"Then, I hereby announce that, after unanimous decision by the panel of judges, the Best Production Award of this year's Theater Grand Prize goes to the Asahi Troupe for their adaptation of The Human Chair."
"At the same time, congratulations to Karuizawa Kei for her outstanding performance in The Human Chair, earning 83% of the audience vote and winning the Best Actress Award. Let us now welcome the winners to the stage to receive their awards!"
As the host's voice crescendoed with enthusiasm, thunderous applause erupted in the opulent banquet hall. Some of the newly initiated actors, overwhelmed by the electric atmosphere, blushed slightly as they clapped with all their might, fantasizing about one day standing on that stage, basking in the glory of such an honor.
Unlike those fledgling birds, however, the leaders of the various theater troupes wore surprised expressions. They exchanged quiet murmurs among themselves:
"What about that kid?"
"It was practically a one-person show, barely any real stage time."
"Well, that explains it."
"Paving the way for his girlfriend, huh."
"Still, she really did deserve it."
But Karuizawa Kei paid no attention to the whispers and murmurs. Calmly, she walked to the center of the stage and received the trophy from the host. Her acceptance speech was composed and conventional, with not a hint of nervousness or inexperience—to the point that one might think she didn't even care about the award.
This composed demeanor, however, earned her approving nods from many of the seasoned veterans in the industry. To win such an award at her age and remain so unfazed by honor or disgrace—in terms of mental maturity, she was remarkably advanced.
It was already foreseeable: if she kept this up, she would one day join the ranks of the elite in this field.
Karuizawa Kei wore a red evening gown. Her honey-colored hair, usually tied in a simple ponytail, was now styled in an elegant updo at the recommendation of her hairstylist. Paired with the off-shoulder design of the dress and a slightly mature makeup style, she presented a completely different side of herself—one not seen within the confines of Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School.
Kitagawa Ryo, seated in the front row of the audience, applauded lightly.
Tragedies on stage are often beautiful, sublime even. But when such tragedies happen in real life, they just seem ridiculous and unbearable.
Then again, the opposite also holds true.
Things that seem absurd or intolerable in real life, once adapted for the stage, often become breathtakingly good tragedies.
Karuizawa Kei undeniably had a gift for acting—or rather, she had fully digested and internalized the two past versions of herself.
One filled with extreme sensitivity and deference, the other with reckless boldness and indulgence. One who was cherished, noticed, and protected; another who was forgotten, abandoned, and deceived.
All those memories and emotions were the foundation that supported Karuizawa Kei to this day. Because they were all her.
"Come to think of it, Ryo still doesn't look very spirited," Kei remarked after the awards ceremony, as they walked back to the hotel.
She had removed her makeup and changed out of her long evening gown. Her hair was down again, flowing freely to her waist, with no sign of being tied up. As she suddenly turned around, hands clasped behind her back, she looked strikingly pure and captivating.
"Yeah... I'm really tired," Ryo said with a massive yawn, looking utterly drained.
Their usual strategy for drama competitions was to unleash Ryo, let him dominate while the others supported. He would collect awards and then return to Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High School with stellar results, ready for the next round.
That's why many people were surprised when Ryo didn't win Best Actor this time—those awards had almost always been his.
"Didn't expect we'd win both Best Production and Best Actress."
"All thanks to you, Kei. Actually, wasn't it you who first brought up The Human Chair as a script suggestion? No, wait—you rewrote the script yourself, didn't you?"
It suddenly came back to Ryo. The streetlights stretched their shadows far ahead of them.
The Human Chair was originally a short story published in 1925 by famed mystery writer Edogawa Ranpo. The inspiration for adapting it into a play came from a conversation between Ryo and Shiina Hiyori about mystery novels (see Chapter 22 of Kei's second simulation).
At the time, he had just casually mentioned it in passing, finding the story intriguing. He never expected Kei would actually turn it into a theater script.
Then, when Ryo—in his post-simulation philosophical phase—decided not to take the lead role, Kei volunteered this near-monologue play.
"Yeah. I just remembered I had once done a script adaptation like that."
