Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 3

Heart Reading

The main stage lights turned on promptly at three in the afternoon, casting a golden glow on the trainees’ hair.

Ranpo sat at the end of a long table, hugging her notebook. Her fingers unconsciously tapped the cover—it was covered in a dense record of the stage data she had observed over the last three days: the weight capacity of the lifting platforms, the angles of the lighting tracks, the spacing between floorboards.

She could smell the lingering scent of metal paint in the air, which reminded her of the mix of ink and motor oil from the D-Slope Murder Case stage design drafts she found in the archives last night.

“Edogawa-san.”

Shiraishi Yuna’s voice was like a thin sheet of ice, gliding over from the other end of the table.

Ranpo looked up and saw her twirling a silver fountain pen. The pen cap cut a cold gleam under the lights.

The other trainees automatically moved to either side, leaving a gap of at least two meters in the middle—this was the “safety zone” for trainees, Ranpo thought, but it would soon be broken.

“How about we have a little internal test for our group?” Shiraishi’s smile was sickeningly sweet. The tip of her pen lightly tapped the words “Literary Ability Fusion Stage” on the projection screen. “I heard that yesterday, when you were helping me with my sprain, you were looking at kitchen supplies on your phone?” She paused, the corner of her eye lifting slightly. “Miss Ranpo is so smart, solving a little puzzle should be no problem, right?”

The long table instantly fell silent, with only the low hum of the air conditioner.

“Sure.” She flipped her notebook to the latest page, where she had circled in red “Shiraishi Yuna’s behavioral pattern: 78% probability of active provocation, 22% probability of roundabout probing.” “But it has to be fair.” She picked up the lottery box on the table and shook it. “How about we draw lots for the theme and partners?”

Shiraishi’s pupils contracted, then relaxed into a gentle, crescent moon shape. “Whatever you say.”

As the slips of paper in the glass cylinder swirled, Ranpo glimpsed Shiraishi’s right hand below the table—her index and middle fingers were slightly bent, as if pressing a button.

Her “Heart Reading” ability required contact with the target’s emotional fluctuations, and drawing lots… was the moment most likely to trigger such fluctuations.

“The D-Slope Murder Case + Stage Mechanical Puzzle.” Ranpo held the slip she drew, hearing the sound of indrawn breaths around her.

The mechanical puzzle was the part with the highest elimination rate in the previous season. Trainees had to solve a mechanical set and complete a performance within five minutes.

She looked at the partner lottery box. The top slip said “Sakurajima Makoto”—an emotional resonance ability user, the type most easily influenced.

“Begin,” Fujiwara’s voice came from the monitoring room, and the stage set boards slowly rose.

Ranpo narrowed her eyes: a metal-framed secret room, with six sensor lights embedded in the walls and three movable wooden boards on the floor, identical to the old bookstore layout in The D-Slope Murder Case.

Her brain began to work at high speed: the positions of the sensor lights corresponded to the viewpoints of the witnesses in the novel, and the movement of the wooden boards should simulate the culprit’s escape route.

Just as her fingertips touched a crack in the left wall, she heard a sob from behind her. Sakurajima was trembling, her eyes red. “I… I think I just remembered my friend who was eliminated in the last evaluation…”

Ranpo caught a glimpse of Shiraishi standing outside the set. Her hanging hair covered half her face, but it couldn’t hide the curve of her lips.

The Heart Reading ability was activated, creating chaos by triggering negative emotions in others.

She should have expected that Shiraishi would choose the method that could most easily affect her partner.

“Makoto.” Ranpo took Sakurajima’s trembling hand. The warmth of her palm made the other girl look up. “Smell this.” She pulled her under a sensor light. “This light uses an orange hue. It’s the same as the warm lights you used in your last performance at the children’s welfare center.”

Sakurajima’s eyelashes fluttered.

Ranpo remembered walking past the practice room three days ago and seeing her perform for the kids with a specially adjusted orange light—a color that brought a sense of peace.

“Right… right. Aoi said it was like the sun.” Sakurajima sniffled, her fingertips lightly touching the light base. “I told her that an idol’s light should be like the sun, shining into everyone’s hearts.”

Ranpo felt the other girl’s hand stop trembling. “Lights!” She gestured to the control room. The six lights lit up in sequence, casting alternating light and shadow bands on the wooden boards’ movement paths.

Sakurajima smiled and tiptoed to the rhythm of the light bands. Her emotional resonance ability was activated. She melted Ranpo’s calmness and her own sense of peace into her dance moves.

