Even after we'd boarded the elevator, Brian refused to release my wrist.

"Brian, I'm not going to run anymore."

At my sigh-laden protest, Brian's eyes—which had been glaring at the blinking floor numbers—slid down to fix on me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and hastily turned my whole body away from him.

"Why are you so angry...?"

"I see." His calm, cold voice descended from above. "So that's where the lecture needs to start."

"I'm sorry, I was wrong."

Keeping my gaze fixed on the doors, I mumbled my apology.

"The call blocking was... probably a bit much. I might have hurt you—ah, if you hadn't noticed, forget I said anything—anyway, things were awkward between us back then, and I needed time to recover."

A high-pitched chime sounded and the elevator doors slid open.

Brian hauled me out without a word and marched toward my apartment in silence.

"Hey, Brian! Are you listening? By that point, you'd already recovered enough that you didn't need my help anymore. So—"

Ignoring my protests entirely, he unlocked my door with a rather aggressive clatter.

He shoved me inside, followed me in with heavy footsteps, and locked the door from within.

Was this door always so small? I was still pondering this when Brian turned around, and his expression made me instinctively brace myself.

Oh no. That legendary lecture was finally about to begin—I squeezed my eyes shut, and in the next instant found myself wrapped in Brian's long arms.

I was so astonished I could only blink repeatedly in his embrace.

"Um, Brian...?"

When I ventured to speak, his arms tightened further. Strangely, I found myself somewhat moved by the roughness of the embrace.

Come to think of it, we'd been together since before I could remember.

Maybe Brian did care about me as a friend, even if not in the way I'd wanted—while I was getting sentimental about this, his grip intensified to an unbearable degree.

This too is a sign of friendship, I told myself, enduring for exactly three seconds before I couldn't take it anymore and screamed.

"I yield, Terminator! Your strength is too much for mere mortals!"

"Surrendering before we've even started?"

Brian laughed low in his throat, his voice creaking—and incidentally, my spine was creaking too.

"Ha ha ha... I've had enough of this warm welcome..."

"Hey, didn't I tell you before?"

"'I'm so happy to see you'?"

"Think about the people around you before you run off! That's what I said!"

"Oh right, now that you mention it, I do remember something like that."

Gasping for breath, I desperately replied.

"That time! When I turned half of Seth's report to ash!"

"That was you?! I'm the one who got yelled at by my father!"

He finally released me, his voice pitching upward in outrage.

"Damn it—I meant when you thought you were short on credits and ran off on a journey, when you threw out only the bitter pills from the medication the doctor gave you, when you drew those giant eyes on Mr. Nightray's car hood!"

"You have quite a memory." Relief at being freed from his arms let a laugh escape me. "Things got pretty rough after that, didn't they?"

"For everyone around you!"

Brian growled, then let out a long exhale.

In that momentary pause, I rushed to slip in some words.

"Um, anyway, come on in, Brian."

I had to get this man onto a sofa. Don't argue logic with an angry person about their anger—just offer them a chair. Some French philosopher or other said that.

"I've got a good burr grinder and a French press, so let me make some coffee first."

At my fumbling suggestion, delivered while carefully maintaining distance, Brian's frown deepened, but he fell silent and reluctantly followed me into the living room.

"Still take it black?"

When I asked, he gave a nod with his eyes and surveyed the room with what looked like surprise. I followed his gaze around my own familiar space.

The walls, floor, and ceiling were unified in a soft white, except for one wall I'd redone in a brick-style finish.

In front of that wall sat a guest sofa with eye-catching classical details and a distinctive form. Before it, I'd placed a table that radiated quality and warmth.

Set apart from the guest area was a glass table for client meetings, and closest to the kitchen, my desk with a stationary iMac.

That was about it for major furniture. To balance out the deliberate simplicity, I'd chosen a suitably glamorous chandelier and carpet, achieving what I thought was rather harmonious coordination—

Or so I believed.

As I tilted my head, surveying my own office interior, he muttered without quite meeting my eyes.

"...It's surprisingly tidy."

I nearly dropped the coffee beans.

"What are you talking about? I've always been a neat freak."

"Liar. Your place was always a mess."

I shrugged while setting beans in the grinder.

"That was because Mom's a chaos generator. No matter how much I cleaned up, she'd have it messy again in no time."

"Was that how it was?"

Murmuring as though unconvinced, he settled onto the sofa and crossed his long legs.

Infuriatingly photogenic in any situation.

I remembered thinking the same thing back in high school. Back then, it had come with a more desperate, painful flutter in my chest. How nostalgic.

"...This living room doubles as my office, so I do put in extra effort here."

Giving up on correcting his misconception, I poured grounds and hot water into my newly purchased French press. Instantly, the captivating aroma of coffee spread through the kitchen.

"The bedroom and study in the back have a bit more lived-in feel."

