Hirota Masami, twenty-seven years old, could swear she had never in her life seen a person like this. Her heart felt numb. Each breath drew in air that tasted like ice. She was afraid — and yet this utterly alien sensation pinned her gaze in place. The danger rolling off that figure paralyzed her heartbeat and jolted it back to life in the same instant. She stared, and stared again, and the shape began to seem vaguely familiar. She couldn't recall a name, but she knew this person — and if she knew him, then this figure was obviously not a monster.

In that brief standoff, her memory flipped backward on its own, landing on the morning's encounter. She remembered. She still couldn't produce the name, but this was her neighbor — the foreigner who'd just moved to Japan. With that realization, the inexplicable terror began to drain away. Strength seeped back into her limbs.

She could hear her own heartbeat now. Rapid and loud in the silent corridor, so forceful she felt sure even this stranger standing meters away could hear it.

Relief, contradiction, and embarrassment hit her all at once. She pressed her hand to her forehead.

I overreacted. That was her next thought.

"Hirota-san?" Ma En had recognized her almost immediately. They'd only met briefly that morning, but he trusted his memory and his eyes well enough not to worry about mistakes. She seemed badly frightened — by him, he realized, which made him feel guilty. But the situation had been strange. Given the chance to do it over, he'd have done the same thing.

More pressing matters came first. He didn't want to drag this neighbor into his problems, but the problems seemed to have arrived here on their own. A question took shape: had what he'd just experienced occurred because of his presence — his being here creating the anomaly? Or did the anomaly already live in this place, and his arrival was simply coincidence?

From the logic of urban legends, the latter made more sense. Still, Ma En couldn't shake the feeling that having obtained the Seven Transmutations of the Profound Mystery Records, his stumbling into this particular trouble was its own kind of inevitability. That didn't prove a direct link between the book and the Room 4 ghost story. But it was a sign: he would keep encountering things like this.

More and more details were warping the ordinary shape of his first twenty-odd years.

While these thoughts ran, he hadn't lost sight of what he'd come out here to do. His peripheral vision tracked Hirota Masami; his direct gaze swept the corridor — railings, corners, door plates, ceiling shadows, dust on the floor, footprints near the entrances. He searched for anything fresh. If what he'd seen was a physical entity — human or otherwise — and it still obeyed the rules of the physical world, it would have left traces. Which would also mean it wasn't what he was hoping for. Just something "potentially dangerous."

Ma En was after the bizarre. Not dangerous animals or someone's idea of a prank. If it turned out to be people playing ghost, he'd be deeply unimpressed. And if he caught them, he'd make sure they remembered it.

While his gaze swept the surroundings, Hirota Masami finally hauled herself upright by the elevator. Her waist and knees were still jelly. It looked like it hurt. But her tone, when she spoke, carried no weakness at all.

"You — what the hell is wrong with you?"

The phrasing registered in Ma En's mind as the bluntest form of Japanese available — not something people used casually. He couldn't feel his way into her emotional context the way a native speaker would, but rational analysis told him plainly enough: she was furious. That was fair. He'd frightened her. His fault.

He nodded toward her with an apologetic expression, then raised his index finger to his lips. Quiet.

Hirota Masami's voice caught mid-breath. The anger frozen on her face softened, wavered, became shock. She hadn't expected this. She didn't know whether to be angry or — what? Something else. She couldn't land on it.

She stood frozen. Ma En did nothing. Two or three seconds of deadlock. Then he confirmed what he'd already suspected: every lead was gone. Whatever that eye had been, it had fled. Hidden itself somewhere beyond his perception. He didn't believe his experience had been a hallucination. Or rather — even if it was a hallucination, as long as it wasn't his own delusion, that was fine.

The target's disappearance wasn't entirely bad news. It meant the thing was real enough to retreat. It also meant the people in this building were temporarily safe — including this newly met Hirota-san, who would not be dying in front of him tonight.

That counted as lucky. Ma En hadn't finished his psychological adjustments. He wasn't sure what it would do to him if Hirota Masami died right here, right now. This wasn't like the last time — exposing the serial killer's blood ritual had been a different kind of calculus.

Hirota Masami collected herself and opened her mouth — to curse him out, to say hello, to do anything to break the awkwardness — but Ma En spoke first.

"Good evening, Hirota-san."

— Are you serious? I waited all that time and that's what I get?

Hirota Masami wanted to scream. She did not want to talk to this young man. But he was already walking toward her, bowing deeply, so earnest it was almost absurd. She felt her resistance deflate. Maybe he hadn't meant to scare anyone. Maybe he hadn't meant to make her angry. Maybe.

Her headache worsened. She pressed her forehead again, unable to settle on an expression. Then she remembered: he wasn't even Japanese. Were people from China all like this?

"I'm terribly sorry — it seems someone was playing pranks at my door," Ma En said, bowing again, keeping his explanation vague.

"What happened exactly?" Hirota Masami forced her voice toward gentleness. The anger from before still flickered, but she didn't want him thinking she was a bad-tempered person.

"Someone kept knocking and disappearing. Two or three times." Ma En left out a great deal. "Is knock-and-run a thing here?"

Knock-and-run? What kind of — she caught herself. Different phrasing, but she knew what he meant.

"Ah — knock-and-run?" She used the standard Japanese term for the game.

