cries grew more desperate, Roland finally tucked the mannequin hands into the lining of his coat and strolled over. He planted a foot squarely in the blond’s back, shoving him back toward the alley’s depths.

“Do you realize how much these custom mannequin hands cost? Sixty thousand yen. I had to spend every last bit of the bonus the shop owner gave me, plus my previous wages. And even though I could easily make more money, I still live my life step by step. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know, please—help—”

Before the blond could finish, Roland kicked his face aside.

“It means I live content with what I have, honest, upright, and trustworthy. I, Roland, only wish for a peaceful life. So tell me—”

Roland’s voice rose, growing more furious, and as if still not satisfied, he stomped hard on the youth’s wounded hand, grinding it mercilessly with his shoe.

“—why the hell should I have to be pestered by scum like you?”