When the last wooden board was in place, the central lift platform slowly rose. They stood in the cone of light, and the resonance numbers on the sensor screen jumped frantically: 98.7!

“Excellent!” Fujiwara’s applause came from the monitoring room. He pushed the glass door open. “This is what literary and idol resonance is! Edogawa, you’ve turned the deduction rhythm of The D-Slope Murder Case into choreography. The mechanical puzzles have become part of the narrative—” He pointed at the still-flashing sensor lights. “Even the light changes correspond to the psychological fluctuations of the witnesses in the novel!” As the trainees’ cheers erupted, Ranpo noticed Shiraishi walking backstage, her knuckles so white they looked like she was about to crush her phone screen.

She lowered her head to her notebook and added a small note next to “Shiraishi Yuna’s behavioral pattern”: “Unconsciously touches left earlobe when using her ability—can be exploited next time.”

The wind in the exit hallway was cool. Ranpo hugged her notebook and walked toward the practice room, stopping as she turned the corner.

Dazai Osamu was leaning against a fire hydrant. A corner of the bandages on her wrist was lifted by the wind, revealing the snowy white skin underneath.

She tilted her head and smiled. The gold glitter from the stage clung to her hair, looking like scattered stars in the shadows. “Deduction is so interesting, isn’t it?”

Ranpo narrowed her eyes.

This girl who was always loitering near the fire exit had stayed for an extra twenty minutes after practice yesterday, touching every sensor device on the stage. The day before, during dinner in the cafeteria, she had purposefully sat where she could see every trainee’s expression—just like the way she observed Shiraishi.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” She raised her chin. The mole near her eye showed her guard. Her fingertips unconsciously rubbed the edge of her notebook.

Dazai’s smile deepened. She took two steps forward.

Ranpo could smell a faint scent of ink mixed with jasmine on her, like a long-forgotten mystery novel in a library corner.

“Then next time,” she stopped half a step away from Ranpo, her voice as light as a feather. “Let’s play a different game?”

The sound of a piano came from the practice room at the end of the hallway—the prelude to Between Light and Shadow.

Ranpo looked at the light dancing in Dazai’s eyes, her throat tightening.

It was a long-lost feeling, an excitement that made her want to immediately open a new page in her notebook.

She didn’t say anything, just held the book tighter. On it, the name “Dazai Osamu” had been lightly circled with a pencil, with a note beside it: “Requires more observation samples.”

The mirrors in the practice room were clouded with a thin layer of condensation. The air conditioning was on too high, and the wind felt cool against her neck.

Edogawa Ranpo’s fingers were on the metronome. The metal casing was hot from her repeatedly pressing the pause button.

“Three-section rhythm,” she said, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder as she turned. The notebook in her palm made a crisp tapping sound. “The first section in 4/4 time corresponds to the oppression of the train entering the tunnel in Snow Country. The lighting gradually dims from warm yellow. The second section switches to 3/4 time. Matsuo’s ‘Conceptualization’ ability perfectly lays out the morning mist. At this point—” she pointed to the spotlight on the left side of the stage, “it needs to flash three times, simulating the rhythm of snow pellets hitting the train window. The third section…”

“Enough.” Ishikawa Yuki’s combat boot stomped heavily on the floor, and her fiery red hair swung. “Are you dancing or solving a math problem? I’m here to deconstruct the structure of The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, not to count decimal places.” She grabbed the towel from the speaker and draped it over her shoulder. Her metal hoop earrings clinked.

Matsuo Suzuko was adjusting her hair tie in the mirror, and her fingers paused when she heard this.

The hem of her plain white skirt swept the mat. Her reflection in the mirror was slightly distorted—the ripples from her “Conceptualization” ability.

“She’s right,” her voice was as light as a snowflake. “A dance should have emotional flow, not be constrained by formulas.” She then lowered her eyes, her fingers unconsciously picking at the tassel of her hair tie.

Ranpo’s back teeth lightly ground together.

She looked at their backs: Ishikawa was rubbing her lower back, which she had strained from repeating a difficult spin. Suzuko’s hair tie tassel was stretched out of shape, revealing the light pink elastic underneath—the same kind she had bought at the convenience store last week.

“I got it.” She pressed the notebook to her chest, her knuckles leaving white marks on the hard cover. “I’ll double-check during lunch break.”

When the practice room door closed with a click, Ranpo’s shadow stretched long.

She opened the rehearsal video on her phone. Her fingernail dragged the screen frame by frame—yesterday, Sakurajima’s tiptoe movement was 0.3 seconds slower than the music, which was the exact gap when the light bands lit up. Matsuo’s turning trajectory was off by 15 degrees, perfectly missing the optimal light area for her Conceptualization.

