Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haida’s fingers tapped absently against his glass, the faint chime of his wedding band against the rim somehow soothing, rhythmic in the dim light of the bar. The weight of the day—of the week, really—pressed down on his shoulders like a worn-out jacket he couldn’t shrug off. He stared down into the amber depths of his drink, swirling the ice lazily, barely aware of the bartender wiping down the counter in a half-hearted attempt at keeping the place clean.

The bar, tucked away in a forgotten alley where no one came to be seen, was exactly the kind of place Haida had gravitated to lately. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to feel. He just wanted the buzz of alcohol to wash over him, numbing the ceaseless hum of inadequacy that gnawed at the back of his mind.

That’s when he heard the familiar voice—low, raspy, as if the world had been smothering it for too long. It was a voice that both gripped him with an icy tension and sparked a flicker of something he thought he had buried months ago.

"Haida? Didn’t think I’d see you here."

Shikabane. He recognized her immediately, though she was still as hard to read as ever. Her deadpan gaze flicked over him, the faintest hint of curiosity in her otherwise apathetic expression.

Haida looked up, blinking as if he wasn’t sure if she was real or some figment of his already hazy state. "Shikabane… hey," he mumbled, his voice thick from the alcohol and the lingering surprise of seeing her. It had been months since they last spoke.

She slid into the seat next to him. Shikabane eyed the bartender, who offered her a casual nod as if she were a regular. Without asking, he poured her a drink—something clear and potent—before retreating back to his quiet vigil of the nearly empty bar.

"You always hit up places like this?" she asked, not bothering with pleasantries, her lips curling slightly at the edge in what might’ve been a frown. Or maybe it was just a tic.

Haida shrugged, eyes dropping back to his drink. "Only when I feel like pretending I don’t exist for a while."

"That happen often?" she asked. The question was blunt, but that was just Shikabane. She wasn’t one to dance around anything, especially not the ugly parts of life.

He laughed, a short, humorless sound. "More often than I’d like to admit."

There was a beat of silence before Shikabane turned slightly to face him, studying him with that unreadable gaze of hers. "So, what’s eating you this time?" she asked, as if they had been continuing a conversation from months ago. "Let me guess—Retsuko? Work?”

Her words cut, not because they were meant to hurt, but because they peeled away the pretense that Haida usually clung to. There was no room for fake smiles and bullshit small talk with her, no space for him to hide. She always had this way of making him feel like he was naked, exposed, even when they were just sitting at a bar, surrounded by the anonymity of poor lighting and alcohol.

"All of it," he said after a moment, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Retsuko and I... I don’t even know what we are anymore. We’re together, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s like we’re playing house, and I’m the only one who didn’t get the script. Tsch… and work, huh?" He snorted, taking a sip of his drink. "Let’s just say I’m not exactly on the fast track to CEO."

Shikabane nodded slowly, as if she’d expected as much. "Sounds like you're stuck. Same as always."

"Yeah, pretty much."

Another pause, but this one didn’t feel as awkward as the silence between two people who hadn’t spoken in months should’ve. It was more like... resignation. As if they both understood that sometimes silence was the only thing that made sense.

Haida couldn’t help but notice her presence more intensely now, the way she seemed so at ease with the world falling apart around her. Shikabane, with her dead eyes and perpetual detachment, had always fascinated him in a strange way. Maybe it was because she embodied everything he tried to suppress—his own cynicism, his disillusionment with the idea of a normal life, with relationships that were supposed to make sense. With her, things were broken, and that was okay.

"You ever think about just... walking away?" she asked, her tone casual, as if she were asking about the weather.

"From what?"

"From everything.”

Her words hung in the air between them, but not in the way that felt like a come-on. It was more of a challenge, a dare to admit the things he wouldn’t even say to himself. Shikabane wasn’t seducing him in the traditional sense; she was offering him an out. A way to escape the suffocating guilt and self-hatred that had become his constant companions.

Haida felt a strange thrill at her words, like a cold rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He thought about Retsuko, about how he felt like an outsider in his own relationship. He thought about the monotonous grind at work, the endless sense of falling short. Walking away seemed impossible, but the idea of it... the idea of letting go and not caring anymore—it was dangerously appealing.

"Maybe I have," Haida said quietly, surprised by how honest his voice sounded. "Maybe I think about it every day."

Shikabane leaned in slightly, her gaze never wavering. "Then why don’t you?"

The question wasn’t laced with malice, but it hit him like a punch. Why didn’t he? Why did he keep dragging himself through the motions when it was clear he wasn’t happy?

"Because," he began, but the words got stuck in his throat. Because what? Because he loved Retsuko? Did he still? Or was it more about the fear of being alone? Of admitting that he wasn’t enough for her? Of acknowledging that he wasn’t the person he thought he could be?

Shikabane watched him struggle with the words, and for a fleeting moment, her expression softened—just enough to make him wonder if she understood more than she let on. She took another sip of her drink.

From the sugary smell, it was soda and not alcohol at all, he just realized.

"Yeah," she murmured, almost to herself. "That’s what I thought."

Haida stared at her, his mind swirling with a mix of confusion and curiosity. Shikabane had always been hard to pin down, but now... now she was something else entirely. A mirror to his own fractured reflection. He could see his insecurities reflected in her apathy, his disillusionment mirrored in her complete detachment from everything.

"Do you ever feel anything?" Haida asked suddenly, surprising even himself with the question.

Shikabane raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Depends on what you mean by ‘feel.’ If you mean do I cry myself to sleep every night or get all torn up about whether or not I matter? No. But if you mean do I get tired of pretending to care about things that don’t matter? Yeah, all the time."

Her words cut through the haze of Haida’s thoughts, sharp and clear. There was something brutally honest about her, something that made him want to keep talking, to keep pulling at the thread of their conversation until something unraveled. Maybe that something was him. Maybe it was both of them.

He drained the last of his drink, setting the glass down a little too hard on the bar. "I think I’m tired of pretending too."

Shikabane’s eyes flicked over him again, assessing, and for the first time, there was something like approval in her gaze. "Then stop pretending."

Haida met her gaze, feeling the weight of her words settle over him like a challenge. It was tempting—too tempting. She wasn’t offering him comfort or solutions. She was offering him a way out, a way to sink deeper into the abyss. And as much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t sure if he could resist.

"You wanna get out of here?" she asked, her voice low, carrying the kind of confidence that left little room for debate.

Haida’s initial response to Shikabane’s invitation was a nervous laugh, the kind that spilled out too quickly and clung to the edges of his discomfort. "You serious?" he asked, his tone laced with a disbelief that felt forced even to his own ears. Part of him was testing her, trying to gauge if she was just messing with him or if this was another one of her blunt, emotionless propositions that left no room for misinterpretation.

Shikabane’s response was to shift her attention away, her fingers immediately scrolling through her phone. She was always doing that—disappearing into her screen as if the world around her barely existed. Haida found it maddening sometimes, but he knew it was just her way. The digital world was more her speed, and honestly, he had the suspicion that it was easier for her to deal with people when they were pixels on a screen.

Still, it was hard to shake the feeling that she was ignoring him now. Haida was used to fading into the background, but with Shikabane, it was different. She had this way of making him feel like he didn’t matter, like he was just another noise in the clutter of her world, and yet—when she focused on him—it felt like the world stood still. And right now, he wanted her focus back. He wasn’t sure why, but the knot of curiosity in his chest demanded it.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Haida cleared his throat and leaned a bit closer, trying to recapture her attention. “So, uh… what have you been up to lately?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation alive despite the fact that she was still scrolling through her feed.

Shikabane glanced up briefly, her eyes flicking toward him before drifting back down to her phone. "Not much," she muttered, her voice as nonchalant as ever. Then, after a pause, she added, “The internet café we used to hang out at? It got bought out. Some big corporate dude. Place is under renovation now.”

Haida blinked, his brow furrowing as he processed that. The café was where they used to waste hours together, wrapped up in their own little worlds—Shikabane glued to her screen, and him, trying to game away the ache of real life. "Bought out? By who?" he asked, more out of habit than actual interest.

Shikabane shrugged. "Dunno. Some hotshot tech guy. Place is supposed to be high-end when it reopens." She tapped out a message on her phone, barely looking up as she spoke.

Shikabane’s dispassionate recounting of the situation didn’t end there. "I've been bouncing around since then. Hotel-hopping, trying to find another spot in Kabukicho where I can stay low and connected," she continued, her voice lacking any real emotion. It was as if she were talking about something mundane, like running errands.

Kabukicho? That got Haida’s attention. Kabukicho was notorious—a red-light district and a hotspot for all sorts of shady dealings. Sure, there were internet cafés and hostels, but it was hardly the kind of place you’d want to set up camp for long.

"That’s… a rough area, don’t you think?" Haida muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. His curiosity was gnawing at him now. Shikabane wasn’t one to be easily ruffled, but still, what exactly was going on with her?

Shikabane finally glanced up from her phone, her gaze shifting to the bartender for a brief second before she looked back at Haida. There was something knowing in that glance, something that made Haida’s stomach twist uncomfortably. She took a long sip of her drink before setting it down with a soft clink, her eyes steady on him now, calculating.

"Well, it’s not like I’ve got a lot of options," she said, her voice soft but direct. "Money’s tight. You know how it is. Jobs are barely worth it, especially if you’re not willing to grind yourself into dust for some corporate leech. So... I’ve been getting by another way."

Haida frowned, leaning in slightly. "Another way?"

Shikabane let the silence hang between them for a moment before she tilted her head slightly, watching him like she was sizing him up. "Compensated dating," she said bluntly, as if she were explaining something as simple as the weather. "It’s easy money. Lonely guys, usually older. They pay for a night out, some conversation, a little company."

Haida’s heart skipped a beat, but he played dumb. "Compensated dating? I don’t... I don’t get it." His voice was deliberately casual, though he could feel his pulse quicken.

In reality, he knew exactly what it was. The term had shown up in some of his darkest searches—his guilty pleasures, tucked away in the hidden corners of his browser history, the sort of stuff he knew he’d never admit to. He’d watched those types of videos, fantasized about them, even, in moments of weakness. The allure of being that guy—the one paying for a girl’s company, the thrill of the forbidden—was something he buried deep under layers of shame.

But he wasn’t about to let Shikabane know that.

Shikabane rolled her eyes, exhaling slowly like she couldn’t believe he was that naive. "It’s not complicated, Haida. Guys pay me to go out with them. Sometimes it’s just dinner. Sometimes it’s more. Depends on the client, depends on what they want."

Her bluntness hit him like a punch to the gut. There was no sugarcoating, no euphemisms to soften the reality of what she was saying. And the way she said it—with such ease, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary—made it even harder to swallow.

Haida’s mind raced, flashes of his hidden obsessions coming back to him in vivid detail. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his stomach was churning with a mix of fascination, disgust, and guilt. "And you're... okay with that?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Shikabane shrugged again, her gaze unwavering. "Why wouldn’t I be?" she said, taking another sip of her drink. "It’s not like I’m doing anything I don’t want to do. It’s money. Easy enough. Besides..." She trailed off. "Everyone’s compensating for something, right?"

The casual way she said it made Haida feel like he was sinking, his moral compass spinning out of control. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the rawness of the conversation, but he found himself leaning in closer, lowering his voice to match hers.

"So... it’s just money, then?" he asked, trying to keep his curiosity from slipping too far into something darker.

"What else would it be?" she replied. "Not like there’s anything left to believe in. You think people date because of love? Because they care?" She shook her head, her voice dipping lower. "Everyone’s using everyone else for something. At least I’m honest about it."

Her words hit Haida harder than he wanted to admit. She was taking a hammer to every ideal he’d been clinging to, every hope that maybe, somehow, there was still something good out there. Something genuine.

"And what about you, Haida?" Shikabane asked, her gaze piercing now. "You still pretending everything’s fine with Retsuko? Or are you compensating for something too?"

Haida stared at his empty glass for what felt like an eternity, watching the last of the ice melt into a small pool of water. The dim light of the bar seemed to close in around him, like a spotlight narrowing on his own internal conflict.

It wasn’t just Retsuko. He knew that now.

"It’s not her," he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself rather than Shikabane. He paused, collecting his thoughts as he tried to push through the noise in his head. “It’s… everything else.”

Shikabane glanced at him sideways, still scrolling through her phone, but there was a subtle shift in her demeanor. She was listening, waiting for him to keep going. And for once, Haida felt like he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“It’s the whole damn thing,” he continued, his voice a little stronger now. “The life. The expectations. The job. Everything they tell you you’re supposed to be. The perfect salaryman, the dependable husband, the guy who clocks in, clocks out, pays his dues, builds a life, and calls it happiness. It’s… it’s all bullshit.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but they felt good, too—like he’d been choking on them for years, and finally, finally, he was spitting them out. He looked up at Shikabane, half-expecting her to laugh or roll her eyes, but she just stared at him, waiting, her face unreadable. For the first time in a long time, he felt like someone was actually listening—not judging, not expecting him to say the right thing, but actually listening.

“I don’t even know when it started,” Haida muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe after high school and my first band, or even before that. But somewhere along the way, I just… got caught up in it. I kept trying to be that guy, you know? The guy who does everything right. Gets a job, climbs the ladder, makes a good living, and ends up with a nice wife and a house. You’re told that’s the goal, that’s the dream. And when you’re younger, it sounds like it might actually mean something.”

Shikabane finally set her phone down. She didn’t say anything yet, but Haida could feel her gaze on him, feel her pulling the rest of the confession out of him.

“But it doesn’t,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s all this pressure to be someone I’m not. Everyone pushes you to follow this path, and you go along with it because… because what the hell else are you supposed to do? You graduate, you get a job, you go to work every day, and you spend more time with your coworkers than you do with your own damn family. I mean, what’s the point of being a husband if you’re never home? If you’re just another cog in a machine that doesn’t care whether you’re happy or not?”

Haida’s chest tightened as the truth finally spilled out. He hadn’t said these things out loud before—not to anyone, not even to himself, not really. But now that the words were out, there was no taking them back. The realization of it hit him all at once, leaving him breathless, like he’d been carrying a weight for so long that he forgot it was even there.

“I’m supposed to be this ideal, right?” he continued, his voice gaining momentum. “This perfect salaryman, this perfect husband, doing everything by the book. But I’m just… pretending. I’m playing a role, and I don’t even know who the hell I am underneath it all anymore. I look at the other guys in the office, all of them just as miserable as I am, and I wonder… is this it? Is this really all there is?”

"So stop," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Haida blinked, momentarily thrown by how direct her response was. "Stop?"

Shikabane nodded, leaning forward slightly, her eyes steady on his. "Yeah. Stop. If you hate it so much, if it’s not what you want… then why keep doing it? Why keep pushing yourself to live this life that’s clearly eating you alive?"

