Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 5

Maze

The red light of the electronic screen backstage was an eyesore. Edogawa Ranpo clutched the cuff of her performance outfit, her knuckles turning white.

The noise from the audience seeped through the curtain’s gaps, like a rising tide, slowly enveloping her eardrums.

The crumpled, crooked note from three days ago was still a hard lump in her pants pocket, and Kurozawa Haruto’s gaze from behind the side curtains flashed in her mind.

“Your stage will either be a miracle or a joke.”

Fujiwara Yuma’s voice was like an ice pick, stabbing precisely into Ranpo’s tense nerves.

She turned to see her mentor leaning against the makeup table with his arms crossed. His eyes behind his glasses reflected the red countdown light. “Kurozawa’s visual interference can create seven simultaneous phantoms. Last round, he made the judges mistake a backup dancer for the main vocalist.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over Ranpo’s slightly turned-out right ankle. “And you, you’re still landing with the inertia of an old injury.”

Ranpo’s back teeth clenched, a sharp pain shooting through her jaw.

She remembered what Dazai had said the night before when she was half-kneeling, helping her wrap her ankle brace: “Pain makes you more focused, doesn’t it?” Now, that elastic bandage was warm against her skin, like a silent vow.

“Then let them remember this joke,” she said, lifting her chin. Her arrogant smile held a hint of reckless determination.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dazai standing five steps away. The gold glitter in her hair swayed lightly in the wind from the vent, like scattered stardust in the darkness.

A sudden alarm sounded.

The stage lights went out in response. In the darkness, only Dazai’s soft laugh could be heard. “Time to break the maze.” She reached out, her fingertips brushing against Ranpo’s hand. The warmth felt like a small flame.

On impulse, Ranpo hooked her pinky around Dazai’s—the secret signal they had established in the practice room three days ago: “When logic fails, follow your intuition.”

The moment the spotlight burst overhead, Ranpo’s breath hitched.

The entire stage was fragmented into countless mirrors, from the floor to the ceiling. Every inch of space reflected their images.

Kurozawa’s ability spread through the mirrors. The cheers from the audience were distorted into overlapping noise, and even the judges’ light boards were blurred, creating ghost images.

“It’s a reflection frequency interference.” Ranpo closed her eyes. In 0.1 seconds, she processed all the light traces transmitted to her retina: the mirrors’ angles, the lights’ wavelengths, Kurozawa’s breathing rhythm on the left lift platform.

When she opened her eyes, tiny specks of light danced in her pupils. “He’s creating a sense of displacement with a reflection delay every 0.3 seconds.”

“Then I’ll break the rhythm,” Dazai’s voice was close by.

Ranpo turned, meeting the smiling eyes of the other girl—that pool of starlight was even brighter than it had been three days ago.

The next second, Dazai’s “No Longer Human” spread out like a ripple. All the phantoms in the mirrors collapsed into golden specks of light, like popped bubbles.

Three seconds. Only a three-second window.

Ranpo’s foot landed precisely on the seam of the third mirror. Her old injury flared with pain as she landed, but her brain had already bypassed the sensation.

Her dance moves spread along the mirrors’ angles of reflection, each step leaving a deeper imprint on the audience’s retina. This was the “anchor point movement” she had practiced seventeen times in front of the mirror the night before, designed to establish a “single truth” amid visual chaos.

The music swelled.

Dazai’s fingers gently rested on her back, guiding her toward the center of the stage.

Ranpo knew this was the signal: it was time to switch dominance.

She took half a step back, letting Dazai’s figure occupy the center of the spotlight.

The other girl’s dance was like a flowing mist, yet she precisely hit the “emotional climax points” Ranpo had marked in her notebook. This was a secret code only they understood: Ranpo used logic to deconstruct the stage, and Dazai used emotion to fill the gaps.

Kurozawa’s interference struck again.

This time, the phantoms in the mirrors were even denser. Low gasps of admiration came from the judges’ table.

Ranpo’s temple throbbed. She could see Kurozawa standing on the edge of the lift platform, his fingertips slightly trembling—a sign of ability overload.

“The fourth mirror on the left,” she whispered into Dazai’s ear. “His ability source is behind that one.”

Dazai’s steps quickened. The wind she created ruffled the hair on Ranpo’s forehead.

When their shadows overlapped in front of the fourth mirror, Ranpo raised her hand and tapped the mirror’s surface, the sound sharp and clear.

The backstage lighting team seemed to have received a signal. A spotlight hit the mirror with precision. Kurozawa’s phantom distorted into fragments under the strong light. His face finally emerged from the chaos, his eyes filled with shock.

The music stopped abruptly.

Ranpo’s breath caught in her throat. Sweat ran down her neck into her performance outfit.

She looked out at the boisterous audience. The hands holding “Bunyo” light sticks were like a sea of light.

At the judges’ table, Fujiwara adjusted his glasses, and his lips curved into a more noticeable smile than they had three days ago.

“This wasn’t just a performance; it was a game of wits,” his voice echoed through the microphone. “A game between literary and logical. And the winner is—”

“Bunyo!” The cheers from the audience interrupted him.

