[OUTSIDE]

With no more challenges in his way, Masaru skips right to the end. He can feel the presence of the enemy behind him, and with a perfect alternating draw, Masaru pulls forth his father's katana from his briefcase and turns to face his adversary.

The distance caused by the draw immediately provides a moment of safety, and he reflects on why this time he’s not instantly struck by the killer’s knife.

It's true that he had not hung around in karate class, or any of the other clubs he didn’t want to attend. What is true, however, is that there was one sport Masaru enjoyed more than any other, one that he chose: a skill that is authentically his own— one he chose simply because swords are cool.

Leaning into the kendo fighting stance that won him his prefecture championship, Masaru ridges his body for a lightning-fast exchange of cuts.

There it is before him, with gleaming red eyes and an unintelligible form, the enemy waits in darkness.

It's not a well-appointed warrior like The Knight, it's not quite a “Masaru” like The Fake, and it's not an unknowable horror like The Stranger. The enemy stands ready with its stiletto knife poised for an instant, precise stab. The glow of its eyes partially blinds Masaru with its eternal challenge.

The time has come at last.

Masaru takes a cautious step forward as he keeps the blade at a high ready. Masaru is not sure if the enemy is granting him this pause because he's more clear-headed and reacted more quickly, or if there's something else going on. Perhaps it feels something different in him.

It brandishes its blade, and so does he. Masaru sees the telltale arch in the enemy's legs as it signals a change in footing. It's so predictable that it's almost tradition.

It’s not even “easy.” It’s simply natural to overcome it.

The moment Masaru's blade cuts in, he realizes that this is meant to happen. The enemy is not challenging him with a standoff. It’s simply asking to see if he's ready to face it.

Masaru cuts through, utilizing the length of his katana to maintain a healthy spacing from the swinging range of the enemy's knife…

Instead of the unmistakable dribbling of blood after a perfectly measured cut like that, it’s like the cutting of a mirror… and then Masaru hears the laughter of children, and the splashing of water.

His body seizes as he attempts to look through the glaring sunlight that's exploded all around him, but the drowning feeling is no longer there. The sounds, the scents of the water, the festival food in the air. The feeling of the pine straw under his bare feet.

Truly, what's he doing, holding on to a katana at the lake park?

Masaru stumbles out of his stance, picks up his briefcase, and shoves the katana back in. He shuts it tight as he tries to get a look over the place. The sun hangs lazily over the tops of the trees, inviting the oncoming sunset, or at least he thinks that's the case. He's having trouble seeing with the tears in his eyes.

“It's…“

Masaru cannot finish the sentence for himself or anyone else, not even in his mind. It's just critically, instantly obvious where he is.

He's back.

He looks over to one of the seating areas. His dark shroud of a father peruses a stack of paperwork, caught in a trance. He steps forward as he watches his mother turn away from the lake as she gets into a particularly juicy topic with one of her friends. They're both distracted, and naturally, Masaru's eyes draw to the lake.

There he is. The dimples are just like in all the pictures. Little Masaru, all grins and sunshine as he paddles about, chasing the interesting-looking fish that swirl around his feet. Masaru starts forward to the lake. He goes unnoticed in the crowd.

He can feel he's only wearing swim trunks, but he's too captivated by the moment to look at himself.

Little Masaru laughs, stumbling deeper and deeper in as he attempts to chase down a particularly colorful yellow and blue fish, its scales shimmering like a thousand gems under the reddening light of the sun.

Masaru looks back to his father and mother. He looks back to everyone. Nothing but shifting black silhouettes: His father is only identifiable by the glasses on his face and his lurched-over position above the paperwork.

Then the splashing and laughter turns to a scream and a submerged yelp.

Masaru swings back. He's drowning. He went just a little too far, wode out with his arms with the best he knew how, and it put him in a situation where he cannot recover back to the shore. He's splashing up and down with all of his might, but each stroke is aimed uselessly upward as he splashes more and more air down below him.

Masaru feels an emotion that he cannot name as he feels the air pass through his hair...

The sting on his foot as he steps on a pine cone…

The pain in his shin as he topples over a chair…

The feeling of the water enveloping his feet in an explosion of bubbles and foam…

And then the slow, tar-like slogging of pulling his legs through the water as he gets to waist depth. Muffled shouts erupt around him as the shadows turn his way. But Masaru understands now. It's not about them.

This is about the little boy flapping his arms as he gasps for breath.

The water goes down to Masaru's chest, the deepest he's ever been since the incident, and then up to his shoulders, and then at the edge of his chin, but he makes it. He gently picks up the boy, who claws into his shoulders as he pulls up for a critical, relieving breath of air.

"It's okay," Masaru says. "I got you."

Held in his own arms, little Masaru coughs out a few watermarked breaths before reaching back and burying his head in Masaru's chest. "Thank you," is all the little voice says. As he exits the water, concerned people crowd around him. Some speechless, others giving lip service as to why they weren't there first, and others simply telling Masaru he shouldn't go that far out. But he did this time.