Her bluntness was almost comforting, in a way that Haida couldn’t quite explain. She wasn’t sugarcoating anything, wasn’t offering some half-assed pep talk about "sticking it out" or "finding the silver lining." She was telling him the truth, the way she always did. And that truth felt like a slap in the face.

"Because what else am I supposed to do?" Haida muttered, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple. You don’t just… walk away from everything. You can’t."

"Can’t or won’t?" Shikabane shot back.

Haida opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because deep down, he knew she was right. Maybe he could walk away, but the truth was, he was too scared. Too scared of what it would mean, too scared of what it would say about him. Walking away would mean admitting that he’d failed, that everything he’d worked for—the job, the relationship, the expectations—it had all been for nothing.

"You spend more time working and pretending to be the guy everyone expects you to be than you do actually living, Haida. What’s the point of all that? What’s the point of working your ass off for a life you don’t even want?"

Haida swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know what else to do."

Shikabane sighed, leaning back in her chair again. “You know, you’re not the only one stuck in this shit. Japan’s full of people like you, like me. People who got fed the same story about what life’s supposed to be, and now we’re all just… drifting. Some of us work ourselves to death. Some of us burn out. Some of us just say fuck it and check out entirely."

Her words hit Haida like a punch. It was everything he’d been feeling, everything he hadn’t wanted to admit. He’d been drifting for so long, going through the motions, waiting for something—anything—to make him feel like it was all worth it. But it never came. And now, sitting here, listening to Shikabane, he realized that maybe it never would.

"You ever wonder what it’d be like," Haida said quietly, "if you could just… stop? If you could walk away from it all and not look back?"

Shikabane gave him a knowing look. "I don’t have to wonder. I already did."

Then she shrugged, as if it were nothing. "I walked away. From work, from the whole thing. I realized a long time ago that the traditional life—salary job, marriage, all of it—wasn’t for me. So I left. You already know this. I live by my own rules now. Do what I have to do to survive, but I don’t pretend to be something I’m not."

Haida stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. He had always thought of her as someone who didn’t give a damn about anything, but now he saw her in a new light. She wasn’t apathetic—she was free. She had made the choice to walk away from the life he was still clinging to, and for the first time, he realized how badly he wanted that freedom too.

"But it’s not that easy," Haida said, shaking his head. "I’ve got Retsuko, I’ve got—"

"You’ve got nothing," Shikabane interrupted, her voice sharp. "Not if you’re not happy. Not if you’re just going through the motions. Retsuko doesn’t want a guy who’s miserable and lying to himself. And you know it."

The truth in her words stung, but Haida couldn’t argue. He had been lying to himself for so long, telling himself that he could make it work, that he could find happiness in this life if he just tried hard enough. But the more he tried, the more it slipped through his fingers.

"Then what do I do?" he asked, his voice raw, desperate.

Shikabane looked at him for a long moment, her gaze softening just slightly. "You start by admitting that this life isn’t what you want. And then… you figure out what is."

Haida leaned back in his seat, feeling everything he had been carrying slowly lift off his shoulders. It wasn’t a solution, but it was the beginning of something. The beginning of admitting that the life he had been living—the life everyone expected of him—wasn’t the life he wanted.

Haida shifted in his seat, a small, genuine smile breaking through the storm of thoughts that had been brewing in his mind. "You know, you’ve got a way with words nowadays, Shikabane," he said, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. "For someone who acts like they don’t care about anything, you… you speak really well. Like, you’re good at getting people to listen."

She shrugged nonchalantly, the faintest hint of acknowledgment passing through her usually detached expression.

"You learn a thing or two when you’ve gotta talk to all kinds of people," she replied, her tone casual. "It’s one of the few good things I get out of this… gig. You get used to figuring people out, knowing what they want to hear, and how to say what you need to say without giving too much away."

There was something in her voice, a quiet resignation that Haida hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just that she was good at talking—there was a certain finesse in how she handled people, an awareness of how to navigate through conversations that probably came from years of doing exactly what she was doing now. A survival skill, honed over countless encounters with strangers who expected her to be something she wasn’t.

"You ever hate it?" Haida asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "The… compensation thing, I mean. Is it really as bad as it sounds?"

Her response didn’t come right away; she seemed to be weighing her words, as if deciding how much of the truth she wanted to share.

"It can be," she said finally, her voice quieter than before. "It’s not always glamorous, obviously. Some nights are worse than others. Some clients are... well, you can guess." Her eyes flicked toward Haida, a brief flash of something vulnerable passing through them before she looked away again. "But I guess what makes it bearable is when you find someone you’re actually comfortable with. Someone who doesn’t make it feel like you’re just... a transaction."

Haida’s chest tightened at her words. There was a heaviness to what she was saying, an unspoken weariness that lingered beneath the surface. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like—how exhausting it must be—to live like that, to have to rely on those kinds of encounters to get by. And the worst part was that she talked about it like it was just another part of life, something she had accepted long ago.

He sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar, his voice softer now. "I don’t want you to be struggling like that, Shikabane. I mean, you’re too... I don’t know, you’re too sharp to be stuck doing that kind of thing. If it means you don’t have to deal with creepy old guys or whatever, I’d…"

He hesitated, feeling a sudden wave of nervousness wash over him. What he was about to say sounded insane in his head, but it was the truth. He didn’t want her living that way. He didn’t want her to feel like she had to sell her time, her company, her comfort just to survive. And if there was a way he could help, even if it wasn’t the most conventional solution, he’d rather be the one to step in.

"I’d prefer to be the one helping you out for a while," Haida said, his voice stumbling a little. "I mean, if you needed someone to pay your way, I’d... I’d rather it be me than some old pervert."

For a second, the words just hung in the air, and Haida immediately regretted how awkward they sounded. He braced himself for a sarcastic comment or for her to roll her eyes and dismiss the idea entirely.

“Oh.”

But instead, Shikabane turned her head slightly. "Maybe you just want me all to yourself, Haida. Is that it? You gonna be my sugar daddy now?"

The teasing lilt in her voice made Haida’s heart skip a beat. His cheeks flushed, and he quickly waved his hands defensively, feeling a little too exposed. "What? No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that!" he stammered, though the idea of her teasing him like this only made the thought linger in his mind longer than it should have. "I just… I don’t know, I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep doing this just to get by."

"Relax, I’m just messing with you," she said, but there was something almost appreciative in her tone, a rare warmth that she didn’t show often. "You’re a weird guy, Haida. You’ve always been a little too... earnest for your own good. Most people would just let me do my thing and not even think twice about it."

Haida shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of her words. He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a criticism, but there was a part of him that didn’t care. He meant what he said. He hated the idea of her living like that, of her being alone, relying on people who didn’t see her as anything more than a commodity.

"It’s not like that," Haida muttered, his voice more serious now. "I don’t know. I guess I just... I care, y’know? I don’t want to see you stuck in something like this if you don’t want to be."

"Thanks, Haida," she said, her voice softer than before. I have to get by, and this is how I do it. But..." She paused, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over her lips. "I’ll admit, it’s nice to know someone actually cares.”

Haida didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him wanted to push harder, to insist that he could help, but he knew Shikabane wasn’t the type to take charity. She was independent, proud in her own way, and even the thought of her leaning on someone else probably grated against her instincts.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she deserved more—more than this life, more than what she was settling for.

"You shouldn’t have to do it alone," he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

"Maybe not," she said, her voice carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. "But that’s life, Haida. You get used to it."

Haida felt a pang of something—a mix of regret and helplessness—settle in his chest. He didn’t want her to leave, not like this, not with everything still hanging between them. But he didn’t know what else to say.

"Take care of yourself, Haida," she said, glancing at him one last time before she suddenly prepared to leave. There was something almost fond in her gaze, though it was buried deep beneath the usual indifference. "And don’t think too hard about all this. Sometimes it’s easier not to."

With that, she turned and walked toward the exit.

Haida watched her go, his heart heavy with everything unsaid. He had wanted to help, but he knew deep down that Shikabane wasn’t the type to be saved. She was too sharp, too self-reliant, too used to the loneliness that came with her choices.

The only thing he could do was stare down at his empty glass, the condensation leaving a small ring on the wooden bar.

Her words, her blunt honesty about the life she’d been living, the choices she made to survive—they echoed in his head. And despite everything he’d said, despite his half-hearted offer to help her, he still felt powerless. Useless.

He waved down the bartender, his hand feeling stiff as he signaled for another drink. The bartender, a large dog with an expression as indifferent as Shikabane’s, slid another whiskey in front of him without a word. Haida picked it up, staring into the amber liquid as if it held answers to the questions swirling in his head.

"I should’ve said more."

The thought crept in, uninvited and unshakable. He wished he’d done something else—anything else. He could have insisted harder, could have convinced her to stay, to talk a little more. Maybe he could’ve offered her a place to crash, or hell, even asked her outright if she needed him. But instead, he’d let her walk out of the bar like it was just another night, like their conversation hadn’t cracked something open inside of him.

He took a sip of the whiskey, the familiar burn sliding down his throat, but it did little to warm him. Nothing ever felt warm these days.

The sound of the rain hitting the windows caught his attention, and Haida glanced over, watching as the drops slid down the glass in thin, crooked lines. It had started raining, of course.

He finished his drink and waved for the check, his mind already spinning ahead to the long walk home. The bartender slid the bill across the counter, and Haida absentmindedly fumbled for his wallet, pulling out a crumpled stack of bills. As he paid and shoved the rest of his money back into his pocket, the thought of Shikabane drifted back into his mind, lingering like smoke.

Where was she staying tonight?

The question gnawed at him, more than it should have. He imagined her, wandering through the city, her shoulders hunched against the rain, slipping into whatever hotel or internet café she could find. Was she staying in Kabukicho again? Or had she found another spot, some other quiet corner of the city where she could disappear?

He hated it. The thought of her out there, alone, drifting from one place to another, never settling, never stopping. At least he had somewhere to go at the end of the night.

Shikabane didn’t. Or if she did, it was temporary. Everything in her life was temporary.

Haida pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he stepped out of the bar, the cold rain hitting him almost immediately. It wasn’t a hard rain, but a steady drizzle that soaked into his clothes and made the air feel even heavier. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started walking, his footsteps splashing against the wet pavement.

The streets were mostly empty at this hour, just the occasional car passing by or the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the wet asphalt. The sound of the rain filled the quiet, but Haida barely noticed it. His thoughts were too loud, too overwhelming.

Why couldn’t he be the hero for once?

It was a thought that hit him harder than the rain. He’d always been on the sidelines, the guy who watched everything happen to other people, the one who tried to do the right thing but never quite got there. He’d tried to be that for Retsuko, hadn’t he? But even then, it always felt like he was playing a part he didn’t quite understand. Now, with Shikabane, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could step in, he could be the one who made a difference in someone’s life.

But instead, he’d let her walk away. Like always.

"What the hell am I doing?" Haida muttered to himself, his voice drowned out by the rain. He felt like a loser. Worse than that, really. A coward. He didn’t even have the guts to really help her. All he could do was throw out a half-baked offer and then sit there like a fool while she left. And now he was just… walking home. As if that was going to change anything. As if he hadn’t missed his chance, once again.

He turned down a narrow alley, cutting through the familiar backstreets that led toward his apartment. The rain was coming down harder now, the drops bouncing off the pavement in tiny splashes. Haida barely noticed, his mind a thousand miles away, thinking about Shikabane’s words, her deadpan voice when she said she was used to it—used to dealing with the grind, the loneliness, the crap that life threw at her.

"You get used to it."

But she shouldn’t have to. No one should have to.

His footsteps slowed as he neared the street leading to his apartment building. The thought of going back to his small, empty place suddenly felt suffocating. What was he even going home to? A few hours of sleep before he dragged himself to work tomorrow? A life that felt more like going through the motions than actually living?

He stopped.

For a moment, he just stood there, the rain dripping down his face, soaking his hair and his clothes. He felt heavy, like the weight of everything was pressing down on him all at once. The expectations, the failures, the feeling of not being enough—enough for Retsuko, enough for his job, enough for anyone. And now, not even enough to help someone like Shikabane, who clearly needed more than what the world was giving her.

Maybe it wasn’t about being a hero. Maybe it wasn’t about saving someone else. Maybe it was about figuring out what the hell he wanted out of all this. Out of life.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore.

Haida wiped the rain from his face, his fingers cold and trembling slightly. He thought about turning around, about going back to the bar, about trying to find Shikabane. Maybe she’d still be out there, wandering through the city like a ghost. Maybe he could still do something. But the more he thought about it, the more that familiar feeling of helplessness crept in.

She didn’t need saving. She’d said it herself. She was used to this life. It was him who wasn’t.

With a long sigh, Haida started walking again, his pace sluggish as he made his way back toward his apartment. The rain continued to fall, steady and unrelenting, and with every step, the feeling of defeat settled deeper into his bones. He wanted to do more, to be more. But for now, all he could do was keep walking through the rain, hoping that someday, somehow, he’d figure it out.

Chapter Text

Haida blinked awake, his head throbbing with the telltale remnants of last night’s drinks, and the faint glow of sunlight peeking through the blinds. He groaned, rolling over in bed, reaching for his phone out of habit. The screen lit up, and he squinted against the bright glare as the time came into focus.

11:30 AM. Late. Much later than he’d intended to wake up, but he had nowhere to be today, so did it really matter? It was his first day off in over two weeks—a precious 24-hour window where he wasn’t expected to be in the office, answering emails, or dragging himself through endless meetings. He had spent the entire weekend in overtime, barely sleeping, and then drowning whatever leftover energy he had in alcohol during the late-night hours.

Retsuko was already gone.

Her side of the bed was cold, the blankets neatly pulled back. She must have gotten up early for work, like she always did, slipping out of the apartment before Haida even opened his eyes. He hadn’t even heard her leave.

Two working adults, he thought bitterly. That’s what they were now. Two people with jobs and schedules that never seemed to align. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spent a morning together, let alone a full day. They were constantly moving past each other, orbiting the same space but never really connecting. When he got home, she was usually asleep, and by the time he woke up, she was already gone, lost in the endless grind of work.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the empty space beside him, feeling the weight of her absence. It wasn’t like he was surprised—this had become the norm over the past several months. Retsuko had always been focused on her career, always moving forward, driven by her need for something more. And now that Haida had a stable job of his own, their lives were supposed to be better, right? They were supposed to have this picture-perfect relationship where everything fell into place, where work wasn’t a burden but a means to build something together.

But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like he was losing her. No, he’d already lost her—that’s what it really was. She was there, in the same apartment, sharing the same bed, but not really present.

