Chapter III: Case Money

NARITA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

June 28, 2018

I've flown once in my life before. The memory of turbulence, the charming little packets of peanuts, the one time I ever tried ginger ale - it was so distant, even though it was only a few years ago.

I opted for automated check-in, for no other reason than to avoid the AsiaAir personnel and their professional smiles at check-in. But as my boarding group was called, I had to steel myself, as ludicrous as that sounds. The agent at the gate is so professional that her smile doesn't break upon seeing my blank expression. She scans my boarding pass and I walk past, bracing myself for the words:

"Welcome, Mr. Hikkigaya."

I think my younger self would have scorned her, this young lady in her twenties, obligated to give a smile to everyone she speaks to.

A part of me still has that instinct, to mete out easy judgment. But we all have to survive in the world. She had sold her labor, the majority of her waking hours to this airline. I was no better, really. I was no self-made man, I had no claim to superiority. I was just another rat like the rest of them, only I scrabbled for crumbs on the street instead of from the palm of a corporate master.

But it still made me feel hollow to see that kind of smile.

I don't say a word to the security officers or to that lady. I'm finally forced to break my silence when I mutter 'thank you' to the middle-aged man who kindly got up to let me squeeze past on my way to the window seat.

Did you know? One time I spoke to a med student studying under a world-renowned cardiologist at Tokyo University, and he told he doesn't fly because of the x-ray machine.

The thought isn't reassuring, but I'm already here and the plane takes off. From what I remember of my only other flight, I had the window seat there as well.

In flying from NRT to MFM, you gain an hour. Chiba to Macau.

One hour. What can change in such a span of time?

I stare at the black shoal waters of the Sea of Japan, at the circling gulls that are like winged dots at this distance.

Has there been a time in your life when one hour changed everything?

OUTSIDE THE CLUBROOM

Sometime that day, March 17, 2013

I hear their voices inside.

Iroha is standing next to me. We're holding hands.

I have to face them. I don't know why I feel so apprehensive. They've never admitted to liking me, but Iroha has. More likely, Yukinoshita will stare, and ask in that blunt way of hers, "Why did you think it was worth our time to bring up?" Yuigahama… I'm not sure how she'll react.

Why does my heart feel so heavy? What is this hesitation?

As if sensing things will change irrevocable, that we can never go back if we step through that doorway.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles as she look up at me. Any other girl and it would be a look searching for reassurance from the boy. But in her eyes I find a look of confidence, of certainty. I manage a smile in return. Something about her makes it easy to smile, even for someone like me.

I open the door and blinding light greets us and swallows us whole.

MACAU

A knot of anxiety formed in me as the plane made the approach, and it refused to loosen even after it made landfall at Macau International Airport.

I feel sick. Have you ever gone to meet someone, and you needed things to go your way for the sake of your happiness? That's the feeling that is slowly throttling me now. I know that if this stupid thing with KT falls through, it will be the end of me.

I laboriously exchange the cash I have on hand. It's a good stretch of time in the markets; the yen has been appreciating and gone almost parabolic against the other currency majors, even though the Bank of Japan is desperately trying to suppress it. We could be working half the time for twice the quality of life, but we don't. Nothing about this makes sense to me.

I reach ground transportation and hail a cab.

I watch the unfamiliar streets of this Chinese metropolis blur past. It's a peninsula city; I can still see the glimmering water through gaps in the skyline. I watch fountains that reach the height of towering palm trees, the curtains of water illuminated by bleeding neon. I can't tell apart the huge hotels from the casinos - my understanding is that they are often subliminated into the same building. Gamblers take the elevator up to their suites in the dead of night, and head back down to try their fortunes again in the morning.

I muttered a thank you as the doorman held the door open for me. I shuffled my feet restlessly as the concierge checked me in, stealing a glance at the clock.

"Your keys, sir. Room 621."

It was 5:53 pm in the evening.

Hm. I can't even go up to my room can I?

I was supposed to meet KT at 6:00 pm, and missing it was not a risk I could afford to take. I guess I was negligent. I looked at the departure, arrival, and meeting times, saw there was time between them. I'm not a very worldly person, friend in my head. I guess I can't blame you for not helping me organize this excursion better; ultimately you're a reflection of me.

