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544 — Nobody Knows Hardboiled Better Than Me
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 16:10:26 +0000 UTC— Nishi-Tokyo City
One of the five judges for the Mystery Writers Association’s 2015 Grand Prize, Kurokawa Toyomasa, lived here.
Born in Imabari, Ehime, graduated from Kyoto City University of Arts with a degree in sculpture, he once worked as an art teacher at a prefectural high school in Fukuoka before resigning after publishing his debut novel Breaking the Taboo.
He then settled in Nishi-Tokyo City, in a humble wooden house whose previous owner was…
Inside a black sedan, Kisaki Tetta sat hunched over, carefully studying the documents in his hand.
He had practically memorized every word already, but as a strategist, going over the details again and again before making a move was second nature to him.
The file contained everything there was to know about Kurokawa.
Not just the basics like his height and age, but down to the hospital he was born in, the mixer party where he first met his wife, even grainy screenshots from a security camera catching the couple sneaking into a love hotel for the first time.
There were floor plans of his house, blueprints from the remodeling three years ago, complete with the construction company’s official seal.
Kisaki wasn’t traveling alone.
Aside from the driver, two broad-shouldered men in matching black suits accompanied him.
The only difference was that Kisaki’s tie stood out in a brighter color.
He knew he wasn’t much in a fight—if he went alone, he’d be nothing but easy prey.
So whenever there was a chance things could turn violent, he never showed up solo.
The car was quiet, the only sound the rain pelting against the roof.
The moment they left Tokyo’s 23 wards and entered the outer city, the downpour grew heavier, hammering the roof with intimidating force.
Kisaki tugged at his seatbelt.
Just the fact that he bothered to wear one while sitting in the backseat blurred the line—were they yakuza, or government agents?
After all, in all of Japan, fewer than twenty percent of backseat passengers actually buckled up.
That, of course, was thanks to Kyousuke.
“I don’t care if your suits wrinkle—buckle up. I don’t want to read tomorrow’s headlines about you idiots with your heads stuck through the windshield.”
Next to Kisaki rested a brown briefcase containing his boss’s newest manuscript.
The moment he received it, he had started reading, finishing before the car even left central Tokyo.
He always knew his boss was brilliant, but he hadn’t expected him to produce something this exceptional for such a dirty, underhanded purpose.
Just thinking about it made Kisaki’s anger rise again.
What he should be doing right now was walking into a publisher’s office, negotiating a better deal, demanding higher royalties, securing a bigger marketing budget—everything his boss’s new work deserved.
Not this.
Not bowing and scraping to some decrepit, self-important old fool.
That bastard was going to pay.
The car rolled steadily toward Kurokawa Toyomasa’s house, reaching it in no time.
It was an old-style wooden Japanese home, not unlike the Yama-zakura clan’s place they’d visited before, though the walls here were lower. Pine branches stretched over the fence, gleaming fresh from the rain, while black roof tiles lay neatly arranged overhead. Anyone who knew Kurokawa’s reputation as a writer would look at the house and inevitably think: Of course. Even his home looks literary.
The driver got out first, holding an umbrella over Kisaki’s head. Once Kisaki opened his own, the driver slipped back into the car and left to find parking.
Kisaki tilted his head back, peering through the rain at the house. A flood of details streamed through his mind.
“Do it just like we planned,” he said without looking back.
Right then, a dog barked from the yard, the rain having muffled its awareness until now.
“Yes, sir.”
One of the men behind Kisaki snapped his umbrella shut, stepped forward, grabbed the wall, and vaulted over in an instant.
The barking stopped immediately.
Kisaki knew what that meant—his subordinate had just “made friends” with the dog. Just like his boss had done with Doma, the captain of the Yama-zakura clan.
The gate swung open from inside. Kisaki handed his umbrella to the other man.
———————————————————————
Inside the house, Kurokawa Toyomasa stirred awake on the sofa at the sound of the barking.
“Damn mutt, yapping all day long,” he grumbled, about to get up and scold the animal.
The dog was his son’s idea.
Noisy, annoying, and not cute at all—just like the boy himself.
Today, with his wife off attending one of their son’s club activities, Kurokawa had the rare chance to relax.
He had planned to head into central Tokyo by noon and enjoy a night out with friends, but one phone call had ruined that.
The caller was Konno Kenzo, the current president of the Mystery Writers Association.
He had asked him to review some rookie’s new manuscript and offer guidance.
‘Typical of these upstarts,’ Kurokawa sneered inwardly.
‘Get a bit of recognition and suddenly they think they can order me around? Ridiculous.’
Still cursing, he turned on the TV, already knowing exactly what he would do: no matter who this so-called protégé was, he’d tear them to shreds.
He wouldn’t bother reading carefully. Just some stock lines would do—“the prose is terrible,” “the plot is riddled with holes,” “an appliance manual is more entertaining than this.”
After all, any book could be accused of those things.
Wasn’t that the point of “guidance”? He would guide them by crushing their spirit.
As these thoughts circled in his mind, he realized the dog had gone quiet.
Shrugging, he slumped back onto the sofa.
His eyelids drooped again, the rain outside lulling him toward another nap.
Rainy days really were made for sleeping…
Back when he was younger, he would have loved weather like this.
He used to write furiously on days just like it, the rhythm of raindrops feeding his rage as he laid bare the corruption of Japanese society.
It had given him a sense of tragic isolation, made him feel like a hero standing alone against the world.
His debut novel’s most famous scene took place on such a day: a gang member, cast out from his clan, tracking down the woman who had swindled him, storming into her home as the storm raged on.