"And really, if we won the grand prize, it's because everyone worked hard."
"I worked really hard too!"
"No—"
Kei made a subtle, hard-to-express face.
"Ryo, you're probably the least qualified person to say that…"
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"So, has everyone finished reading the script for The Human Chair?"
"We have, Karuizawa-sensei!"
Karuizawa Kei glanced at Kitagawa Ryo, who was lying on the floor with his hand raised, and let out an awkward laugh.
"Uhh... if Ryo has that much energy, maybe you should come act in Macbeth with me instead."
"I mean, my role doesn't even have lines."
Ryo replied lazily.
"Didn't you say back then that the fewer appearances and shorter the lines, the better?"
"Oh, right. Then I'll sleep now."
With that, Ryo casually tossed the script aside and rolled himself several times into the corner, bumping into the wall before falling completely still—his back turned to the rest of the room like he had shut the world out.
"What's with him?"
"I have no idea why Ryo-senpai is like this."
Facing Kei's confusion, Amasawa Ichika—who had recently been specially recruited by Ryo into the drama club and was attending an off-campus event for the first time—shook her head decisively.
It's worth noting that Ryo only brought Kei and Ichika to this off-campus event. Although he claimed it was to let newcomers gain experience, Kei couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it.
Despite Ichika's harmless-looking demeanor, with her twin ponytails and sweet smile, Kei couldn't forget how, earlier that morning, Ichika had effortlessly carried a towering stack of stage equipment back and forth like a whirlwind. The memory still made Kei's teeth ache.
"By the way, why do you call him 'Ryo-senpai'?"
"Because we used to attend the same training center when we were little. He was one year ahead of me. We both ended up being cut from the program though."
Ichika nodded and answered with a serious look.
"I see."
Kei didn't think much of it. She had only met Ryo when they were both twelve, so she wasn't familiar with his life before that. She quickly shifted the topic back to the script.
"Your role this time isn't difficult, Ichika. Since you're a newcomer, there aren't many lines or scenes. But still, do your best."
"Mm, I'll do my best!"
Ichika smiled sweetly, her firefly-colored eyes reminding Kei of Ryo's younger sister, which made her feel a little more affection for the girl by association.
"Alright then, let me explain the plot of the original The Human Chair to you. That should help you understand it better."
"It's a short story about a small, ugly furniture craftsman who, after suffering years of oppression and discrimination, suddenly decides to hide himself inside a luxurious, custom-made chair destined for a grand hotel."
"He hides inside the chair and experiences a world he's never seen before. Eventually, the hotel goes bankrupt and the chair is auctioned off to someone's home. There, he falls in love with the lady of the house but doesn't dare act due to his self-loathing."
"The story is heavy on suspense and horror. It opens from the perspective of a female author named Yoshiko, who is reading a letter from a fan while sitting on a chair. The letter turns out to be the story I just told you. By the time she reaches the end, she realizes that the very chair she's sitting on is the one from the story."
"And the woman the man admires is her."
Even with just the brief summary, Ichika couldn't help but shiver.
"So what happens at the end?"
"The ending reveals that there's a second letter—the first was a fan's fictional submission asking for her thoughts. Due to a mail mix-up, she received the second letter first."
"The whole reading experience is like a nasty joke."
"But I think Edogawa Ranpo's writing shines brightest in this story."
Ryo, who had quietly rolled back into earshot, suddenly spoke up, startling the two who were still immersed in the plot.
Kei, clearly fed up, grabbed Ryo off the ground and dragged him to the corner, shoving him into a giant stage prop.
"You can just sleep in there. Think of it as pre-emptive role immersion."
"Alright. Prop team did a great job—this thing's actually pretty comfy."
Ryo sprawled inside the giant chair prop, sounding muffled as if he were the craftsman himself, hiding inside his creation.
The props team had gone all-out to recreate the original description: the person inside was positioned in a sitting posture, the armrests aligned with extended arms, the seat with pressed-together thighs, and the backrest with the chest. It didn't even have legs—built as a supported box instead, eliminating balance concerns.