"I see." He gave an uninterested acknowledgment, then continued. "I heard you went independent as an interior designer. Is that hair color some kind of declaration of resolve?"

"Oh right, this is the first time you've seen me with this color."

As I spoke, I touched my cool blonde hair. It was bright now, but my natural color was typical dark brown. Curly, too. If I said I'd look right at home in ancient Roman attire, would that give you an idea?

"I asked a salon someone recommended to give me a look that suited me, and this is what they came up with. They insisted this color was perfect for my medium-beige skin and slim build."

"Well, it suits you."

"Thanks."

"You seem to be doing well for yourself."

Brian remarked with apparent admiration, studying the room with renewed interest. Well, office or not, I was living in a luxury apartment right in the heart of Brisbane's city center, so it was a fair assumption.

In fact, for twenty-seven, I was doing quite well. Apart from my first two months after going independent, business had grown steadily. A textile I'd designed was picked up by a brand I knew, and my reputation had risen before I'd even noticed. For the past year, referrals and repeat clients meant I'd never been without work.

Even so, I had no intention of calling myself a success. Too much of it came down to luck. Even I could see it was success beyond what I deserved.

"It's less about skill and more just good fortune," I mumbled evasively. "Someone who liked my work happened to be the type who enjoys investing in young talent."

Brian raised his gaze. His eyes settled on the chandelier, scattering light without a speck of dust.

"...Don't be so modest. I hear your work is quite impressive too."

"From who?"

"Rosa. She hired you to do some decorating as a celebration, and she's been telling everyone in town you did better work than she'd imagined. My mother heard about it and said she'd like to hire you too."

"That really makes me happy." The unvarnished praise from someone back home broke through my gloomy expression. "If she's genuinely interested, tell Hannah she can contact me anytime."

"Will do."

He nodded with characteristic seriousness, then fixed his gaze on me across the counter. Under that expectant look, I reluctantly picked up the cups and pot. I walked over and sat in the chair diagonally across from him. Please don't blame me for lacking the courage to sit beside him.

"Hey, Brian. About what happened three years ago—"

"That's done with."

Brian cut me off, his face troubled as he seemed to think something over. The irritation from when we'd reunited in the lobby was nowhere to be seen, and I found myself thoroughly bewildered.

As I poured coffee into his cup with question marks floating above my head, he apparently reached some conclusion, lifted his face, and spoke.

"—You said there was a murder."

At those words, I stiffened. He'd touched a wound I hadn't yet faced.

Grandma's death and Alan's death were both too heavy to process in a single day. The idea that I'd never see either of them again still didn't feel real.

Brian paused a beat, as if considering my feelings, then continued matter-of-factly.

"What exactly did the detective ask you, and how did you answer?"

"It wasn't that long of a conversation."

I sighed and cast my mind back to this morning's events.

This morning—though it was closer to noon. Two detectives had shown up at my office unannounced and informed me of Alan's death.

One was a thin, tall man in his mid-thirties. The other was a small, cheerful young man.

The younger one had done most of the questioning, but the other man's card read "Inspector," so I assumed he was leading the investigation.

"They asked if I knew Alan, when I'd last seen him. Whether he had close friends or a partner. What I was doing around ten-thirty the night before last."

"I see. And what did you tell them?"

"I answered honestly. We were friends, we'd grab meals together sometimes. The last time I saw him was lunch the day before yesterday. I didn't know much about his social circle. That night, I had a few drinks at a bar and went home, but I don't remember exactly when. I just woke up at home."

"So you told them you have no alibi."

"Huh? Oh!" I jumped at the former detective's words. "That was an alibi question?!"

"...You're joking. You didn't realize they were checking your alibi?"

"I wasn't thinking at all! I was in shock!"

So that's why the atmosphere turned ominous after I answered.

"I was set up. Damn, what underhanded detectives...!"

"They probably never imagined anyone these days wouldn't understand what those questions meant."

Muttering this with exasperation, Brian picked up the stainless steel French press.

He continued while pouring himself a generous refill without hesitation.

"Luke. How did you get home that night? If you were too drunk to remember, you couldn't have driven."

"...I shouldn't have driven. But wow, even I'm amazed at how hazy my memory is."

"Is there any chance someone drove you home? Or called you a taxi? That would prove your alibi."

"If there'd been anyone like that, I would have told the detectives."

I said this with a pout, then stopped, sensing something off.

Was I alone that night?

I was definitely alone in my room the next morning. But I now vaguely recalled being carried to this apartment recently. Someone's feet swaying in my field of vision as they hoisted me over their shoulder. Polished leather shoes. Large—the memory was hazy, but unmistakable. Why had I forgotten?

I gathered the fragmented sensations, carefully reconstructing the sequence of events—and realized that the night I'd been carried was the very same night the detective had asked about. My memory had cut out partway through that evening, and the next thing I knew, someone had been carrying me.

I couldn't help but shout.

"There was someone... I was definitely with someone that night, Brian!"