Fushimi Roku stood in the hospital corridor, watching the doctor hand the surgical consent form to his mother:
"Your child's legs are necrotic and infected and must be amputated."
He lowered his head and found himself sitting in a wheelchair, his pant legs empty.
Ah, I remember, Dad and I were hit by a car...
His mother signed with tears in her eyes, dropped the pen, knelt before Fushimi Roku, buried her face in his chest, and kept saying sorry.
Fushimi Roku wanted to comfort her, but as soon as he reached out, the scene before him suddenly changed.
He was wearing a suit, standing in court, looking at his haggard mother and the boy in a wheelchair.
Ah, I remember, I am the defense lawyer for the perpetrator...
Fushimi Roku glanced at the information and eloquently argued in front of the judge:
"There are many inconsistencies between the facts stated in the plaintiff's complaint and the actual situation. Our client, as the defendant, hereby makes a rebuttal..."
"The deceased had a history of heart calcification and had been rescued from heart disease multiple times. According to on-site evidence and forensic testimony, the father did not have massive bleeding at the time..."
"In other words, it is very likely that the deceased collapsed by the roadside due to a heart attack, and our client, caught off guard, swerved to avoid, resulting in the accident and unintentionally running over the deceased's family member's legs..."
"According to our country's criminal law, unintentional damage to a corpse does not constitute a crime..."
...
What am I babbling about?
The female driver was looking down at a novel while driving and crashed straight into them...
Fushimi Roku glanced sideways at the client, who was typing away on her phone under the table, complaining to her best friend about how unlucky she's been lately, and incidentally getting her wealthy parents to pay the lawyer's retainer fee.
"It's not like that!" the boy cried out: "Dad was still alive at the time!"
"Request for dismissal!"
Fushimi Roku's mouth wouldn't stop, he heard himself saying: "To my knowledge, the plaintiff took out a large accidental insurance policy for the deceased. If the death was due to a heart attack, the insurance company wouldn't pay out; there is a conflict of interest with the witness, and I have reason to suspect this is a premeditated insurance fraud..."
Stop talking!
Quick, stop!
Stop talking!
He grabbed the pen on the table and pierced it through both sides of his cheeks. But his tongue still moved, and his mouth continued to clearly produce sound.
The client laughed aloud and turned into Sakurai Chizuru, raising a phone to capture Fushimi Roku's ugly state.
The judge raised his gavel and struck heavily, like a massive stone crashing onto his heart.
—Tap!
Fushimi Roku awoke with a start.
He gasped for breath, opened his eyes, and looked at the unfamiliar ceiling.
The sound of the heart monitor's ticking filled his ears, an IV bag hung beside the hospital bed, and he wore patient clothes, lying on the hospital bed.
Fushimi Roku finally remembered, after setting up the scene, he deliberately hit his head on the table, misjudged the force, and knocked himself out.
He turned his head; a middle-aged man he didn't recognize was dozing by the bedside, probably the criminal police officer tasked with guarding the suspect.
A sharp pain came from his fingertips. Fushimi Roku gritted his teeth and, while the officer was still asleep, slowly pulled a four to five-centimeter thin needle out from under the nail of his left index finger.
"Hiss..."
Fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, his facial muscles contorted in pain.
This thin needle came from Sakurai Chizuru's handy toolkit, likely intended for piercing, puncture, or tattoo use. Fushimi Roku used it to forge the most crucial evidence, so he had to find a way to take it from the scene and destroy it.
Before self-harming, he anticipated he might faint, so he hid the needle in the crevice under his nail beforehand.
After extracting the needle, Fushimi Roku licked the blood clean off it while pinching the nail to stop the bleeding.
"Um..."
The criminal police officer suddenly let out a low call.
Fushimi Roku's heart pounded. He turned his head and saw the officer with arms folded, head bowed and eyes closed, changing his sleeping posture and saying incomprehensible dream words: "Don't, Honami... it's too embarrassing..."
Fushimi Roku breathed a sigh of relief and strained to sit up quietly, making as little noise as possible. Seeing the officer still asleep, he bent to the side, carefully rummaging through the small medical waste bin under the bed.
Soon, he found a syringe in there, removed the needle tube, and inserted the thin needle inside, making it indistinguishable at first glance.
Since it could be found no matter where it's thrown, he might as well hide a tree in the forest.
"What are you doing?"
A questioning voice suddenly came from behind him.
Fushimi Roku cursed himself, thinking, damn it, why wake up now?
He casually dropped the syringe, feigning discomfort, and rose to say: "I feel like throwing up... ugh..." As he spoke, he turned back around, leaning over the bin and gagging.
The officer stood up, moved to the other side of the bed, and questioned: "You aren't hiding something, are you?"
"What do you mean?" Fushimi Roku played innocent.
The officer ignored him, rolled up the newspaper he held, and rummaged through the medical waste bin, searching for a while and finding nothing, finally giving up.
"Behave yourself, don't play any tricks!" he said sternly, sitting back down, taking out his pager, and sending a message to his superior.
The criminal police of this era are practically the largest violent gang in Japan, each with a slick hairstyle, interrogating suspects with a menacing demeanor that makes them more gangster-like than the actual gangsters, not caring for the patient's feelings at all.
Fushimi Roku lay back down, closed his eyes, and mentally reviewed the process of setting up the scene.
"Hmm, there are no omissions," his confidence soared: "Even if there were, it's not a problem."
A burst of hurried footsteps came from outside the door, and four people entered the room one after another.
The officer turned his head, instinctively greeted the familiar face: "Hello, Chief! I was just about to page you..."
Fushimi Roku opened his eyes, the partition curtain was drawn back, and the attending doctor stood at the forefront, followed by two men who looked unkind, likely criminal police as well.
Minamoto Tamako's little head suddenly popped up; she crouched by the bed, hands on the rail, looking concerned: "You're awake? How are you feeling? Any discomfort?"
"I'm fine, just a bit of a headache..." Fushimi Roku managed a smile.
The attending doctor held the medical records in hand and said: "It's just a concussion, nothing serious, you'll be fine after some hospitalization for observation."
Minamoto Tamako breathed a sigh of relief. She had many questions to ask Fushimi Roku, like what had happened, whether he had seen the perpetrator's appearance, or why Kawai returned to school...
Before she could open her mouth, Kazama Tatsuya said: "Alright everyone, police questioning, please clear the room."
Watanabe, acting like a lackey, started ushering people out. He grabbed Minamoto Tamako by the scruff of her neck, along with another officer, and pushed them out.
"Boss, the room's clear," he took out a notepad: "Let's begin!"
"You leave too," Kazama Tatsuya said.
"Uh? Okay." Watanabe Shun left dejectedly.
Once the subordinate closed the hospital room door, Kazama Tatsuya turned back, meeting Fushimi Roku's eyes.
"You still have a chance to confess now."
He pulled up a chair and sat by Fushimi Roku's bed: "You killed the person, didn't you?"