You Made All of This

Once the interview was done and the photographs taken, Peter's face went light with relief.

And no wonder. He had laid his own story out without holding anything back: the years he had lived on the run beneath the title of fallen genius, and all those stretches of time when he hid at the first hint that someone, somewhere, was cursing him.

"But it has to be different from now on."

He would not bow to unjust blame. However great the power on the other side, he would stand and fight. Peter set that resolve down like a vow, jaw firm.

Yes. He was the director of The Great Car Thief. He ought to be at least that much of a man.

Thanks to Peter, my own spirits lifted with his. We were laughing our way out of Queensman when he spoke.

"This issue of the magazine."

"Hm?"

"I got worked up and gave them a good clean interview, but I'm starting to wonder if nobody's even going to see this one."

"……?"

"I saw the notice they posted. From now on they won't let it be handed out at school. Then the boys won't be able to read it……."

He worried about the strangest things. Had he read my face?

"Is there a way?"

"Why? Did you think I wouldn't have planned even for that?"

"Knew it. No sense worrying, not when it's Park Jihoon!"

The night streets of London shone bright with our laughter.

Meanwhile, far away in Japan, there were people enduring a brutal stretch of time.

With the Capsulemon serialization looming just ahead, Tajiri was pulling all-nighters, driving himself through a merciless forced march.

Fine. Tajiri was the father of Capsulemon, so that much could be excused.

"……."

But why was Suzuki nodding off beside him?

One reason. On Park Jihoon's strong recommendation, Suzuki and Tajiri had been set to work together.

Suzuki, whose stories were remarkably dense, and whose serialization speed was a problem. Tajiri, rich in ideas and poor in experience. Put the two of them together, and wouldn't the synergy be tremendous? That had been Park Jihoon's thinking.

"Senior? Are you asleep?"

And so only Suzuki was dying.

"You really do have to get up."

"Ten minutes… just ten minutes."

"Those little sneaked naps of yours have already gone on for thirty."

"That's because you won't let me sleep at night."

"You're the one who said it. A promise to the readers has to be kept, no matter what."

"I—I said that?"

"You did."

"……."

"If you sleep every hour you feel like sleeping, how exactly do you mean to keep your promise to the readers?"

Whether Suzuki's eyes stayed half shut or not, Tajiri pressed on.

"Are you going to turn in a manuscript with nothing finished and everything missing?"

"Did I hear that wrong……."

"You heard it exactly right. Slack off like this and you'll be living with a hiatus hung around your neck every single time."

"If there's a reason, a person can take a hiatus."

"Sit down first. If you truly think you're about to die, I'll call an ambulance. Until the crew arrives, draw even one line. You're the one who told me. A writer, properly speaking……."

"You aren't doing this just to torment me, are you?"

"The more a writer suffers, the happier the readers!"

"Are you the reader?"

Grumble all he liked—

"Here. A pen."

There was no stopping Tajiri's fervor. Suzuki, who had meant to finish his serial and then sink into a rest with no date of return, could only let a long, deep sigh break out of him.

That evening.

While opinion boiled, a post went up in a very calm tone.

Then another post went up from the same IP.

Even so, people did not rush to join. It was a resolution driven by the second years, after all. Fearing the sparks might land on them, keeping one's head down was only natural.

But that caution lasted only a moment.

They say that in the small hours, the corridor outside the headmaster's office was unusually full of footsteps.

And a few days later, at the headmaster's discretion, a new notice was posted.

Then, the next day, another notice went up.

Heh heh heh.

This is why there is no sense in worrying about me. Look. My own year went and fought it themselves.

Of course, a few of them were people I had planted. Ahem.

Anyway! A right won by standing up to the seniors—their tenderness toward the magazine would only deepen for it.

I'm looking forward to this.

I waited for tomorrow with a pleasant smile.

Perhaps it was the word that copies would be supplied to the first years alone. From morning, my classmates came running for the classroom, and the place was a din. It was a book they had won back only with difficulty, and every one of them read as if they meant to wring it dry.

As if by prior agreement, they devoured Dragon Planet first. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠This week too the pages were mostly battle scenes, short enough that a fast reader could finish in a minute.

"It just leaves you hanging."

For friends like these, I had prepared something: three installments of Capsulemon, which had not even begun serialization. A manuscript squeezed—well, squeezed—out of Tajiri and Suzuki.

The characters were a touch infantile, and the boys might have balked, but, still hungry, they started in on Capsulemon anyway. It was plainly an IP whose success was guaranteed.

I did bring it out a little earlier than actual history.

I watched their reactions with care. Perhaps because they were still settling into a new story, the early pages drew no talk worth mentioning. What encouraged me was that every one of them turned the pages in silence.

