Ensho sat at a table on the top floor of a building overlooking Kowloon. The neon lights hadn’t come on yet, so the messiness of the city was clear as day. He drank his Shaoxing wine and turned his attention to the Chinese delicacies on the table, like Peking duck and shark fin soup.
“Dumplings and fried rice would’ve been fine,” he muttered.
There were two other men at the table, one in a suit and one in a T-shirt.
“Huh? Did you say something?” the man in the suit asked.
“I told you luxury ain’t my thing.”
“Hey, don’t be like that. You’re gonna become a billionaire star soon, you know?”
“A star?” Ensho snorted.
“Since Yilin’s gone to M+ so many times, collectors are starting to take notice. They’ve probably figured out the artist’s identity. We’re already getting bids, and they’re all pretty high,” the man in the suit said, looking at his phone.
“Oh yeah?” The man in the T-shirt craned his neck to look at the phone screen. “Oh, those guys. They’re more interested in the investment than the painting itself.”
“That’s fine. It’s proof that his paintings have brand-name value. Don’t you agree, Ensho?”
Ensho sipped his wine in silence.
“Anyway, the kid really did show up, huh?” the man in the suit continued. “Will we be getting the call soon?”
The T-shirt man looked at his wristwatch. “It should’ve come ages ago. I wonder if our guy lost the fight.”
“It’s possible. Despite his looks, that kid is like a demon. How can he be so strong?”
“Ha ha! Kiyotaka’s been doing martial arts for a long time. At first, it was ’cause his grandpa forced him to, but then he got attacked in elementary school...”
“Attacked?” Ensho asked.
“He didn’t get hurt. A guy went up to him pretending to ask for directions and took him to a deserted place—dunno if he mistook him for a girl or if he was into boys in the first place. But apparently Kiyotaka just shoved him and ran away.”
“That’s news to me,” Ensho muttered to himself.
“Probably, yeah. He said he never told his dad or grandpa about it, so I might be the only one who knows.”
“Did he tell you back when he was in middle school?” the man in the suit asked.
“Yeah.” T-shirt man sipped his wine. “He talked about it calmly, but he was seething with anger. He was honestly terrifying. Anyway, that was what got him to take his training seriously.”
“Hm, I guess it was traumatizing. Is that why you told our guy to take him to a deserted place and attack him?”
The man in the T-shirt merely laughed. He didn’t say anything, but the implication was there.
Ensho looked at the two men. The one wearing the suit was Shiro Kikukawa, who had formerly gone by the surname Amamiya. Needless to say, his plans had been foiled by Kiyotaka on many occasions. He had been arrested once but was now free.
The one in the T-shirt was Futa Hiramasa, a former painter who had gone by the pseudonym of Fuga. At first glance, he seemed handsome, harmless, and kind. He and Kiyotaka went way back. The two had met when Fuga was an art university student and Kiyotaka was in middle school. Kiyotaka had already possessed a keen eye at that age, and he had sensed Fuga’s potential upon seeing his work in an exhibition. He had introduced Fuga to Seiji Yagashira, and the renowned appraiser had acknowledged the painter’s talent. Before long, Fuga’s paintings had caught the attention of influential people in the art world. At the time, Fuga had been grateful to Kiyotaka, while Kiyotaka had admired him as an older brother figure and often visited his studio.
One day, through Seiji’s connections, Fuga had received an invitation to enter a major international competition. Overjoyed, he had been determined to make the most of the opportunity. However, his enthusiasm hadn’t borne fruit. Instead, he had found that he had lost the ability to paint. That was when his university friend had recommended an illegal drug, saying, “You’ll be able to free yourself from the pressure and paint something good. A small dose won’t get you addicted.”
Enticed by those words, Fuga had given it a try and became completely addicted. Instead of painting, he now spent his days indulging in alcohol, drugs, and women with his bad friend. His older brother had tried to stop him only to be dragged into their group.
Fuga had been hosting a drug party when the police had raided them and arrested him and his friends. The tip-off had come from Kiyotaka. During the arrest, Fuga had shouted, “It’s all your fault! I wish I’d never met you!” From then on, his life had been in a downward spiral.
As Ensho drank his Shaoxing wine, he thought back on what had happened outside his Adashi Moor apartment.
It was around half a year ago, on February 14th. After seeing Aoi and her friends’ Valentine’s Day exhibition, Ensho went home in a good mood. Upon arriving at the apartment, he spotted a white Benz with a Kobe license plate stealthily parked at a distance. He’d been seeing it often as of late.
He approached the car and asked, “Why the hell are you following me? Are you a stalker?”
The backseat door opened and a man in his mid-thirties came out. “Hello,” he said with a cheerful smile. It was Fuga, who had once said some unpleasant words to Ensho.
Ensho grimaced.
Fuga gave a placating smile. “Sorry for making you uncomfortable. You looked like you were working on something, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Ensho said nothing.
“I wanted to discuss something with you again,” Fuga continued. “Do you have time?”
The man got out of the car. Ensho could tell that someone else was sitting inside, but he couldn’t see their face.
“I ain’t got nothing to discuss with you,” said Ensho. “You’re just gonna ask me to forge something again, right? I won’t do it.”
“No, I wanted to apologize. I was very rude to you.”
Ensho glared coldly at him. Fuga had once come to him and said, “You’re only a copycat. Don’t get your hopes up.” Ensho had nearly quit painting because of those words.
“I didn’t mean it,” Fuga continued. “Takashi and the others asked me to say something that would make you give up.” Takashi was Ensho’s former colleague from his counterfeiting days. In other words, he was bad company.
Ensho looked at Fuga in silence.
“When I saw your work, I was astonished. It made my heart flutter even though I’d already given up painting. Honestly, I was jealous.”
Come to think of it, Kiyotaka had said, “I think that person’s criticism was probably eighty percent jealousy.” It seemed he’d been right.
“I don’t care,” Ensho said, turning to the side.
“Shinya—or Ensho, I guess—why don’t you try standing on the world stage for real? Don’t you want to get back at Kiyotaka?”
“What?” Ensho’s eyes widened.
The other person in the car came out. It was Shiro Kikukawa. “You must have a grudge against that Holmes guy too, right? Why don’t we settle our scores together?”
Shiro Kikukawa and Fuga were both quite capable. Shiro still had connections to wealthy Asian families as an art broker. Fuga was officially an employee at his brother’s company, but in reality, he was something like an entertainer for rich women, and there were several who had taken a liking to him. He was tall, handsome, and sweet on the outside, but most of all, he had the ability to worm his way into people’s hearts. After all, even Kiyotaka had once opened up to him. Telling people the words they wanted to hear came as naturally to Fuga as breathing. That was why he could also say things to cause deep emotional pain.