He rolled onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face as he let out a heavy sigh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. When he had finally landed the steady job, after months of struggling to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with his life, he thought it would bring them closer. He thought it would take the pressure off, that they’d have more time for each other now that he wasn’t stuck in a dead-end position or jumping from one temporary gig to the next.

But the reality was that his employment only seemed to make things worse. They were always working, always too busy, too exhausted, too focused on keeping their heads above water to actually see each other. To really be together. His job was supposed to give him stability, a sense of accomplishment, but all it had done was add more distance between them.

And now? Now he felt nothing.

There was this gnawing emptiness inside of him, this constant ache that he couldn’t shake. He didn’t know what he wanted to do anymore. He had this one day off—his first in what felt like forever—and the thought of getting out of bed, of actually doing something, felt impossible. His body was leaden, his mind sluggish, weighed down by weeks of non-stop work and the ever-present feeling that nothing he did mattered.

What was he supposed to do with his day off?

Go outside? Take a walk? Maybe go see a movie, or try to find something to occupy his time? The idea sounded laughable. He didn’t even know where to start. He’d spent so much of his time grinding away at work, trying to keep his head down and stay productive, that when he was finally given a moment to breathe, all he wanted to do was lay around and rot in bed.

His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. A message from the office—something about a project that needed following up on. He groaned and tossed the phone onto the bed, not even bothering to check it again. Even on his day off, work was creeping in, a constant reminder that he couldn’t fully escape the grind. There was always something waiting for him, some task to finish, some loose end to tie up.

But it wasn’t just the job that was draining him. It was everything. His whole life felt like it was grinding him down, piece by piece. His days blurred together—work, more work, then a night of drinking just to dull the edges of it all. Rinse and repeat. Even the moments he was supposed to cherish, the rare time he had with Retsuko, were slipping away into nothingness.

When was the last time they’d even had a real conversation?

Haida couldn’t remember. Their interactions had become routine, almost robotic. “Good morning.” “How was work?” “I’m heading to bed early, goodnight.” Words that felt hollow, as if they were just going through the motions of being a couple, but without any of the substance that made it meaningful. When they’d first gotten together, he had felt something electric—an excitement, a real sense of connection. Now? Now it felt like they were just... occupying the same space, not really sharing anything beyond that.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to shake off the remnants of last night’s hangover. His apartment was quiet—too quiet. The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound, and it only reminded him of how much time had passed, how much of it he had wasted.

Wasted. That’s what his life felt like right now. Wasted potential, wasted effort, wasted moments that he would never get back.

There was a small part of him that wanted to get up, to actually do something with his day. He used to love playing bass, getting lost in the music, letting it take him somewhere far away from the stress of everyday life. But his bass guitar had been sitting in the corner of the room, collecting dust for months now. He hadn’t touched it in so long, and the thought of picking it up again felt… foreign. Like he didn’t know how to start.

What else was there? He had friends, sure, but they were all just as caught up in their own lives, their own jobs, their own problems. Everyone was too busy to hang out anymore, too busy to be the people they used to be. Even Fenneko was distant these days, her dry humor reduced to the occasional text message or sarcastic meme.

Haida slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to waste his day lying around, doing nothing, but what else was there? The thought of being productive, of getting out and trying to live, felt exhausting. He wanted to do something—anything—but the idea of starting was just too much.

Retsuko would be gone until late, as usual. By the time she got home, he’d be half-asleep, drained from a day of doing nothing, and she’d slip into bed beside him like a ghost, like a presence he could barely feel anymore. He knew it wasn’t fair to her—she was working just as hard as he was, maybe harder—but that didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t make the distance between them feel any smaller.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tethering of his own frustration pressing down on him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up—this endless cycle of working, drinking, and feeling like everything was slipping away. He was tired, so tired, and for what? For a job that felt like it was slowly crushing his soul? For a relationship that was supposed to be the one thing that kept him grounded, but now felt like it was slipping out of his grasp?

And worst of all, he had no idea how to fix it.

Haida closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath, sinking deeper into the bed. Maybe it would be better to stay here, in this cocoon of blankets and silence, where the outside world couldn’t reach him for a little while. Maybe that was the only thing he could do today—just exist, and hope that somehow, things would get better on their own.

But deep down, he knew they wouldn’t. Things never got better on their own.

They only got worse.

Haida sat up in bed, the heavy fog of indecision still weighing him down, but a new thought crept in—a way to pass the time. He wasn’t going to do anything productive today, and he knew it. The motivation just wasn’t there. But at the very least, he could indulge himself, escape for a little while. A flush of heat crept up the back of his neck as he imagined what he was about to do.

It had been weeks since he’d allowed himself this kind of indulgence, but today, on his one day off, with no one around, he was going to lose himself completely. He was going to goon.

Haida swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded over to the small desk near the window, where his laptop was sitting, a layer of dust coating its surface. He wiped it off absently, his mind already drifting toward the familiar ritual he was about to begin. Gooning—it wasn’t just a quick release; it was an experience. A drawn-out, immersive dive into pleasure that lasted as long as he could make it. Hours, if he wanted.

He opened the laptop, the screen flickering to life with a dull hum. The glow of the monitor illuminated the room, casting shadows across the walls as he sat down, feeling the familiar rush of anticipation building in his chest. He reached for the box of tissues, setting them on the desk beside him, along with a fresh box of condoms—another part of his routine.

The "posh wank." Haida smirked to himself at the term, a little embarrassed by how much he enjoyed the sensation. Wearing a condom while masturbating—it was an odd habit, but to him, it made everything feel more... controlled, more intimate. He liked the way it heightened the experience, the way it almost felt better than the real thing. Cleaner, somehow. There was a certain precision to it, a ritual that made the act more than just a release.

He pulled up his browser, the familiar tabs already bookmarked from previous sessions—JAV sites, hentai archives, and some of the more well-known Twitter accounts for fan animations. Today, he wanted variety. Something new, something to push him further into the world of fantasy where he could let go of all the crap that weighed him down in real life.

With a few clicks, he was surrounded by an array of windows, each showing a different scene. Some were familiar faces—his favorite JAV actresses, playing out scripted scenarios of submission, dominance, and everything in between. The moans echoed through his headphones, soft and seductive, each one luring him further into the abyss.

Then there were the animated clips—hentai drawn with exquisite detail, capturing every curve, every subtle movement. The exaggerated proportions, the surreal scenarios, it all added to the escape. There was something about the unreality of it all that made it better, easier to lose himself in. He clicked through some fan-made content, talented artists putting their fantasies into motion. He found himself watching a particularly well-done piece featuring a fan animation of Retsuko herself, rendered in her now famous OTMGirls days—It was perfect. Too perfect.

It was weird how his wife still had a sizable following online and that many of them actively made porn of her, but now Haida almost felt attracted to her more for whatever reason, in a jealous and petty way.

As he scrolled through the content, watching one clip after another, he began to self-insert. His fantasies grew darker, more intense. He wasn’t just a passive viewer anymore. In his mind, he was part of it. He could feel himself in the scenarios, not just watching but taking control, dominating the women in his life in ways he’d never even dared to think about before.

His wife Retsuko always came first, of course. She was the one always on his mind, even when she wasn’t around. In his fantasies, she wasn’t the shy, timid girl he’d fallen for. No, in his mind, she was something else entirely—submissive, obedient, waiting for his command. He imagined her on her knees before him, looking up with wide, pleading eyes, her usual fire replaced with a quiet desperation to please him. He imagined the way her body would respond to him, how he could take herl and bend her to his will.

But it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

His mind drifted further, darker, to places he knew he shouldn’t go. He imagined Retsuko’s mother, the woman who had always disapproved of him, always looked at him with disdain. In his fantasies, he could turn that disdain into something else. He imagined her too, not as the prim, proper matriarch she presented herself as, but as someone just as vulnerable, just as eager to submit as her daughter. He could almost hear her voice, trembling as she called him "Haida-san," her resistancel slipping as he took what he wanted.

Then there was Inui, his ex. Sweet, soft-hearted Inui, who had once been so open and kind to him. He imagined her now, not as the tender soul she had been, but as someone completely lost in him, her body giving in to his every demand, her gentle nature overpowered by his dominancel. In this fantasy, she was no longer in charge of her emotions, her feelings.

And then… Shikabane. The very thought of her sent a thrill down his spine, sharper than the others. Shikabane, with her dead eyes and careless smirks, the way she acted like she didn’t care about anything or anyone. But in his fantasies, she cared. She cared a lot. He imagined the way her aloof demeanor would melt away under his control, the way he could break through that icy exterior and expose the vulnerability beneath. She was tough, yes, but in his mind, he could make her submit. He could be the one to play with her, to bring her down to a level where she needed him, where she wanted him.

His breathing quickened as he let the fantasies wash over him, each one more intoxicating than the last. He could feel the tension building in his body as he reached for a condom, rolling it on with practiced ease, the latex tight against his skin. The posh wank. It heightened everything, made the sensations sharper, more focused. There was something about the slick smoothness of it, the way it constricted him just enough to make every stroke more intense.

As the fantasies continued to swirl in his head, he thought about Washimi. Strong, confident, and completely out of his league in real life. But here, in his mind, she was his. He imagined her powerful figure bent before him, her sharp eyes softened with desire, her usual cold composure melted away as she gave in to him. The idea of owning someone so untouchable, someone who exuded strength, made his pulse race faster. He could feel his body reacting to the thought, the way his mind twisted reality into something entirely different—something he could have ownership of.

Haida’s breaths came in short gasps now, his movements growing more frantic as he leaned into the fantasy, letting it consume him completely. He wasn’t Haida the loser anymore. He wasn’t the guy stuck in a dead-end cycle of work and disappointment. Here, in this moment, he was in control. He was the one with the power, the one calling the shots, bending these women to his will.

And he didn’t want it to end.

For a moment, the world outside of this small, dimly lit apartment faded away. There was no job, no responsibilities, no Retsuko slipping out of his life day by day. There was only this—this fantasy world where he was the one in the position of power, where everything played out exactly the way he wanted it to.

Haida lost track of time. Hours passed, and he didn’t care. His body was drenched in a mix of sweat and anticipation, his mind consumed by the loop of lust that held him prisoner. This was gooning at its core, the act of surrendering to pure, unfiltered desire, of letting go of everything except the fantasies playing out in his head.

With each passing moment, his focus slipped further away, leaving only raw need in its place. He felt himself disconnecting from the guilt, the shame that usually accompanied this kind of indulgence. He was diving deeper now, deeper into the fantasies, each one more vivid, more detailed than the last. The lines between reality and imagination blurred in his mind until he wasn’t sure which was which.

He scrolled through another animation, his breathing ragged as his hand moved in perfect rhythm with the scenes unfolding on the screen. More hentai. More JAV. More scenarios of domination. His mind was no longer just watching—he was in them. He wasn’t just a passive participant anymore. He was actively writing the narrative in his head. He was powerful, desirable, wanted.

And then, there it was again. Shikabane. She kept pulling him back into focus, her disaffected voice and deadpan gaze echoing in his mind. He could picture her so clearly now, not as the detached, indifferent woman who brushed off everything life threw at her, but as someone completely within his grasp. Someone who would bend to his will, who would finally need him. The very idea of it—of her yielding, her icy exterior melting under his touch—made his heart pound harder, the pulse of desire intensifying.

But then came a darker thought, one that lingered in the back of his mind like a whispered temptation. What if he texted her? What if he reached out, just to see if she still had the same number? If it even worked anymore? Would she reply? Would she want to see him? The thought was tantalizing, dangerous.

He knew, in the logical part of his mind, that doing this would be the first step toward something irreversible. The first step toward cheating on Retsuko.

And yet… the idea of it excited him.

Haida’s hand faltered for a moment, his fingers trembling as he paused the video. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight with conflicting emotions. This was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He shouldn’t even be entertaining these thoughts, let alone seriously considering acting on them. Retsuko—sweet, hardworking Retsuko, the girl who had trusted him, loved him—was out there working, completely unaware of the battle raging inside his head.

But the more he thought about it, the more his arousal grew. The taboo nature of it all, the idea of doing something so reckless, so selfish, sent a thrill through his body that he couldn’t deny. He could feel his pulse quicken, the heat in his core building as the thought spiraled out of control. It was like a switch had been flipped, and now all he could think about was what it would feel like to give in to that temptation.

The thought of betrayal was intoxicating. The forbidden nature of it, the idea of stepping into something secret, something illicit, made him harder than he’d been all day. He imagined how it would play out—the text message, the subtle exchange of words, the unspoken agreement between him and Shikabane. It wouldn’t even have to be much, just enough to get the ball rolling. Just enough to see if she was interested. And then… well, he could let the fantasy take it from there.

His hands shook as he reached for his phone, the cold metal of it feeling heavier than usual in his palm. He pulled up his contacts, scrolling through the list until he found her name. Shikabane. His thumb hovered over the call button for what felt like an eternity. His heart raced, adrenaline flooding his veins as he stared at her name on the screen, imagining the rush of excitement he’d feel if she actually picked up. If she actually wanted him.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind at once. Would she even care? Would she even be interested? Or would she brush him off the way she always did, her casual indifference masking any real emotion? It didn’t matter, though, because even if she did dismiss him, the very act of trying was enough to make him feel alive.

But Haida knew the truth—this would destroy him. If Retsuko ever found out, if he ever let this go beyond just a fleeting fantasy, it would ruin everything. His relationship, his fragile sense of self-worth, everything he had built with her—it would all come crashing down.

And yet, even that knowledge only seemed to add to the intensity of his arousal.

This was dangerous. It was thrilling. It was the kind of reckless abandon that he’d never allowed himself to indulge in before. He wasn’t just some salaryman stuck in the daily grind anymore—here, in this moment, he had power. He had the power to make choices that were entirely selfish, entirely for himself, with no regard for the consequences. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized just how badly he wanted that power.

He imagined Shikabane again, this time not just as a passing fantasy, but as a real possibility. He imagined what it would feel like to be with her, to finally close the gap between them, to see if he could actually make her submit to him the way he had envisioned. He imagined the way her voice would sound, breathy and low, as she called him by name…

His body tensed, the pressure building as his mind danced closer and closer to the edge of this dangerous fantasy. He could feel it—the pull of temptation, the rush of knowing that one text, one phone call, could set everything in motion. He wanted it. He needed it.

And then, finally, he finished.

The release was sudden, powerful, but the satisfaction was fleeting. Haida sat there for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body still trembling with the intensity of it all. But as the high began to fade, something else crept in—

Guilt. Shame.

He stared down at himself, at the used condom, the tissues scattered on the table, the laptop still open with the flashing images of his fantasies frozen on the screen. What had he done? What had he even been thinking?