Around the time they had read three installments straight through, it was not as explosive as Dragon Planet, but a fair number of them said the premise was fresh, or the characters cute. Among the girls, Capsulemon even drew a pretty solid response—stronger, in places, than Dragon Planet.

Thank goodness.

"Wait, there's an interview with the Dragon Planet author?"

"The Super Orlando director, too……."

And then a name caught.

"Huh? P-Peter Bint?"

"Why is he doing an interview?"

"Where? Where is it?"

Then came the rustle, the soft flutter of pages turning. I carefully looked over at Peter, seated beside me. Was he anxious over what the others might say? His face was flushed as it had never been before.

He had given the interview with brave enough spirit.

"……."

But faced with the eyes around him, the weight of it must have landed. He probably wanted, desperately, to bolt from the classroom that very moment. Still, a person cannot spend forever on the run. Peter ground his teeth and held his seat with sheer stubbornness. Put someone terrified of heights onto a bungee jump, and the face might look exactly like that.

Fortunately, the effort did not seem to have been wasted. Not one of them carelessly blurted out Peter's story.

Awkwardness, perhaps. Unlike when Jack's photograph had run, no one came easily over to speak. Instead they showed him, even from across the room, a sorry look: guilt at having judged him rashly and gossiped behind his back without really knowing him.

Of course people are fickle. It had surely helped that Peter's interview was printed after those of eminent names. Add the clothes Faber had made specially for him, the handsomely dressed hair, and the rest. Once a clear change of style was laid on top, their feelings toward Peter may well have turned right around.

What did it matter? If it meant Peter could get through school more comfortably!

While I was turning all this over, a few of them seemed to have found Tennessee's photograph.

"T-Tennessee was the first customer, it says."

"Really?"

"Have they already figured out where it is?"

The boys looked as if they badly wanted to know where the shop was. Then they had only to go and ask Tennessee, or so I thought.

"……."

Hardly anyone stepped forward. If guilt had kept them from Peter, this time it was something more like unease. He was a classmate. More than that, they had been grouped into the same advanced set and even sat the lessons together. And yet—how to put it—he felt, strangely, harder to approach than any senior.

So they only murmured at a distance, and not one of them went up to Tennessee.

That peculiar silence was still holding when, perhaps because of the awkward air, Tennessee himself stood. Yes. He must have felt choked by it. Step, step. There was still a good while before class; maybe he meant to step out and take the air. I thought he was leaving the room—then he turned, sharp, and came straight toward me.

Hm?

Not my imagination. His eyes were fixed on me. The boy who had come right up to my face held the magazine out.

Then he asked, in a low voice.

"You made this, didn't you?"

"What?"

"The magazine. The brand inside it. And the shop where it's on display."

"……."

All of it is Park Jihoon's work.

The lawyer, Gilbert McGill, had meant to report it that way. But the shouting from beyond the door snapped his resolve clean through. Carl was tearing into the marketing staff.

"Look at this! The first customer is Tennessee Grosvenor! I called you in to do the marketing, and what on earth have you people been doing!"

"……."

In a moment like this, if he reported that both the magazine and the editorial shop belonged to Park Jihoon? Carl would not stop at flying into a rage. He would commit some enormous business folly, and then every last scrap of the blame would land on the staff around him.

I'm the one who has to take the fall again?

Hah. Had he come to a decision? Gilbert quietly slipped out of Carl's office.

Leona Harris, head of the Harris Department Stores group, and Carl's mother. She belonged, at least, to the sort of person with whom a conversation was possible. That was why Gilbert sought her out.

Leona examined the papers with care, then slowly raised her head.

"I was wondering why my boy has been stirring up so much trouble lately. You're saying it's because of this boy?"

"Yes."

The file held further information on Park Jihoon that they had not yet fully grasped. Running an editorial shop and publishing a magazine were, quite literally, nothing more than hobbies. And, backed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by vast capital, he held the secondary rights to Dragon Planet.

"A career ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this dazzling is rather a lot for a boy in his teens to have, so the young master seems unable to stop measuring himself against him……."

"Don't tell me you mean to say my boy feels some rivalry toward this boy?"

"Ah, well—"

"Surely not?"

Rivalry would have been a mercy. Just now they were as good as enemies. But how was he to speak his true mind in an air like this? Gilbert was keeping his silence when she went on.

"My boy has had a strict moral sense since he was small. If he met trash in the street, he never failed to bend down and pick it up. Isn't it the same even now?"

In plain terms: not a rival at all. Having discovered a piece of trash named Park Jihoon, he was in the middle of cleaning it up?

Gilbert drew a sharp breath through his teeth. Hadn't he been certain Leona was someone a person could reason with?

"And what do you think?"

To a question whose answer had already been decided—

"……."

Gilbert, his face stiff with awkwardness, could only nod.