On the open page of her notebook, the timeline was a spiderweb of red pen.

She bit the tip of her pencil, putting a question mark next to “length of Suzuko’s hair tie tassel”—perhaps emotional fluctuations affect the accuracy of the ability?

During the afternoon rehearsal, choreographer Fujiwara’s whistle was particularly clear. “Matsuo, shift 20 centimeters to the left! Ishikawa, wait for the light to flash before you do the next kick—yes, now!”

The movements in the mirror became fluid.

When Suzuko’s skirt fanned out, a white mist-like light spread over her ankles. Ishikawa’s kick created a gust of wind that swept away the last faint yellow spotlight.

When the resonance number on the sensor screen jumped from 82.1 to 89.3, Fujiwara slapped his thigh and laughed. “Edogawa’s timeline model works!”

Ranpo stood in a corner, flipping through her notebook. She glimpsed Shiraishi Yuna huddled in the shadows backstage.

The girl was pinching her left earlobe until it was pink. The cold light of her phone screen reflected off her taut jawline.

During the debriefing session that night, the practice room’s projection screen was a pale blue. Matsuo Suzuko’s hand trembled as she held her tablet. The footage on the screen was fast-paced: Ranpo was always in the center of the shot. Ishikawa’s kicks were edited to be only half a second long. Her own morning mist effect was simply cut into fragmented pieces.

“Why is it that after every adjustment, you ‘happen’ to be in the center?” Suzuko’s voice was tearful. “Did you use your deduction ability to manipulate our movements?”

Ranpo didn’t say anything.

When she took the tablet, her fingertips felt the coolness of Suzuko’s hand—the same temperature as the frost on the windows of the Snow Country train.

The moment the projection screen changed, her notebook slapped onto the table. The pages flipped to the latest entry: “15:07:23, Matsuo’s movement was off by 18cm; 15:08:11, Ishikawa’s kick was delayed by 0.2 seconds—” She pulled up her backup of the full video. “Here,” a red laser dot stopped at the edge of the screen, “Shiraishi edited out Matsuo’s Conceptualization and Ishikawa’s structural deconstruction.”

On the projection screen, the cut footage was spliced back together: when Suzuko’s morning mist spread across the entire stage, the glow sticks in the audience lit up along with it. When Ishikawa’s kick shattered a light beam, the resonance number on the sensor screen surged by 5 points.

“I don’t use my ability to manipulate emotions,” Ranpo’s voice was as light as a turning page, but every word hit home. “I just… wanted to make this dance better.” She looked at Suzuko’s reddened eyes, then at Ishikawa’s clenched fists. “If you think I’m too rational…” she smiled, revealing a hint of her canines. “Then let’s use our emotions to cooperate—as long as you’re willing to believe.”

Silence filled the practice room.

Matsuo Suzuko’s fingers slowly loosened their grip on the tablet. The tassel of her hair tie hung down, brushing the back of her hand.

She lowered her head and stared at the tip of her shoe, her heel tapping the floor three times—the exact rhythm of a train pulling into a station in Snow Country.

“Next practice…” her voice was as light as a sigh, yet clear enough for everyone to hear. “You lead our movements.”

Ishikawa Yuki stomped her combat boot on the ground, making the water bottle on the table jump. “I only believe in results!” But she tugged on Ranpo’s sleeve, her earrings swaying faster. “I’ll do some extra practice later. You teach me how to count the beats.”

The wind blew Ranpo’s notebook open. On the latest page, next to the names “Matsuo Suzuko” and “Ishikawa Yuki,” she had drawn a crooked little flower next to each.

The footsteps backstage became lighter.

Dazai Osamu was in the corner of the fire exit, a corner of her wrist bandage lifted by the draft.

She looked at the warm light coming from the practice room, the smile on her lips like melting spring snow—until she heard Teacher Fujiwara’s cough from the end of the hallway.

“Everyone.” Fujiwara pushed the door open, holding a stack of files. His glasses flashed in the light. “Tomorrow morning…” He glanced at their shining eyes and swallowed the rest of his sentence. “Just get a good rest first.”

Ranpo watched Fujiwara’s hesitation, and her fingers quickly wrote in her notebook: “Teacher Fujiwara’s grip on the files is 20% tighter than usual. The cover has an indentation that reads ‘Individual Creative Show’—” As she looked up, she saw Dazai Osamu’s back as she turned to leave. The gold glitter from her hair left a trail of stars in the hallway.

The night wind carried new suspense into the practice room, making the projection screen rustle.