Leaning against the doorframe, I waved languidly as I watched the students depart. My bravado finally reached its limit the moment their figures disappeared toward the elevator hall, and I expelled a breath that seemed to squeeze carbon dioxide from every cell in my body. I was glad I'd gotten to talk with them. That was the truth. But after this morning's detectives, then Jane and Maria, and now this—everyone had shaken me up far too much today.

Returning to the office, I immediately began cleaning. The cake had been thoroughly demolished, but the tea consumption varied interestingly. One cup completely empty, two less than half full, and one entirely untouched.

I tidied them away quickly and wiped down the kitchen and office. There was still time before Brian arrived. I was just picking up supplies to mop the floor when the doorbell chimed. Not from the ground-floor reception—the bell at my door.

I wondered who it could be.

In this building, the elevator couldn't be used without operation by either the concierge or myself. So the doorbell ringing unexpectedly like this was fundamentally unusual.

Tilting my head in puzzlement, I opened the door to find Qasim—the boy I had just bid farewell to—standing there. Intense blue eyes that made me tilt my head up slightly. Caught by that gaze, my body froze for an instant. Up close, the pressure in his eyes was almost painful.

"H-hey, Qasim. Did you forget something?"

I tried to sound as casual as possible, but his intensity didn't ease one bit. A quick glance confirmed the other three weren't with him.

"...I know it's terribly rude to show up like this out of nowhere. But, Mr. Potter, there's something I absolutely have to ask you."

"Um, what is it?"

Qasim answered in a clear, low voice.

"In your eyes, do you think Alan was happy?"

I found myself staring back into those blue eyes. After studying that earnest gaze for a while, I finally gave up and sighed.

"...Come in. This doesn't seem like a doorstep conversation."

When I pressed myself against the wall, he passed by me with surprising quietness. For someone radiating such powerful presence. From behind, his mane of wavy dark brown hair spread out like a lion's.

He stopped me from making tea and settled obediently onto the sofa. His direct gaze prompted me to answer the earlier question.

Do I think Alan was happy? What a difficult question.

"...You know, Alan told me you two hadn't kept in touch since graduating high school."

At my reluctant opening, Qasim nodded without apparent disturbance.

"That's right. Even during high school when we were classmates, we hardly ever spoke."

"Then why do you care so much about Alan?"

If his grief were simply him getting intoxicated on "being someone who lost a classmate," this would be easier. I could just pretend to sympathize and show him out at an appropriate moment.

Qasim lowered his gaze slightly. He seemed to be struggling with what and how to say. Come to think of it, there was a live-action adaptation a few years ago of that movie with the troubled young lion.

As if to pull me back from my wandering thoughts, Qasim slowly began to speak.

"He didn't seem to notice, but I actually saw Alan occasionally after graduation. We both went to the same university, and especially in the first year, our campuses overlapped quite a bit."

"So you were paying more attention to him than Alan realized?"

He let his gaze wander briefly in hesitation, then nodded. And without meeting my eyes, he continued haltingly.

"Potte—Luke, you heard about the time I spoke to Alan?"

"You noticed his injury and approached him. I heard that story three or four times."

"Did he tell you what kind of injury it was?"

"No... I assumed it was just a scrape or something."

Qasim shook his head matter-of-factly.

"No. I can't say much as a layman, but... it was obviously severe signs of assault, clear even to an untrained eye."

In the hushed office, my throat made an audible swallow. The scene in my mind—"Alan's bittersweet memory with his first love"—was instantly rewritten into something brutal.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I exhaled.

"Good god..."

"...But what really shocked me was how indifferent Alan was to his own injury. I was panicking, but he just stood there, looking blank."

—At first, I didn't understand what he was saying. Before I knew it, his face and eyes filled my entire vision. The world became full of light... After a beat, I finally registered the sensation of him gripping my arm, his voice demanding answers.

Alan's voice, recounting his memory with Qasim, echoed in my mind. At the time, his eyes had held nothing but pure joy.

—I can still feel where he grabbed my arm, burned into my skin. I thought as long as I could trace that feeling, I could endure anything. My heart truly found peace...

"From that moment on, I couldn't stop worrying about Alan."

"...Was there terrible bullying or something?"

"If you mean at school, no. I watched carefully, but there didn't seem to be any violence or harassment directed at him. Our school had a lot of emotionally stable students, and besides, he wasn't really the type to provoke people, for better or worse. Quiet, but not uncooperative. His grades were good enough that people knew his name, but he wasn't exactly the center of attention. I thought he was managing well within minimal social interactions."

Having rattled off these words that showed how closely he'd been watching, Qasim added quietly:

"And he said thank you for the smallest things, so I don't think anyone disliked him."

"Yeah, I can see that."

At my words, Qasim smiled.

"...Honestly, whenever I saw him around campus after graduation, he always looked like he was having fun surrounded by friends. Lately, I'd almost stopped worrying."

"I see."

He had truly cared about Alan.

At my murmur, tinged with something like relief, he repeated his earlier question.

"Luke. Do you think Alan was happy?"

"You said he always looked like he was enjoying himself when you saw him. That's your answer. What more do you want?"

"..."

At my smile, Qasim fell silent. Okay. So he wasn't satisfied.

As if explaining to a much younger brother—though I only have a sister—I addressed him.

"Look, Qasim. Alan certainly seemed to have various troubles, but to my eyes at least, he looked like he was enjoying his daily life. But you know, I didn't know anything about his everyday life or even about that injury. There's no way I can answer that question."

"...Even so, you must have been the one most deeply involved with his inner world."

"You're overestimating me. I just happened to learn about Alan's worries. I didn't even know he was a college student, for crying out loud."

