Jotaro and Rohan entered the residence, one in front, one behind.
Everything looked like an ordinary home. But neither of them dared let his guard down—especially Rohan. The thought that this was where the man who'd nearly blown him to pieces actually lived sharpened every nerve he had.
Still, having this tall, steady man walking point did wonders for his composure. Rohan didn't know Jotaro Kujo's full background, but the man's calm, his patience, and his wealth of combat experience commanded genuine respect. He was nothing like Inori, who was younger than Rohan yet insisted on acting like a seasoned veteran just to mess with him.
—There's no shame in letting Jotaro take the lead!
"This guy really does live up to his profile. Very particular about his lifestyle."
A single man's home, and it was spotless. Every piece of furniture sat in precise alignment. Not a scrap of paper on the floor. The tea set on the coffee table was arranged with deliberate care. The dining table and kitchen counter didn't have so much as a stray grain of rice. Jotaro thought the man was tidier than his own mother.
"Obsessive-compulsive personality, I'd guess."
Rohan studied the surroundings, answering offhand.
The guy really was similar to himself—and not just in the antisocial tendencies. Rohan had the same compulsion. If something was out of place, he couldn't sit down and work.
(③)
They spent roughly five minutes in the living room, confirming nothing suspicious, before moving on to the first-floor bedroom. This was the heart of the search. People hid their secrets here.
Japanese-style sliding doors. Tatami flooring. You could film a period drama in this room without changing a thing. It was just as immaculate as the living room—even the wastebasket was clean enough to reflect a face. Rohan felt the futility of it. Yoshikage Kira had made himself as smooth and seamless as an egg; finding a crack was nearly impossible.
"Look at these trophies and certificates."
Jotaro, laser-focused on the investigation, pointed to the items displayed in the cabinet.
"Every single one is third place. He understands exactly how to keep his life smooth and unremarkable. Even in group photos, he stands in the corner. That way nobody envies him, and nobody looks down on him either."
"Someone this composed—someone who never reveals his strengths or his weaknesses—is a terrifying opponent."
"He does it on purpose. Hides his intelligence and his abilities behind mediocrity."
Rohan nodded along, then deflated slightly.
"I was hoping that even if we couldn't find him, we'd at least discover something related to his interests, something to work with as a lead... Hm? What's this?"
He pulled open a drawer. Inside were glass bottles, each stuffed with an assortment of small, pale fragments. His interest spiked immediately.
He leaned in. The bottles were all the same size. Each cap bore a label—1988, 1989... Different years? The contents were thin, whitish slivers, as if sliced from something.
"Mr. Jotaro! Look at this!"
Rohan snatched up one of the bottles and held it in front of Jotaro's face.
"Are those... fingernails?"
Jotaro's voice carried a note of disbelief. His brow creased. The instant he saw the bottle, a cold intuition crawled up his spine—years of combat experience screaming that something was wrong. He tensed.
"Looks like they're his own, not a victim's."
Rohan turned and pointed at the open drawer.
"There are dozens more in here. No way you'd get this many fingernails off a victim."
But Rohan had misread him. The sudden shift in Jotaro's demeanor had nothing to do with the fingernails. Jotaro narrowed his eyes. Star Platinum's ultra-precise vision engaged—and only then did he see it. The bottles were covered in faint prints. Handprints. And the shape of the hands was wrong. Grotesquely wrong. No human hand looked like that.
"Put that down! Now! Rohan!"
"...?"
Rohan stood there, uncomprehending.
In the same breath that Jotaro shouted his warning, the trap sprang.
Rohan felt every ounce of strength drain from his body in an instant. He deflated like a punctured balloon, crumpling to the floor. But that wasn't the worst of it. Jotaro watched in horror as Rohan's flesh began to liquefy—his lower body, clothes and all, softening into something like a puddle. The slightest bump against the edge of the desk caused his body to dent inward.
—A Stand attack! Kira was prepared after all!
"Mr. Jotaro... I—my body..."
"Stay calm. Don't panic."
Jotaro clenched his jaw. He told Rohan to stay calm, but without knowing how the enemy's Stand worked, keeping himself safe was already going to be a challenge. An automatic-activation type? The user had to be somewhere in this house. Find him, and Rohan could be saved.
"So you're Jotaro Kujo."
He was about to move when a voice spoke from behind him.
Jotaro understood instantly. He turned, slow and deliberate.
The man was short and heavyset. Middle-aged. His neck met his head with no discernible transition, like a white radish jammed onto a torso. His hair fanned out in a shape that resembled grass blades. He wore a cheap suit. The overall effect was almost comical.
"So you're the one controlling this Stand."
Jotaro tugged the brim of his cap.
He wasn't rattled. If anything, having the enemy show himself was preferable—it saved him the trouble of searching. But he wouldn't underestimate the man. Anyone stationed here was Kira's ally, which meant he already knew what Star Platinum could do.
"Where is Yoshikage Kira?"
"Knowing that won't help you."
The heavyset man smirked, his already ugly face twisting into something genuinely repulsive.
"My name is Tamaki Damo. Rohan Kishibe has already fallen to my Stand, Vitamin C, and lost the ability to move. Next up... is you, Jotaro Kujo."
"Yare yare daze."
Years of opponents monologuing at him had taught Jotaro one thing: lines like that were only earned after you'd won the fight.
"I hate complications. Let's finish this right here."
No wasted emotion. Jotaro's gaze turned razor-sharp, and in the next instant the world plunged into the deep blue of a frozen ocean.
—Star Platinum: The World.
"ORA!"
Star Platinum launched from behind Jotaro, hurtling through the stopped world, and drove a fist straight at that lopsided melon of a face. The punch wouldn't kill him—but it would give him a severe concussion, and his nose would probably snap. If not for the need to extract intel on Kira's whereabouts, Jotaro wouldn't have stopped at one hit.
"Time resumes."
The stop released.
But the scene Jotaro expected never materialized.
Tamaki Damo stood untouched. Instead, the arm Star Platinum had used to throw the punch was spreading apart—melting like a wax figure held over a flame. And it wasn't just the arm. Jotaro's own body was beginning to soften, the same way Rohan's had.
"What...?"
Jotaro's pupils shrank to pinpoints. He stared at his arm dissolving into sludge. His strength was draining fast. His legs—his legs could barely hold him upright.
—How? Isn't his ability supposed to trigger on contact with those prints?
"Look at your feet, Jotaro."
Tamaki Damo rubbed his face where the punch had landed and offered a sinister hint.
Jotaro forced his trembling head downward. The floor—the entire floor, the walls, every surface of this room—was blanketed in those handprints. They had walked into the tomb of Vitamin C the moment they stepped through the door.