Takashi Matsuo's lips trembled, but no sound came out.
The staged emotion from before—the dramatic declaration, the righteous fury—was now collapsing under the calm, logical pressure of Hayashi Yoshiki's words. In front of the police, the production staff, and the live-broadcasting cameras, Matsuo's mask of composure was beginning to unravel.
Inspector Megure folded his arms, his eyes narrowing. "So you're saying... the fatal shot was fired from the seventh floor? Through the open window?"
"Yes," Hayashi replied in his usual soft and elegant tone. "The bullet wound's angle suggests a descending trajectory. And the pattern of the exit wound, combined with the embedded fragments, supports this theory."
A forensics officer stepped forward, flipping through a field report. "Confirmed. There's a fragment embedded in the window's upper frame and another in the opposite wall. Based on the height and angle, the shot likely came from above."
Megure let out a breath and glanced toward the stairs. "Check the seventh floor landing. Look for signs of tampering, any setup for aiming—or discarded equipment."
"Yes, sir!"
The officers immediately sprang into action.
Back at the center of the group, Hayashi remained still, hands behind his back like a lecturer at the conclusion of a lesson. "Considering Mr. Matsuo's documented skill with firearms—acknowledged on-air by his co-host—he would be one of the few individuals capable of executing such a precise shot from that height, under time pressure."
"That's hearsay!" Matsuo shouted, sweat now dripping from his brow. "She was just flattering me on camera—"
"But you didn't deny it," Hayashi gently countered. "In fact, you expanded on it. You said, and I quote, 'It's actually only a little bit different' from professional level."
Matsuo flinched. "That doesn't prove anything. No weapon was found."
"Not yet," Hayashi corrected, "but your disappearance during the four-minute VCR segment—without alerting production staff—is more than suspicious. When you returned, you were flushed, short of breath, and you clutched your abdomen, as if attempting to mimic the strain of an illness."
"Coincidence!" Matsuo hissed.
At that moment, one of the officers came jogging back down the corridor. "Inspector! We've found a black sports duffel bag stuffed behind the emergency supply crates on the 7th floor stairwell."
"What's inside?" Megure demanded.
"A disassembled rifle with a suppressor, latex gloves, and... a half-empty bottle of stomach medicine."
The silence that followed was damning.
Matsuo's face turned pale as snow.
Hayashi didn't move. His voice, when he spoke again, was as calm as ever. "Stomach cramps can be faked. Precision shooting from a concealed angle, however... that requires real skill."
"You—!" Matsuo staggered forward, pointing a trembling finger. "You... You planned this, didn't you!? You set me up!"
Hayashi tilted his head. "On the contrary, I was invited to the program for book promotion. It was you who invited suspicion by leaving behind such theatrical clues. As a mystery novelist, I simply connected the dots."
Inspector Megure pulled out his cuffs. "That's enough. Takashi Matsuo, you're under arrest for the murder of Michihiko Suwa."
"I—I was supposed to be the star... He wanted to replace me!" Matsuo screamed as officers dragged him away. "It wasn't supposed to go wrong! Not like this!"
Reporters swarmed again, the weight of the broadcast far from over.
Hayashi simply stepped aside, adjusting his cufflinks with precision. Eri Kisaki watched him with a mix of pride and concern.
Megure, rubbing his temple, turned to him once more. "Hayashi-kun... You're either a genius or very dangerous."
Hayashi offered only a smile. "I suppose that depends on your definition of danger, Inspector."