When the manager described Mitarai Sanshirou, she relied on vague phrasing throughout. Even the title "archaeology professor" came couched in "he calls himself." Whether he truly held a professorship, whether he was genuinely an archaeologist, what specific branch of archaeology he specialized in, what aspect of ancient folk customs he researched, which books exactly he'd published — none of these details could be pinned down.

Ma En's impression of the man was hazy. Without meeting him face to face, the whole thing felt unreliable.

Still, precisely because the manager truly didn't know Mitarai well, the conversation drifted to other subjects. The wood carving came up now and then, but the manager seemed to feel genuinely nothing toward it.

Was it simply that the ceramic had given her a worse feeling, so she'd swapped it for this carving she felt nothing about at all?

That was Ma En's guess, though he couldn't bring himself to keep pressing. He'd noticed that whenever the topic turned to the carving, a trace of impatience crept into the manager's manner.

They drank tea for a while longer. Then the locksmith she'd called arrived. The manager went out to greet him, telling Ma En to help himself to the strange carving in the display case. While he listened to the pleasantries being exchanged outside the door, he carefully lifted the carving out.

His heart jumped the instant his hand touched it. But he quickly realized he was overthinking things. Nothing happened. That earlier daze — that muddled trance — felt like an unremarkable coincidence, the kind most people would forget in a blink. Ma En suspected it was his own fixation that had produced the racing pulse, the feeling of walking on eggshells.

He examined the carving again. This time, no matter how closely he studied its details, it gave him nothing beyond the sense that it was just an ordinary piece of wood. He even found its craftsmanship mediocre — somewhat shoddy, if anything. But the gap between what he felt now and what he'd felt before was staggering.

"...Thank you so much for coming." The manager's voice drifted in from outside.

"Last time I was here, it was a thirteenth-floor lock too, wasn't it?" A rough, heavy voice — the locksmith.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that." Apology in the manager's tone.

"Are all the thirteenth-floor tenants this rough on their doors?" the locksmith muttered. "Not that we're complaining — it's money in our pockets — but these people really are something, aren't they?"

Then, very quietly, the manager said: "He's in my room." Her volume was low enough that most people wouldn't have caught it. But in recent days, for reasons Ma En couldn't explain, his hearing had grown unusually sharp. He caught every word.

Even so, the only option was to pretend he hadn't. Anything else would be awkward. Ma En gathered his hat, the black umbrella, and the wood carving, then paused. Only after the locksmith's voice cut off abruptly — the manager's warning having landed — did he step outside.

The locksmith wore thick, light-colored work clothes. Light-colored, but spotless. His hair was tucked entirely beneath a flat cap. The overall impression was clean and dry, nothing like the grime you'd expect from a tradesman. His face put him in his forties. He was lean and wiry, but the set of his shoulders, the thickness of his wrists, the way he planted his legs — all of it spoke to a body built for work. The kind of man who looked like he could handle anything.

Seeing Ma En emerge, the locksmith quickly composed his expression. A few traces of embarrassment lingered on his face — he was clearly wondering whether Ma En had overheard his griping. Ma En would never get worked up over something like that. He offered a smile and a nod. The locksmith's gaze, though, kept drifting toward the wood carving in his hand — a flicker of alarm, badly concealed. When their eyes met, he seemed to want to say something but couldn't quite bring himself to.

"This carving?" Ma En guessed, holding it up.

"...Sir, forgive me if this is out of line, but that thing is ill-omened. You'd be better off not bringing it home." It was as though Ma En's prompt had pushed him past his hesitation. His tone made it clear: he knew what this carving was.

"Bad luck?" The manager drew a short breath, looking over in confusion. "What's wrong with this carving?"

"Does it belong to you, sir?" The locksmith confirmed.

"It was mine originally, but I've already sold it to Ma En-san here," the manager explained.

"You actually brought something like that into this building!" The locksmith turned to the manager. The shock on his face was impossible to fake. "You've worked in this apartment for years — you don't know the taboos?"

"Wh-what? I've never heard of any." The manager's confusion was rapidly curdling into panic, rattled by the look on his face.

"The thirteenth floor, Room 4 — you know about that, right?" The manager nodded repeatedly. Her expression was already turning grim. The locksmith dropped his voice. "When the Room 4 tenants died, this carving was found in their rooms — "

He stopped. The hallway fell silent. The shock on the manager's face had gone rigid. Ma En, by contrast, showed nothing — just his usual easy smile, waiting for the locksmith to continue.

The locksmith seemed to have sunk into memory. After a long pause, he looked at Ma En, and felt something he couldn't name — something off about this man. He hadn't felt it before, but now, seeing that relaxed, natural smile in the wake of what he'd just said, the strangeness surfaced. He found himself studying the young man closely. Truly young — barely past twenty, perhaps — and yet carrying a composure most of his peers couldn't dream of, perfectly matched to the clothes on his back. Dark suit, deep red hat and tie. Eye-catching at a glance; look again, and he seemed ordinary.

Yes, the strangeness was real. Not his imagination. The locksmith was certain of that much.

"What do you do, young man?" he asked.

"I used to work at the Mainland post office. Recently came to Japan. A friend already helped me line up a position at a school." Ma En didn't mind the scrutinizing, guarded look. At the post office, plenty of people had sized him up with exactly that expression at first — and then, after a few more interactions, changed their minds.

