The Worst Day in the Life of Makoto Neagi

Section Four

Jutarou Akafuku hated his name.
Particularly his surname, which meant "red blessing." Every time he introduced himself, someone would inevitably tell him that he had been blessed with such a wonderful name. He'd gotten so tired of hearing it that he'd begun using an alias around unfamiliar faces.
People often say that men are defined by their names, and indeed, in his thirty-two years on Earth, Jutarou had never once thought of himself as unlucky. In fact, he had been blessed with abnormally good luck. By the very nature of his work, he had found himself in a number of dangerous situations in the past, but every time⁠—without fail⁠—a series of fortunate flukes guided him to safety.
While his luck could be considered one of his strengths, he wasn't fond of admitting it.
Rather, allowing himself to end up in situations where the outcome was in fate's hands was unacceptable to him. He knew good and well that, in his line of work, even the smallest of slip-ups could mean disaster.
Jutarou was a thief.
The most important thing to him when he was on a job was reducing the potential influence of forces outside his control⁠—luck, other people⁠—to an absolute minimum. In his mind, a thorough, well crafted plan was the cornerstone of any job. He always formulated and executed his plans by himself, and any job for which that wasn't possible, he wouldn't take. There was nothing worse than being betrayed by a partner who let his greed get to his head, and besides, Jutarou didn't need anyone slowing him down. And he especially didn't need to be asking for help from on high.
Naturally, his current job was no different. He had planned everything and put that plan into action all by himself.
His target had been a small jewelry store in a nearby shopping district. Jutarou had received information that, despite looking run-down, the store had a hidden stash of extremely valuable jewels. And to top it off, the owner was a bit of a penny-pincher, so security was light.
It was an incredible opportunity⁠—the kind that you only ever got once or twice.
So Jutarou crafted an intricate, but bold, plan, and then he went through with it. Naturally⁠—as far as he was concerned⁠—everything went without a hitch, exactly as it was supposed to. His plan was perfect, leaving no room whatsoever for outside interference. And there had been none.
Spoils tucked away in his bag, he calmly stepped onto the bus. Jutarou liked to make use of public transportation as much as possible while on a job. It was easier to blend into the crowd in a bustling city by riding a bus or train than it was driving a car or motorcycle, and by dressing like a businessman on the job, he practically disappeared.
The disguise worked, too. Not a person on that bus gave him a second look as he took an open seat at the front.
Finally certain he had completed his work, Jutarou let out a small sigh of relief. As the bus vibrated gently beneath him, he silently basked in the satisfaction of a job well done.
And then, a sick twist of fate made quick work of everything he had accomplished. Only, it wasn't his luck that laid everything to waste⁠—rather, he was just caught in the crossfire of some teenage boy's misfortune. Some boy who just happened to climb onto the same bus as him. It was a stroke of bad luck so overwhelming that even Jutarou who, up to that point, had been blessed with such incredibly good luck, was helpless to prevent it.
Glaring down at the boy lying on the floor of the bus, the boy who had dragged Jutarou into his misfortune, Jutarou calmly rose from his seat and said, "Don't move. Stay right where you are, everyone." He then pulled an army knife from his jacket pocket and waved it around for all the passengers to see.
No problem, he told himself. There's still more than enough time to repair my plan.