Ranpo turned, meeting Dazai’s sparkling eyes.

Some of the gold glitter from her hair had fallen onto Ranpo’s shoulder, like scattered stars.

“Were you helping me just now?” Ranpo heard her own voice, light as a sigh.

Dazai blinked and reached out to wipe the sweat from Ranpo’s forehead. “I just wanted to see how far you could go.” Her fingertips were still dusted with glitter from her stage makeup, leaving a streak of silver on Ranpo’s face. “After all…” her voice softened, “you’re the only one who can play this kind of deduction game with me.”

The hallway backstage was a little dark. As Ranpo walked toward the practice room with her jacket, a figure blocked her path.

Kurozawa Haruto was still in his performance outfit. The collar was loose, revealing a patch of sweat on his collarbone.

He stared into Ranpo’s eyes, his voice a low whisper. “Your logic… is too perfect.”

“Because I knew someone would fill in the emotions I couldn’t understand,” Ranpo tilted her head and smiled. The mole at the corner of her eye was particularly prominent with the sweat, and the note in her pocket was now a smaller, tighter square. “Like… trust.”

She walked around Kurozawa. She heard him whisper behind her, “Next time, I’ll show you a more complex maze.”

In the Bunyo practice room, the warm yellow light washed over everyone’s faces.

Suzuko was tiptoeing to adjust the stereo. Her hair still had some unremoved stage makeup on it.

As Ranpo opened the door, she happened to turn around, and the CD in her hand dropped to the floor with a “clack.”

“I’m sorry!” Suzuko bent down to pick it up, but Ranpo noticed her reddened eyes.

The girl’s fingers trembled on the CD case, like a leaf shaking in the wind.

“Need some help?” Dazai’s voice came from behind.

Suzuko shook her head violently, but as she looked up, she knocked over the water bottle next to her.

Water spread across the floor, reflecting the ceiling lights, like a rising tide.

Ranpo stared at the puddle. She felt something was hiding beneath the calm surface, slowly rising.

The air conditioning in the Bunyo practice room was on full blast, yet Suzuko’s nape was beaded with sweat.

She stared at the flashing number on the stereo, the red light of 14:00 stinging her eyes—this was the third time today the rehearsal schedule had been adjusted.

“What are you spacing out for, Suzuko-san?” Nakahara Chuuya bounced up from the mat, hugging his knee pads. The blue streaks in his hair were dazzling. “The judges just said our ‘mood transitions’ looked like they were cut with scissors. Today, we have to blend the stark coldness of Snow Country with the fragmentation of No Longer Human!”

Kunikida adjusted his square-framed glasses and slapped the storyboard in front of her. “Matsuo-san, your ‘Conceptualization’ is key. You only held it for three minutes on stage last time. This time, you have to last the whole dance.”

Suzuko’s nails dug into her palm.

She stared at her name on the storyboard. The ink blurred on her retina—just like yesterday in the dressing room when Shiraishi Yuna’s hand, with its wine-red nail polish, rested on her shoulder, and all the voices seemed to fade into the distance.

“Let’s begin,” Ranpo’s voice came from the corner.

She was squatting on the edge of the mat with her notebook. The cowlick on top of her head quivered with her movements. “I’ll count to three, two, one. Chuuya, you start.”

The moment the music started, a chill ran down Suzuko’s neck.

This wasn’t the coldness of Snow Country.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The rhinestones on her eyelashes were glaringly bright. They were supposed to be the clear, pure feeling of snow falling on her lashes, but now they felt like countless needles stabbing her eyes.

“Matsuo-san!” Kunikida’s voice drifted from a distance. “The mood is too heavy!”

Suzuko tried to adjust her breathing, but her chest felt heavy, as if filled with lead.

She saw her fingertips turn blue, and a white mist slowly condensed on the mirror—a sign that her “Conceptualization” was out of control.

“Stop!” Ranpo’s voice was unusually urgent.

The music came to an abrupt halt.

Suzuko stumbled and leaned on the mirror. The white mist crawled down the glass, condensing into small ice shards on the floor.

Chuuya squatted down and touched them. His fingertips immediately recoiled. “The temperature… it’s at least five degrees lower than last time.”

“Suzuko?” Dazai Osamu stood beside her at some point. Her cool palm rested on Suzuko’s feverish neck. “You’re trembling.”

Suzuko looked up. She opened her mouth, but then she remembered what Shiraishi Yuna had said in the dressing room: “They need a perfect tool, not a Matsuo Suzuko who cries and gets scared.”

“I’m fine,” she said, turning her head away, her nails digging deep into her palm. “Let’s do it again.”

The second rehearsal started even faster.

Suzuko stared at the cowlick on top of Ranpo’s head, trying to anchor herself to reality with that small, upturned curve.

But as the dance progressed to the second section, her gaze swept in the direction of the audience—Shiraishi Yuna was leaning on the railing, her finger with the wine-red nail polish gently touching her earlobe.

Ice shards rustled down from the ceiling.

“Thud!”

Suzuko’s knee hit the floor.

