Grey Spring: Ruins of Tokyo Manji and the Love We Left Behind - Hairdresser and Scars

Four days had passed since Hinata's confession. Takemichi sat on the floor, staring at the wall. His futon lay kicked aside, the curtains drawn shut. The days blurred together—he judged whether it was noon or night only by the angle of light seeping through the window gaps. Every morning, a small plastic container hung from the doorknob. The contents changed. One day, rice balls and a rolled omelet. Another, miso soup and rice packed carefully into the container. Another, a sandwich. It was clear the moment he ate that Hinata had thought carefully about each meal. The salt balance, the way the vegetables were cut, how thoroughly they were cooked—everything was meticulous. Each time he received it, something pierced his chest. Was he pathetic for not being able to give an answer? Or was he pitiful for not even knowing if he had the right to give one? The more he thought about it, the more he spiraled. Draken's face surfaced in his mind. Hinata's voice lingered in his ears. *(Maybe I can't do this anymore.)* Takemichi hugged his knees. The words flowed through his head like a habit. But he didn't know what lay beyond "can't." He washed the empty container and hung it back on the doorknob. That was all he'd repeated for four days. He timed his trips to the hallway to avoid running into her, killing his presence. Hinata hadn't knocked on his door either. That, somehow, made it worse. --- That evening, the door was struck. It wasn't Hinata's presence. This was rougher, more forceful. Three knocks, four, five—they didn't stop. "Open it. Or I'll kick it down" Takemichi didn't move. "I'm serious about this" His voice was calm. That calmness left no room for argument. Takemichi sighed and stood up. When he opened the door, Mitsuya Takashi was standing there. He'd just been promoted to stylist at the beauty salon "Fabrica" in Shimokitazawa, but today he wasn't wearing work clothes. A thin gray hoodie, damaged denim. He was tall and lean, his appearance gentle, but his eyes were sharp. The moment Mitsuya saw Takemichi's face, his eyes lowered for just an instant. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, the smell of a cluttered room—he took in everything in a single second, and Mitsuya said nothing. "Let's eat. My treat" Before Takemichi could say anything, his arm was grabbed. He was pulled into the hallway. "Wait, I don't even have shoes on——" "I brought them" Mitsuya tossed sneakers at his feet—the ones lined up in the hallway. Takemichi realized that this was what "leaving no room for argument" really meant. --- Shimokitazawa, Izakaya Tobiuo. Two minutes' walk from Fabrica, a small shop with eight counter seats. The sashimi was exquisite, the draft beer cheap. The owner, Kuroda Genta, was a former fisherman—taciturn, skilled at listening to customers. It was Mitsuya's regular place. Sitting side by side at the counter, Mitsuya ordered two beers and began speaking quietly. He talked about being a hairdresser. How he'd started getting about thirty regular customers a month. How, when his hands were moving, he didn't have to think about unnecessary things. How concentrating on each individual strand of hair made those days feel distant. "Maybe I'm suited for it, being a hairdresser. There's something similar about the way you fight" "What's similar about it" "Watching the small details. Grasping the whole while concentrating on a single point. ……Well, there's no blood involved" Mitsuya drank his beer with something like a bitter smile. Takemichi watched his profile. The fingers holding the glass trembled slightly. Whether Mitsuya noticed or not, he showed no sign of caring. But—beneath the smile, there was a wound that wouldn't fade. Takemichi could see it because he carried the same one. When the second beer arrived, Mitsuya spoke quietly. "If you sink, I feel like I'll sink too" Takemichi searched for words to respond. He tried to take it as words of friendship. As the words of a comrade who'd survived the Kanto Incident together. In that moment, beneath the table, his hand was grabbed. It wasn't the strength of friendship. It was strong, certain, a grip that had no intention of letting go. Takemichi couldn't pull away or grip back—he just froze. Mitsuya didn't turn toward him. He kept his eyes on his glass, said nothing. The tremor in those eyes was something different from the eyes of a comrade who'd stood together on a battlefield. Takemichi couldn't put it into words, but he felt it. *(This doesn't make sense.)* The words circled in his head. But his hand wouldn't pull away. --- They left the izakaya after nine. The night streets of Shimokitazawa were crowded. Vintage shop signs, music leaking from live houses, the voices of drunk customers. Takemichi walked beside Mitsuya. Near Shimokitazawa Station, as they approached a narrow alley. Five men blocked their path. All of them were young. Late teens to early twenties. Shaved-in designs on their heads, flashy jackets. The man at the front raised the corners of his mouth. "You're Hanagaki Takemichi, right? From Tokyo Manji" Takemichi didn't answer. "We're Waldstein, you know. The legitimate successors to Tokyo Manji. Since the boss left, we took over. You should be grateful" The leader grabbed Takemichi's collar while laughing. The force wasn't serious. It felt like he was testing him. Mitsuya stepped forward without a word. His eyes had changed. Not the gentle eyes he used with customers. The eyes of someone who'd survived the Kanto