He went out for himself. The two Masarus turn to them all as they prattle on about their advice and excuses for how to live a better life and prevent drowning. Some of them, just like that day so many years ago, said that Masaru should focus on being more cautious.

Others said Masaru should focus on being stronger, on knowing how to swim.

Others said Masaru should focus on the relationships around him and to cry out more loudly for help… and perhaps all of that is true. But Masaru understands now that it was always his decision to make. The moment he could decide what something meant was the moment he became responsible for, albeit in some imperceptibly phantasmic way at first, his own destiny. The destiny of the people around him. The destiny of those in the hospital.

And the destiny of the little boy digging his little nails into his broad shoulders. Finally, a pair of glasses comes up with one that is practically screeching in fury next to him. There they are, mom and dad. The little Masaru only looked at them as they chastised him for going so deep out. Masaru takes a deep breath. He understands business well enough now, life well enough to know that sometimes one's parents simply do not pay attention. One is not truly so important to be watched that closely.

He's about to hand him over to the wisping dark figures, but he sees Masaru's eyes as he hands him over… handing him over to the responsibility of his parents, and he realizes now that this moment isn't simply for the little Masaru. It's for him.

In a move that would upset most parents, Masaru retracts his offer and instead places the boy down on his feet before getting down to a knee himself.

"How are you doing?" Masaru asks.

Masaru looks up to him. "I'm doing okay. Thank you."

"That was scary, wasn't it?" Masaru asks. Masaru nods. "It was, but it was a very pretty fish… But I shouldn't have gone so far out. I'm such an idiot."

Masaru grabs Masaru by the shoulders, his large warm hands wrapping around the boy's goosebumped shoulders.

"It's okay. That's all part of the process of growing up. We have a lot of things to learn, and we can't blame other people forever, and there comes a time when we have to look ourselves in the eyes and say that they did a wrong thing." He glances over to the two parents, vibrating with indignancy that such a random stranger would lecture their child in front of them.

"And don't get it wrong,” Masaru continues, “They did. It was their job to watch you, but you can't hate them for that. There's a lot of things that they're dealing with. And I'd like you to decide for yourself what all that means."

Little Masaru doesn't need long to think.

"It means that they're working hard for me."

Masaru smiles and nods, "or each other, or themselves. And I think… I think that's okay too."

The people around them begin to fade away along with the backdrop of the festival stalls, the body of water, the chairs, and the music. Even Masaru's parents fade out into the mists of this pure, blank realm, one that smells and feels like nothing in particular— a space meant to emphasize the commitment of a soul.

"You think you can do all that for me?" Masaru asks.

The little boy nods.

"Who are you?"

Masaru gets an emotional smile. Genuine. Full of heart and love of life. "No one in particular."

"The death of society begins with the individual, they say. So it's my business to help you out."

The little Masaru smiles, and it looks just like the smile on Masaru's face.

"Okay. Thank you, sir."

A tear streams down Masaru's left cheek. "…You're welcome," he says.

He feels the boy fade out as well, not into a shadowy form, but somehow flowing into him like a breeze of sunlight.

Masaru feels as though he is truly, naturally himself.

The love of fish, the fears, the confusions, those million positive moments and sudden revolutionary lessons. He has his parents to thank for that upbringing. It's what made him, and it's what made him capable of challenging The Enemy, one who he is no longer sure was an enemy in the first place. Holding pose as if still holding his younger self, Masaru blinks a few moments in thought. "Were you really just here to challenge us?" he asks.

In the mist, he feels a draft. He glances behind himself to see the opened way of the black doors leading back to the hospital room. The doctor and the nurses are all absent. He stares for a moment to see if anything moves, but he interprets this to mean one thing.

"Kenji… you made it," he says to himself. He scoffs.

Masaru decides that those moments were not harrowing battles, but a simple remembrance that one's values have changed.

He scoffs again at it all—the entire beautiful, painful thrill of it all.

Could it be that all this torture was just to get them to accept what they had struggled with in the past, to stop antagonizing life and embrace it once again?

Masaru feels a warm flush of air on the other side of his face. He turns again to see a pair of white doors wide open for him with a little black cat standing in the way. It stares at him curiously with those strange red eyes.

"Well… hey," Masaru greets, finally getting up to his feet. “…Sakai, right?” The cat smiles at him with a face a cat shouldn't be able to make, but it's of a different energy this time. It's a little warmer and a little proud.

Finally, it steps out of the way to the side of the doors and gives the slightest, gentlest meow. To Masaru, the signal could not be clearer.

He walks towards the doors and takes just a moment to turn towards the cat. "Thank you," he adds. The cat says nothing but gives a slight, intelligent nod.

After a pause, Masaru nods back, and moves to step through the doors. He stops a moment, and the cat looks at him curiously.

Rushing back, Masaru picks up the cat, and gives it a gentle, but full hug.

“For everything. Thank you. I’m… I’m ready now,” Masaru says as he cradles the small, warm animal in his arms.

The cat, still and unjudging, pauses in Masaru's grasp before letting out a single, understanding, mew.

After a moment, Masaru releases Sakai, setting the cat back on the pristine celestial floors of its subconscious world.