That journey from wariness to reassessment had actually been an asset in his work. Compared to people who liked you at first sight, the process built deeper trust — because the other party was the one actively revising their own judgment. The more confident the person, the stronger the shift.

"Right — " The locksmith nodded, then pressed: "Young man, take my advice. Throw that carving away. No — burning it might be better. That thing is seriously ill-omened."

"You mentioned Room 4 earlier..." the manager cut in, still stealing careful glances at Ma En.

Ma En noticed. In this consistently warm woman's eyes, a tangle of emotions churned, but worry dominated. She clearly trusted this locksmith and took his words to heart. Ma En, on the other hand, didn't mind at all. If anything, what the locksmith was saying was like seasoning sprinkled over plain rice — it doubled the flavor.

To put the manager at ease, he told her: "It's fine. When Kamishima-san introduced me, he already told me about Room 4."

"Oh..." The manager looked faintly embarrassed. "It's not that I — is this really okay? Why not just burn it? I'll give you your money back. I know I've worked here all this time, but honestly, I do my best not to think about Room 4. I'm the type who believes in that sort of thing. But the pay here is good. And the police already closed the cases, didn't they?"

"There's nothing strange about the room itself." The locksmith picked up her thread. "I've got people I know at the station, so I hear things. The room's fine. Nobody died from a haunting. The first tenant in that room was a murderer — ended up getting killed in retaliation. After that, the people who moved in included addicts and gambling fiends — the kind of people trouble finds on its own. A few deaths later, it turned into ghost rumors. The newspapers piled on. And then a copycat showed up."

"A copycat?" Ma En asked.

"Imitating the earlier deaths — the methods," the locksmith said flatly.

"I'd heard they were all strangled," Ma En said.

"Asphyxiation. Not all strangulation, but some were. Because that room had too many incidents — and the coincidences in method made people's imaginations run wild — the specifics were never made public." The locksmith paused. "But the victim the copycat killed was strangled with a grass rope."

"This is the first I'm hearing any of this." The manager pressed a hand over her mouth, visibly shaken. "But — death methods that similar, and every single time it's Room 4? You're telling me there's nothing strange about that? Saying the room itself is the problem actually makes more sense."

"Right — and that's exactly why I told you not to bring this carving in." The locksmith steered back to the point, warning again: "Of the confirmed deaths, four of the crime cases — in the subsequent investigations, police found carvings like this one in the rooms. If they hadn't already ruled out a serial killer based on other evidence, this carving really would have been treated as a criminal signature."

"Meaning the police don't consider it the killer's calling card?" Ma En pressed.

The details the locksmith was providing — none of them appeared in the case files Kamishima-san had obtained. That made Ma En suspect someone inside the police bureau was deliberately keeping Kamishima in the dark. But even if so, it wasn't surprising. Kamishima was a Red Party cadre, and the police bureau was a mixed bag. Politically and personally, people who stood opposed to the Red Party — to Kamishima specifically — certainly existed.

That he was now hearing these details from a locksmith's mouth was its own kind of coincidence. Almost too perfect.

"That's right — the police don't think so. But anyone who knows about it definitely considers the carving ill-omened." The locksmith repeated himself for the third time, pointing at the carving in Ma En's hand. "I've seen the photos. Because I handle work in this building, the memory stuck. The carvings in the victims' rooms looked exactly like this."

"This is just..." The manager shook her head in agitation. "Ma En-san, burn it. Don't touch things like that. Let me go get the money to pay you back." She turned to head into her room, but Ma En caught her hand.

"There's no need. You already sold it to me. Even if I burn it, you shouldn't be the one returning the money." His voice had gone steady, carrying a clear, deliberate rhythm. "Once I've met with Mitarai-san and told him about this, I'll burn it then. Burning it now would be discourteous to Mitarai-san."

"Mitarai?" The locksmith's eyes widened with sudden understanding. "So it wasn't yours to begin with?"

"I got it from an acquaintance," the manager muttered. "That man — giving me something this unlucky. What was he thinking? Next time I see him, he's getting an earful."

"Who is this Mitarai?" the locksmith asked, curious.

"Some guy who calls himself an archaeology professor. Loves tinkering with strange, obscure things." The manager's tone was sharp with irritation. "Maybe he knew something about this piece and went out of his way to get his hands on it. Was he messing with me?"

"Sounds like the type who loves a joke — but that's too far. You can't casually pull something like this," the locksmith agreed.

"Don't worry, you two. In a few days I'll bring the carving and pay Mitarai-san a visit in person. I won't keep it in the room long. The killers were all human, not ghosts — nobody's going to come breaking down my door overnight, right?" Ma En said with a smile. "I just got to Japan. I haven't made enemies here."

If they actually do come to my door — all the better.

The locksmith glanced at Ma En but said nothing more. He'd said his piece. In the end, it was this young man's decision to make. They weren't close enough for him to push harder.

"Well then... please install the lock as securely as you can. Don't let anyone open it easily," the manager told the locksmith.

"Oh, no problem there. If it weren't for the building's standardization rules, I could even add a few extra locks. But the contract limits what I can do — sorry about that." The locksmith said it politely.

"I don't understand why, even after everything that's happened, they still won't let us put surveillance cameras in the hallways," the manager remarked offhandedly.

"People these days value their privacy more than their safety," the locksmith said with a wry smile. No complaint in it — just an observation. He let the topic die there. "Alright, let's go. I'll head up and get that lock installed."

"Thank you. Really," Ma En said, and meant it.