Chapter 35: Who Is to Blame?

At 9:00 PM, office worker Masaaki Shimamoto was also trying to contribute his own strength to the sales of "New Fiction."

It was just very unfortunate that he had run to several bookstores in a row, only to be told by the clerks with apologetic expressions: "I'm sorry, this book is already sold out; please come back tomorrow."

But he didn't have the patience to wait until tomorrow, or rather, he absolutely loathed "tomorrow."

His status, to put it nicely, was that of an ordinary office worker; to put it bluntly, he was a corporate slave. His job was sales—in his own words: rising earlier than a rooster, sleeping later than a dog, and working more than an ox.

Working in this line of business undoubtedly meant facing immense work pressure.

Arriving at the company in the morning, his superior would ask about his performance for the week and urge him to communicate better with clients. During the lunch break, colleagues would make snide remarks, fishing for his performance ranking. When visiting clients, the clients would impatiently tell him to contact them "tomorrow" or next time.

Under such pressure, he wished he could split one day into two. In fact, he had gone an entire month with less than five hours of sleep per day.

Because of this, he tried to find a refuge for himself.

After trying many things, he discovered a hobby that saved the most time and effort—mystery novels—and he became increasingly addicted to them.

While lost in his thoughts, he arrived at the fourth bookstore. Seeing that they were about to close, he hurried forward and said politely to a female clerk who was organizing books: "Excuse me, do you have the latest issue of 'New Fiction' from the Mantan Agency?"

The female clerk he asked was none other than Aisa Sugihara, who had been moved by the story "Shiori and Yoko" earlier. She subconsciously wanted to respond that it was sold out, but she opened her mouth slightly and didn't say it.

She suddenly remembered that the very last copy of this issue of "New Fiction" had been bought by her, and she was just about to take it home to read.

She intended to refuse the middle-aged man before her, but seeing how drenched in sweat he was, her heart softened for a moment.

This customer must be a loyal fan of Akiwara Yuto; he looked like he had already run to quite a few shops, otherwise, how could he be this exhausted?

She thought for a moment, put down what she was doing, bowed slightly, and said with a smile: "There is one copy left, please wait a moment, sir."

After saying this, she turned and walked toward the staff room.

Seeing Aisa Sugihara's actions, Masaaki Shimamoto felt his spirits lift. He wiped away his sweat and couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief; it seemed he wouldn't have to run to a fifth bookstore.

After a while, he saw Aisa Sugihara bring back the magazine he had been longing for, and he immediately thanked her and paid.

Seeing that the bookstore was about to close, he turned and walked out the door, went to a street lamp, and began to read by its light.

The light was a bit dim and yellow, shining on the paper, making the words on the page appear somewhat blurry.

Yet he was completely unaware, entirely immersed in the plot development of the story.

In his mind, a lonely and dark room appeared out of thin air. A brother and sister were in this room, starting their struggle for survival in a panic.

As he kept flipping through the pages, he saw the scene of the murderer committing the crime through the younger brother's perspective, and he felt a kind of fear from the bottom of his heart:

"My head was exposed outside the tunnel.

I saw it; the woman who had just been chatting with me had now turned into a small mountain of flesh and blood...

A man. He stood in front of a pile of meat that could no longer be called a human, his back to me. If he had been facing my direction, I might have been discovered by him immediately.

I couldn't see the man's face, but I could see he was holding an electric saw in his hand, which was making a loud noise. I finally understood why I sometimes heard the sound of machinery outside the door; it turned out to be this electric saw.

The man stood straight, showing no emotion at all, just stabbing the saw into the pile of meat several times to break the chunks into smaller pieces. At that very moment, red things splashed out all at once, landing all over the room.

The entire room turned blood-red."

After finishing this passage, Masaaki Shimamoto subconsciously took two deep breaths, but he wiped away the cold sweat that had broken out and continued reading.

After a long while, he finally finished all the content.

Beyond the horror implied by the story, the human nature reflected in the story itself also left him feeling shocked.

One woman saw fragments of a corpse flowing through the canal and, knowing the murderer was killing and dismembering people every day, was frightened into a mental breakdown, speaking incoherently.

Another woman knew she was going to die and gave all her belongings to her younger brother who had swum over from the canal, urging him to survive. But when facing the murderer about to open the door, she subconsciously hugged her brother, nearly causing him to fall into the same predicament.

When the older sister faced death, in order for her younger brother to survive, she resolutely sacrificed her own hope of living, grabbed the murderer, and let her brother lock her and the murderer behind that door that had no lock.

These scenes appeared in his mind one after another, making him tremble uncontrollably.

At this moment, all the worries accumulated from his workplace and family life were cast to the back of his mind.

An incredible tremor spread from the depths of his soul to the surface of his body.

While Masaaki Shimamoto was immersed in the story, Akiwara Yuto and his female assistant were having a meeting in the conference room.

Akiwara Yuto sat in his office chair, carefully read "Seven Rooms" once, then raised his head and asked his assistant, who was also flipping through it nearby, sternly: "Misaki, what do you think of this story?"

Sawako Misaki hadn't finished the whole text yet, but she heard the harshness in Akiwara Yuto's tone, subconsciously shrank her head, and said timidly: "I think it's written very well."

Akiwara Yuto stared at her, pondering for a moment. Sawako Misaki felt her scalp tingle subconsciously and couldn't help but whisper: "Mr. Akiwara, did I say something wrong?"

She was truly a bit frightened by his gaze.

Akiwara Yuto raised his head slightly, his face revealing a "politician-style" smile again, then immediately turned fierce.

He picked up the magazine on the table and threw it at his assistant, shouting sternly: "Since you know someone else's work is good, then why did you reject the manuscript in the first place!?"

Sawako Misaki let out a cry of pain, but she didn't dare to cover the spot where she had been hit.

She was momentarily terrified.

Back then, when Akiwara Yuto was busy, he had arranged for her to handle the manuscript and told her to write the rejection letter directly; she thought the matter was settled.

Later, she pushed this work onto Asano Aiko. Although the other party told her this article was well-written, she didn't take it to heart and let her handle it herself.

She hadn't expected that the other party's article would actually drive the reprinting of "New Fiction."

She looked at Akiwara Yuto, whose expression was gradually turning cold, and froze, not knowing what to say for a moment.

Yes, besides me, who else could I push the responsibility onto?

She subconsciously looked at the magazine that had been thrown to the floor, which happened to be opened to the page of "Seven Rooms," and felt an indescribable regret in her heart...