The narrow backstreet reeked faintly of cigarettes and rusted metal. Neon signs from the nearby arcade buzzed dimly, their light flickering against wet pavement. Katsuo leaned against the wall of a shuttered shop, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his smile sharp and thin.
Tonight wasn't about small talk. Tonight was about planning.
He muttered to himself first, in that tone halfway between amusement and calculation.
"Foreigners make Japan more unsafe," he said, almost like he was rehearsing a line for a speech. "Even though that's not statistically proven, it doesn't matter. What matters is that people will believe it. Because gullible people don't need proof—they just need something to hate."
His laugh echoed softly through the empty alley.
"The gullible percentage. That's the seed. That's all I need. You plant the seed in weak, destabilized people, and it grows into a tree of hatred you can hide behind and send shade through the destabilized percentages. Easy to trick. Easy to prey on. And if I point them at the right target? Perfect scapegoat."
Katsuo leaned back against the rail, a half-smirk tugging at his lips as he exhaled slowly. He wasn't laughing out of joy—it was that hollow, cynical laugh of someone who believed he had found a perfect weakness to exploit.
He crouched down, flicking a pebble into the gutter, staring at the ripples in the water. His voice dropped lower, now more methodical.
"The police are sniffing around because of those missing girls. They've got their suspicions, but they don't have proof yet. And if they start looking too close at me, that's a problem. A problem I can't allow."
He smirked.
"So I'll misdirect them. I'll give them someone else to look at. Someone who looks foreign enough, different enough, suspicious enough in their eyes. Matsuoka. He's perfect. He speaks Japanese fluently, sure. He's got a Japanese parent, sure. But he doesn't look like it. And in this society, that's all it takes to spark doubt."
He tapped his temple with a single finger.
"Doubt is stronger than evidence. Doubt spreads faster. And once it spreads, the police will be too busy chasing shadows to look my way."
"Foreigners make Japan more unsafe," he whispered to himself, eyes narrowing, almost savoring the words. "Even though it's not statistically proven… it doesn't matter."
He chuckled louder, echoing in the stillness. A boy with Japanese blood in his veins, but one who carried the look of someone not "purely" from here. A target, Katsuo thought. A perfect scapegoat.
"Because there's always going to be the gullible percentage in this type of civilization," Katsuo continued, this time speaking as if to an invisible audience. "The weak ones. The destabilized ones. People who never do sufficient research, who only listen to whispers, headlines, rumors. That percentage is all I need."
He imagined them—young men desperate for meaning, older workers bitter from layoffs, locals suspicious of every foreign face they saw on the train. People who could be stoked, steered, turned into seeds of hatred. Seeds he could poison to cook.
Katsuo straightened, brushing his hair back as his eyes gleamed with resolve.
"I'll make Matsuoka the scapegoat. No matter how perfect his Japanese sounds. No matter if his mother or father is Japanese. None of that matters when the crowd decides he doesn't belong."
His tone dropped, cold, deliberate.
"I will make them decide."
Katsuo walked down the narrow street, lanterns flickering to life. His footsteps were steady, methodical. In his head, he rehearsed the exact narrative he would spread—carefully crafted phrases, half-truths, insinuations that would find their way into ears already predisposed to distrust.
"They'll say: 'Look at the increase of foreigners coming here. Look how unsafe Japan has become.' And then I'll laugh with them, pretend I'm one of them. I'll guide their anger toward Naseru. He looks just foreign enough. That's all I need. Looks are more powerful than proof."
He let out another laugh, bitter and sharp. "Proof doesn't move crowds. Fear does."
He stopped at the bridge overlooking the river, leaning against the railing, staring at his reflection in the water. His voice came low, hushed, but tinged with venom.
"Weak people are tools. Destabilized people are weapons waiting for someone to pull the trigger. I'll point them at Naseru. And when they shout, when they sneer, when they corner him… he'll see what I've set in motion. He'll know this country, this society, is unforgiving to someone who doesn't fit the mold."
His smirk grew darker.
"That's how you bend reality. Not with facts. With perception. And perception spreads like wildfire."
From the corner, a heavy-set thug in a black hoodie shuffled closer, lighting a cigarette. He was one of Katsuo's followers—dull eyes, obedient, the kind of man who needed someone else to think for him.
"Boss," the thug muttered, smoke curling in the air. "You really think the cops will buy it?"
Katsuo chuckled, not even looking at him at first. Then he turned, his smile widening.
"They won't just buy it. They'll eat it alive. Think about it. A mixed kid with a foreign look, always around the town repair shop, always standing out. I don't even have to do much. I just have to get him to the right place. When the time comes, I'll make sure the trail points at him."
The thug frowned. "And the missing girls?"
"Exactly," Katsuo said, voice dropping into a whisper. "When the police see him near that location, when they connect dots that I've drawn for them, they'll think he's been hiding something. They'll think he's the monster. Not me. And all those gullible fools out there?" Katsuo spread his hands like a conductor leading an orchestra. "They'll cheer it on. They'll say, 'See? We were right about foreigners making Japan unsafe.' They'll sacrifice him for me."
He leaned back against the wall again, his laugh low and dangerous.
"This is the beauty of it. I don't have to dirty my hands anymore. The weak will do it for me. The gullible, the destabilized—they'll weaponize themselves if you give them the right story. Matsuoka becomes the scapegoat, and I walk free. That's the misdirection. That's how you bury the truth."
The thug nodded slowly, still puffing on his cigarette, though his face betrayed unease. Katsuo ignored it.
"Do you understand?" Katsuo asked, his tone suddenly sharp. "I don't need proof. I don't need evidence. I just need perception. And perception is the cheapest currency in this whole rotten society."
He looked up at the night sky, the smirk never leaving his lips.
"Matsuoka will be sacrificed to the ignorance of the gullible. And while they destroy him, I'll be free of suspicion. The police won't look at me again. They'll never dare."
Katsuo began walking down the alley, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the walls. Behind him, the thug followed quietly, head down, processing the plan.
The night itself seemed to bend around Katsuo's laughter. Every word he had spoken was both confession and declaration—a strategy laid bare to himself, to his loyal pawn, and to the shadows that kept his secrets.
Naseru Matsuoka had no idea yet. But in Katsuo's mind, the game was already set. The scapegoat had been chosen.