I blew out a long breath, and sat on one of those circular seats ringing a pillar in the waiting area, staring forward blankly.

Just a matter of a few minutes. I had held my part of the bargain and gotten here on time. What else can you really do?

The doors swung open. The guy looked pretty normal: light jacket and fashionable jeans, deep dark green formal shirt verging on black, unruly hair, eyes squinting behind thin spectacles as he assessed the various people waiting to meet with their parties.

His gaze landed on me.

"Hey," he announced as he stopped a few steps away from me.

"... Yes?" I wasn't sure what to say.

"Well? What's your name?" he prompted, sounding impatient.

"I'm... H?"

His impatient look broke into a wide grin.

"Well well well, a man of your word. Glad you could make it!"

I grasped his offered hand and he smoothly yanked me to my feet. He was immediately by my side with a hand clapping me on the shoulder, ushering me to the door.

"Uh... yeah!" I said, picking up the energy level. "Likewise."

And that was how I met KT.

"Well now! It's time to go have some fun. We can finally talk a little in person!"

Embarrassed, I gestured to my carry on.

"Sorry, KT-sama. I actually need to put my stuff in my room. Didn't want to miss you."

"Pssh," he waved dismissively. "Oi concierge, can you flag the porter down for me and get this gentleman's things up to his room?"

Of course, how could I have been so stupid?

I left my things with the desk, and he ushered me into the waiting taxi, talking my ear off all the while.

"Man, you're right here, in the flesh," KT said in a marveling tone, shaking his head as he closed the passenger door.

"I can't believe I'm meeting you."

"The honor's all mine," KT said with a laugh. "But, just so we're on the same page, while we're here, we're equals, got it?"

"I get that. But I really am just a fan at the end of the day," I told him.

He smiled.

"So the humbleness is genuine, then. I appreciate that! Truth is, I have a ton of fans. You, H, are more of a consultant in my eyes. Otherwise, you would not be here."

"… Oh."

He thwacked me on the shoulder, in mock dissatisfaction with my answer. My God, he was too energetic for someone like me.

"Hey H... Just be yourself, huh?"

Deceptively powerful words, KT.

"So. You enjoy your flight? Do you leave Japan often?"

"… I liked seeing the seagulls. It's cool to see the city from that kind of perspective, too."

He nodded encouragingly. I looked down at my hands, trying to find a way to order my words to be less uninteresting.

"I can't say I've been outside of Japan often. Just the one time, prior to this."

"The one time? Ah, I do remember you telling me a little about what you do. Working man, right? Busy busy."

Is this the moment where tension is to arise? This was a successful author who could be anywhere in the world he wanted. And I guess it was becoming increasingly obvious I'd grown up a provincial boy, and had very much not 'made it'.

But it appears my fears were unfounded.

"Oh, we're here. Come on!"

I climbed out, drawing my coat tighter around me.

The Venetian looked like a lighthouse carved in the shape of a dragon, overlooking the wharf. KT walked purposefully through the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure I was still following, and waved me on. There was something about that gesture, and my act of following someone to some hotspot, that made me feel strangely sad.

"So, uh, how long you been in Macau?" I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the din.

"Just a couple days. I prefer Vegas or Monte Carlo for sure, but Macau is fine. Closer to home base."

I misinterpreted the direction he was going, and didn't quite react fast enough to him gliding away from me, nearly bumping into a woman in a red cocktail dress. I backed off, apologizing and looking down as she cursed me out. KT doubled back comically, put an arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the bar.

"I always start off with a drink. Good luck is repulsed by sobriety."

I repeated that in my head, and found myself smiling.

"You a bitter guy? Sours? Or, are you into fruity drinks? I don't consider that girly, in case you are."

"Uh, just a Kirin will do."

"Suit yourself!" KT said cheerfully, turning as the bartender came to us. "Get my friend here a Kirin. I'll take a Port bay breeze, thank you very much."

We waited for our drinks to be served.

"You know, JW was a beer guy too. Super creative guy when it came to our writing, but my word, he was boring when it came to drinking. An 'obligatory' drinker kind of guy, you know what I mean?"

Something about the way he phrased it made me wary.

"... Was?"

