Hirota Masami's praise for the hastily written story had been more than Ma En anticipated. But what he'd anticipated even less was her insistence on publishing it — an unfinished story, at that. What had the story's content actually produced in her? What was she thinking when she made that decision? He couldn't find the faintest clue in her manner. The story had been written out of suspicion and uncertainty — could it have reached her as nothing more than "an interesting piece of fiction"?

Well, interesting or not, Ma En himself felt his sense of what made fiction good and Hirota-san's sense were entirely reversed. He didn't think he'd told a vivid story. He could see flaws littered through the draft without even trying — off the top of his head he could name seven or eight. The only reason he'd felt this story was suitable for Hirota Masami to read was that it had been written specifically for her. If it had been any stranger, any acquaintance — he'd have been too embarrassed to let it be seen.

And yet Hirota Masami's delight was as genuine as her firmness. Her tone and manner left no room for argument, and Ma En found himself wondering: had he actually written something not that bad after all?

Even with all the question marks surrounding his girlfriend, even if this pleasant sensation was a pure illusion — being taken seriously by another person was a real source of joy. Satisfaction. Or more honestly, he thought: this was simply a man's vanity in action.

Even so — analyzing it from the favorable angle or the unfavorable one alike — he hadn't refused Hirota Masami's suggestion in the first moment. If someone who knew the Room 4 Ghost Story's inner workings came across this story, would it produce something like throwing a stone to gauge the depth of the water — or like disturbing the grass to alarm the snake? Though even if it were actually published, it would probably be after August, by which point the question might be moot.

In any case, whatever other life it led after this, Hirota Masami had read it — and in reading it, the story had completed its original purpose. Whatever came after was supplementary value.

Carrying this thought, he deliberately drew Hirota Masami into a discussion of the story's plot and setting, and in doing so, he let some of the hints surface directly — stating that the "mixed vegetables" and "Hirota Masami" were the real-world sources for two of the story's most important elements. Even hearing this, Hirota Masami expressed nothing more than finding it interesting and feeling flattered — nothing except the engaged curiosity of a reader for a work of fiction. No disruption in her composure from being mapped into the story.

No disruption. As if she genuinely didn't know.

But Ma En still believed that somewhere deep inside her, some part had been moved by this story — and that this movement had been one of the key forces behind her decision to help publish it. The effect had already happened, even if its exact nature was invisible for now. With time, it would surface in some observable change.

He wasn't anxious about Hirota Masami's not-knowing performance. He had patience. Even with August's deadline looming, he hadn't set a time limit on that patience — hadn't told himself I must know for certain before August. For him, the story was only one piece on the board. And on a board filled with malice, one piece was never enough to win.

And by the neighbor friend's account, Hirota Masami had never been the key to resolving the problem anyway. She occupied a specific and unusual position within a certain group — an anomalous trigger, someone who wouldn't voluntarily harm anyone, who might in fact end up as a victim herself.

When he decided to write the story, he hadn't been acting from malice. He'd only hoped to use indirect means to draw out some information from her.

He was certain: even now, with suspicions about Hirota Masami, he had no desire to harm her. Not in the slightest.

Beyond Hirota Masami, he still had more work to do — and most of it probably wouldn't produce the effect he hoped for, or might, in the end, prove useless. He was glad he'd worked at the postal service; glad he hadn't forgotten how to set out for the sites of strange rumors in his homeland, to pursue things bizarre and uncanny. Running a life-threatening risk in exchange for nothing — for him, this was simply the ordinary pattern of things. If anything, he was used to it. He might say: doing a great deal of work and finding that a single piece of it has succeeded is already a stage victory.

He assumed if he were a genius, he'd be more sensitively attuned to the critical things, more mentally flexible, able to find the shortcut to the breakthrough with relative ease. But he didn't consider himself a genius. Which was exactly why he could only pile up one failure after another until a breakthrough appeared.

However much I hope each time for one clear and visible result, the more complex the situation is, the less visible it becomes.

He and Hirota Masami had started discussing what might happen next in the story — he hadn't had time to write it, but he had a shape for it in his mind. The clues and hints in the already-written material were only a part of what he knew and suspected — and because they were framed as "discussing the plot" and "this is all from a nightmare, it's fiction," he could describe the "mixed vegetables" and their malevolent role in the story without his expression changing, could talk in a joking tone about everything that seemed off about each character.

The female character based on Hirota Masami was naturally the one Hirota Masami paid most attention to. But even when she heard "she's the mastermind behind everything," she only responded with an interested "Hm."

"Why would she be the mastermind? That seems strange — she doesn't seem to have done anything, does she?"

"She fed the protagonist the mixed vegetables." Ma En made a theatrical pointing gesture at himself. "So right now I have absolutely no appetite for mixed vegetables."

"Ha? Just for that reason? You're funny." Hirota Masami laughed, and gave his shoulder a playful push. "I think a villain who really creates impact should be someone with obvious power — that way the plot has weight and depth. Think about it — when you put an official and a civilian woman in front of readers, which one gives them a stronger sense of explosive force and narrative drive?"

"...An official certainly gives more explosive force and drive, but their presence is also a lot more obvious — won't it let readers predict things too early? They see the villain coming, so by the time it's resolved, they can't get the right level of surprise. I've been thinking: maybe a twist readers don't see coming would make the ending better. With short fiction, everyone likes a dramatic conclusion that catches them off guard, right? From that angle — a civilian woman who looks like she has no power but turns out to be the key to everything, the hidden thread beneath all the hidden threads... something like that."

"Hmm... I don't disagree with that instinct, but in this particular story, giving the civilian woman that much importance feels off to me. It doesn't feel dramatic or surprising — it feels a little arbitrary. Darling, you should remember: in the cultural customs of this island, women have always been expected to fill supportive roles. Readers will have that assumption going in, and if your setup diverges too far from it, you're taking a risk — you might not get the effect you're looking for."

