In other words, the voice calling, “Officer!” had been Misaki pretending to call for the police. After eating dinner, Misaki had come to the park as usual, where she saw two men arguing loudly and beating up each other. When she realized I was one of them, she’d naturally been upset.

Gathering a great deal of courage, she seemed to have felt that she had to help. Because no one was around and she didn’t have a cell phone, though, she didn’t know what to do. Finally, she decided to pretend that a policeman was right there in order to save me.

“I can’t believe you! I was so worried! I thought you might be killed!”

Actually, I felt bad for upsetting Misaki, who now had tears in her eyes. I decided to make her laugh with an interesting story. “Well, in the shade of that bush over there, a girl was being attacked by a pervert. I approached them and intervened, trying to save the girl, but the rapist suddenly flipped out. He pulled a knife from his pocket and jumped me! No, no, it was really dangerous! If I hadn’t been there, someone could have gotten killed.”

“That’s another big lie, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“What were you really doing?”

I told her everything.

After another good outburst, Misaki wore a pained expression for some reason. Sitting on the bench, she muttered, “That’s not good. Don’t fight with your friends. Even as a joke, violence isn’t good—not at all.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t be so serious. It was pretty fun; I’ve never punched anyone or been punched before. I actually feel surprisingly refreshed—“

“I said, it’s bad!”

“Why? Karate is good for you.” I made a show of shadowboxing in front of her. As I mimicked a right hook, Misaki trembled and covered her head with both arms.

“Huh?” I said.

She peered through the openings in her arms at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She didn’t reply but tentatively put both arms down. Once more, I feigned a right hook. Again, Misaki guarded her head with both arms. As her reaction was amusing, I repeated my punching motions several times. In the end, Misaki shrank up, frozen in that position, arms covering her head.

Her strange position caused her sleeve to rise to her elbow, and I took the opportunity to glance at her skin.

By the blue-white light of the streetlamps, I could see that her arm was spotted with what looked like numerous burn marks. They were circular scars, with a diameter of about five millimeters a piece. They bore a strong resemblance to the brands that countryside punks burned into each other to prove their bravery.

As if noticing my gaze, Misaki yanked down her sleeve. In a shaky voice, she asked, “Did you see?”