Nothing made sense. His thoughts had become so entangled it felt as if his mind had turned into a giant ball of yarn.
What's going on? What's going on? What's going on?
Makoto desperately struggled to make sense of the situation. He cranked his brain⁠—which was on the verge of meltdown⁠—into full gear and tried to remember how he had ended up where he was.
The skies were clear, and he was feeling good, so he decided to take a different route home than usual. Passing by a park along the way, he ran into a classmate, who invited him to participate in a game of rock-paper-scissors to decide who got to buy snacks for everyone. As luck would have it, Makoto lost in a single round, and on his way back with the goods, both plastic bags broke open, spilling the drinks and food all over the sidewalk and street. While collecting the scattered drinks, he met an old man on a bench, and after a short conversation, the man left. But he forgot his phone, and Makoto chased him onto this bus in an attempt to return it. In another stroke of bad luck, he tripped over his own feet and grabbed onto something attempting to catch his balance.
And that was how it had happened.
Even after retracing his steps, the situation still didn't make much sense. There were jewels scattered on the floor of the bus around him, and a perfectly normal-looking businessman was holding an army knife above his head. "No problem. There's nothing to worry about," the businessman⁠—Jutarou Akafuku⁠—muttered to himself. He appeared to be thinking very hard about something. "I just have to formulate another plan and then go through with it and everything will be just fine."
"E-Excuse me," Makoto said hesitantly, intending to apologize to the man standing over him. He had no idea if it was the right thing to do in that situation⁠—his mind was too fried to make that call.
The next second, the man with the knife was glaring down at Makoto. His voice left him. Those were not the eyes of a hardworking businessman⁠—they were the cold, harsh eyes of a man who wouldn't hesitate to cause others harm for his own benefit.
"Could I get you to stand up for me, please?" Jutarou asked gently. His voice and his eyes gave two very different impressions.
"...What?"
"I said, would you please stand up?" he repeated, and in that very same moment, Makoto found himself with a knife mere centimeters from his forehead. All Makoto had managed to see was Jutarou begin to lean forward, and the next thing he knew, he was staring down the blade of the man's weapon. "You'll do that for me, won't you?" he asked, slowly lifting the knife pointed at Makoto's head.
As the knife rose, so too did Makoto's body⁠—as though the two were connected by an invisible string. His teeth were rattling audibly. Without moving his head, he threw his gaze around the inside of the bus, begging for help with his eyes. But the passengers just sat there, frozen, faces pale as sheets. Even if he had been able to form words, to ask them for help directly, he could tell that nobody would have come to his aid.
Accept it for what it is.
Again, the bearded man's words echoed in the back of Makoto's mind. But it was futile. How in the world was he supposed to "accept" this preposterous situation at face value? He hadn't the slightest idea. And the man who had given him those words showed no sign of coming to his rescue⁠—in fact, his head was drooped down and his eyes shut.
Is he pretending to be asleep?
Unbelievable. Did he seriously think he'd be able to fake-sleep his way out of this?
While Makoto's mind was busy occupying itself with unimportant trivialities⁠—
"Come on, get moving," Jutarou said, shoving Makoto from behind.
"Wha⁠—?" Makoto gasped as he stumbled back to the front of the bus.
Jutarou pointed his knife at the driver, who was still in the driver's seat, and said, "Stand up slowly, and step away from the wheel for me, would you?"
As if in protest, the driver squeezed his lips shut, frowning at the man with the knife.
Jutarou took a deep breath, then let it all out at once. "I asked you to step away from the wheel," he repeated, as intimidatingly calm as ever. "Please, don't make this any harder than it has to be. Don't think I don't know there's a button somewhere you can press to alert someone on the outside in case of an emergency. Should, for some reason, you decide to play the hero and push that button"⁠—he pressed the knife up against Makoto's throat⁠—"I can't guarantee this boy's life."
In an instant, all the color drained from Makoto's sweat-drenched face.
"So, what'll it be?" Jutarou asked the driver.
"O-Okay!" the driver said, standing up and lifting the bar that separated the driver's seat from the rest of the bus. After he had stepped out into the aisle, Jutarou turned his attention back to Makoto.
"Now," he said, "you sit down in the driver's seat."
"Huh?"
"You're my hostage," he said, then shoved Makoto into the driver's seat. Makoto grunted as he fell backwards. Jutarou then lowered the bar, locking it into place and completing his makeshift cage.
Makoto didn't understand what Jutarou's intentions were. He wondered, completely inappropriately, if he had any business sitting in such an important seat.
Jutarou, on the other hand, was preparing to execute the plan he had been working on up until that point. It was a straightforward, spur-of-the-moment plan, but simplicity was best when trouble struck.
First, he made the driver⁠—the person who posed the greatest threat⁠—collect the scattered jewels and put them in a backpack stolen from one of the passengers. While the driver was doing that, Jutarou kept close watch on the passengers, ensuring none of them did anything that would compromise him. It probably wasn't necessary, though, considering everyone was still paralyzed with fear; no one made any attempts to pull out their phones and call for help or signal to someone outside the bus. But just to be absolutely sure, Jutarou said to everyone there, "For your own good, no heroics, all right? I haven't stolen anything of yours, so this whole thing has nothing to do with any of you. If you all just zip it and keep your noses out of my business, it will continue to have nothing to do with you. Simple as that."