The very next day, Yokohama’s more illicit corners of the internet saw a new query surface: a request for information on Chuuya Nakahara. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite.

There was, of course, the mild inconvenience of our dear, insufferably brilliant Ranpo. But, as far as I knew, he did not typically wade into such murky waters — something for which I was profoundly grateful, as he was perhaps the only man in the city with the wits to piece all of this together and deduce my involvement.

Well — him, and perhaps Mori. That sly old spider, whom I loathed with every fiber of my being. He would have noticed Akutagawa’s absence, and this sudden interest in Chuuya would only deepen his unease. But Mori, I knew, would not act prematurely. He would watch, and he would wait.

And waiting is often the wisest course of action.

Had I rushed in and spoon-fed our English guests information on Chuuya, it would have looked suspicious — too convenient, too deliberate. A planted lead. So, I waited.

I kept an eye on them from a distance — they had taken up residence in a hotel in the Minato Mirai 21 district — but I refrained from getting too close. There was no need. In time, they would learn about Chuuya from other sources — perhaps some of his less scrupulous Mafia colleagues, eager for a quick profit. And what would they learn? That Chuuya Nakahara was one of the highest-ranking figures in the Mafia. That he was one of the most powerful gifted in Japan — perhaps even the world.

Perfect. The ideal man to perceive the Equalizers as a threat and dispatch his subordinates to England to deal with them, wouldn’t you say?

I wasn’t concerned that they might learn too much and lose interest in whatever I had to offer. No, I had prepared something far more enticing.

"Information," they called it. How quaint.

The sum mentioned on the darknet was clearly not for trivial gossip — hardly a bounty for details on Chuuya’s fondness for vehicles with any number of wheels and speeds that go beyond the speedometer, his culinary preferences (steaks with teriyaki sauce, coffee only with half a cup of cream and some sweet syrups), his habit of boasting about his ability to hang upside down without losing his hat, or his dubious talent for singing Space Oddity in the shower. No, in such cases, it was always clear: this was a hunt.

A few days later, I sent an anonymous message. Simple. Direct. I had information.

There were already several similar messages in this topic, so I suggested switching to mail — naturally, indicating a newly created address unknown to anyone.

They replied soon enough.

In my next message, I introduced myself as Joushi Ikita — “the survivor of suicide,” a little jest I found quite delightful (you’ll forgive me my small indulgences, won’t you?) — and without much preamble, I suggested that I knew Chuuya’s habits well. Well enough, in fact, to tell them where to find him. And how to catch him off guard.

They asked to meet in person.

For some inexplicable reason, my pen pals had chosen a cat café as our meeting place. Perhaps such establishments were considered exotic by foreigners; well, at the very least, it was a welcome deviation from the insipid monotony of a bar.

I had no way of knowing whether the English party, in the course of their research, had gleaned anything about the Agency and its operatives. Nevertheless, as a precaution, I deemed it wise not to parade my bandages — too distinctive a hallmark of Osamu Dazai’s appearance. And I intended, with all due diligence, to become someone entirely different. Thus, I opted for a high-collared sweater with sleeves long enough to obscure my wrists. Additionally, I procured a dapper scarf and — gritting my teeth — a hat no less dapper, in the very fashion of Chuuya. It is a cardinal rule of disguise, after all: if one must don a conspicuous accessory, let it be something wholly absent from one’s usual attire, thereby diverting all attention away from what truly matters.

The cat café itself bore little difference from an ordinary one — an unremarkable arrangement of tables, the omnipresent aroma of coffee and confections — save for the feline accommodations lining the walls: towers, perches, and assorted climbing contraptions. And, of course, the cats themselves. Specimens of various breeds and hues lounged, prowled, or preened, some curling indolently atop chairs, others weaving between tables with the languid air of creatures that know they are adored. Fukuzawa would have been positively delighted. And Atsushi too — he adored cats nearly as much as our chief did. That simpleton even turned to admire every beckoning Maneki-neko gracing a shop window. But now was not the time to think about Atsushi.

