Chapter 17 I'm Called Ma En

The moment she hung up, Hirota Masami seemed to have forgotten her earlier terror entirely. Her face lit up, her movements turned buoyant. She flashed Ma En an OK sign — then froze, said "Ah!" and pressed her palms together. "Please wait — I need to change. Ten minutes... twenty minutes, tops." She glanced at the ruined door, and something like a plan formed behind her eyes. "Go report this to the building manager first. You'll need a new lock, right?"

"Can't I just buy one myself and install it later?" Ma En didn't see the problem.

"No — those are sourced from a contracted supplier. All maintenance is outsourced. Residents just pay." She confirmed once more: "You know where the manager's office is?" Before he could answer, she told him anyway. The building manager was a live-in hire; the office was on the first floor, near the entrance.

"After you report it, wait for me outside." She fixed him with a stern look. "I'm very much looking forward to yakiniku. The reservation is made. Don't you dare leave and come up with some excuse — no reason is acceptable!"

"Sounds like you're planning to clean me out," Ma En said, smiling warmly.

Hirota Masami stared. His smile at that moment was nothing like the impression from their encounter minutes ago — gentle, warm, as if he'd become a different person. Even that severe outfit seemed to soften. No — more than that. The chill that had saturated the entire corridor was simply gone, swept away by that one expression. Was this young man really the unsettling figure she'd seen? Hirota Masami couldn't help wondering: had the earlier shock warped her perception?

— But someone who smiles like that, from the heart — he has to be a good person.

She settled this in her mind. The last of her wariness dropped away. She watched him try to close his door, but the busted lock wouldn't cooperate — the door couldn't even shut properly. She'd never heard of break-ins in this apartment, but a door that didn't close was still a problem. She was mulling over advice when she saw the young man grip the ruined lock and wrench it — and the twisted metal straightened under his hand.

Hirota Masami's jaw dropped. No sound came out. The locks in this building were not cheap. The metal was high-grade. An ordinary person — even a large man — shouldn't have been able to bend it back bare-handed. And this neighbor was young, his frame anything but bulky. In that suit, he was all clean, slender lines.

When Ma En sensed the silence behind him and turned around with a puzzled look, she managed: "How — how did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The lock! The lock! You just —" She mimed his motion, wrenching at empty air. Still disbelieving, she went to the door and pushed it shut. The gap closed this time, though the lock mechanism still wouldn't engage.

"That's incredible," she said, repeating it.

"Is it? Honestly, it took some effort." Ma En didn't think he'd done anything remarkable. If anything, the lock's quality was disappointing.

"It's absolutely incredible!" Her tone veered dangerously close to fury.

Ma En blinked. He had no idea why she was this agitated. It was a door lock. Why the excitement?

"I — there's no getting through to you. I give up." Hirota Masami stared at the innocent expression on his face and felt something in her brain short-circuit. She pointed at him. "Go downstairs. Wait for me." Then she click-clacked back to her own room in her heels, still peeking through the gap as she closed her door. Her eyes were speaking volumes.

Ma En watched quietly until her door clicked shut. Then he turned back to his own, thinking: should be fine, right?

He'd played it cool in front of Hirota Masami, but he was worried about the broken lock. His room held important materials. Daily necessities he didn't care about — but more precisely, nothing in there mattered except the Seven Transmutations of the Profound Mystery Records. The book was dangerous. Others probably couldn't read its contents, didn't know what it was — but the object itself was a high-risk item. If some ordinary person walked off with it, new bloodshed and new innocents could follow.

Carrying it with him was also out. He wasn't going out alone — he was taking a neighbor to dinner, heading somewhere crowded. Who knew what kind of bizarre and dangerous situations the book might trigger?

Ma En went back inside and wedged the Seven Transmutations of the Profound Mystery Records into the gap between the back of the cabinet and the wall, clamped tight between the two surfaces. Then he placed a series of unobtrusive markers along the path from cabinet to door. If someone broke in, unless they could evaporate like that eye, they'd almost certainly leave traces.

Next, he measured the lock's height, found a broom that matched, cut a mop handle to size, dug out a length of rope and the vacuum cleaner, and combined them with the door's safety chain into a simple mechanism. When he closed the door from the outside, these components would fall into a predetermined arrangement — connecting, bracing, locking the door from the inside with enough force to hold. The safety chain alone would leave a gap; the mechanism prevented it. Anyone pulling on the door would get the message: it was shut.

If he came back, one solid kick would jar the mechanism loose. Or he could simply yank the door open.

In reality, if a determined intruder wanted in, no residential lock — however good — had ever been worth much.

He'd thought of more elaborate measures too — time-release chemicals that could induce unconsciousness, nerve paralysis, hallucinations — but there was no time. Hirota Masami had said ten... twenty minutes. He wasn't going to gamble on thirty. Making her wait outside would be rude.

Ma En pushed the door gently, felt the resistance from inside, and nodded to himself. Then he took his black umbrella and headed down to the first floor.

The building manager was a middle-aged woman — heavyset, with a face and manner as soft and warm as a pineapple bun, but a personality that was all business. Ma En had met her once when he moved in. This was the second time, and coming in with a broken lock report made it awkward. Even so, she only gave him a mild scolding and let it go. Ma En had the good sense to pay the full amount upfront without hesitation. Compared to Hirota Masami's reaction, the manager's measured disapproval made him feel he really had been too impulsive.