She stared at her distorted reflection in the mirror. The pain of the ice shards digging into her hand was nothing compared to the dull ache in her heart. The emotions she had desperately suppressed burst forth: a childhood locked in the piano room for practice, being called a “monster” by her middle school classmates because of her “Conceptualization,” the boos from the audience the first time she stood on stage…

“Suzuko!” Ranpo’s voice was uncharacteristically urgent.

As she rushed over, she knocked over the thermos bottle next to her. Warm water splashed on the ice shards, creating a white mist.

The girl’s fingers clasped Suzuko’s wrist, and the temperature was surprisingly high. “Look at me, Matsuo Suzuko. These emotions aren’t yours.”

Suzuko looked up abruptly.

Ranpo’s pupils reflected her image, like a mirror that couldn’t lie. “Last Wednesday, when you helped that old lady carry her rice at the convenience store, your eyes were bright. The day before yesterday, when you were bandaging Chuuya’s knee, your lips were curved in a smile. Right now…” Her thumb gently massaged the ice shards on Suzuko’s hand. “Right now, there’s someone else’s shadow in your eyes.”

The ice shards melted into water in Ranpo’s palm. Suzuko remembered the dressing room three days ago.

That day, she was holding her performance outfit and pushed the door open, only to run into Shiraishi Yuna touching up her makeup in front of the mirror.

The girl’s fingers, with their wine-red nail polish, tapped on the mirror twice. She turned around with a perfectly timed expression of surprise. “Matsuo-san? I was just thinking, with your sensitive personality, what if your ‘Conceptualization’ gets out of control… wouldn’t that be interesting?”

At the time, she just thought it was a taunt. But now, she remembered Shiraishi touching her earlobe, and her own unconscious habit of touching her left earlobe before a breakdown.

“It’s a psychological suggestion,” Ranpo whispered, her warm breath brushing against Suzuko’s ear. “Shiraishi’s ‘Heart Reading’ can read emotions. She planted an anchor in you.”

Suzuko’s breathing hitched.

She remembered how Shiraishi’s fingertips would always lightly brush her earlobe when she spoke. She remembered feeling inexplicably panicked before rehearsals these past few days, as if someone was gripping her heart and slowly squeezing.

“I need you to help me confirm it.” Ranpo took out her phone from her pocket. The screen showed the rehearsal footage from yesterday. “Look at this part.”

In the footage, Suzuko’s eyes were clear, and the ice shards only formed a thin frost at her feet. Even Kunikida was nodding.

Ranpo dragged the progress bar and stopped at the moment she stumbled. “Here, you touched your earlobe.”

The cold light of the phone screen reflected Ranpo’s shining eyes. “Shiraishi planted an emotional seed in you. Every time she touches her earlobe, it triggers a negative memory for you. But look…” She tapped on another unedited rehearsal video. “Your original ‘Conceptualization’ could make the snow fall like moonlight.”

Suzuko stared at the screen.

The image of herself was smiling. The ice shards floating from her fingertips carried a faint silver light, like the night cherry blossoms of a snow country.

She remembered the first time she awakened her ability, and her mother screamed and smashed her mirror. But at this moment, the light in her eyes was brighter than it had ever been.

“I’ll help you hold the rhythm,” Ranpo said, putting her phone back in her pocket. “Let’s do it again tomorrow during the public practice.”

The next day, the practice room was full of other trainees.

Shiraishi Yuna sat in the front row, her wine-red nail polish gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

“Three, two, one.”

The moment the music started, Suzuko’s gaze was locked on the cowlick on top of Ranpo’s head.

When the dance progressed to the second section, she saw Shiraishi’s fingertips lift—

“Breathe with me,” Ranpo’s voice was like a thin thread, precisely wrapping around her wavering emotions. “Inhale, the sound of falling snow. Exhale, the sound of your heartbeat.”

A chill ran through Suzuko’s fingertips, but this time, the ice shards didn’t form sharp spikes.

They floated up with her movements, refracting into a myriad of colors in the air, like the rising sun cracking through the morning mist of a snow country.

“Stop!” Kunikida’s voice was trembling. “This… this is the scene of the ‘Milky Way Pouring’ from Snow Country!”

Applause rang out from the audience.

Suzuko looked at her reflection in the mirror. The ice shards sparkled in her hair, like a head full of stars.

She turned to Ranpo, who gave her a deduction signal only the two of them could understand—her index finger tapping her temple, as if to say, “I’ve seen through it.”

“Thank you for not exposing me,” Suzuko whispered to Ranpo as they took their bow.

Ranpo tilted her head and smiled. The cowlick on her head wiggled. “I just did what I could do.”

In the distance, Dazai Osamu leaned against the practice room door.

She looked at their overlapping shadows, her fingertips lightly touching her own earlobe—there was nothing there, but it felt like it was on fire.

“Ding—”

The broadcast announced, “Please note, the team list for the Individual Creative Show will be announced at 8 PM tonight.”

Ranpo looked up, meeting Dazai’s half-smile.

Ice shards from outside had landed in her hair, and they shimmered dazzlingly under the lights.

“Ranpo-chan,” Dazai walked over slowly. “What do you think… will we be on the same team?”

The girl’s voice was coated in sugar, sweet like a long-planned trap.