Ma En wasn't familiar with her version either.

"Basically — knocking on a stranger's door and hiding before they can open it. That kind of game," he said.

"Right, right, exactly — a kids' game." Hirota Masami nodded. "Someone did that to you?"

"Yes."

"That still doesn't justify being that violent!" She frowned. "What if it really was a kid? They'd have been flattened by the door. Did you even consider that?"

"I did. I'm sorry." Ma En said. "Personally, I don't think it was a child."

"Huh?" She stared. "Not a child? You saw someone?"

"No." Honest as a post.

Hirota Masami looked him up and down.

"Is there something wrong with you?" This time, the anger was real.

"It felt dangerous at the time. Like I was being watched." Ma En met her stare evenly. "You know — Room 4, thirteenth floor. The room has a bad reputation. I don't put much stock in that kind of thing, but someone messing around with malicious intent isn't out of the question." He shrugged. "Or I overreacted."

"You definitely overreacted." Hirota Masami exhaled. But curiosity crept in. "Did you actually see something weird?"

"No."

"Being paranoid is no good." She walked to his door and stopped. Her eyes widened. Something more important had just occurred to her. This was a high-end apartment. The door panels and locks weren't cheap products. Under normal circumstances, even a grown man kicking with full force couldn't break one open in a single blow. But earlier — one sound. One.

This young man had kicked the door open with one kick. The lock dangled from the panel, bent and loose, the catch mechanism wrecked. It wouldn't function again without replacement.

Is he that strong?

She studied him again. Deep gray suit, neat and precise. Deep red tie, not a thread out of place. That conspicuous black umbrella — old-fashioned, rustic, the kind with a handle that didn't collapse. He looked slightly displaced in time. At first glance, an office worker. But on closer inspection, something was off. Not fashionable, exactly — but absolutely not what a young man in this era should look like.

No wonder she'd had that impression earlier. This man was... she groped for the word. Dangerous? But not just dangerous. There was something else underneath it. Something that pulled.

"It's not raining today," she said. She remembered now — that morning, he'd been carrying the same umbrella in broad daylight. She'd noticed, but she'd been in a rush and hadn't followed the thought.

"You mean this?" Ma En lifted the umbrella. "Personal habit. Please don't mind it."

— How am I supposed to NOT mind?!

She screamed this internally. Her mouth stayed shut. She pressed her forehead for the third time.

"Anyway, you definitely overreacted," she said firmly. "There are a few children in this building, but they're all well-behaved. They wouldn't do something like that." She glanced around the corridor. "Nobody seems hurt. But don't do it again. That kind of violence causes problems for everyone."

"I'm truly sorry. I got carried away..." Ma En didn't argue. He smiled apologetically, then asked: "Has Hirota-san eaten dinner?"

"No." She answered without thinking. Then Ma En said: "I frightened you with that reckless display earlier, and I'm genuinely sorry. If you'd allow it — please let me treat you to a meal. As an apology."

Hirota Masami's eyes lit up. Then wariness. She hesitated.

"Consider it penance. And besides — we're neighbors. I've heard that in Japan, newcomers are supposed to bring greeting gifts, but I haven't prepared anything. A dinner is the best I can manage." He looked her in the eye as he said it.

Held by his gaze, she felt something flutter. She looked at him more carefully. This newly met young man was just a little strange. He was clearly not some ugly, vicious criminal — right? And he was foreign; different customs, probably. He'd already apologized sincerely. A neighborly gift was a reasonable framing. And besides, she'd been living frugally lately. If he was paying, maybe she could get him to really pay. Eat something good for once.

The reasons to say yes were stacking up. Refusing would practically be rude — they'd be sharing this floor for a while.

"Eat what?" The words left her mouth before her brain approved them.

The speed of her response caught Ma En off guard. He'd expected more hesitation.

"Whatever you'd like."

"Really? Anything?"

"Well... within twenty thousand yuan. Anything goes." Ma En consulted his wallet. This answer made Hirota Masami's eyes go brighter. He got the distinct impression she was sharpening her knives.

"Then it has to be yakiniku!" She was already practically bouncing. "I know a great place — I've been wanting to go forever. I wonder if they have a spot tonight..." She was digging out her phone before she finished the sentence, already dialing.

Ma En stood by with a smile, though something tightened in his chest. He'd never imagined Japanese young women would be this direct. But this was fine. His apology was genuine, and he was grateful she hadn't been dragged into danger. If a meal was enough to make up for the fright, the money didn't matter. He was new here and needed to be careful with spending — but the job was basically secured. A celebration wasn't unreasonable.

The school's formal notice still hadn't come, but since the whole thing had been arranged through connections — pulled from inside — Ma En wasn't worried.

In less than a minute, Hirota Masami had the reservation locked down. Her approach seemed different from eating grilled meat back in China, though. Ma En had never needed a reservation for that. And back home, grilled meat wasn't exactly a main course. Then again, if this was a high-end restaurant specializing in foreign cuisine, reservations probably came with the territory.

Which meant Hirota Masami's target was upscale. Would twenty thousand yuan actually cover two people? Ma En wondered privately. He'd never eaten anything this expensive himself, never been to a restaurant with star ratings. Most of what he knew about such places was hearsay — apparently sets could run two or three thousand.