Chapter 895

Kobe, end of the year.

On the hillside of Kitano-cho, there are several old apartment buildings with beige tiles from the Shōwa era, rusted stair railings, and a few unclaimed bicycles piled in the corners.

The apartment building where Yamada Reika lives is at the deepest part of this slope; going further up leads to the woodland of the Rokkō Mountains.

In winter, the sunset comes early—before five o'clock, the streetlights turn on, casting an orange-yellow glow that spreads through the damp air, illuminating the empty slope and the door that no one answers.

Yamada Reika is a divorced woman, 39 years old this year, living in Kitano-cho on the outskirts of the city; she is actually quite wealthy, and since divorcing her husband, she has lived here with her four children and runs a well-known private restaurant called "Hanaguan"; the family lives comfortably, but because she is accustomed to this place and new apartments often lack large units, Yamada Reika has continued to live here with her four children.

At this very moment, Yamada Reika's brother, Yamada Yuji, stands in front of that door, having stood there for a long time.

He pulls out his phone from his pocket and dials his sister's number; the receiver plays the same mechanical, emotionless female voice: "The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable……

He takes the Huawei P90 phone from his ear, holding it in his palm—the phone case is matte black, the edges worn down to white. He does not call again.

Over these three days, he has made dozens of calls and sent countless messages, from "Want to go watch a game together?" to "Where are you? I bought the tickets myself then," to "Reika, where are you?" to "Just reply, even if it's just a period"—none received a response.

Strange.

He knows his sister loves watching baseball games, especially the Seibu Lions; whenever the Seibu Lions come to Kobe to play, she always goes to the venue to watch, and this year Yamada Yuji naturally invited her to come watch together, also hoping to chat about Souda Sosuke's infidelity gossip and that line from Uesugi Muneyuki—"You play like LeBron James"—that made Souda snap.

Japanese society is generally repressed, but precisely because of this, Japanese people's gossip and voyeuristic desires are strong; and Kansai people differ from Kanto people—Kansai people are passionate, loud, and love to exaggerate and talk big.

But Yamada Reika's phone won't connect, and she can't be reached—she doesn't reply to LINE or text messages.

Left with no choice, Yuji calls Yamada Reika's partner at the "Hanaguan" restaurant.

The partner also finds it strange, saying Reika had been in the restaurant a few days ago organizing the New Year's party menu, mentioning that this year's reservations were up 20% compared to last year, the freezer was piled high with seafood shipped from Akashi and Awaji Island, and even pufferfish had been prepared.

But when the partner went to check today, he discovered that Reika had not immediately accepted the seafood delivery, causing part of the goods to sit at a transfer station for a while, some of which had spoiled, resulting in losses of hundreds of thousands of yen—though this amount is trivial for a high-end restaurant, such a thing had never happened before.

"Reika would never make such a mistake; if she always did, our restaurant would have gone bankrupt long ago." The partner said this. Yamada Yuji tightened his grip on the steering wheel. After her divorce, Reika single-handedly kept the restaurant afloat, raised four children, and never once told anyone she was tired.

She wouldn't just turn off her phone for three days for no reason, ignore New Year's party orders, or fail to pick up supplies after being notified they'd arrived.

He decided to come and see for himself.

Yamada Yuji parked his car in the paid parking lot beneath the apartment building, walked to the door, and pressed the doorbell.

No one answered.

He knocked again—no one answered.

He then pressed his ear to the door and listened for a long time—inside, there was no sound, no TV, no children crying or shouting, no slippers shuffling on the floor—nothing at all.

Strange!

After a moment's hesitation, the Kansai man's concern for his sister's safety outweighed his worry about "bothering the police," so he pulled out his phone and dialed "Mòsī Mòsī~"

Clearly, upon hearing it was another missing persons case, the officer on the other end of the line sounded noticeably impatient.

Police are people too—they're also waiting for New Year's holiday to start so they can clock out, and have already slipped into "power-saving slacking mode."

The Kobe City Police Headquarters receives a large number of missing persons reports every year, especially before the New Year holiday, when it peaks.

The voice on the other end of the phone was very calm—so calm it sounded like confirming a weather forecast.

"Mr. Yamada, when was the last time you contacted your sister?"

"About three or four days ago."

"Did she mention wanting to go on a trip?"

"No. She's been at her busiest these days—she couldn't possibly have gone out."

"Did she have any arguments with anyone?"

"Since her divorce, she's been raising the kids alone—I haven't heard of any conflicts with anyone."

"Could she have taken the kids on a vacation herself? It's almost New Year—some people choose to travel off-peak during this time." "Impossible—her restaurant has booked a large number of New Year's parties and reservations; she couldn't possibly go on vacation right now!"

The officer on the other end clearly ran through a standard combo and hit nothing vital; they fell silent for a moment: "So, Mr. Yamada, what do you want us to……

"Come take a look?" Yamada Yuji silently cursed: "You bunch of salary thieves! All day eating our taxes, enjoying civil servant perks, and now you just want to slack off!"