The post-climax clarity hit him like a freight train. He had almost gone through with it. He had almost texted her. He had actually entertained the idea of cheating on Retsuko, of stepping over that line and into something he could never take back. And for what? For a fleeting moment of power, of arousal?

He felt sick. Disgusted with himself. The fantasies that had seemed so erotic, so thrilling just moments ago now felt cheap and wrong. He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t the type to cheat, to betray the one person who had believed in him, who had been there for him. And yet, in that moment, he had wanted it. He had craved it.

The worst part was that it had excited him. The idea of betraying Retsuko, of stepping into something forbidden, had turned him on more than anything else. He couldn’t deny it. He had felt a thrill like nothing else, a rush of adrenaline that had overtaken every rational thought in his mind. And that was the part that disgusted him the most.

Haida wiped his face, feeling the shame settle in his chest. He reached for a tissue, cleaning up the mess he’d made, his movements slow and deliberate. What the hell was wrong with him?

Haida stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the remnants of his earlier indulgence. As the steam filled the bathroom, the heat against his skin seemed to melt away the tension that had been building for weeks—no, for months. The guilt, the shame, the self-loathing that had hit him like a wave after he finished was already starting to fade. In its place was something unexpected, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Confidence.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes as the water ran over his face. The relief that came with release, the raw physical pleasure, had done something to him—something more than just the typical post-orgasmic relaxation. It was like a switch had been flipped in his brain.

Haida realized with a sudden clarity that the fantasies he’d entertained earlier—about Shikabane, about taking that first step into the unknown—hadn’t been a mistake. They had excited him because they represented something more than just sexual desire. They represented freedom. The freedom to act on his impulses, to break away from the constraints of his life, to reach for something that wasn’t expected of him.

And now, standing in the shower, he wanted more.

Haida finished rinsing off and turned off the water, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel. The cool air hit his skin, but it didn’t chill him the way it normally would. He felt alive. He felt like he was on the edge of something—something new, something that could change everything if he let it.

Without really thinking, without stopping to analyze or overthink it like he usually did, Haida grabbed his phone from the counter. His fingers moved automatically, unlocking the screen and pulling up his contacts. He scrolled through the list until he found Shikabane’s name.

For a brief second, his thumb hovered over the message icon, but the hesitation was gone as quickly as it came. He tapped her name and opened a new text.

At first, he didn’t even know what he was going to say. He just knew he needed to reach out. Something inside him was pushing him, urging him forward. Maybe it was confidence, maybe it was recklessness, but whatever it was, it felt good. And he was going to follow it.

Haida typed out a simple message, something casual, as if nothing strange had transpired between them recently.

"Hey, long time no talk. You still around? What’s up?"

It was nothing special, nothing that hinted at the thoughts running through his mind just hours earlier. Just a casual check-in, like he was catching up with an old friend. Haida didn’t expect much—he wasn’t even sure if she still had the same number. But he figured, what the hell? If she didn’t respond, no harm done. If she did, well… that was something else entirely.

He tossed his phone onto the bed and started drying off, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and excitement. Part of him didn’t expect a reply at all. Shikabane was the type of person who could disappear without a trace, and if she’d changed numbers or simply wasn’t interested in talking, it wouldn’t surprise him. He could shrug it off, tell himself it was just a whim, a fleeting moment of boldness.

But then, as he finished toweling off, his phone buzzed.

Haida froze, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He stared at the phone for a moment, his stomach doing flips as he reached for it. She’d responded.

The notification on the screen made his pulse quicken. He tapped the message, opening it with a sudden surge of adrenaline.

"Still here. What’s up with you?"

She answered quickly. Haida hadn’t expected that. He blinked at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment. There was something almost surreal about this. Moments ago, he had been fantasizing about her, losing himself in thoughts that crossed every line, and now here she was—texting him back like nothing had changed. Like they were just two old friends catching up.

Haida felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth as he sat down on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. This was going somewhere. He didn’t know where, but the possibilities were endless now. He typed out a response, still keeping it casual, still playing it cool.

"Same old. Work’s been kicking my ass, you know how it is. What about you? You still doing your thing?"

He hit send and stared at the screen, his heart racing as he waited for her reply. He felt like a different person, someone more confident, more willing to push boundaries than he ever had been before. Whatever had shifted inside of him—whether it was the fantasies or the release, or maybe just the thrill of doing something risky—it felt good.

His phone buzzed again almost immediately.

"Yeah, still doing my thing. You need something?"

There it was. The shift. Shikabane wasn’t one for small talk, not when it came down to it. Her response was blunt, to the point. Was this for business or not?

Haida felt his fingers tremble slightly as he stared at the screen, his mind suddenly racing with a million different thoughts. What was this? What was he doing? Was he really about to cross that line? Was this really going to be business—or was it something else?

This was it—the moment of decision. He could laugh it off, pretend he hadn’t meant anything by it. He could play it cool, backtrack, say he was just checking in. Or… he could take the plunge. He could push forward, see where this would go. After all, hadn’t he just been imagining this? Hadn’t he just spent hours indulging in the fantasy of her, of controlling her, of having her in a way that wasn’t just casual?

Haida hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t say yes. That would mean committing to something real, something dangerous, something that could destroy everything he had with Retsuko. But he couldn’t say no either—not when the temptation was right there in front of him, waiting to be acted on.

He typed out a response, his heart pounding in his chest, feeling his indecision pressing down on him.

"Not sure. Just thought I’d check in. Catch up, maybe."

It was vague enough to keep the door open, but not enough to commit. He was stalling, buying himself time to figure out what the hell he was doing. But even as he hit send, even as the message flashed across the screen, he knew he was walking a fine line.

And deep down, part of him didn’t care. Part of him wanted to keep walking that line, to see how far he could push it before he fell.

Chapter Text

Retsuko sat quietly in the dimly lit recording studio, the familiar scent of soundproofing foam and stale coffee surrounding her. She shifted slightly on the worn-out couch, glancing at the clock on the wall. Hyodo would be there soon, his punctuality was something she had always admired about him. It was strange being back here, in her old OTMGirls clothes—the bright, cheerful bows and skirt, so out of place in this space, felt almost surreal. Her fingers absently tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, the one she hadn’t worn in months, and she felt the soft material brush against her knees. The uniform still fit, but it no longer carried the same excitement it once had.

The bat with nails sticking out from Manaka’s old wardrobe was leaned up against a wall, a strange artifact from the group’s wilder days. She wasn’t sure why she brought it with her, but somehow, it felt like an essential part of her old self—a reminder of the girl who had once stood on stage, belting out lyrics in front of screaming fans. Back when everything felt alive, vibrant, and full of possibility.

She adjusted the giant pink bow in her hair, its cheerful frills a strange contrast to the conflicted thoughts racing through her mind. Why was she here? Deep down, she knew the answer, but admitting it felt like an unraveling—one that would force her to confront what she had been suppressing for months. She was waiting for Hyodo again, just like the old days. But this time, it wasn’t about music.

This time, it was about something else entirely.

As she sat there, her eyes lingering on the microphone on the table in front of her, she thought about what had led her to this moment. To sneaking around behind Haida’s back, dressed like this, waiting in a recording studio like it was some kind of secret rendezvous.

Marriage wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? When she and Haida had finally gotten together after everything they’d been through, it felt like a victory. Like the culmination of years of ups and downs, of miscommunications and second chances. But the truth was, deep down, she had always been afraid of commitment—afraid of what it meant to belong to someone, to be tied to a life that felt… permanent.

In the early days of their relationship, it had been easy. Haida was sweet, kind, and devoted—everything she had ever thought she wanted in a partner. But as time passed, the reality of marriage had begun to settle in, and with it came the strain of expectations. Haida tried so hard to be a good husband, to make her happy, and that was the problem. He poured so much of himself into being there for her, into making sure that she felt loved and cared for, that she began to feel like she was suffocating under the pressure of his affection.

It wasn’t his fault. He was doing everything right. But the truth was, she didn’t know if monogamy was for her. She didn’t know if being someone’s everything was what she truly wanted. When she had said "yes" to Haida, she had wanted stability, a partner who loved her unconditionally. But after the vows were exchanged, after the dust settled, she realized that what she really craved wasn’t just love—it was validation. The thrill of being wanted, of being desired, not just by Haida, but by others too.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She did, in her own way. But there was a part of her, the part that had once stood on stage in front of adoring fans, that still wanted to be seen, to be admired by more than just one person. And marriage—monogamy—felt like a cage. It was supposed to give her security, but instead, it left her feeling more restless than ever.

And that’s why she was here, waiting for Hyodo.

Hyodo had always been something different. When she’d joined OTMGirls, their relationship had been strictly professional. He was their manager, their mentor, the driving force behind their success. But there had always been an unspoken tension between them—a chemistry that neither of them had acknowledged outright. Now, nearly a year later, that tension had evolved into something she couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t love, not like what she had with Haida. It was something more primal, more about the excitement of the unknown, the validation of knowing that she was still desired by someone who wasn’t bound to her by vows and promises.

This—sneaking out to meet Hyodo, putting on her old OTMGirls uniform, feeling the flutter of nervous excitement in her chest—this was her way of keeping her marriage alive. As twisted as it sounded, she believed it.

By seeking validation outside of her relationship, by fulfilling those needs with someone else, she could take the pressure off Haida. He wouldn’t have to worry about whether he was doing enough for her, whether he was making her happy. She would handle that herself, with Hyodo. That way, Haida could relax. He could come home from work without the strain of her expectations on his shoulders. He wouldn’t even know.

And that, she told herself, was the kindest thing she could do for him.

Retsuko glanced at her phone, checking the time. Hyodo was running late, but that was normal for him. She wasn’t worried. She pulled up a message from Haida, sent earlier in the morning, wishing her a good day at work. He didn’t suspect a thing. He trusted her, maybe too much. And for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt—an uncomfortable twist in her stomach that reminded her of the lines she was crossing. But she quickly buried it. This wasn’t about betrayal. It was about survival.

The door to the studio finally creaked open, and Retsuko’s heart skipped a beat as Hyodo walked in, his usual laid-back demeanor instantly filling the room. His presence was magnetic, even now, and just the sight of him standing there made her feel the rush she’d been craving. This was why she was here—for this feeling, this connection, this validation.

“Retsuko,” Hyodo said, his voice warm as he stepped further into the room. “Didn’t expect you to dress up today.” He smirked, his eyes trailing over her OTMGirls outfit.

Retsuko shrugged, trying to act casual even as her heart raced. “Just felt like getting into character, I guess.” She smiled, a small, almost shy gesture, though there was nothing shy about the way her body reacted to the attention he gave her. This was what she wanted.

As Hyodo set his bag down and started adjusting the settings on the soundboard, Retsuko leaned back against the couch, watching him with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. She didn’t know where this was going, not exactly. But whatever it was, it gave her the release she needed, the validation she couldn’t get from Haida anymore.

And as far as she was concerned, this was how she was saving her marriage.

Hyodo settled onto the worn couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching Retsuko with a casual, predatory intensity that sent a flicker of nervous excitement through her. She could feel his gaze on her—heavy, expectant—as he nudged her gently, his smirk widening as he leaned back, his arm stretched across the back of the couch like a king surveying his domain.

“Come on, Retsuko,” he said, his voice smooth, dripping with anticipation. “Let’s see what you’ve got. A little private performance, just for me.”

His words sent a chill down her spine, but it wasn’t fear that made her shiver. It was something darker, something more thrilling. She knew exactly what he meant by "private performance." This wasn’t about nostalgia or revisiting old songs from her OTMGirls days.

She could feel the line between them blurring, the boundaries of their relationship shifting with every second she stood in front of him.

Retsuko hesitated for only a moment, her heart racing as she glanced at the microphone sitting on the soundboard. Her old OTMGirls uniform felt tighter now, clinging to her body in a way that heightened the tension in the air. This wasn’t just about singing anymore. This was about giving Hyodo what he wanted.

And what he wanted, she was starting to understand, was more than just music.

“You know,” Hyodo continued, his voice almost playful but with a darker undertone, “I really appreciate this, Retsuko. Appeasing to my… tastes. Not every girl would do that.” His smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with something she didn’t want to name. “Don’t worry. You’ll be accommodated well for these ‘private recording sessions’ from now on.”

There it was. The unspoken agreement between them, finally brought into the light. Retsuko’s heart pounded in her chest as she realized what was truly happening. This wasn’t just about her need for validation, her desire to be seen. This was transactional. Hyodo was offering her something in return for her performances—financial support. The very thing that had once driven her to work herself into exhaustion, that had once motivated her to stay at her dead-end job despite the soul-crushing monotony of it all.

Retsuko nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the microphone. She could feel the weight of it in her hand, solid, familiar, but this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn’t just an instrument of her creativity—it was the key to keeping her life balanced. To keeping her marriage balanced.

Without a word, she slid the headphones over her ears, the padding pressing against her fur as she adjusted the sound levels on the board. The instrumental track began to hum softly through the speakers, a low, distorted guitar riff that filled the room with a dark, pulsing energy. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm wash over her, letting the tension in her body build.

This was her outlet. This was where all of her frustration, all of her confusion, all of her anger could find release. And today, that anger was aimed at everything—at her job, at the expectations of marriage, at the twisted path she had found herself walking. And most of all, at herself, for enjoying this.

As the instrumentals picked up, the heavy drums pounding in sync with her racing heart, Retsuko unleashed her voice, the microphone crackling with the guttural power of her scream.

“I’M TRAPPED! IN THIS CAGE! THIS FUCKING CAGE!”

Her death metal lyrics tore through the air, her voice thick with emotion, rage, and lust. It wasn’t just about the words—it was about the way they clawed their way out of her, tearing free of the suffocating constraints she had placed on herself. This was her freedom—her way of reclaiming control over a life that felt like it was spinning out of control.

She could feel it, the way her voice filled the room, the way the sound reverberated off the walls, shaking the foundations of everything she had tried to hold together. There was nothing left but the music—the harsh, distorted screams that echoed her inner turmoil. Her body moved with the rhythm, swaying as the anger poured out of her, every beat of the drums matching the pounding in her chest.

But even as she lost herself in the performance, as she let go of every inhibition and let the music carry her, she could feel Hyodo watching. She knew what this was to him—more than just a private performance. She didn’t have to look to know what he was doing.

Hyodo was masturbating.

She didn’t need to see it to feel the vibe in the room shift. He had asked for this, not just to listen to her sing, but to watch her unleash everything, to watch her lose control, and in turn, to lose himself in the act. She had agreed to this because she needed something, too. And in a way, that made them both complicit in this twisted exchange.

Her growls and screams blended with the throbbing beats, as if her voice was the embodiment of her frustrations, the darker parts of herself she rarely let out. And as the song built in momentum, so did the emotions coursing through her.

“WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE NOTHING IS ENOUGH?! WHY CAN’T I BE WHAT I NEED TO BE?!”

She screamed the words with a rawness that surprised even her, the lyrics pouring out of her like a confession. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Nothing was enough. Not Haida, not her job, not even the quiet satisfaction of being with Hyodo. There was always something missing, something just out of reach. She needed more, and no matter how much she took, no matter how much she gave, it would never fill the void.

Behind her, she heard Hyodo’s breathing quicken, the sound barely audible over the music, but enough for her to know what was happening. He was getting off on this—on her pain, her rage, her surrender to the chaos inside her.

And, in some strange, dark corner of her mind, that thrilled her.

Retsuko tightened her grip on the microphone, her body trembling with the erotic power of the moment. She could feel the heat in her chest rising, the rush of adrenaline that came with knowing she had complete control over this situation—and yet, none at all. She was giving him what he wanted, but at the same time, she was taking something for herself, too. This was her release.

As the song reached its climax, her voice hit its peak, the final scream tearing from her throat with a ferocity that left her breathless.

“I’M ALONE! I’M SCREAMING! AND NOBODY CARES!”

The soundboard lights flickered as the last notes of the instrumentals faded into silence, leaving the room heavy with the echoes of her rage. Retsuko stood there, panting, her heart racing, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the performance. She didn’t have to turn around to know what had just happened.

Hyodo let out a quiet, satisfied sigh, the tension in the room slowly dissipating as he sat back on the couch, his hand still resting on his lap. He hadn’t even bothered to hide what he had been doing, and Retsuko didn’t expect him to. This was the agreement, after all. She would give him this, and in return, he would give her what she needed.

“That was... something else,” Hyodo said. He chuckled softly, adjusting his clothes as he sat up. “You never disappoint, Retsuko. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of for these... sessions.”

Retsuko pulled off the headphones, her breath still coming in short gasps as she set the microphone down on the soundboard. She felt numb, her body buzzing with a mix of adrenaline and something else—something she didn’t want to name. This wasn’t about enjoyment, or even about the money Hyodo had promised her. It was about release, and for now, that was enough.

Retsuko stood there, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her performance, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. But as the silence settled in the room, something began to shift inside her. It was subtle at first—a quiet whisper in the back of her mind—but it quickly grew louder, more insistent.

She wanted more.

She stared at Hyodo, who sat there, lounging on the couch, his smirk still in place, his eyes glinting with that familiar look of satisfaction. He was pleased, she knew that much. But it wasn’t enough for her. Not anymore. She needed to go further—to push past the boundary of what they had agreed upon, to explore the dark place that had opened up inside her during the performance.

Retsuko’s breath caught in her throat as the realization hit her like a bolt of electricity. She wanted to take this farther. Much farther. The thought sent a wave of heat rushing through her body, an uncontrollable urge building deep in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the intensity of the music still ringing in her ears, or the weight of her own suppressed desires crashing over her like a tidal wave, but she knew in that moment that she couldn’t stop herself.

“I’m not done,” she said suddenly, her voice low, trembling slightly as she looked at Hyodo. Her eyes burned with a fire that even she didn’t fully understand yet. “I… I have more to do. More to show you.”

Hyodo raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden shift in her demeanor. He had known Retsuko for years—had watched her evolve from a shy, awkward office worker into a fierce, confident performer. But this… this was something new. Something different. He could see the hunger in her eyes, the same hunger that had fueled her music, but now it was directed entirely at him. And he understood immediately what she meant.

Hyodo nodded. “Show me, then,” he said, his voice low.

Retsuko hesitated for only a second, the last vestiges of guilt and restraint flickering through her mind. But they were gone as quickly as they came, drowned out by the overwhelming need that had taken control of her body. She was done holding back.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she took a step forward, her hands moving almost automatically, her fingers deftly reaching for Hyodo’s belt. She didn’t stop to think, didn’t question the line she was about to cross—she was already past that point. The sound of the metal buckle clinking against the fabric of his pants echoed in the room, the only noise besides the steady thrum of the soundboard still humming with the remnants of her performance.

Hyodo watched her closely, his breath hitching slightly as she pulled down the zipper, her hands surprisingly steady despite the rush of emotions flooding her senses. This was it. There was no going back now, no pretending this was anything less than what it was.

With one swift motion, Retsuko dug his dick out of his pants, her hands wrapping around him as she looked up at him, her eyes still blazing with that same hidden ferociousness. She could see the lust in his eyes, the way his body responded to her touch, and it only fueled her further. This wasn’t about Hyodo anymore. This was about her—about what she needed, what she craved.

Without hesitation, Retsuko leaned forward, her lips parting as she took him into her mouth, the familiar taste and sensation overwhelming her senses. But this wasn’t soft, or gentle, or hesitant like she’d been in the past. This was different—this was raw, aggressive, a reflection of the storm that had been brewing inside her for weeks, months even.

She bobbed her head rhythmically, her movements matching the aggressive blast beats of the metal still blaring through her headphones. The heavy drums and distorted guitars pounded in her ears, the music pulsing through her veins as she worked, her mouth moving in sync with the powerful pounding of the sound. It was as if the music itself had taken control of her, driving her actions, pushing her to go harder, faster.

Retsuko didn’t hold back—not with the music, not with her performance, and certainly not with Hyodo. She could feel him tensing beneath her, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she moved, her head bobbing up and down in a relentless rhythm. But even as she felt him react to her, even as his body responded to the intensity of her actions, she barely registered it. This was about more than just pleasing him.

It was about the way the act made her feel—empowered, in control, completely untethered from the constraints of her everyday life. In this moment, she wasn’t Retsuko the office worker, or even Retsuko the singer. She was something else entirely—a force of nature, driven by the need to reclaim her own power, to take what she wanted without apology or restraint.

The blast beats in her ears grew louder, more intense, and she felt herself falling deeper into the rhythm, her movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. She could feel Hyodo’s hands tangled in her hair, his grip tightening as he gasped her name, but she barely noticed. She was lost in the music, lost in the sensation of the moment, in the sheer primal need that had taken hold of her.

The more she gave in to it, the more she realized how much she had been holding back—how much of herself she had been suppressing. And now, here she was, finally letting it all out, finally allowing herself to feel everything she had been too afraid to admit.

Retsuko could feel the heat building in her body, the adrenaline mixing with the lust and anger and frustration that had been brewing inside her for so long. And as she moved, as she took him deeper, harder, she knew she was on the edge of something she couldn’t quite name—something dangerous.

But she didn’t care.

—

Manaka walked through the studio hallways, her usual laid-back expression softened by the quiet hum of the building. She hadn’t planned on coming by today—she just needed to grab something she had left behind during last weekend’s practice. The halls were empty, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air, and the quiet was almost comforting. This place had once been filled with music, laughter, and the high-energy chaos of rehearsals with the OTMGirls, but now it was mostly empty, a space for private projects and recording sessions.

As she moved down the hallway, her footsteps soft against the old carpet, Manaka noticed something unusual. One of the doors—the door to Studio B—was slightly ajar, the light from inside spilling out into the hallway in a thin sliver. Her brow furrowed slightly as she approached, her curiosity piqued. Studio B wasn’t supposed to be in use today. She had checked the schedule earlier when she came in, and no one had booked the space.

Manaka hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering near the doorknob. What was going on in there? She wasn’t usually one to poke her nose where it didn’t belong, but something about the open door called to her. Maybe it was just her natural curiosity, or maybe it was the slight tension in the air that made her wonder if something was up. Whatever it was, she found herself drawn to the open door.

Peeking through the crack, Manaka's eyes widened as she took in the scene unfolding inside the studio.

Retsuko.

There she was, still dressed in her old OTMGirls uniform, the bright pink plaid standing out starkly against the soft lighting of the studio. But this wasn’t a typical rehearsal, nor was it a casual recording session. Retsuko was kneeling on the floor, her body hunched over, her head bobbing rhythmically in front of Hyodo, who was seated casually on the couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes burning with dark satisfaction.

Manaka’s breath hitched as she quickly stepped back, her mind racing to process what she had just seen. She couldn’t believe it. Retsuko—quiet, shy Retsuko, who had always been the voice of reason during their time as OTMGirls—was with Hyodo, in a situation far more intimate than she had ever imagined.

For a brief moment, Manaka thought about leaving, about pretending she hadn’t seen anything at all. This wasn’t her business, after all. Whatever Retsuko and Hyodo were doing was their own affair. But something about the scene—something about the way Retsuko looked, the rawness of the moment—made her stay.

She inched closer to the door, her heart pummeling in her chest as she peeked through the crack again, unable to tear her eyes away from what was happening. Hyodo’s head was tipped back slightly, his lips parted as he let out a soft, barely audible moan, his hand resting possessively on the back of Retsuko’s head. The expression on his face was one of total control, but there was something darker beneath it, something more primal.

And Retsuko… Retsuko was lost in the act. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Her movements were deliberate, aggressive even, as she worked, her body moving with a kind of reckless abandon that Manaka had never seen from her before. It was like watching a completely different person—a person unburdened by the quiet restraint that had once defined her.

Manaka felt a knot form in her stomach. This was something far beyond the professional relationship they’d once had with Hyodo. Retsuko was giving herself over to him completely, and Hyodo… well, Hyodo was enjoying every second of it. There was no doubt about that.

Before Manaka could fully wrap her head around what she was witnessing, the scene shifted. Retsuko’s head lifted slightly, her eyes meeting Hyodo’s for just a brief second before she moved to straddle him, the movement so fluid and confident that it made Manaka’s pulse quicken. What was she doing?

She watched, her breath catching in her throat, as Retsuko climbed onto Hyodo’s lap, her hands gripping his shoulders as she lowered herself onto him. The sheer bliss of the moment, the raw physicality of it, sent a wave of shock through Manaka’s body.

This wasn’t the Retsuko she knew—not the Retsuko who had once blushed at the idea of performing in front of an audience, who had struggled with stage fright and nerves during their first performances. This was someone else entirely—someone who had embraced a darker side of herself, someone who was willing to cross lines that Manaka had never even considered.

Manaka swallowed hard, her eyes still locked on the scene in front of her. She knew she shouldn’t be watching this, but she couldn’t help it. There was something strangely mesmerizing about the way Retsuko moved, the way she seemed to be letting go of every inhibition, every fear, every expectation.

And Hyodo… he was completely in control, his hands gripping Retsuko’s hips as she moved against him, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The size difference between them was stark, almost surreal. Retsuko’s small frame contrasted with Hyodo’s larger, more imposing figure, and it was clear that the power dynamics between them had shifted entirely in his favor.

But the strangest part was the look on Retsuko’s face. It wasn’t one of fear or submission—it was something closer to rage. She wasn’t just giving herself to Hyodo—she was demanding something from him. She was riding him hard, her movements almost violent as she took what she wanted, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Manaka could hear the faint sounds of metal music coming from Retsuko’s headphones, the aggressive blast beats and distorted guitars providing the soundtrack to the scene playing out in front of her. And Retsuko… Retsuko was raging.

“Take it,” Retsuko growled, her voice low and rough, the words barely audible but filled with an incredible lust that sent chills down Manaka’s spine. “I don’t want love. I want you to fuck me senseless.”

The words were shocking, brutal even, and they hung in the air like a challenge. Manaka’s breath caught in her throat as she watched, unable to believe what she was hearing. This was beastly, completely devoid of the tender affection that one might expect from such an intimate moment.

Retsuko didn’t want to be loved. She wanted to be consumed, to be taken with the same heated expressiveness that she was giving. She was raging at Hyodo, forcing him to meet her on her terms, to match her ferocity with his own.

And Hyodo… Hyodo was all too happy to oblige. His hands tightened on her hips, his body responding to her demands as he took control, thrusting upward to meet her movements with equal force. The room was filled with the sound of their bodies colliding, the harsh, ragged breaths, the guttural sounds of desire mingling with the relentless metal still blaring in Retsuko’s ears.

Manaka stepped back, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to make sense of what she had just witnessed. She knew she should leave, should walk away and pretend she hadn’t seen anything. But as she turned to leave, a small, nagging thought crept into the back of her mind.

What had changed in Retsuko? And was this what she had been seeking all along?

As Manaka quietly slipped out of the hallway and back into the silence of the studio, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was the real Retsuko—the one who had been hiding beneath the surface all along.

The image of Retsuko and Hyodo, caught in such a raw and intimate moment, played over and over in her head, like a reel she couldn’t turn off. There was something primal about it, something that stirred feelings in her she wasn’t entirely ready to confront. She hadn’t meant to watch—but once she had seen, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Once inside her apartment, she tossed her bag aside and made her way to her room, her body tense with conflicting emotions. The quiet hum of the city outside seemed distant, muffled by the gravity of her thoughts. She needed to clear her head, to find some sort of release from the images that lingered in her mind. It wasn’t like her to feel this way, but tonight had shaken something loose inside her.

She lay down on her bed, closing her eyes for a moment, her breath carefully controlled as she let the tension ease out of her limbs. But it didn’t work. Her mind kept returning to that scene in the studio—the intensity, the energy, the rawness of it all. She could still hear the faint echoes of the music in her head, could still feel the weight of what she had witnessed pressing down on her.

Without thinking, her hand drifted beneath the covers, the need for release too powerful to ignore. The memory of what she had seen fueled her, a strange mix of curiosity and desire building inside her. It wasn’t about Retsuko or Hyodo as individuals—it was about the power of the moment, the way they had let go of everything. It was about the freedom of it all.

When she finally finished, her breath came in slow, uneven gasps, her body spent but her mind still buzzing. She felt a little lighter, but the questions remained, lingering just beneath the surface. She lay back, pulling her phone from the nightstand, her fingers absently scrolling through messages and social media in an attempt to distract herself.

But distraction wasn’t what she wanted. Not really.

She felt restless, her body still humming with the remnants of desire, a need for connection that her earlier release hadn’t fully satisfied. Without much thought, she began messaging the men she knew—old flames, friends with benefits, anyone who might be interested in a late-night hookup. She needed more than what she’d just given herself. She needed the real thing, something tangible, something to bring her back into the present.

One by one, the messages were sent, each one more suggestive than the last, an unspoken invitation for something casual, something immediate. She didn’t care who responded, just that someone did. She wasn’t looking for love or affection tonight—she just wanted a body, someone to help her escape the lingering memories of what she had seen.

But then, as she continued to scroll through her contacts, she came across a name that gave her pause.

Haida.

Manaka stared at the screen for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly. Haida? Retsuko’s husband? What was he even doing in her contacts? She couldn’t remember when they’d exchanged numbers—but it didn’t matter.

What did matter was the thought that crept into her mind, slow and insistent. He must know, right? About Retsuko and Hyodo? If what she had seen tonight was any indication, there was no way Haida could be oblivious. He had to have noticed something. And yet, the thought of him being in the dark about it all was oddly enticing.