He blinked at me, then a dawning look of realization came over him.

"Ah that's it. I'm getting ahead of myself. He's still alive, but... he's not getting any better either. Less than one percent chance of recovery."

"... I'm sorry to hear that," I said quietly.

Some context is called for here.

You're already aware KT is an established author I've been in on-and-off contact with. What I haven't told you yet is that he has a co-author, JW, who had announced he'd fallen ill two years ago and had postponed all writing activities through their publicist.

This was in some way a formality. The fact he'd taken me into his confidence was already indication that JW's condition was more severe than what had been revealed. I just hadn't really examined it closely enough to catch on.

This throws this whole meeting into a completely different light. And it confirmed my unspoken suspicions: now we both know that KT is looking for a successor for JW. In me.

We talk, we discuss. If I'm being honest, I mostly listened.

He did most of the talking, and my sparse replies were just enough to qualify it as a discussion.

We didn't talk much about the ideas we'd exchanged over the chat program. Mainly, our conversation topic was life, work, and all that jazz. I could feel my estimation for KT rising the more I listened to him. He'd grown up with a younger sibling as well, and had juggled no less than three different jobs, all in the service industry, to support his family while he pursued his dreams.

He finished the rest of his drink in one go, and set his glass down forcefully enough to make me jump.

"You know what? You'll do."

"W-what?" I stuttered.

"I mean, you're cool, you got good ideas… I think this can work out," he declared, squinting at me again, hand raised to his chin.

"Let's not dance around this," he said, smile fading and for the first time of the evening, he looked serious. "I can't let this hiatus go forever. I've tried to write on my own, but it's not… natural to me. I - we, JW and I - intended this to be a two-man project, from start to end."

My throat was dry despite the beer I'd downed a minute ago.

"But," I said hesitantly, "JW?"

"Yes... While I appreciate your consideration, that is for me to come to terms with, and me alone. We were - no, are - best friends, even now. But there is a saying: there's no better time to prepare for the future than the present, no? One day soon, he will be gone, and it's gonna be just me. It took you and me a while to get to this point and this thing falls through, I don't think I'll bother going through it again. So, H... I need to know. Are you in this with me? Or not?"

I knew from the way he held my dead fish-eyed stare without so much as flinching, that my answer was yes. I was in.

I wandered the casino floor in a daze. KT had taken his leave, saying he needed to go to the restroom, leaving me to walk around. It looked like the house games were good, but I had never played any of them.

The jazz combo started up again. It was a melancholic piece with a quite out of place considering the venue. The piano was prominent in all the standards that were played, but the horn was equally present in this piece. It was an ear-pleasing tune, and I wasn't the only one who stopped to listen to it. I wondered what it was.

There was a small chuckle of amusement from someone to his left. Just from the sound and directness of it, I could tell he had been watching me.

"It's from an American TV show,' my unknown companion said. "Called M.A.S.H. Usually it's played in D Minor. But this arrangement is pretty good, I think."

I turned around. Subconsciously the voice was already familiar, but I needed the passing sidelong glance to confirm it.

It's none other than Hayato Hayama. What a fucking day.

"... Huh."

We wait for the number to end and for the band to go to intermission. The bassist and saxophonist went to the restroom, and the pianist produced a handkerchief, wiping down the keyboard with diligent thoroughness.

"Is that correct?" Hayama switched to English, directing the question to the pianist who had remained behind. "Suicide is Painless?"

"Yes, very good sir. Or you familiar with the show, or perhaps..."

The pianist seemed impressed and my mood immediately soured. For real? This wasn't even necessarily a super high-class establishment considering I was there. But even this complete stranger, not even Japanese, seemed to have intuitively grasped Hayama's status, like some kind of matured raijuu aura. For once I wanted to meet someone who didn't instantly give him deference.

Hayama chatted casually with the pianist, and I hung around because... I don't know why. Eventually, Hayama gave his last compliments to the musician and turned back to me.

"Hikigaya, long time no see."

"Yeah," I said guardedly.

"I want to say you haven't changed, but you look," Hayama said slowly, brow furrowing as he glanced at me. "... different."

I could take the conversation in a few different directions. I could ask something that progresses the conversation on that subject of change. In what way? How so? Play along, comment on his appearance.