Thanks to the ventilation holes on the back and high-quality materials, Ryo didn't feel stuffy at all. Quite the opposite—he was rather cozy. Half-asleep, he recalled a passage from the original story:
"After finishing each chair, I would always test it myself. In an otherwise dull life of craftsmanship, this was the only moment of indescribable pride and satisfaction. Who would sit in this chair in the future? A noble gentleman, or a beautiful lady?"
"A household that goes to such lengths must have a room grand enough to match. Surely there would be paintings by masters on the wall, a grand chandelier like a cluster of gems overhead, and a luxurious carpet underfoot. A table beside the chair would hold fragrant, eye-catching flowers..."
"I soaked in these fantasies, feeling as if I were the master of such a splendid room..."
"...But in the end, all that remained was my carefully crafted chair standing lonely in place, like the shattered remains of a dream."
"By the way, I know Kei plays the writer Yoshiko, but who does Ichika play? I thought there weren't any other characters in The Human Chair?"
Though those lines had once moved Ryo, now he spoke of them with a calm mood, even casually asking the others a question.
"She plays the first girl who sat in the chair when it was in the hotel."
Kei replied casually, then turned back to helping Ichika rehearse.
"Go on, give it a try."
"Ryo, you should get ou—"
Before Kei could finish, Ichika had already darted forward and plopped herself onto the chair, surprising the hidden, dozing Ryo.
Ichika quietly hummed a lullaby-like tune.
Sitting in the oversized chair, her arms and legs moved restlessly as she giggled softly now and then.
But Kei couldn't stop her—because everything she was doing was in the script:
"Judging by her voice, I imagined her as a youthful foreign girl. The room was empty. She must have been in a good mood, softly humming an odd tune as she skipped in. She suddenly threw her soft, full body onto me. For half an hour, she sang and swayed gently to the melody atop my lap."
Separated by only a thin layer of leather, it was almost indistinguishable from a normal embrace—or perhaps even more intimate.
If you ignored the prop, it looked exactly like Ichika was sitting on Ryo's lap, her back against his chest, her head on his shoulder, her hands resting in his.
Their body heat merged.
Ryo could only sigh.
He recognized the melody Ichika had hummed. It was the lullaby he used to sing to her when they were in the White Room, and he had played the role of her cloth mother.
He had always suspected her feelings for him were more than platonic, yet he chose to use his final correction ability to let her keep her simulation memories. The result: Ichika, who already admired Ryo for defeating Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, switched sides in reality, transforming from a White Room assassin into Ryo's supporter.
So, lost in Ryo's daydream (mainly a distraction tactic) and Kei's gaze, Ichika continued her scene on the chair for a full thirty minutes.
"Just acting, you know~"
Ichika playfully winked before hopping off.
"Uh... can I come out now? It's kind of stuffy."
"No, Ryo! Stay in character!"
Kei huffed and sat down on the chair too, flipping through the script.
"The author is the chair's favorite person. We need to bring that out."
"When she threw herself at me, I always tried to catch her gently. When she was tired, I'd quietly adjust her posture. When she started to nod off, I'd subtly rock my knees to cradle her."
Ryo, still inside, started to move his knees slightly, causing Kei to blush unexpectedly.
"Slower..."
"I really don't want to see a scandal about us in tomorrow's paper."
Ryo sighed again.
He had just come back from the simulation. He only wanted to rest.
-------------------------------------
"Even though we won, it feels like you don't really like The Human Chair," Kei said suddenly.
"It's not that I dislike it... it's just..."
Ryo folded his hands behind his head and strode ahead with long strides.
"If you've decided to abandon something, then you should do it completely."
"Reconciling with your past self is always a brutal struggle."
"If you place your hopes in fantasies, reality stays grim. The protagonist of The Human Chair is the same—every time his dream ends, the ugly reality returns."
"It's a good story. Just not the kind of story people want to see."
Spotting hidden reporters tailing them, Ryo suddenly leaned toward Kei, as if exhausted, letting his weight rest against her.
"Hey, Kei."
He placed a finger on his lips and whispered while staring into her eyes:
"This is the kind of story people want to see."
"And it's a good story too."
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