Danganronpa Secret File Makoto Naegi's Worst Day Ever

Part 8

The bus was still stopped, so it hadn’t been because of that. He hadn’t tripped on anything or slipped on anything either. More than likely, it was because he hadn’t run like that in some time. Or perhaps it was just his bad luck rearing its ugly head again.

Crap! he thought as his body began to fall forward. He reached out, entirely on instinct, and grabbed onto something. The next second, he heard a sharp tear, and then he was on the floor. Whatever he had grabbed lessened the impact of his fall considerably—a small stroke of luck in an otherwise unfortunate situation.

However, he hadn’t been completely saved from the impact. His right shoulder and side stung, and he must have hit his head, because he was seeing stars through his barely open eyes.

Or, at least, that’s what Makoto thought—but he was wrong. The glimmering he saw was not an illusion, but real, physical light shining through the bus’s windows and refracting through the jewels scattered across the floor.

“What?” Makoto mumbled, unable to comprehend what he was seeing, incapable of making even the slightest amount of sense out of the scene before him.

Why are there jewels on the floor of the bus?

And then, a shadow appeared beside Makoto, who was still lying, confused, on the hard ground. The shadow belonged to a diligent-looking businessman at the front of the bus who had just stood up. In a calm, professional tone of voice, the man said, “Don’t move. Stay right where you are, everyone.” He set his torn bag on the seat, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out an army knife with the same natural, smooth motion as someone pulling out a business card.

It was certainly a stroke of luck that Makoto had grabbed onto what he had when he fell. Another stroke of bad luck.

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.