"... Thanks," I said, "Well, nice seeing you. I'll be off now."

Instead, I hit him with the patented minimal effort, blatant blow-off, and prepared to walk off.

"Wait."

A piece of me bristled. By what right does he ask me to wait? I'm beginning to remember why we're so different and why I couldn't stand this guy in high school. We probably could be cordial, two polite adult members of society joking over high school remembrances, but it'd be wasted effort on my part and his. I just want to get out of here now.

"Hikigaya, I don't know why you're here and that's not my business, I get it, but maybe you want to hang around? You're already here, after all," Hayama suggested.

I should be asking him what he's doing here, but it would be a purposeless question. Socialites like him should be doing things like this in places like the Venetian. Going to glamorous places and splashing around cash, attending galas and fundraisers for tax shelter purposes and whatever else it is these people do to pass the time in their frivolous, materialistic existences.

"Not much left for me to do, I'm afraid," I said flatly, "Down to my case money as of an hour ago. Sorry."

Since I even got here, actually. But he didn't need to know that.

"I wasn't going to ask you to put up your own money. What games do you usually play?"

I grimaced.

Hayam was never this stubborn in high school. But his persistence did make me oddly sympathetic to his plight. I pitied how bored he must have been to try and verbally spar with me. But I needed to get my point across nonetheless.

"Hayama," I said politely. "I've never gambled in my life. Never played cards or so much as thrown dice. I don't know the first thing about any of these games whatsoever."

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and I bite back an invective, knowing I was inviting questions. The main being, 'Why are you here then?'

"I can teach you something," Hayama offered. "You ever played baccarat?"

"Hayato," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Did you not hear what I just said-"

"Yeah yeah," he said hurriedly, shaking his head, more at himself than anything, "I mean, do you want to learn?"

Hm.

I kind of did want to learn. But was I really letting myself get caught up in someone else's nostalgia trip? And Hayama's of all people?

Still, he hadn't made any egregious inquiry as to my presence here. Someone with no money ending up in a casino in Macau made absolutely no sense.

I guess I appreciated his politeness. The one thing you can count on Hayama for.

But more than anything else, I feared inviting bad luck by being impolite to someone so soon after securing my partnership with KT. I had to make this sacrifice play to protect it; sanctify this new relationship with my spilt blood.

"... Okay."

If he was surprised at my answer, he didn't show it.

"It's settled then!" Hayama's expression could've passed for cheerful. "With me. We're hitting up the cage first. I was playing blackjack, but if we're gonna do baccarat we need more ammo."

I followed a few paces behind as he went back to the cashier's cage, and watched as Hayama armed himself. Unlike myself he had one of the Venetian's special jackets, with deep pockets designed to hold enough chips to buy out a lesser venue outright. When he was done, we marched back to the railed enclosure at the center of the floor.

One of the Venetian hosts generously gestured to an open seat.

"Chair six, gentlemen," he said in flawless English.

I essentially hovered over Hayama's shoulder, watching the proceedings curiously. An older Chinese gentleman was dealing: first a card to himself, then to the croupier, then again to himself, then again the croupier, then repeating this to the other players at the table, then ending with Hayama and I.

Hayama flipped one of our cards over, and then flicked both of them away in disgust upon seeing a jack. Face cards were terrible in baccarat for some reason. These game just didn't make any damn sense. Were face cards not desirable in hold'em? As the shoe made its way around the table slowly emptying, Hayama explained the rules or the outcome of a hand. Eventually, he had me deal. I had been paying enough attention to understand how to do it and took the shoe silently.

The croupier held up a hand when I was done. Hayama gestured to our cards. I reached out to them, fumbling slightly and bending them just a little before I had enough clearance to flip them over.

I'd drawn a four, and a five. The unbeatable nine.

"Well done. See, we won there, but had to pay the house a five percent commission."

"Oh... should we be doing that?"

"Up to you, Hikigaya."

"Again," I stated.

As a group we ordered a round of drinks. This time I tried the Port bay breeze that KT had ordered. It was surprisingly good, with the faint taste of coconut and citrus taking the edge off the rum. Maybe beer was not the only way to go.

