The six-mat room on the second floor of the Matsuno house was strangely quiet. The evening light slanted through the window, dimly illuminating six long shadows stretched across the tatami. Osomatsu sat cross-legged on his futon. With bloodshot eyes, he simply stared at the victim case file in his hands. The edges of the file were frayed, and countless sticky notes protruded from its pages. It was a record of everything they had destroyed over these seven days—a record of facing it all head-on. In the corner of the room, Karamatsu sat leaning against the wall. His sunglasses were off, left beside his pillow. On his profile, there wasn't a trace of his usual smug smile. Choromatsu sat hugging his knees, head bowed. Ichimatsu had pulled his black hoodie low over his eyes, staring at a single point on the wall. Only Jyushimatsu was slowly swaying his body. His eyes weren't empty—they seemed to be thinking about something. Todomatsu stood by the window, looking outside. He gazed down steadily at the rows of rooftops in Akatsuki Town, dyed in the colors of the sunset. No one spoke. But this wasn't the exhausted silence of the days before, when they had blamed each other to the point of collapse. It was a quieter silence, and yet one filled with a strange sense of unity. Osomatsu slowly stood up. His knees were trembling. He had barely slept for six days. A heavy fatigue had settled deep into his core. But his eyes alone held a quiet clarity. "[serious]...Let's go." It was a hoarse voice. Not his usual "Eh, whatever," nor a "It'll work out somehow." Not an order urging anyone else—just words stating that he, himself, was going. Karamatsu raised his head. With his bare face, without his sunglasses, he looked at Osomatsu. Choromatsu released his hands from his knees. Ichimatsu didn't run away. From beneath his hood, he watched Osomatsu's back. Jyushimatsu stood up and lined up beside Osomatsu. Todomatsu turned from the window. His lips trembled slightly. "[whispers]...Where to?" "[serious]Isn't it obvious?" Osomatsu said. "[serious]The bridge. If that person is coming, that's the only place." No one had told them. They hadn't made any promises. But all six of them understood. The place where Iyami would make his final stand was that bridge. Osomatsu left the room. The footsteps of the five following him made the old staircase creak. From the kitchen, they heard Matsuyo's voice: "What about dinner?" Without looking back, Osomatsu answered only, "[gentle]...Later." When he opened the front door, the humid night air of August clung to his skin. The sky was shifting from indigo to deep navy, and in the eastern sky, the first star shone white. Six shadows began walking toward the Akatsuki River. No one spoke. But their walking pace was perfectly synchronized. They passed through the shopping district, through the residential area, and in front of Akatsuki Park. A swing creaked—*kii*—swaying in the wind. This was the place where, on the morning of the third day, Iyami had revealed Totoko's testimony and scattered the victim files. Back then, they had heard the sound of their brotherly bonds audibly crumbling. Now, only that memory remained, soaked into the corners of the park. They walked further. The murmur of the Akatsuki River began to reach their ears. The bridge came into view. Its iron railing caught the orange light of the streetlamps, floating dimly in the darkness. The river water quietly washed against the concrete piers. And—in the center of the bridge, there was a figure. Leaning back against the railing, gazing up at the sky. A slender silhouette. A distinctive hairstyle. It was Iyami. The sextuplets' footsteps struck the asphalt of the bridge. Iyami slowly turned his face toward them. The eyes behind his glasses looked at each of the six in turn. They weren't his usual narrowed, clownish eyes. Nor were they the cold, eerily quiet eyes from before. They were simply the eyes of a person, quietly observing another person. "[gentle]You came, *zansu*." His voice lacked its usual theatrical inflection. It was just a simple statement. The sextuplets stopped. On the bridge, the distance between them and Iyami was about five meters. The river wind blew, tousling everyone's bangs. Osomatsu stepped forward. "[serious]...There's something I want to ask you." Iyami remained silent, his hand resting on the railing. "[serious]What was the outcome of the seven-day match?" Osomatsu's voice didn't waver. "[serious]Did we... win, or did we lose?" Iyami didn't answer. Instead, he raised his left hand. On his ring finger, a silver ring glinted. It was an old ring. Scratched all over, clouded in places. Iyami began to slowly stroke that ring with the fingertips of his right hand. "[gentle]Victory or defeat... it no longer matters, *zansu*." It was a quiet voice. "[gentle]That you all came here tonight, on your own two feet. That alone is enough, *zansho*." Osomatsu bit his lip. "[serious]Then, I'll ask you." He took another step forward. "[serious]What was your real goal?" Iyami's fingers stopped on the ring. Beneath the bridge, the river flowed. Somewhere, the sound of insects could be heard. The lights of distant houses flickered, reflected on the river's surface. Iyami gripped the railing and looked down at the nighttime Akatsuki River. Over his shoulder, he began to speak. "[serious]It's