I spotted my English acquaintances the moment I entered. The ladies were nestled together on a single sofa, their six hands stroking and tormenting a wrinkled, bald sphynx — a wretched, wholly unviable breed that, bereft of human companionship, would surely perish at once. A young man sat slightly apart, his gaze immediately settling upon me with the weight and finality of a falling monolith.

I approached and, switching to English, inquired,

“I presume it is with you that I am meant to confer?”

The response came in relay, a peculiar verbal relay:

“Several of your colleagues...”

“...attempted, for unknown reasons, to feed us...”

“...false information.”

Somewhat nonplussed, I remarked,

“It is rather uncouth, don’t you think, to commence a conversation with an accusation, my charming ladies? And whoever it was that approached you, I assure you, they were not my colleagues.”

At this, the ladies turned — quite unnecessarily — to their companion. He nodded, then declared with languid indifference,

“Yes. He does not work for the Mafia.”

Well, now. That was an unforeseen contingency. Were I Chuuya, my reaction would have been succinct: Fuck. Clearly, the persona and strategy I had so meticulously prepared would require immediate adjustments.

A waiter approached. My interlocutors ordered matcha latte — an utterly predictable choice, the standard selection of all foreigners — while I opted for coffee.

To buy myself time and determine the appropriate course for improvisation, I addressed the young man,

“I take it you possess a supernatural ability?”

With a sneer of supreme condescension, he responded,

“What keen perception. Yes. It is called De Profundis — 'From the Depths.’”

The ladies hastened to elucidate:

“Our colleague Wilde has the ability to...”

“...read thoughts...”

“...and intentions.”

“And so we warn you, Mister Ikita...”

“...so as not to waste your time or ours...”

“...that lying to us would be futile.”

Their eerie tripartite manner of speaking — so clearly calculated to intimidate — struck me as a touch too theatrical and, consequently, slightly irritating.

“What a delight it must be to wield such a useful talent,” I said, making a studied effort to sound amiable.

“Oh, spare us. You, too, are no ordinary man,” Wilde declared, his tone lofty and unimpressed. He was not asking. He was stating it as though he saw through me entirely, as though my every word and action had been laid bare to him before I had even conceived of them.

But I had encountered enough bluffing in my time to recognize it. And this — this was not an especially artful bluff.

For one, I simply did not believe in thought-reading. Now, of course, I was well aware that the world harbored individuals with extraordinary abilities. But thought itself is an intricate, layered phenomenon, a ceaseless process occurring within the mind, much of it beyond even our own conscious perception. Were it possible to tune in to another’s mind like a radio station, most of what one heard would surely be indecipherable static, interspersed with the occasional coherent phrase. The surface thoughts, the deeper ones, and those lurking in the abyssal trenches of the subconscious — these did not align so neatly. Even a decade in therapy would scarcely suffice to unravel them.

And, let us speak plainly — were this smug, pretentious boy truly capable of peering into the depths of my mind as though reading a book, he would hardly feel the need to announce it. He would not be sitting here, posturing. No, he would have known my plan the instant he laid eyes on me, and this conversation would not be taking place at all. At this very moment, I would be dodging bullets — or lying lifeless on the café floor among these delightful, unsuspecting creatures, irrevocably, irretrievably dead.

So then, he was bluffing. And why would one pretend to read minds? The answer was evident: because one could not. And yet, Wilde was no fool — he would not make such claims without some foundation. Most likely, his ability was something more pedestrian, yet he adorned it with grandeur to unsettle his interlocutors, much as the sisters employed their eerie choral speech.

Perhaps something akin to a lie detector? If so, splendid — one could hardly ask for a better opponent. Deception without outright falsehoods was, after all, something of a personal specialty. The most convincing lies are those that resemble truth — or contain a generous portion of it. Let us see how the “lie detector” fares against half-truths, misdirection, and the exquisite art of ambiguity.

I offered a pleasant smile and said,

“You are correct. I, too, have an ability.” And before they could inquire further, I added,

“In time, perhaps I shall demonstrate it. But it is... not a combative one. Frankly, without a partner, I am of little use.” Here, I affected a slight embarrassment. Then, as though confessing a minor secret, I continued,

“You see... I am something of a master of illusions. I can make people believe in things that do not exist. I deceive.”