Perhaps there was an immediate effect of the alcohol reducing my intelligence, but there was a frustrating magnetic quality to the action; the back-and-forth between Player and Bank winning. I watched the rest of the players, and I wondered what kind of thought process drove them to switch their bets. The Chinese gentleman looked coldly logical, but he would bet on the Bank three hands in a row, then switch to the Player, with no rhyme or reason. Did he think he had some unique insight into how the cards were ordered, in a six-deck shoe?

I know the answer. It was pure emotion, gut feel. How these people could rely on that with hard cash on the line was beyond me. Just the fact that we were here was a beautiful violation of logic. As far as I knew there was no edge reduction trick in this game, no way to count cards; yet here we all were.

"Hayama."

"Hm?"

I want to say I weigh my next words carefully, but I don't. I think it was the drinks that pushed me to do it.

"Why are you in Macau?"

He freezes in mid-motion, glass held suspended in the air, ice clinking. Something in the way I said it, maybe it was too flat, too hostile, but the chatter from the other players stopped momentarily as well.

"Business," he said quietly. "Why are you here?"

So. Neither of us are to give an honest answer.

"Business," I muttered back, disgusted with myself.

I'd given in and broken our silent mutual understanding to not ask any substantive questions. This is purely my fault.

The game resumed.

Seat four lost about eighty thousand yuan before he had enough. Seat two had a higher pain tolerance but was ultimately driven from the table as well. Throughout this, Hayama kept playing, his expression unchanged, until we ran out the shoe and we were done as well.

We sat out as the dealer worked on rebuilding the shoe. No one was joining us for the time being.

I think this is a game only for the likes of Hayama, the wealthy who can afford to take a significant handicap and come out unharmed. For everyone else, they're dealing against their own luck.

"I'd forgotten how unlucky you are," Hayama remarked, stirring his glass idly, empty save for the melting cubes of ice.

After my first invulnerable nine, I had lost on each of the next four consecutive hands. That was me, Hachiman Hikigaya. Hayama had taken over and clawed some of the losses back but had been teetering on breakeven for the remainder of the hands before throwing in the towel. And that was Hayama. A man who could cut his losses and walk away.

"That was clever," I said bitingly. "Well done. It didn't sound like you were even trying to be funny."

"I wasn't..."

"Instead of my luck, why don't you blame your right arm? Never seen passes that shit in my life."

"According to you, you said you literally haven't," Hayama said defensively. "How do you know my passes were bad? Besides, it doesn't change the order of the cards being dealt."

"I just instinctively recognize terrible technique when I see it."

We finally hit a lull in the silence. My glass was empty, and the ice was starting to melt in Hayama's. Gradually, I start planning my exit strategy again. A good diversion while it lasted, but we will not be friends.

I wonder if this time, Hayama will actually let me go without saying a word. I open my mouth to say something, then stop. There was a better way.

See, a guy like Hayama, he's here with a date. I gazed around the floor.

Which one of these girls is it? It wouldn't be one of the aloof, unapproachable ice queens. And it wouldn't be one of the floozies getting too wasted. Hayama would have someone with decorum on his arm, but at the same time not some societal queen bee like Miura. Probably someone... graceful? It's an imprecise art, to extrapolate a man's tastes based on knowing him years ago.

Her.

A woman in a midnight blue dress with gloves alone at the lounge sipping a martini, long dark plaited hair gathered over one shoulder gracefully. The kind of woman you don't approach because you just know she already has someone twenty yards with her, you just don't know who.

"That your girl?"

He blinked in surprise, and that was all the answer I needed.

I grinned and made to rise.

"Well! It was fun playing on your dime. But I... gotta go," I finished somewhat anti-climactically. Not my greatest delivery, but it was Hayama and he'd have to make do with that. "I'll let you get back to your date or whatever it is you're here for."

"Hikigaya. Wait."

That was all he could say. Wait, wait, wait.

"What?"

There's a look of consternation on Hayama's face: the man who always knew what to say, even if it only to offer the blandest, most acceptable way forward.

"You... going to stick around for the dinner show?" Hayama asked hesitantly.

"No. I have to get going," I said, false cheer unrelenting.