Without fully thinking it through, Manaka tapped on his name and opened a new message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, unsure of what she was doing, but the curiosity was too much to resist. She wasn’t entirely sure what her intentions were—whether she was reaching out to see if he knew about Retsuko’s affair or whether she was testing the waters for something else.

Finally, she typed out a short, suggestive text, something that could be read as playful or flirtatious, depending on how Haida took it.

"Hey, up late? Was thinking about you. ;)"

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to plant the idea, enough to see if Haida would bite. And if he did… well, she wasn’t entirely sure where it would lead. But tonight, she was in the mood for anything.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, her heart racing slightly as she waited for his response. Would he reply? Would he take the bait? Or would he ignore it, too preoccupied with whatever was going on in his own life?

Manaka lay back against her pillows, her phone still in her hand, her body tense with anticipation. This was new for her—reaching out to someone like Haida, someone she had never really considered in that way before. But tonight, everything felt different. The boundaries were shifting, the lines between what was acceptable and what wasn’t had blurred.

Manaka stared at her phone, her heart beating a little faster than it should have, considering the circumstances. Why was she nervous? This wasn’t her first time reaching out to someone late at night, especially with intentions as casual as these. Maybe it was because it was Haida, Retsuko’s husband, or maybe it was the fact that tonight felt different. Everything felt different. There was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite place—restlessness, desire, and something darker beneath it all.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she nearly dropped it, the sudden vibration jolting her from her thoughts. A reply from Haida.

For a moment, she let herself wonder what he’d say. Would he be surprised? Flattered? Maybe even a little intrigued? After all, it wasn’t every day that someone like Manaka reached out, especially not with a text as forward as the one she’d sent. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more tantalizing than the last. She could already imagine the way the conversation might unfold—playful banter, maybe a suggestion to meet up, something simple, something that would help her take the edge off the night.

But when she opened the message, her heart sank.

"Uh, who is this?"

That was it. Three simple words that hit her like a punch to the gut. There was no recognition in his response, no curiosity, no hint that he was even remotely aware of who was texting him. Manaka stared at the screen, her fingers frozen above the keyboard as the reality of the situation settled over her like a heavy blanket.

He didn’t know who she was.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it, the sound hollow and tinged with disappointment. She had been so caught up in the heat of the night, so swept up in the chaos of her own emotions, that she hadn’t stopped to think about the possibility that Haida wouldn’t even remember her. Why would he? They had barely interacted outside of a few group settings, and it wasn’t like they had ever been close. But for some reason, in the heat of the moment, she had thought it might be different.

But it wasn’t.

The reality was that Haida was just as oblivious as she had feared. He didn’t know who she was, and he certainly didn’t see her the way she had briefly hoped he might. The whole thing felt stupid now—her late-night impulse, the suggestive text, even the fleeting excitement she had felt when he first responded. All of it was slipping away, leaving behind a deep sense of emptiness.

Manaka slumped back against her pillows, her phone still in her hand as she stared at the message. She could respond, explain who she was, try to salvage some sort of conversation out of this, but what would be the point? The moment was gone. The thrill had dissipated, leaving behind only the dull ache of disappointment.

She sighed, her fingers moving automatically as she typed out a quick, non-committal reply.

"Just someone who thought you might be up for a chat. Never mind, though."

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, but it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t expect a response, and honestly, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted one. The high she had been riding earlier—fueled by what she’d seen in the studio, by her own desperate need for connection—had faded, leaving her feeling hollow. All of the excitement had drained out of her.

She tossed her phone onto the bed beside her, the screen dimming as it landed against the covers. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside her window. The silence pressed in around her, making the room feel colder, emptier than it had before. She pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, curling into herself as if that could somehow ward off the growing sense of loneliness creeping in.

What had she been thinking? Reaching out to Haida like that, hoping for some sort of connection, some fleeting moment of validation? It was ridiculous. He barely knew her, and even if he had responded with interest, what then? It wasn’t like she had any real feelings for him. It was just… loneliness. That’s all it was. She had seen something earlier that had stirred something inside her, and she had acted on impulse.

And now, she was paying the price.

As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, Manaka couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over her. She had spent the evening chasing something—some sense of excitement, of meaning—and now she was left with nothing. Just the cold emptiness of her apartment and the knowledge that, at the end of the day, she was still alone.

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it, half-hoping it was Haida, but the screen showed a different name. One of the other guys she’d texted earlier, someone she didn’t care about, someone who wouldn’t make the night feel any less empty.

She didn’t bother opening it.

Instead, Manaka pulled the covers tighter around herself, settling in for the night, letting the silence envelop her. She wasn’t going to chase anything else tonight. She was done. Done with the fleeting moments of excitement, done with the meaningless messages, done with the hollow search for connection.

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

But for now, all she wanted was sleep.

Chapter Text

Haida stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the collar of his shirt for what felt like the hundredth time. The fabric was stiff, unfamiliar, the crispness of the button-up a far cry from his usual wardrobe of slouchy t-shirts and hoodies. He didn’t know why he was getting dressed up—it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. Yet, here he was, slipping on a nicer pair of shoes, adjusting his hair, trying to make himself look more put-together, more like the kind of guy who had his life in order.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the truth.

He stepped back from the mirror, staring at his reflection. Why was he doing this? There was no event to attend, no plans for the night. Retsuko wasn’t around—she had already left for work early that morning, just like always, slipping out of the apartment before he even had a chance to say anything meaningful. And now, here he was, standing alone in their small apartment, getting dressed up for... for what?

His gaze flicked back to his phone, sitting on the dresser. The notification light blinked softly, a reminder of the earlier message he’d received—the one he still didn’t fully understand. A random number had texted him out of the blue, something casual but with an edge of flirtation. He had replied, confused, but the conversation had ended just as quickly as it had started.

Who the hell was it?

Haida picked up his phone, his thumb swiping across the screen to unlock it. He opened the chat again, staring at the brief exchange, trying to figure out if there was something he was missing.

"Hey, up late? Was thinking about you. ;)"

It wasn’t a message Retsuko would send. Hell, it didn’t even sound like something Inui would say, and they hadn’t spoken in months. It was... odd. He hadn’t bothered asking for clarification beyond the awkward reply he had sent—Who is this?—but now, standing here alone, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the possibility of who it might be, about the fact that someone out there was thinking about him.

But then his mind drifted, as it always did these days, to Shikabane.

His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly swiped back to the chat with her, the familiar sense of unease and excitement bubbling up in his chest. They hadn’t spoken much, not since their conversation at the bar, where she had casually mentioned the life she’d been living—the one filled with internet cafés and compensation dating. And while part of him had been shocked, maybe even repulsed, another part of him had been intrigued. Intrigued by her bluntness, by the way she seemed so detached from it all, like it was just another part of life she’d accepted.

Haida hadn’t accepted anything.

He stared at the empty chat with Shikabane for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts racing. He knew what he wanted to say, but typing it out—actually taking that step—was another thing entirely. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his heart pounding in his chest as he thought about what this would mean.

If he sent this message, if he actually went through with what he was thinking, it would be the first real step toward something he couldn’t come back from. He had been skirting the edge for weeks, maybe months now—feeling disconnected from Retsuko, feeling like a stranger in his own life, like he was playing a part in someone else’s story. But now, the temptation was too strong, too immediate to ignore.

With a deep breath, Haida started typing.

"Hey. Been thinking about our last talk. I want to see you tonight. I’ll pay for your time, whatever you need. Just... come out with me. A date, yeah?"

He hit send before he could stop himself, his hands shaking slightly as he set the phone down on the kitchen table. It was done. He had sent it. The message hung in the air like a confession, and now all he could do was wait for her response.

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

Haida sat down at the kitchen table, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor as he stared at his phone, willing it to buzz with a reply. What was he doing? This wasn’t who he was—or at least, it hadn’t been before. But lately, everything felt so off, so disconnected. Retsuko was drifting farther away, her work consuming her, leaving little time for them. And now, with the prospect of this—**with Shikabane—**he felt like he was grasping for something, anything that would make him feel alive again.

His foot tapped faster, the nervous energy building in his chest. But it wasn’t just nerves. There was something else there too—something darker, more thrilling. A sense of excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. This was wrong, and he knew it, but there was no denying that the wrongness of it all made his pulse quicken. It made him feel like he was stepping outside of the box he’d been trapped in for so long, the box labeled “good boyfriend,” “good husband,” “good man.” And now? Now he wanted to break free.

The seconds ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last as he waited, his breath catching every time the screen flickered. What if she didn’t respond? What if she was busy, or worse—what if she didn’t want to see him? The idea sent a jolt of panic through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the strange, undeniable anticipation that curled in his stomach. He wanted this—he wanted to see her, to feel that same wave he’d felt when they’d talked at the bar, that edge of danger and mystery that had pulled him in despite himself.

His phone hummed, and Haida nearly knocked over his drink in his rush to grab it. His heart raced as he unlocked the screen, his eyes scanning the message that popped up.

"Where do you want to meet?"

His breath caught in his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he read the words over and over again. She had responded. She wanted to meet. The wrongness of what he had just set in motion hit him all at once, but instead of panic, all he felt was excitement.

This was happening.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Haida felt something real—something beyond the monotonous routine of work and the quiet distance between him and Retsuko. He felt a spark of life, of desire, of possibility.

He quickly typed out a reply, setting up a time and place to meet. Something simple, nothing too conspicuous. But it didn’t matter where they went, not really. The only thing that mattered was that this was real, that he was taking a step toward something different.

As he sat back in his chair, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor once again, Haida couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t fully understand what he was feeling, not yet. But he knew that this was the start of something—something he couldn’t turn away from now. He was in it, and there was no going back.

He didn’t want to go back.

Haida’s phone buzzed again, the sound reverberating through the quiet apartment, and his heart nearly leaped out of his chest. He grabbed it without hesitation, his hands trembling as he unlocked the screen. The message was short, but it was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

"Sure. Let’s meet.”

Shikabane had replied. She was in. The excitement that surged through Haida at that moment was something he hadn’t felt in years—not like this, not with this intensity. His mind raced, his pulse quickening as the reality of the situation hit him. This was happening. He was about to go out with Shikabane, someone who wasn’t Retsuko, someone who existed outside the world of expectations and responsibility. This was real.

For a moment, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his phone, a rush of conflicting emotions crashing through him. There was the obvious thrill—the surge of doing something dangerous, something that went against everything he was supposed to be. He was a married man, after all. But there was no denying the electric charge that had been running through him since he’d sent that text. He was stepping outside the box—breaking free of the monotony of his life, of the endless grind, of the suffocating routine of being a “good husband.”

And the truth was, it felt good. Better than he’d expected.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline coursing through him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside his head. He needed to get ready. He glanced down at the shirt he was wearing—some stiff button-up he’d put on earlier, thinking it made him look more “presentable,” more polished. But now, standing there, knowing he was about to meet Shikabane, he was ridiculous.

Why should he pretend to be someone else?

With Shikabane, he didn’t need to wear the mask he so often put on for work, for society, for Retsuko. He could just be Haida. The thought gave him a strange sense of relief, as if a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying had been lifted from his shoulders. Shikabane wasn’t the kind of girl who cared about appearances, not in the conventional sense. She wasn’t interested in polished, buttoned-up versions of people. She was into something darker, something more real.

Jirai Kei—that was her style. The edgy, melancholic aesthetic she wore like armor, her heavy makeup and dark clothing hiding the disillusionment she felt toward life. And Haida… well, he wasn’t exactly a beacon of positivity either. He had his own demons, his own frustrations with the world, and maybe that was why he was drawn to her. Maybe that was why this felt right in a way he couldn’t explain.

He needed to dress like himself.

Haida peeled off the button-up shirt and tossed it onto the bed, his hands moving quickly as he rifled through his closet. There it was. His favorite band t-shirt—the worn, black fabric featuring a faded logo from a heavy metal band he used to listen to back in his college days. It was the kind of shirt that felt like an extension of who he was, a reminder of the version of himself that had once been free, before life had bogged him down with expectations and responsibilities.

He pulled the shirt on, feeling instantly more comfortable, more at ease in his own skin. He grabbed his black leather jacket, the one he hadn’t worn in months, and threw it on over the t-shirt. The jacket creaked as he moved, the familiar scent of leather filling his senses. It was old, a little beat up, but it would fit right. It made him feel cool, like he wasn’t just some salaryman stuck in a rut, but someone who still had a bit of edge, a bit of rebellion left in him.

Finally, he pulled on his black jeans, the ones that were snug but comfortable, and stepped into his scuffed boots. The transformation was complete—no more polished, corporate Haida. He looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, he actually liked what he saw. He looked like himself, like the version of himself he had pushed aside for years in favor of being what everyone else expected him to be.

He grinned at his reflection, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was who he wanted to be tonight. The guy who still had a little bit of swagger, a little bit of rebellion left. The guy who could meet up with a girl like Shikabane and not feel out of place.

And the truth was, he felt cool—really cool, in a way he hadn’t felt in years. The excitement thrumming through his veins wasn’t just about Shikabane anymore. It was about everything—about stepping out of his routine, about reclaiming a part of himself he thought he’d lost. The thought of being a married salaryman, about to cheat on his wife with a younger girl who embodied the Jirai Kei style…

Haida headed to the kitchen, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he sat down at the small table. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, and the silence only made his thoughts louder, more chaotic. He could feel the anticipation building inside him. But instead of fear, all he felt was excitement. This was what he wanted, what he needed.

As he sat there, waiting for the time to pass, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. What would it be like, to see Shikabane again? To be with her, not just in the abstract sense, but in the real, physical sense? The thought sent a jolt through him, his foot tapping faster as he tried to push down the rising anticipation.

But deep down, he couldn’t deny that this was thrilling in a way he hadn’t expected. In a way he couldn’t fully understand.

All he knew was that tonight was going to be different.

—

Haida stood outside the internet café, his breath catching slightly as he took in the place. It wasn’t just an ordinary café—this was Kabukicho, after all, the neon-soaked district of Tokyo known for its nightlife, its edge, and its secrets. The café before him was a mix of what he had expected and something else entirely. On the surface, it looked like a typical internet café—bright signs advertising cheap hourly rates, rows of computers visible from the windows—but as he stepped closer, he saw the subtle details that marked it as something more.

The rooms advertised weren’t just for gaming or browsing the web. They were private, soundproofed, with bed options listed alongside the hourly computer rental rates. This place was part love hotel, part internet café, catering to people who wanted more than just a few hours of screen time. It was discreet, tucked away from the main street but still loud in its offerings, like so much of Kabukicho itself.