Back then, he’d been brimming with energy. Not like now—weak, sluggish, half-asleep all the time.
So really, that brat Hojou Kyousuke had better wait a few more years.
This was the wisdom of a veteran speaking.
Yes, yes—that was the image. Even at home, wearing a suit, full of fighting spirit.
Half-dreaming, Kurokawa’s blurry gaze fixed on a young man with dyed blond hair, dressed in a black suit, standing before him.
How nostalgic.
There had been so many fiery young men like that back in Fukuoka.
Fukuoka—the Land of Demons, the heartland of gangs in all Japan.
Most Japanese went their whole lives without ever seeing a real gun.
Even yakuza treated them as ultimate weapons. But in Fukuoka, the police had once set up an actual hand grenade hotline.
Yes, grenades. Not just grenades, but laws specifically stating: “Throwing grenades is prohibited. Even replicas are banned.”
Even if they didn’t have grenades, they’d make fake ones just to scare you to death—that was the “simple honesty” of Fukuoka’s people.
And it was precisely those years in Fukuoka that shaped the man Kurokawa Toyomasa had become.
He was a hardboiled writer—the kind whose protagonists were cold, unflinching detectives. Yakuza, cops, and gambling were the holy trinity of his novels.
His last book? It had opened with a brutal home-invasion murder.
Staring at the figure before him, inspiration flickered in his muddled mind.
Maybe… maybe this was the seed of his next work.
His head cleared a little, his eyes sharpened, and the silhouette in front of him came into focus.
Wait.
Not a silhouette.
Kurokawa’s eyes flew wide.
There really was someone sitting in his living room. A man with cropped, yellow-dyed hair, wearing a black suit, posture ramrod straight.
Kurokawa was instantly, fully awake.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house!?”
His voice boomed with anger, but his eyes darted toward the door.
After years in the “Land of Demons,” having taught more than a hundred students who later joined the yakuza, he knew how these situations went.
And sure enough—by the door to the entryway sat another man in a black suit, kneeling silently.
With a writer’s eye, Kurokawa noticed the tatami beneath him was damp.
Which meant… his son’s faithful little dog had been “taken care of.”
By the staircase to the second floor, a third man knelt, his massive frame nearly level with the railing even while sitting.
Surrounded.
Expressionless.
Eyes colder than the rain outside.
Posture stiff, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Everything about them screamed danger.
Kurokawa could swear it on his years as a teacher of gang-bound students—these were no ordinary intruders.
Panic bled onto his face. His legs weakened, his knees pressing against the sofa, making him want to crawl inside it and hide.
After the initial shock, he forced himself to regain some composure. His voice came out uneven, trembling.
“If it’s money you want, there’s three hundred thousand yen in the safe upstairs. If I’ve done something wrong, I’ll apologize! I’m a well-known novelist—if anything happens to me, the police will investigate thoroughly!”
But the three men didn’t move.
Didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat.
They just stared at him in silence, like statues.
That in itself told him something.
They were cold, yes—but they hadn’t come to torment him.
Not yet.
They’d given him space to breathe.
If this were one of his own novels, after such a flawless break-in, the gangster would slap the target across the face to shatter any resistance, reducing him to a quivering mess begging for his life.
That was how you broke someone completely—he’d learned as much from former students who had “gone pro.”
But these men? They were different.
Kurokawa steadied his breathing, fixing his sharpest glare on the blond man.
He wanted to look strong, to prove he was telling the truth.
“John. Toy poodle. Bought at the Petto Petto shop in Minato, Sanchome. Mother was a pedigree that took third place at the 7th Kagawa Small Dog Show.
Cost you six hundred thousand yen after your son pestered you into it. And the reason it’s kept outside instead of indoors? Because you, Kurokawa Toyomasa, absolutely hate the dog.”
The calm voice echoed in the silent room.
The longer Kurokawa listened, the wider his eyes grew. By the end, his heart was hammering like a steam engine.
Because no one knew that—no one except his wife and son.
To neighbors and friends, he played the part of the doting dog owner. It helped his image.
He’d even come up with excuses: keeping the dog outside wasn’t neglect, it was “respecting its independence,” letting it “stand guard and bark at strangers.”
So how the hell did this man know?
His pulse pounded like a runaway train. Had his wife or son betrayed him?
“Well then, Kurokawa-san,” the blond man asked, his tone now carrying a hint of friendliness. “That kind of dog wasn’t too hard to deal with, was it?”
The air shifted. Kurokawa knew this act well—it was the classic villain’s move, feigning generosity while tightening the noose.
He opened his mouth, struggling for words, but someone else answered for him.
“Yeah. Easy enough.”
It was the man kneeling at the entryway.
Wait—he wasn’t speaking to me? Did they both share the name Kurokawa, or was it just coincidence?
And the wet tatami beneath him—of course.
The rain had soaked him while he finished off the mutt.
The thought gave Kurokawa a perverse flicker of relief. The noisy creature was finally gone.
Then the dread returned.
‘Am I next?’
The blond man’s recital continued, laying bare secret after secret—even things Kurokawa himself hadn’t known, like how a careless error during the house’s remodeling had left an entry point wide open to intruders.
These were not men who could be stopped with threats.
They knew everything.
They knew the risks of attacking someone as prominent as him, and they didn’t care.
They’d broken into his home without hesitation, without mercy.
Sitting there in his own living room as if they were the true owners, they unfolded the story of his life piece by piece, like death itself forcing the dead to review their past.
That day, the hardboiled novelist Kurokawa Toyomasa finally came face-to-face with what real hardboiled looked like.