The alcohol was starting to be an issue. I was not a pleasant drunk. I haven't spotted KT over the entire floor, or on the mezzanine galleries attached to the restaurants on the second or third floors. Right now, I just have to get out of here, and catch up with KT later if need be.

"Well, in that case, thanks for playing with me. Here. For your trouble."

He placed something in the palm of my hand, which I had opened without thinking. I peer down at it, and saw that he'd given me one of the chits. Not one of the injection plastic-moulded ones; this was made of platinum, one of the 10,000 yuan denomination ones. I stare at it as though it were a foreign object.

The genius of it does not escape me. The pretext of it being a friendly memento, the noncommittal words, even thanking me for my trouble. But, it was something that could not leave the floor, but had to be cashed. He might as well have given me a fistful of cash and asking me to kiss his ass.

If Hayama thought this meant anything or entitled him to my gratitude, he was sadly mistaken. And even though we'd successfully enacted the charade of a casual friendship for the last hour, this lofty pity play proved that he would never get who I am.

In a way, it was a kind of violation, of the person I used to be. I'd been conditioned to be more sociable, to put up appearances, in these recent years of my life. My younger self would've simply walked away because he felt like it, just like that.

The buzz of alcohol was weakening and he still watched me deliberate.

But I think I'm done. I have just what the situation calls for.

I produce a winning smile for my old enemy, then slide the platinum token to the dealer. The stunned look on his face is all the justification I need for my decision. I pat Hayama on the shoulder and walk away, and this time he doesn't try to keep me there longer.

I caught the return flight successfully back to Narita.

"What a strange day," I muse aloud.

I say things in my head when I'm by myself, but sometimes putting it out there helps you think clearer. Like an externalization of a thought can serve as something more; as a capstone to a day and allowing you to move on.

I'm waiting at the train station, looking up at the grey sky. The wheeling seagulls are nowhere in sight.

I play with my phone, clicking on the power button, then clicking it again. On, off.

New SIM card, one new contact.

I lick my lips, and against my better judgement, I make a call.

"Good evening, this is KT speaking."

"Hey man."

"Ah, H. Was worried I messed up giving you my own phone number. You gonna hit up a few clubs here with me?"

"Actually, I went home already," I said with a nervous chuckle.

"Oh, you went back to the hotel?"

"Uh, no... To Japan."

There was a short pause. Then KT burst out into laughter. He immediately tried to rein it back in, but snickering still broke through. I realized I was smiling too.

KT quieted down, and my smile abruptly faded. I just realized something: he'll know I essentially came to Macau specifically to meet him. He could put two and two together and have a fairly clear picture of where I was in my life.

But I took a deep breath. I started talking.

"I just wanted to say thank you. For giving me a chance," I ball my free hand into a determined fist. "You will not meet anyone who works harder than I do, I absolutely promise you this."

KT burst out laughing again. And once more I'm back to smiling. The guy's laugh isstupidly infectious.

"Glad to hear it buddy. I'll be back on Friday. I'll hit you up when I get back, then we can get started."

"Take care, KT."

The call disconnects and I stare at the glass screen as the light dies away.

I have no place to stay, not even enough for one night at the capsule hotel.

Today, I have been ruined, made almost as poor and destitute as any street beggar. When I get on that train, I will need to make a visit I don't want to make. I bet everything on this one hand, throwing all common sense to the wind.

In a way, it paid off. For I'm also as rich as a king. I got what I came for, and I got to put Hayama in his place, which is easily worth a thousand platinum chips all on its own. I win. I, simply, win.

So, what do you think? Are things looking up for me?

Chapter ends

Night Driving Armor is back on the menu boys.

I'm in a sort of reflective mood right now. I just turned 27 a week ago. While I do relate to Oregairu's themes, the high school context does not resonate with me at all. So it begs the question of, why write this, right?

I decided to continue writing this because I feel I have something to say. I can present a conjecture of these characters in adult life. What does it look like to struggle to find your place in the world, to deal with money issues and career aspirations, with friends from your past, all the while doing battle with your present demons? I think by the end of this, this story will be very much in the spirit of the series, and the mysterious elements and the Fight Club-esque conceit will contribute to that payoff.

But that's enough for now. Thanks for reading so far, the next chapter will not take as long, I promise.