“Illusions are hardly a worthless ability,” Wilde observed, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“My ability is short-lived,” I sighed, as though disheartened. “I do not employ it often. I prefer to rely on intellect.”

“Hmph. I see what you are,” he said at last, with his usual contemptuous boredom. Excellent. I could only hope he had envisioned something utterly ridiculous and feeble.

As you can see, not a single direct falsehood. And yet, I daresay I had managed to conjure in the minds of my interlocutors a picture not entirely aligned with reality — though one that fit my intentions exquisitely.

“If you’re not with the Mafia…”

“...then how do you know…”

“...Chuuya Nakahara?” the girls asked.

“I worked for the Mafia for some time. Then I left.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Their goals, their methods — none of it suited me. A humble teacher’s salary, of course, can’t compare to what I made in the Mafia… I am, regrettably, not unfamiliar with financial struggles. If you were truthful about the reward, it would do wonders for my circumstances.”

In this, at least, I was crystal clear — Fukuzawa paid his agents a pittance. Arguing with Kunikida over money had always been an amusing pastime; the poor pedant kept our meager finances with such meticulousness, you’d think it was his life’s purpose.

“You’re a teacher?”

“One must dabble in many trades, but I have always wished to consider myself, first and foremost, an educator. My other talents… do not inspire much pride.”

“Aren’t you afraid that if you hand over Mr. Nakahara…”

“...the Mafia might find out…”

“...and take their revenge?”

“I fear, rather, what will happen if he does not walk into the trap I have prepared for him. That, I suspect, would spell my end.” Ah, honesty — the most delightful indulgence! “The Port Mafia is a festering boil on this city’s body, crawling with people I find utterly insufferable. The kind who might spill your guts over something as trivial as an ill-timed glance. But of them all, there is only one I truly fear…” I was choosing my words with great care. “I believe you have already gathered that Nakahara is among the most dangerous men in the Mafia.”

Fear Chuuya? Hardly. But a well-arranged sequence of facts could easily create the illusion of a logical conclusion.

(“Na-ka-ha-ra” — it sounded oddly foreign, almost unfamiliar. To me, he was always just Chuuya, barely five feet tall even with the hat…)

“So, you wish to eliminate Mr. Nakahara because you fear him,” Wilde concluded with an air of self-importance. His bluff-driven habit of never asking direct questions was quite convenient — it allowed me to provide equally roundabout answers.

“To tell you the truth, I once worked with him, and he is the most insufferable man alive,” I confided. “He has done me more harm than anyone else. His voice, his appearance, his mannerisms, his habits… all of it infuriates me beyond words.”

“So you are doing this…”

“...for money…”

“...and revenge?”

“For fear, first and foremost — I wish to rid myself of a dangerous enemy. But if I can turn a profit in the process, that would be nothing short of splendid. Now then. If I have passed your test, ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we move on to business. I assume you have gathered sufficient information on Chuuya Nakahara. I have a more concrete proposal: I can lure him into a trap for you.”

At each of my words, the girls glanced at Wilde. He nodded in assent, confirming my statements.

The drinks arrived. I handed him his cup — our hands brushed briefly — and said, “I, too, enjoy green tea.”

“No, you despise it,” Wilde corrected me coolly. “Are you testing whether I can see through deception even in trivial matters?”

In truth, I had just confirmed something far more intriguing, but now was not the time to dwell on such details. Instead, I laughed.

“You are remarkably perceptive, Wilde-san. But I hope you will forgive my little falsehood about tea — after all, in every other regard, I have yet to speak you a single untruth.”

“That is correct,” Wilde mused. “Hm. Very well.”

The girls relaxed. It seemed I had passed their scrutiny. The most difficult interview of my life — not that I had much experience with such matters, apart from my entrance exam to the Agency, but still.

“I included a name in my letter, yet you have yet to introduce yourselves,” I noted.

“My apologies, Mr. Ikita. My colleagues — Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë. And I am Oscar Wilde.”

“Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance…”