"Ah... so that common assumption is something like a pair of shackles everyone's wearing without knowing it. Makes you want to break them a little, for exactly that reason. Isn't that natural?" Ma En made a deliberate fist-swing gesture. "Wouldn't it give readers that rebellious thrill?"

"In Europe or America, perhaps. But here, even women would have trouble accepting that kind of rebellion — some might feel your setup was insulting their character and dignity, a contempt for women. Because once that civilian woman is set up that way, she's no longer a positive figure, is she?" Hirota Masami frowned, pressing her point: "Whatever makes a story exciting should be the good kind of exciting, not something that makes more people reject it. Maybe some readers enjoy subculture aesthetics and breaking conventions — but far more people live by ordinary conventions. For them, positive energy is more important than edgy provocation."

"So a corrupt official as mastermind resolves the problem — he's the rotting root, and eliminating him is 'positive energy.'" Ma En posed it back to her. "And a civilian woman, working in the shadows all along, deceiving everyone, winning the final victory at the end — that's content most people would find repellent?"

"Yes. I believe that holds outside Japan too, in other countries as well." Hirota Masami said with conviction. "Even from the feminist perspective — women should have enough ability and appeal — they'd never endorse that kind of negative portrayal. They'd definitely feel your setup was maliciously pushing the blame for everything onto a woman, making her bear a crime she has no business bearing. And from the male perspective, there's certainly a market for the 'evil woman,' but darling, think — do you yourself actually like evil women?"

"No. I don't," Ma En said with certainty.

"Neither do I." Hirota Masami stroked the handwritten pages gently. "No one actually likes an evil woman. What men call an 'evil woman' has never really been a true evil woman — evil placed on a woman has never been a form of attraction. Not for anyone."

"...I understand." Ma En felt he'd received something genuinely important. He laughed — genuinely — though he couldn't make all of it explicit, he was very glad Hirota Masami could say these things with this kind of certainty.

"The corrupt official is the rotting root in this story. As for the civilian woman — maybe she did something without meaning to, but it wasn't an evil act — just something she did without knowing, something that made things go wrong. Would that work?" He asked.

"She just wants to be with the person she loves. Forever." Hirota Masami answered.

"That creates another question, then — why would she fall for the male lead in the first place? They've only just met. For feelings this strong to appear this quickly — isn't that strange?"

"Strange?" Hirota Masami looked at him with an expression that suggested she'd discovered something unexpected: I can't believe you're this oblivious. She said, with considerable emphasis: "It's not strange at all — it's romantic! Love at first sight is the most romantic thing there is. Don't you think that's wonderful? It's like a dream — which woman wouldn't want to meet a man she could fall for at first sight?"

"Love at... first sight?" Ma En genuinely hadn't thought about this angle. The phrase 'love at first sight' had simply never existed in his vocabulary.

"Yes. Maybe others see the male lead as rigid and strange, but for a certain type of woman, those qualities would be exactly what draws her. Think about it." Hirota Masami met his eyes, her voice soft: "Like a thread already tied before they knew — she can see what others can't see. She can understand what others can't understand."

Something in the atmosphere between them shifted — subtle but with real charge. Ma En found himself wordless, feeling as though — Hirota Masami wasn't describing characters in a story, but the two of them. He wasn't entirely sure what he was thinking in that moment.

"Maybe she didn't realize it at first. But when she did — the flame ignited in her heart, burning bright." Hirota Masami said this, then cupped his face in both hands and kissed him deeply. Their lips met, their tongues moved together, and for the first time Ma En felt concretely what he'd only heard described — how aggressive women could be. He had encountered the idea; this was the first time he'd lived it.

When Hirota Masami finally released him, he saw a bright thin filament still hanging at the corner of her mouth. A small movement of her tongue, and it was gone.

"Just like the two of us." Hirota Masami's eyes held an expression he had never seen on her face before — as if somewhere in the depths of her gaze, a wild flame was burning quietly.

But her voice remained steady and warm. Her expression remained mature and soft, like a beauty stepped out of a classical painting.

"We're talking about the story, aren't we?" Ma En said.

Hirota Masami looked at him with calm warmth for a long moment, then said: "Yes, darling. We're only discussing the story. But people's stories have never been entirely fictitious, have they? Even among ordinary people, love at first sight exists — it isn't anything strange at all."

"I can't write love at first sight."

"You don't need to try. It's already in your story."

Ma En wanted to say something more, but Hirota Masami had already turned to look at the clock, saying: "It's seven already — I need to go back to my room and get ready for work." She closed the notepad, rose from the sofa.

"Right — the clothes I said I'd buy you, I already bought them." She added: "The old ones I've taken care of. You must be out of things to wear right now. I'll bring them over in a moment. It's June, but you'll catch a cold like that." She paused, then: "Of course, darling, personally — your body is something I never get tired of looking at. I wouldn't mind you going without clothes at all."

Ma En could only scratch his head awkwardly. Old habit — when his mind was full of things, he sometimes forgot such basics, and at home it had never seemed to matter. But hearing her say it, he realized his wardrobe had been genuinely empty since the night he'd burned what he was wearing.

He watched Hirota Masami leave, then let himself sink into the sofa's softness and began arranging Hirota Masami's words and behavior in his mind. From his perspective, all those conversations that appeared to be discussing plot and setting had been projections of Hirota Masami's inner world.

Love at first sight... the Matchmaking God? He turned the phrase over in his mind. Still no real intuitive sense of it.

Difficult to understand.

Even thinking this, something inside him was slowly, quietly settling.