"Facts and labels don’t mean anything. None of the four of us ever saw Alan laugh out loud. I think that's the answer."

He turned my own words back on me. What an infuriating lack of cuteness.

The view from the window had become entirely nighttime. Against the dark sky, buildings and cars scattered light in their own ways. Occasionally, dull sounds that might be car horns reached this office on the fifteenth floor from somewhere far away.

Gazing at this winter sky made me crave something warm. How about hot chocolate with a splash of brandy? A generous splash. First, I'd savor the aroma of cacao and alcohol, then let the sweetness of chocolate spread through my mouth. The brandy sliding down my throat would soon warm and loosen my taut nerves...

The fantasy was so enticing that I let out a deep sigh.

"Are you alright?"

At the slightly gentler tone in his voice, I accidentally let slip:

"I want a drink."

"What?" Qasim's voice pitched up with apparent offense. "Were you even listening to me?"

"I can't help it—it's been a hell of a day since this morning!"

Maybe I was tired. My true feelings were spilling out uncontrollably.

"I've hit my limit. I was already nervous dealing with college students, and then at the very end I get cornered by this stubborn guy."

"St-stubborn..."

To Qasim who repeated the word as if struck, I piled on more honesty.

"Besides, you came here saying you wanted to hear what I had to say, but you haven't agreed with a single thing I've said! What do you want me to do?!"

"That's..."

"I know, I know. You don't even know what you want yourself. I get it, but wanting a spiked hot chocolate after dealing with that is only natural!"

"Um, I'm sorry... Oh, I have chocolate. Would you like some?"

"Yes."

"You're actually going to eat it..."

Despite having offered it himself, Qasim looked exasperated as he produced a red-wrapped package from between his books. I accepted it without hesitation, and as the chocolate melted in my mouth, I felt my nearly desiccated "consideration for others" revive slightly. With that recovered mental margin, I steered the conversation back on track.

"Look, you know this already, don't you? Happiness is inherently subjective. No matter how many of Alan's close acquaintances you ask, you'll never find the real answer."

"Even so, I want to know about him when he was alive."

"...Hey, Qasim. Do you realize? That wish is the flip side of fearing that he might not have been happy."

Qasim's body stiffened with a start. His blue eyes blazed brighter, seeming to say I know that already. Surely the wounds he'd seen on his classmate's body had left deep scars on his own heart too.

"...Well, anyway. I have no intention of answering your question, but—" Driven by that unfamiliar guilt rising again, I let my gaze wander. "If it bothers you that much, why don't you investigate Alan yourself?"

He looked up. The instant I saw those eyes, a bad feeling shot through me like lightning.

"...Mr. Potter. I have a favor to ask."

The bad feeling intensified, and I instinctively drew back.

"Wh-what is it?"

"Would you help me? In investigating him."

"—Oops, sorry, I didn't catch that."

As I tried to escape, the stubborn lion pressed his attack.

"I want to know the reason for those injuries, the problems he was carrying. But—"

"Oh right, actually, I'm going out drinking with an old friend after this."

"I have no means of tracing Alan's private life. So—"

"He's dead serious, stubborn, a leader type—haha, maybe a bit like you, actually."

"I want to borrow your help."

"No!"

At my instantaneous reply, Qasim pressed on.

"Why not?"

"Why not? Think about what you're actually proposing! What are you even thinking?!"

"I don't want to pretend I never knew anything and live with regret."

At the word "regret," I sighed deeply.

"Qasim, this is something I heard from a former detective. When someone close to you dies, people tend to regret and wonder if there was something they could have done. But Alan's death isn't your fault."

At my paternalistic words, Qasim's face took on a melancholy cast.

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"What did you say?"

Even I could hear how ominous that sounded. The line a villain delivers right before attacking the hero who's confronted them with the truth. But Qasim didn't flinch at my words, which should have been intimidating in a movie. He simply stated:

"This is something I learned through Australian football. When you give someone advice, the person who needs that advice most is usually yourself."

At that moment, irritation so strong my cheek twitched seized me. My own reaction told me everything. Much as I didn't want to admit it, I knew he'd hit the mark.

Perhaps reading something in my stiff expression, Qasim produced a notepad as if by magic and ran his pen across it. Why did competent people always have notepads hidden on them?

"This is my contact information. Whether you change your mind or not, please get in touch."

"I'll contact you if I feel like it."

At my utterly unenthusiastic reply, Qasim raised an eyebrow. Once again, he skewered me with that pressuring gaze.

"...There's one thing I forgot to tell you. I overheard this at his funeral—apparently, Alan was smiling at the moment of death. A full smile with his mouth curved up so high it couldn't be explained by muscle relaxation."

This time, Alan's smile flashed through my mind, and once again I was struck speechless. My brain refused to process any more information. Give me a break. How many bombs was this guy going to throw at people in one day?

"...So what about it?"

"I thought perhaps you might understand what it meant for him to be smiling at the moment of death."

At Qasim's utterly serious words, I swallowed hard.

"—So you're saying I killed him."

"There's still time, so please turn yourself in. —No, that's not it. What are you even saying?"

Looking exasperated, he continued.

"Whether that smile came from happiness, or from something else entirely... I thought if anyone might know, it would be you."

"I already said no!"

At my obstinate reply, Qasim who had been staring into my eyes smiled. I felt the tension in the office ease immediately. Infuriatingly, even in my own territory, he had complete command of the atmosphere.

Qasim relaxed his powerful shoulders and leisurely recrossed his hands.

"...Thank you truly for listening to us today. I apologize for all the rudeness."

At his polite parting words, I reflected just slightly on my own childish attitude.

As if mocking my contrition, Qasim continued without a hint of remorse.

"—I'll be back."