If even one in ten police officers nationwide were like the Special Mission Division of the Metropolitan Police Department, Japan's public safety would have risen from tenth to first in the world long ago! The voice on the other end fell silent, as if weighing "send two people to check" versus "wait for her to show up." In the end, the system won.

"Alright, Mr. Yamada, we'll send someone over. Please wait a moment at the scene."

After waiting nearly an hour, a police car finally drove up from the bottom of the slope—white body with blue stripes, the roof light not on. Two officers stepped out—one in his forties, one in his early twenties.

This is a very classic veteran-and-rookie setup for Japanese police.

The older officer held a notebook, his gaze shifting from the door to Yamada Yuji's face, quickly scanning the anxious brother, the missing sister, the four children, and the three days.

He's seen dozens of cases like this in Kobe—most are couples arguing and fleeing to the parents' house, spontaneously deciding to go to a hot spring, or phones dying and owners too lazy to charge them, then returning after a few days.

Let's do a routine check.

"Mr. Yamada, when was the last time you went inside?"

"I can't get in—I don't have a key."

"Then let's first check if anyone's inside."

The older officer turned to the younger one and said: "Go call the building manager to open the door."

"Okay~" The young officer gave a long, drawn-out reply.

The manager lives on the first floor of the apartment building—a woman in her sixties, hair gray-white, wearing gray loungewear.

She pulled a large bunch of keys from the drawer, her fingers fumbling on the keyring for a long time, found the one with the small note attached.

The door opened.

The lights inside were off, the curtains drawn, light seeping through the fabric's gaps, casting several thin, gray-white lines on the floor. The living room isn't large, the sofa cushions neatly arranged, the coffee table empty of cups, the TV remote in its fixed spot. The kitchen sink had no soaking dishes, the stove's pots were wiped clean, the dishcloth folded into a square and draped over the faucet. The four children's rooms were also neat and tidy—bunk beds made, stationery arranged on the desks, clothes in the wardrobe sorted by shade from dark to light.

The bathroom had no water marks, the toilet lid closed, the towel folded and placed on the rack. The whole house looked like a model unit with no one living in it—no signs of struggle, no bloodstains, no drawers rifled through, no broken vases.

In the corner of the room was a cat bowl with some cat food, the litter box containing some cat feces that hadn't been scooped.

Everything was too normal—so normal it became abnormal.

In police procedure, "normal" means "no further action needed."

The older officer finished his investigation and closed his notebook.

"Mr. Yamada, look—nothing's abnormal here. Doors and windows are locked, no signs of intrusion, nothing's been moved. Your sister might have just decided on the spur of the moment to take the kids on a trip. It's New Year's holiday—lots of people go out for a walk at this time."

"They're adults now, we can't interfere with their freedom to go out, right? Japanese passports get visa-free access to 190 countries worldwide—who knows, maybe they're right now in Chechnya shooting AK-47s for fun, haha~" The older officer joked: "Alright, as long as there's nothing abnormal, it's fine. No news is good news. Happy New Year, we're heading back."

The young officer stood at the door, tore off a slip of paper, and handed it to Yamanaka Yuji: "This is the case number. We'll enter the missing persons' information into the system. If anyone finds your sister or your children, they'll contact you. Just go home and wait for news."

"But..." Yamanaka Yuji still hesitated: "That..."

He stood in the center of the living room, staring at the shoes lined up at the genkan.

Reika's shoes, the four children's shoes—all neatly arranged on the shoe rack.

His lips twitched, wanting to ask, "Then why are the shoes still here?" but he felt the question was pointless. In the police's view, "shoes still being there" doesn't mean the person didn't leave—people can own many pairs, wear another pair out, or even buy new ones on the spot. This reasoning is logically airtight.

And utterly worthless in fact.

Classic detective fiction is outdated!

But classic detective fiction is already dead—you few cops can't even be bothered to check the surveillance footage?

Yamanaka Yuji gritted his teeth, but his sister is ultimately an adult—accessing surveillance footage requires authorization, and current evidence still can't prove whether she's missing or just out and about.

Police work, after all: better to do less than more.

He watched the two officers' backs disappear at the stairwell entrance, heard their footsteps descend from the second floor to the first, then walk from the first floor to the parking lot. The car door closing echoed dully in the quiet apartment building, then the engine started—the white police car drove off down the ramp. Oh well.

Yamanaka Yuji could only shake his head—he also had to go to work.

At the same time, Tokyo, Sakuradamon, Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters, Special Mission Division.

Soon, Minami Ojou-sama managed to obtain firsthand materials from Saitama Prefecture: "Sōsetsu, I found it."

"Hurry up, let me take a look!" Uesugi Muneyuki immediately became interested, he immediately took the materials from Minami's hands, and as a result, a group of people from the Special Mission Division gathered around.

"Oh my, so that's how it is!"