Incident. The members stirred—Takemichi could feel the air shift. "Stop" Takemichi grabbed Mitsuya's arm. "It's not our fight anymore. Not for us" Mitsuya turned back. He started to say something, then stopped. He looked at Takemichi's eyes, paused for a beat, then stepped back. The members laughed mockingly and opened the path. "Wow, the boss has really mellowed out" With that voice at his back, Takemichi walked forward. As they left, in the light of a street lamp, a smartphone shutter sound clicked. When he turned back, the leader was casually lowering his phone. He grinned and disappeared into the depths of the alley. Takemichi stopped. He didn't yet know what that photograph would trigger the next day. --- The next morning, the photo went up on SNS. The caption read: "Tokyo Manji ex-executive Hanagaki Takemichi and Mitsuya Takashi spotted in Shibuya. Are the Manji heroes joining Waldstein?" A dark alley, street lamp light. Two figures standing side by side. Their faces were clearly visible. Within hours, hundreds of reposts had spread. --- When Takemichi arrived at the Daily Shop Sasazuka branch, Manager Tsutsumi was waiting. Thirty-five years old, a former salaryman turned franchise owner—a gentle man who'd hired Takemichi for the late-night shift without asking questions. That Manager Tsutsumi looked troubled today. "Hanagaki, you're... on the internet" His voice wasn't accusatory. But it was confused. "Are you okay? Nothing's going to happen to the store because of this, right?" Takemichi couldn't answer. He couldn't say it wasn't true, or that it wasn't related. He just nodded and picked up his apron. Katagiri Minoru, who was stocking shelves, looked at Takemichi. Nineteen years old, a part-time worker. He called Takemichi "Takemichi-san" and looked up to him. But something different mixed into his gaze today. An expression he couldn't quite name—not quite wariness, maybe. But it wasn't the same look as before. "Good morning" His voice was the same as always. But his eyes quickly looked away. Takemichi stood at the register. Customers came. He scanned barcodes. He printed receipts. He repeated the same motions. He had no energy left to deny anything. --- At the same time, in a one-room apartment in Chofu. Hinata was looking at her phone. She'd found the post by chance. An acquaintance had reposted it. When she opened it, Takemichi's face was there. She knew about Takemichi's past. About Tokyo Manji, about the Kanto Incident. She knew he wasn't the kind of person that photo's caption suggested. But. For four days, he hadn't turned his face toward her. That fact, combined with the photograph of him standing beside a stranger in a night alley, overlapped. Something indescribable pierced her chest. It wasn't anger. It was just the thought that Takemichi might be hurting somewhere she didn't know about. Hinata set down her phone. There was only one photograph displayed in her room. Not a photo with Draken. A photograph from when Tokyo Manji still existed—a photograph with Takemichi. The Takemichi in the photo, smiling with the same face as back then, was—what was he thinking right now? --- In the back room of Fabrica beauty salon in Shimokitazawa. Tsurumi Akira sat on a folding chair, waiting for Mitsuya. Forty years old, a former delinquent. Even if he vaguely sensed Mitsuya's past, he never asked. That Tsurumi opened his mouth first today—something rare. "I said at the beginning that I wouldn't ask about your past, right" Mitsuya listened silently. "But if it affects the shop, that's different" He wasn't blaming him. He was simply saying what needed to be said. Mitsuya nodded. He tried to say it wasn't related, but something caught in his throat. Everything he'd built over two years—the thirty regular customers, the daily routine where moving his hands kept unnecessary thoughts at bay, the bloodless way of fighting. All of it was wavering now, cracked by a single photograph from last night. "……I'm sorry" That was all Mitsuya said. He offered no excuses, no explanations. --- That night, Mitsuya opened his phone. He started typing a message to Takemichi. He rewrote it several times. In the end, he couldn't send it. He closed the screen and set the phone down. The room was quiet. What was Takemichi doing right now? Was he staring at the wall in room 201 of Corpo Minase? Or was he lying awake, listening for sounds from room 202 next door? The sensation of the hand he'd grabbed in the alley last night still lingered on his fingers. Mitsuya closed his eyes to push it away. But it wouldn't fade. --- When Takemichi returned to his apartment in Sasazuka, he stopped in the hallway before entering his room. A small plastic container hung from the door of room 202. Today's breakfast from Hinata. Had he forgotten to take it this morning, or had she left it and gone out? Takemichi picked it up and looked at it for a while. He still had no answer to Hinata's confession. He still had no words for the emotion Mitsuya had shown in the alley last night. And today, the photograph spreading on SNS was beginning to crack the daily lives of both of them—he knew that. Takemichi gently hung the container back on room 202's doorknob. The hallway was quiet. From beyond the wall, a faint humming drifted through. Small, light, a melody that felt somehow familiar. Tonight too, only that remained there.

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Episode 4

Name: Grey Spring: Ruins of Tokyo Manji and the Love We Left Behind
Author: Novelia

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