Haida swallowed hard, feeling a tightness in his chest as he scanned the entrance. This wasn’t just some casual hangout spot. This place blurred the lines between compensation dating and outright brothel work, and Haida knew exactly what it was the moment he stepped into the lobby. The dim lighting, the quiet murmur of people coming and going, the transaction counters where no questions were asked—it all pointed to something more than just an internet café.

He wasn’t here by accident. He had known, deep down, what he was walking into.

His eyes darted around nervously, and then he saw her—Shikabane. Sitting near the corner of the lobby, still on her phone, her expression as detached and indifferent as ever. She didn’t even look up when she spotted him; she just nodded in his direction, her eyes flicking over him briefly before returning to the screen.

Haida had a knot in his stomach loosen slightly. There she was, just as he remembered her—aloof, calm, and completely in control of herself, as if nothing could rattle her. And in that moment, he was grateful for her nonchalance, for the fact that she wasn’t making this a bigger deal than it already was in his head.

She finally stood up, slipping her phone into the oversized jacket she wore. “Yo, Haida,” she greeted him in her usual dry tone, her voice low and unimpressed, as if this were just another regular day. There was no excitement in her eyes, no real sense of anticipation—just the same detached demeanor she always had. “You made it.”

“Yeah, I did,” Haida replied, his voice shakier than he wanted it to be. He cleared his throat and forced a smile, but it was weak, uncertain. He glanced around again. “So... this place is... different.”

Shikabane shrugged, clearly unfazed. “It’s just a place. We can go wherever you want.” Her tone was casual, as if none of this mattered to her in the slightest. She was offering him the illusion of control, giving him the option to decide, but the truth was, she was the one with the power. She always had been.

Still, her indifference was a relief to Haida. She wasn’t pushing for anything—she wasn’t playing games or manipulating him. She was just... there, existing in her own space, letting him figure out what he wanted from this night.

“Let’s, uh... let’s just walk for a bit,” Haida suggested, the tension in his body slowly easing as they began to leave the café. The air outside was cooler than he expected.

The sounds of the district—laughter, footsteps, distant music—filled the space around them as they walked aimlessly through the narrow streets.

For a while, they didn’t speak. Haida found himself lost in his thoughts, the weight of what he was doing finally sinking in. He wasn’t sure where this was going—if this was just about company, or if it was heading somewhere darker, more final. All he knew was that he wasn’t turning back. Not tonight.

It was Shikabane who finally broke the silence.

“So, where’d this come from?” she asked, her voice as casual as ever. “I mean, the text. The sudden interest.” She glanced at him sideways, her expression unreadable but mildly curious.

Haida chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He had been expecting this question. Of course she’d ask—it wasn’t like they were close. They had barely interacted since that night at the bar, and even then, it had been more out of convenience than anything else. But now? Now he was the one making the first move.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I guess... I’ve just been thinking about a lot of what you said. About life, you know? About how it’s all kind of... meaningless sometimes.” He swallowed hard, feeling the words hang in the air between them. “You were right about a lot of things, Shikabane. And I’ve been feeling... stuck.”

Shikabane snorted softly. “So you took my existential crisis to heart, huh?” she teased, though there was a glimmer of understanding in her tone. “I’m flattered.”

“No, really,” Haida continued, his voice gaining a bit more confidence as he spoke. “I’m just going through the motions, pretending to be something I’m not.”

He paused, glancing over at her, but Shikabane didn’t say anything. She just listened, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket as they walked. Her silence was oddly comforting—she wasn’t judging him.

“I think that’s why I texted you,” Haida admitted after a long pause. “Because you get it. You’re not pretending like everyone else.

Shikabane’s eyes flicked toward him, her expression softening just a fraction. “What is this?”

Haida wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was it real? Or was it just an escape, something to distract him from the life that was slowly slipping away from him?

“I don’t know,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s something.”

Shikabane nodded, her gaze turning back to the street ahead of them. “Good enough,” she murmured.

This wasn’t the kind of connection built on warmth or shared sentimentality—that wasn’t who Shikabane was—but there was something about their silence that was surprisingly comfortable. For once, Haida didn’t feel like he had to fill the void with nervous chatter or forced charm. Shikabane wasn’t asking for anything from him, and that alone was a relief.

But then, as they passed a narrow side street, something caught Haida’s eye. A small record store, nestled between two larger, more garish shops. The sign was faded, and the display window was cluttered with posters and album covers, some so old and worn they looked like relics from a bygone era. Haida had a spark of excitement light up inside him—this was the kind of place he loved.

Without thinking, he stopped in his tracks, turning to Shikabane with a grin that was surprisingly genuine. “Hey, look, a record store. You wanna check it out?”

Shikabane, who had been absently scrolling through her phone, glanced up at the store. Her expression was, as always, unreadable, but she tucked her phone into her pocket and gave a half-shrug. “Sure, why not?” she replied, her voice as detached as ever, though she seemed curious enough to follow him inside.

The bell above the door jingled softly as they stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of old vinyl and dust. The store was cramped, with narrow aisles lined with records from floor to ceiling, organized by genre but in a way that felt chaotic, like it had been done in a hurry. It was perfect, Haida thought, his excitement building as he scanned the shelves.

“I love places like this,” Haida said, his fingers brushing against the edge of a stack of records. “They always have the best hidden gems. You know, the stuff you can’t find online or at those big retail stores.” He glanced over at Shikabane, who was wandering through the aisles with her usual detached air, though her eyes lingered on a few of the more obscure album covers.

“You into music like this?” Haida asked, genuinely curious. He knew Shikabane wasn’t the type to wear her interests on her sleeve, and half the time it was hard to tell if she actually cared about anything at all. But something about the way she moved through the store made him think there was more to her than she let on.

“I’m more into breakcore, but I like this aesthetic.” she said, her fingers tracing the edge of an old punk record. She flipped the record over, studying the back for a moment before setting it down again. “It’s not my kind of sound, but I get why people are into it.”

Haida smiled, feeling a connection spark between them. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, nodding. “Breakcore’s not my thing, but I get the appeal. I’m more into punk. You know, old-school Japanese punk bands. There’s this band, The Stalin—man, their stuff was revolutionary. They didn’t give a crap about fitting into the system, just pure, angry energy. It wasn’t polished either. Just... raw, like you said.”

He pulled a record off the shelf, one with a worn, black-and-white cover that had clearly seen better days. “And then there’s the black metal scene,” Haida continued, his voice picking up with excitement. “Japanese black metal—kind of niche, but man, the atmosphere. It’s dark, gritty, almost suffocating, but in a way that pulls you in. There’s this band, Sigh—they mix in weird avant-garde stuff with traditional black metal, and it’s wild. Like, they just go for it, and it works.”

Shikabane looked at him, her head tilted slightly, as if she were seeing him in a new light. “You know your stuff,” she said, a hint of respect in her tone. It wasn’t much, but coming from her, it felt like a compliment.

Haida laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I kinda geek out over this stuff. Used to spend hours in places like this, back before... you know, life got in the way.” He trailed off, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. But Shikabane didn’t seem to mind.

She picked up a record with an intricate cover—something abstract and chaotic, with splashes of color that almost looked like a violent painting. “This one’s cool,” she said, studying the design. “I like the way these covers look. It’s like they’re telling a story just through the art.” She looked over at him. “You ever listen to stuff like this?”

Haida shook his head, leaning against the shelf as he watched her browse. “That a breakcore band? Nah, not really. I’ve heard some of it, but it’s not my thing. Too chaotic. I like the rhythm in punk or metal—the way it grabs you and doesn’t let go. But, I get why people are into breakcore. It’s got that same rebellious energy, you know? Just more... electronic.”

Shikabane gave a small nod of approval. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos. It’s like the world falling apart in sound, and you either get it, or you don’t.”

Haida smiled, feeling strangely at ease. For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like he had to try so hard. He was just talking about something he loved, something that made sense to him. And Shikabane, in her own quiet way, seemed to appreciate that.

“You ever think about getting back into music?” she asked suddenly.

Haida blinked, surprised by the question. He hadn’t thought about it in years—not seriously, anyway. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I used to play a bit, back in the day. A lot, actually. Now there is never enough time.”

Shikabane didn’t say anything for a moment, hardly anything emotive in her eyes as she flipped through another stack of records. “Yeah, I get that,” she said finally. “Life’s a grind. But you’re here now.”

Haida felt a strange sense of validation in them. She wasn’t pushing him or judging him for letting his hobbies fall by the wayside. She was just stating the obvious—he was here now. Doing something he cared about, even if it was just browsing records in a small shop.

They continued flipping through albums in silence for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts but comfortable in the shared space. There was no rush, no pressure to move things forward. For the first time in a long time, Haida knew he wasn’t running away from something or pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He was just here, with Shikabane, talking about music.

After a few minutes, Haida pulled out another record—an old punk album with a minimalist cover, just a stark black design on white. He smiled as he showed it to her. “This one’s a classic,” he said. “You might actually like it. The lyrics are pure rage, but the sound’s tight. It’s got that raw energy, but without being messy.”

Shikabane stared at the cover, nodding appreciatively. “Maybe I’ll give it a listen sometime.”

As Haida continued to browse through the racks of vinyl, his eyes kept drifting back to Shikabane, who was flipping through albums with an air of detached interest. There was something about her that always made him want to do more, to offer more, like he needed to somehow prove he could be of value to her. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, like she didn’t care about anything—or anyone—that made him want to break through that wall.

In a moment of impulse, he turned to her, holding up a record he thought she might like. “You know, if there’s anything you want, I’ll buy it for you,” he said, offering a smile that he hoped came off as casual, but deep down, it was something more. He wanted to give her something—even if it was just a small token, something that might make her night better.

Shikabane looked over at him, her dark eyes flicking from the record to his face, before she gave a half-hearted shrug. “I appreciate it, but... there’s no point,” she replied, her voice flat but not unkind. “I don’t really have anywhere to put stuff.”

Her words landed heavily, and for a moment, Haida felt a wave of guilt and realization wash over him. He had forgotten—Shikabane didn’t have a conventional home. She wasn’t like him, with an apartment to go back to, a place to hang her clothes or put up decorations. She was drifting, bouncing between internet cafés and hotels, never staying in one place long enough to call it home. Her life was transient, more so than he could ever imagine for himself.

She didn’t have room for things, because she didn’t have space to call her own. All she really had was her phone, her laptop, and her clothes. The essentials. Everything else was just... something to drag her down. Haida’s offer seemed naive now—an empty gesture, almost insulting in its simplicity, as if buying her something could change the reality of her situation.

His chest tightened with the realization. Shikabane was surviving in ways he couldn’t fully understand, ways that went beyond the material. She wasn’t accumulating things, she was just getting by, day by day.

In a moment of clarity, Haida’s mind flickered back to something she had mentioned before. Games. She had always been more enthusiastic about that world—the one where things made sense, where there was an end goal, a mission, a sense of control, even in the chaos. The escapism of gaming had always been her sanctuary, and he wondered if that’s where she really wanted to be right now, rather than roaming the streets of Kabukicho with him.

He cleared his throat, the awkwardness of the situation pressing down on him, and he tried to pivot. “Hey, um...” Haida hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe we could head to one of those more gamer-oriented internet cafés, you know? Play a few games, hang out.” He shot her a hopeful look, though he wasn’t entirely sure how she would respond. He just wanted to do something that might actually interest her.

Shikabane glanced at him, her face expressionless, though there was a flicker of something behind her eyes—maybe amusement, maybe weariness. It was always hard to tell with her. She shrugged, as if the suggestion didn’t matter one way or another. “Sure. Why not.” Her tone was flat, disinterested, but she didn’t outright refuse.

Haida smiled, though it was more out of relief than anything. He had expected her to shut the idea down completely, but she hadn’t. Even if she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, she was going along with it, and that was a small victory in itself. Maybe she didn’t care about buying records, about the material things he had tried to offer her, but at least she was willing to engage with him in something she did care about, even if only a little.

As they left the record store and made their way down the street, Haida couldn’t help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was still on her phone, her fingers moving across the screen in quick, practiced motions, probably replying to some message or checking on something inconsequential. She didn’t look like someone who had any particular plans, and yet, there was a heaviness in the way she carried herself, like someone who had been running on empty for far too long.

Haida’s mind wandered as they walked, the neon lights of Kabukicho casting strange shadows on the pavement around them. He tried to imagine what it must be like, living the way Shikabane did—constantly moving, never settling, always grinding just to get by. She had mentioned once, half-jokingly, that she would rather be grinding in a game than grinding at life, and now he understood what she meant.

Her life was a grind—not in the way that most people experienced it, but in the most literal sense. She was doing what she had to do to survive, and the thought of it made Haida feel a pang of something he couldn’t quite place. Pity, maybe. Or perhaps it was something deeper—something more akin to empathy.

He had spent so long chasing after the idea of stability, of being the perfect salaryman, the perfect husband, but now, standing next to Shikabane, he couldn’t help but question everything. What was he really grinding for? Was it for a life he wanted, or for a life that had been forced upon him by societal expectations?

As they neared the internet café, Haida felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. He wasn’t sure what tonight would bring, but for now, he was content to spend time with Shikabane, even if it was just playing games in a dimly lit café. It felt like a break from everything—a chance to escape, if only for a few hours.

The café was tucked away between two larger buildings, its entrance marked by a small, neon sign that flickered intermittently. Haida pushed open the door, the faint scent of coffee and instant ramen greeting them as they stepped inside. The space was filled with rows of gaming PCs, each cubicle offering a private little world to disappear into. It wasn’t fancy, but it had the essentials: fast internet, comfy chairs, and a quiet hum of activity that was almost soothing.

Shikabane looked around, her expression still unreadable, but there was a slight nod of approval as she scanned the place. “You been keeping your stats up?” she said, her voice carrying just the faintest hint of challenge.

Haida settled into his cubicle, the familiar glow of the computer screen reflecting off his face as he leaned back in the chair. He hadn’t been in an internet café like this in ages—not since his last downward spiral into gaming addiction, back when he wasn’t working, back when everything felt like it was slipping away. The thought made him pause for a moment, his hands hovering over the keyboard as a small wave of apprehension washed over him. He hadn’t touched a game in months, maybe even a year. It was too risky back then, too easy to lose himself in it when everything else in his life seemed out of control.

Haida glanced over at Shikabane, who was already settling in at her own station, her fingers moving with quiet efficiency as she set up her game. There was something calming about the way she operated, her indifference putting him at ease in a way that no amount of self-talk could. He didn’t need to be anyone but himself with her—there was no expectation to impress, no pressure to live up to some ideal. It was just… easy.

