Page 123 of Mercy Written in Blood

There was a pause. Then Haruki said, "That is an unexpectedly philosophical question."

"How do you know I am here?"

"The light is on."

Renji looked towards the narrow window beside the door. The curtains were closed. A faint line of light showed beneath them.

"That proves someone is here."

"You live alone."

"How do you know that?"

"Open the door."

"No."

"Then we'll continue this conversation in the corridor."

Renji could already hear the door opposite opening by a cautious fraction. Mrs Hayashi considered all activity on the landing part of her personal jurisdiction.

Renji unlocked the door.

Haruki stood beneath the weak ceiling light wearing a dark wool coat, one hand tucked into the pocket. Rain had darkened his hair at the temples. He carried a paper bag in the other hand. There was no Ken. No Reina. No visible security.

Renji looked past him towards the stairs. Haruki followed his gaze.

"I'm alone."

"That was not a question."

"It was going to become one."

"How did you find my address?"

"Easily."

"That is not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Behind Haruki, Mrs Hayashi opened her door another inch. Renji saw one eye appear in the gap. Haruki noticed and offered her a polite bow.

"Good evening."

The door closed immediately.

Renji stepped aside. Not because he wanted Haruki inside. Because leaving him in the corridor would create questions that lasted longer than the visit.

Haruki entered. He stopped after two steps. Renji closed the door. For the first time since arriving, Haruki said nothing. His gaze moved slowly across the apartment.

Renji became aware of the room as though seeing it through someone else's eyes. The apartment occupied the upper floor of a converted merchant house built before the war. The ceilings were low, the windows tall and narrow. Dark wooden beams crossed overhead, original except where one had been replaced after an earthquake decades earlier. Books filled most of the walls — not decorative shelves arranged for appearance, but shelves built wherever space permitted. Medical texts stood beside poetry, philosophy, histories and bound collections of handwritten correspondence. Several volumes were old enough that Haruki would not have been permitted to touch them in a university archive without gloves.

A record player rested in one corner beside rows of vinyl organised by century rather than genre. The lamp nearest it had a green glass shade. There were no photographs. No television. No ornaments bought without purpose. The few decorative objects had the stillness of things kept rather than displayed: a small bronze incense burner, a lacquered writing box, a chipped celadon bowl, a framed sheet of music written by hand.

Near the window, a sword rested horizontally on a plain wooden stand. Haruki's attention lingered there.

"That's real."