Higuruma had stopped lying—not to anyone else, but to himself.
And God, what a joke he'd been.
He walked the cracked sidewalk, unthinking.
"Ha… ha… hahahahaha!" The sound tore out of him, ragged and raw. It wasn't funny, not really. But it was. The truth… oh, the truth! Living a lie for years because he couldn't accept reality. A fool. Naive and childish fool. A clown.
He laughed harder, clutching at his ribs, staggering like a drunk. Every tiny justification of all his lies, all nonsense.
Just a play at the theater. Except that he was the clown and also the audience. His own personal theater, just for him. Made his own lies and hope.
He didn't notice the shortcut until he was in it, dark, narrow, grimy walls pressing in. Normally he avoided this place. Tonight? Tonight he didn't care. Nothing mattered. Laughter, bursting uncontrollably, echoed back at him.
Then: pain.
A sharp, burning stab in his back.
Higuruma froze mid-snicker, eyes wide. But he couldn't stop laughing. The joke was to good.
He turned—slowly, absurdly careful for someone bleeding out—and saw them. Two of them. One with a knife. The other leaning against the wall, cigarette smoke curling like a lazy question mark in the air.
"That's him, right?"
"Yeah. Matches the profile Mr. Takashi sent."
Higuruma collapsed against the alley wall, knees weak, chest heaving. Blood seeped into his clothes, warm and sticky.
But even so laughter. A choking, ragged laugh, raw and vicarious.
Pain.
But he didn't stop chuckling. Not loud well atleast not to his killers.
He thought of his old self. The man who rationalized, defended, argued endlessly. The lawyer that only lies to himself.
He laughed even harder. "You fool," he whispered through gritted teeth. "You absolute fool. And for what? For nothing!"
The knife was grabbed out of Higurumas back. Again pain, Sharp, merciless pain. Higuruma tasted iron. Saw his life flicker. But still, laughter.
The alley spun, lights blur, shadows twisting. Street hum far away. Cigarette smoke curling. Every small sound punctuated his last senses before death.
It was all absurd. All funny.
"Me," he said, voice cracking. "Just… me."
Blood soaked the asphalt, warm against his palms. He imagined it as a stage, and this was the finale.
He fell more fully, sliding down the wall fully, chuckles splitting into ragged gasps. He saw his hands, red and trembling. Saw the alley narrowing into darkness.
"Comedy," he whispered. "What a magnificent comedy."
He thought of every choice he'd avoided, every truth he'd ignored, every lie he'd loved. They were all small plot points in an act that only would see. And now, finally, he got to see the end of this great act. Higuruma could confidently say that this act was truly a magnificent comedy.
All his life, all in one magnificent comedy.
And then he laughed harder. Not because he was unafraid, not because it didn't hurt, but because he finally saw it all clearly. Every absurd, selfish, foolish move. Every act of self-deception. Every lie.
Higuruma laughed until the alley blurred completely. Until the world folded in around him. Until his own life, the magnificent comedy, was everything he knew.
A jester. A fool. Alone. Performing for an audience of one. Himself.
And even as darkness came, he did not stop laughing.