true that I utterly despised you all, *zansu*." A low, quiet voice. "[serious]Oblivious, irresponsible, turning other people's lives into a laughingstock. I couldn't stand you, treating it all as just a prank." Strength filled the fingers gripping the railing. "[serious]But—" The clownish *zansu* suffix vanished from Iyami's voice. "[serious]More than that, I was terrified." There was a sense that Karamatsu had caught his breath. "[serious]Terrified that you would walk the same path I did. Destroying people with unconscious malice, and then, by the time you realize it, standing in a place you can never come back from—I knew another person like that." Iyami's voice was flat, as if suppressing all emotion. But beneath that flatness, fifteen years' worth of bitterness seeped through. "[serious]Myself, fifteen years ago." The river wind grew stronger, and the railing trembled faintly. "[serious]In Paris, I was betrayed by a friend. Framed for a crime I didn't commit, driven out of society. No one believed my words. That's when I realized—all the vanity and deceit I had scattered around until then had simply come back to me." Todomatsu's shoulders trembled slightly. "[serious]What I did to you over these seven days was neither revenge nor punishment." Iyami released his hand from the railing and slowly turned around. On his face, there was no clown's mask, no face of a cold enforcer. There was only the face of a middle-aged man, etched with deep wrinkles. "[serious]It was to make you bear, in my place, the pain of facing the consequences of your own actions—something no one ever taught me. What I wished someone had taught me fifteen years ago... I thought that by teaching it to you, I could make up for it, even just a little." Silence descended. None of the sextuplets could say anything. A single tear spilled from Todomatsu's eyes. In his head, Totoko's words from yesterday resurfaced. —If you're seriously trying to change, then I believe in you. Back then, tears streaming down his face, he hadn't been able to reply. But tonight, Iyami's words told him the reason for those tears. It wasn't romantic feelings for Totoko. It was the moment when the very structure of his being—someone who had always designed his relationships through calculation—received, for the first time, the weight of being believed in by someone. He couldn't yet put a name to that emotion. But—for the first time, Todomatsu thought that maybe, just maybe, he could be someone worthy of being believed in. Todomatsu wiped his tears with the back of his hand. Osomatsu stood directly in front of Iyami. His eyes were no longer wet just from being bloodshot. "[crying]...Thank you." Osomatsu said. "[crying]Not 'I'm sorry,' but 'thank you.' I won't forget what you taught us." Hearing those words, Iyami's face twisted, just for an instant. Not with anger, nor with sadness. It was the face of a man who, for the first time in fifteen years, had been properly understood by someone. Karamatsu bowed his head. Choromatsu, biting his lip hard, bowed deeply. From beneath his hood, Ichimatsu quietly bowed his head. Jyushimatsu gave a deep, profound bow. Todomatsu, holding back a sob, bowed his head. All six of them offered their gratitude to Iyami personally. Iyami did not receive the sight head-on. He turned his face away and began to walk slowly toward the far side of the bridge. The sextuplets raised their heads. Iyami did not look back. His back grew more distant. Just before he melted into the darkness on the other side of the bridge— Iyami raised only his right hand high. His open palm caught the light of the streetlamp, floating up for just a moment. The ring flashed silver. That was all. In the next instant, Iyami's figure had vanished into the darkness of the night. Only the sextuplets remained on the bridge. Only the sound of the river's flow continued, unchanging, as it always had. --- The next morning, a single postcard arrived at the Matsuno family's front door. Osomatsu noticed it first. After a sleepless night, as the morning sun began to shine in, he shuffled down the stairs and reached into the mailbox. Inside, there was one item that stood out from the rest. It was a beautiful picture postcard. Printed on it was a scene of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine in autumn. The sky was a perfectly clear blue, and the autumn leaves of the tree-lined streets were reflected on the river's surface. He turned it over. There, written in a thin, nervous handwriting, were these words: "Everyone, take care, *zansu*. Until the day we can laugh together again." The postmark was from Paris. Osomatsu stood rooted in the entryway, gazing at the postcard for a long time. He didn't laugh. He didn't cry either. There was no anger. He simply—quietly accepted those words. It was the final image of a man who, for the first time in seven days, had become able to accept emotions head-on, with no escape. From the kitchen, he heard Matsuyo's voice: "Breakfast~" Upstairs, the sound of someone turning over in bed. The sounds of an ordinary morning. But—something was different from the mornings before yesterday. Osomatsu tucked the postcard into his chest pocket. Then, he opened the front door and looked up at the sky. The wind, carrying a hint of autumn, tousled his bangs. The sky was endlessly high, and clear.