He stepped outside and didn't go far — stood by the landscaping strip for a few minutes, sat for a few more. Bought a pack of Japanese cigarettes from the nearest vending machine and smoked one standing by the trash can. Compared to Chinese brands, the local ones tasted mild. He hadn't finished his first cigarette when Hirota Masami walked out.

She'd been dressed as an office worker before — formal bag, formal everything. Now she wore a casual dress with a light yellow open cardigan, black stockings, different shoes, different bag. Her hair, which she'd pinned up into a mature style for work, was down now. The whole person looked younger, livelier. Maybe it was the good mood. Radiant was the only word that fit.

Ma En went "Oh —" in his heart.

He waved to her. She noticed, walked over. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette.

"That was fast," he said when she reached him.

"Can't keep the person treating me waiting." She smiled, her eyes crinkling.

"Let's go. Where to? Should we get a taxi?"

"Hold on." Hirota Masami reached into her bag and pulled out a deep red hat.

The shape was like a fedora, but without the tall crown — something between formal and lived-in, carrying a unique quality that made it look more like a decorative piece for a wall or a shelf than something a person would actually wear.

"For you," she said. "A greeting gift."

Ma En took it, slightly stunned. He turned it over once. "For me?"

"I think it'll suit you perfectly."

"Really —" He didn't share the feeling. He examined the hat — no front, no back, just a large circle nested in a small circle. He'd never seen anything like it back home. Outside of movies, he'd never seen anyone wear one. He imagined himself in it and felt a twinge of unease. Would he look like a clown?

Then again — it was undeniably stylish.

He glanced at Hirota Masami again. Her outfit had a different quality from the women he'd known in China — lighter, more playful, less rigid. Cultural style gap, probably. But Hirota Masami wasn't an outlier. The women he'd seen during the day in Japan, married or not, dressed casually or otherwise — most of them had shown him something about fashion he hadn't quite experienced before.

He tried to picture women back home dressing the same way. Not yet, perhaps — but in a few years, maybe. Light lace skirts, gauze-like shawls. Because no woman disliked becoming beautiful.

The thought made him smile.

"You look lovely tonight, Hirota-san."

"Oh, stop —" She fanned her face, but her smile only grew. "Put it on. Let me see."

Ma En pressed his lips together, grasped the crown of the hat, and placed it on his head. He stood straight, one hand resting on the black umbrella. "How is it?"

Hirota Masami's eyes went wide.

She'd bought this hat before she started working. Hadn't decided whether to wear it herself or give it away — she'd just liked it. It had sat in her closet ever since. When she'd been changing tonight and found it again, the image of this odd new neighbor came to her unbidden — that deep red tie, eye-catching in any setting. Without the dark suit to suppress it, it would make him conspicuous even in a crowd. She'd imagined the scene: urban nightscape, flickering neon, colored lanterns along a street, and that point of deep red drifting through the crowd like a ghost.

Deep red tie, deep red fedora — like a mysterious figure stepping out of a film. A beautiful outline had taken shape in her mind, replacing the terrifying image from their first encounter. That was the moment she'd decided: this hat was for him.

Because she wanted to see what she'd imagined.

Now she was seeing it. Exactly as she'd pictured. Buying that hat all those years ago had been worth every bit. This wasn't about money. Some visions only brought satisfaction when you helped make them real.

Ma En wearing that deep red fedora was, in Hirota Masami's heart, the complete picture.

"Hirota-san?" Ma En asked softly. She was staring at him as if entranced. It was starting to worry him.

"Hm? Oh — what?" She snapped out of it.

"Thank you for the gift."

"It's nothing. It fits you perfectly." She meant it. "Let's go. Tonight's yakiniku — I intend to eat well."

Ma En tilted the brim down. He still felt a little self-conscious — he wanted a mirror. But the hat's material was undeniably fine. Expensive, probably. He hadn't expected a gift like this on his first days in Japan. He began to wonder if he should buy her something in return, beyond the yakiniku. But he knew nothing about women's fashion — couldn't choose clothing, didn't know brands or prices. Cosmetics were equally foreign territory. Would it be odd to just tell her he wanted to give a return gift?

These thoughts were still turning when he said, almost without meaning to: "Does Hirota-san always accept invitations this easily?"

"Not at all." No hesitation. "I have standards."

"Standards?"

"First — I have to feel safe."

"Ah. Of course." Ma En nodded. So she considered him safe? That was a miscalculation on her part. He'd come here as a refugee, carrying a pursuit that was practically toxic. His entire being was laced with danger. But he wasn't going to refuse all normal human contact just to protect others from the fallout. He was human, not a monster. Humans survived in human society. Socializing was unavoidable no matter the circumstances — because that was simply how human beings worked. Even carrying danger, he shouldn't distort his own nature.

"Second — the other person has to treat."

"...Fair enough." He meant it. He also liked being treated.

"Third — he has to be handsome." Hirota Masami skipped a few steps ahead, hands clasped behind her back, and turned to face him over her shoulder. "You're looking quite handsome tonight."

"That's... very kind of you." In Ma En's entire memory, this was the first time a woman around his age had said something like that to his face. He felt genuinely flustered.

"Oh, right — what's your name?" That was her very next sentence.

— She doesn't even know my name!

Something winced inside Ma En's chest. Was this person's flattery structurally sound? Was the free meal the real reason all along?

"Ma En," he said calmly. "I'm called Ma En."