“I haven’t been gaming in a while,” Haida admitted, his voice quiet but casual, like he was letting a secret slip out into the dim light of the café. “Last time I got into it, I… well, you probably remember. I got addicted, and it kind of screwed up everything.” He chuckled softly, trying to downplay the gravity of it. It had been bad, but tonight, he felt like he could dip his toes back into the water without falling in headfirst. “But, you know, I’m different now. I’ve got a handle on things.”

Shikabane stared at him briefly, her expression as unreadable as ever, but there was something in the way she tilted her head that suggested she was listening. She didn’t offer any judgment, didn’t prod or ask for more details. She just accepted it for what it was.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve been playing something new, too,” she said, her tone closer to interest than indifference. “It’s different from what we used to play. More competitive. Tactical, I guess you could say.” Her fingers hovered over the mouse, her eyes focused on the screen, but Haida could tell she was watching for his reaction.

Haida blinked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair. Competitive? Tactical? That didn’t sound like the kind of game they used to play together. Back in the day, they had mostly stuck to grind-heavy RPGs, the kind of games where you could get lost in the grind and forget about the world outside. But this? This sounded different.

“Wait, seriously?” Haida asked, his curiosity piqued. “You’re playing something competitive now? Like what—some kind of shooter?” His tone was playful, but there was genuine surprise in his voice. Shooters weren’t exactly popular in Japan. Sure, there were players here and there, but it wasn’t like the Western gaming scene where first-person shooters dominated the market.

Shikabane nodded, her lips twitching into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “Yeah. A tactical shooter, actually. Not the usual grindy stuff.” She paused for a moment, clicking through the game’s menu. “It’s mostly Chinese and Korean players, though. You don’t see many Japanese gamers on here.”

Haida’s eyes widened. A tactical shooter? That was the last thing he expected to hear from Shikabane, someone who had always seemed more inclined toward laid-back, immersive games. But the idea intrigued him.

“Huh, that’s wild,” Haida said, leaning forward now, more interested than ever. “Shooters don’t usually take off here. I mean, they’ve got their fans, but it’s nothing like the other genres.” He paused, his curiosity deepening. “So, what’s the appeal for you?”

Shikabane shrugged, her eyes never leaving the screen as she navigated through the game’s menus. “It’s free-to-play, for one thing. And the community’s kind of hardcore. You can’t just jump in and mess around—you’ve got to be on your game.” She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable as always. “Plus, there’s something satisfying about it. The precision, the teamwork. You screw up, and it’s on you. It’s not like RPGs where you can just grind until you’re strong enough. Here, it’s all skill.”

“Well, I’m totally surprised,” Haida said with a grin, pulling up his own game screen. “I didn’t take you for the tactical shooter type, but it sounds pretty awesome.” He adjusted his headset, settling into the familiar feeling of getting ready for a session. “I’m a bit rusty, though, so you’re gonna have to carry me for a bit.”

Shikabane nodded. “Yeah, well, try not to embarrass yourself too much, Haida.”

The game loaded up, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Shikabane was already locked into her role, moving with the kind of precision that came from countless hours of play. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, her movements crisp and efficient. Haida could tell she had mastered this game—it wasn’t just casual for her anymore. She was in it for the challenge, for the competition.

And he found himself more and more fascinated by that.

As the night stretched on, Haida could sense himself slipping back into the rhythm of gaming, the familiar thrill of it coursing through him. He wasn’t as skilled as Shikabane—not even close—but he managed to hold his own. And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t worried about work, or Retsuko, or anything else. He was just there, in the moment, playing alongside Shikabane, feeling the pulse of adrenaline with every round, every clutch play.

They didn’t talk much as they played, but there was a silent camaraderie between them, an unspoken understanding that gaming was their escape, their way of leveling the playing field. In this world, they weren’t defined by their circumstances. Here, they were equals, and the only thing that mattered was how well they played.

After a few hours, Haida leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “Damn, I forgot how fun this was,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Feels good to be back, even if I’m getting my ass handed to me.”

Shikabane smirked, her eyes still glued to the screen. “You’re rusty, but you’re not completely hopeless,” she said simply. “Just don’t expect me to carry you every game.”

Haida leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head as the last round of their game finished, the screen flashing with the final results. He had the familiar rush of adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the excitement that came from hours of focused gameplay. He had forgotten what this sensation was like, the quiet thrill of getting lost in a game, of letting the outside world fall away.

He smiled, a small, self-deprecating laugh escaping him as he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. “You know,” he started, his tone casual but with a hint of honesty he hadn’t quite intended to let slip, “I think I might let myself get addicted to this again.” He paused, glancing over at her with a lopsided grin. “Playing with you, I mean. I wouldn’t mind falling into that hole again.”

It was a half-joke, but there was truth beneath the surface. Gaming had been his escape once before, a way to lose himself when everything else in his life felt out of control. And now, sitting here with Shikabane, he felt the same pull—the same desire to let go of everything else and just disappear into this world with her, where things made sense, where there were clear objectives and rules.

Shikabane didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes flicked toward him, her fingers still hovering over the keyboard as if she were weighing his words. For a moment, he thought she might brush it off, or give him some sarcastic reply that would dismiss the gravity of what he had said. But instead, she surprised him.

“I’d actually sort of like that.”

Chapter Text

He hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t even thought about how the night might end, but now, with the hotel looming ahead of them, the implications of where they were heading hit him all at once.

Shikabane seemed unfazed, her hands tucked casually into the pockets of her oversized jacket, her gaze fixed straight ahead. If she was thinking anything about the situation, she wasn’t showing it. Haida envied her composure, her ability to seem so unaffected by the quiet tension hanging over them. Meanwhile, he could feel every nerve in his body buzzing with awkward energy, the uncertainty of what came next gnawing at him.

Haida hesitated, glancing at Shikabane out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to say something, to acknowledge the moment, to make some kind of decision, but the words stuck in his throat. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted—was this just a friendly escort back to where she was staying, or was it something more? The possibility of the latter made his palms sweat.

Shikabane noticed his hesitation and turned to look at him. She pulled out her phone, checking the time, before slipping it back into her pocket. “You’re weirdly quiet,” she said dryly, though there was no edge in her tone. It was more an observation than a critique.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Haida replied quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just... tired, I guess.”

“Tired, huh?” she said, her tone skeptical but teasing. She leaned back against the wall of the building, her hands still in her pockets as she regarded him for a moment. “So, are you coming in, or what?”

The question hit Haida like a freight train, his heart skipping a beat as he struggled to process what she had just said. “I—uh—” He stammered, his face flushing as his mind raced to find a response. “I mean... I wasn’t sure if you’d, you know, want me to.”

Shikabane rolled her eyes. “If I didn’t want you here, I’d have told you to leave hours ago,” she said bluntly, pushing off the wall and stepping closer to him. “You’re not that hard to read, Haida. I figured you’d need a little push.”

Haida swallowed hard, his nerves skyrocketing as she closed the small distance between them. He wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or even more anxious, but there was no denying the way his chest tightened as she looked up at him, her gaze steady and unflinching. She didn’t look away, didn’t give him room to retreat into his awkwardness. She was straightforward, as always, and for some reason, that made it even harder for him to respond.

“I... yeah, okay,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He could barely believe the words had left his mouth, but the moment they did, he felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration flood his senses.

Shikabane nodded, turning toward the door and pushing it open without another word. Haida followed her inside, his footsteps hesitant but determined. The lobby was dimly lit, the same muted atmosphere from earlier greeting them as they walked past the counter. Haida’s stomach churned with nervous energy, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Was this really about to happen?

Shikabane led the way down the hall, her movements calm and deliberate, while Haida trailed behind, feeling like he was walking into the unknown. When they reached one of the private rooms, she opened the door and stepped inside, leaving it ajar for him to follow. He hesitated for only a second before stepping through, the door clicking shut behind him.

The room was small but clean, with a minimalist bed tucked into the corner and a small desk against the opposite wall. Shikabane shrugged off her jacket, tossing it onto the desk chair before turning to face Haida. “Relax,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying that same straightforward edge. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I... yeah, probably,” Haida admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to force himself to calm down. He didn’t know why he felt so out of his depth—this wasn’t his first time being in a situation like this, but something about it felt different. Maybe it was the fact that it was Shikabane, someone he had known in a completely different context, someone who carried herself with such an air of detachment that it made every small gesture feel significant.

Shikabane sat down on the edge of the bed, her posture relaxed as she leaned back slightly, her gaze fixed on him. “You don’t have to stay if you’re gonna be weird about it,” she said bluntly, though there was no malice in her voice. “But if you are staying, just... be here, you know? Don’t overthink it.”

Haida let his shoulders relax slightly at her words, the tension in his chest easing just enough for him to take a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly as he stepped closer. “Yeah, okay. I’ll... just be here.”

Shikabane patted the space next to her on the bed. “Good. Now sit down before you make this even more awkward.”

Haida couldn’t help but laugh nervously as he sat down, the strange mix of anxiety and excitement still swirling inside him. He wasn’t sure where the night would go from here, but for now, he was here, and that was enough.

Shikabane shifted closer, her movement deliberate yet unassuming. Haida’s breath hitched as she turned toward him, her face inches from his, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips. She wasn’t hesitating. Slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a soft, tentative kiss that felt like a question, an invitation.

For a moment, Haida froze. This was it. The point of no return. His mind screamed at him to stop, to think about what he was doing, about what this would mean. He thought about Retsuko, about their marriage, about the life he was supposed to be building with her. But then, another thought pushed its way forward, one that drowned out all the others.

He wasn’t just about to cheat on Retsuko—he was about to cheat on her with Shikabane. Cute, edgy, unapologetic Shikabane, who sat beside him now with a quiet confidence that made his heart race. The thought sent a jolt of heat through him, his pulse quickening as he realized how much he wanted this. The guilt was still there, but it was overwhelmed by a wave of arousal.

Against his better judgment, Haida leaned in, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to cup her face. This wasn’t logical, it wasn’t right, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. He kissed her back, this time with more urgency, more passion, his reservations crumbling as their lips pressed together.

Shikabane responded in kind, her hands finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. Her usual indifference was gone now, replaced by a quiet intensity that matched his own. Haida felt the weight of her body against his, the warmth of her touch, and the last shred of doubt in his mind vanished.

The kiss grew hungrier, more desperate, their movements becoming less controlled as the tension between them broke. Haida’s hands moved instinctively, sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer as he lost himself in the moment. All the guilt, all the second-guessing—it was gone now, drowned out by the electric thrill of finally giving in to something he had been trying to deny all night.

Haida’s heart raced as Shikabane kissed him deeply, her lips soft yet insistent, her hands roaming over his chest with a confidence that both thrilled and unnerved him.

As her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt, Haida hesitated for a split second before lifting his arms to let her pull it over his head. The fabric landed somewhere on the floor, forgotten as their kisses grew more urgent. He fumbled with the zipper of her interior jacket, (of course, a girl of her sort of fashion style layered jackets upon one another) his fingers clumsy but determined, and she smirked against his lips, her usual aloofness softened into something almost playful.

As Haida pushed the jacket off her shoulders, revealing the thin camisole beneath, his breath hitched. Shikabane didn’t rush him, didn’t tease him for his awkwardness; she just watched him with those blue, unreadable eyes, waiting for him to make the next move.

And he did.

Haida leaned in, his lips trailing along her jawline, down her neck, as his hands slid beneath the hem of her camisole. With her silent approval, he lifted it over her head, leaving her bare save for her socks and shoes. He pulled back slightly, his eyes traveling over her body, taking in every curve, every line. There was a simplicity to her, an unpolished beauty that made his chest tighten.

But it was the sight of her still wearing her shoes and socks that sent an unexpected thrill through him. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before, but for some reason, he found it incredibly alluring.

“You’re staring,” Shikabane said. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his chest. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to get this far, Haida.”

Her words could have embarrassed him, but instead, Haida felt something else—confidence. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t second-guessing himself. He wasn’t overthinking or worrying about what she might think of him.

With a faint smirk, he let his hands roam over her hips, pulling her closer. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises,” he quipped, his voice steadier than he expected.

Shikabane raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? So where’d you get all this muscle? Didn’t take you for the workout type.”

Her question caught Haida off guard, but it only fueled the newfound pride surging through him. “I, uh, still do some push-ups and sit-ups now and then,” he admitted, his tone casual but tinged with the satisfaction of being noticed. “Used to work out a lot more, back when I was hanging with this guy named Himuro. He’s the one who got me into it.”

The memory flickered in his mind—a time when he’d looked up to Himuro, his sleek, put-together boss who always seemed to exude effortless cool. Himuro had been the kind of guy Haida had aspired to be, and their gym sessions had been both motivating and humbling. Haida had pushed himself hard back then, trying to keep up, trying to prove he could measure up to someone like Himuro.

“Gymbro, huh?” Shikabane said, tilting her head slightly. “Figures. You’ve got that look, like someone who used to take it seriously but doesn’t want to admit it.”

Haida laughed softly, the sound coming more easily than he expected. “Yeah, well, I fell off the wagon after a while. Work and... you know, life. But I kept up the basics. Enough to not feel like a total slob.” He glanced down at himself, his chest bare and his jeans hanging low on his hips, and for the first time in years, he actually felt good about how he looked.

“Not bad,” Shikabane said simply, her hands sliding up his arms. “Its cool.” Her tone was dry, but there was a glimmer of something genuine beneath it—approval, maybe, or at least acknowledgment.

Haida felt his confidence swell even more, the lingering insecurities he so often carried fading into the background. This wasn’t the anxious, self-doubting Haida who second-guessed every interaction. This was someone else—someone bold, assured, someone who could actually take what he wanted without apologizing for it.

Leaning in, he kissed her again, his hands sliding down her back as he pulled her closer. The feel of her body against his, the warmth of her skin, the faint pressure of her shoes brushing against his leg—it all was surreal, intoxicating.

Haida leaned in closer, the warmth of Shikabane’s body drawing him in as if by instinct. His lips brushed against her neck, tentative at first, testing the waters. He could feel her pulse beneath his touch, steady but strong, a quiet rhythm that matched the growing tension between them. Encouraged by her lack of resistance, he pressed his lips more firmly against her, letting his kisses trail slowly along the curve of her neck.

She was so soft, carrying a faint scent of something unidentifiable but distinctly her. As his kisses deepened, his breath warmed the spot just below her ear, and he felt her body shift slightly beneath him. Shikabane didn’t react overtly—no sudden movements, no dramatic gestures—but the subtle tilt of her head, the way her body leaned slightly toward him, was all the permission he needed to continue.

Haida’s hands rested on her waist, his fingers gripping her gently as his kisses became more deliberate, more exploratory. He moved along the length of her neck, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“Shikabane,” he murmured, his voice soft yet full of something deeper, something honest. “You’re... you’re really beautiful, you know that?”

The words came out almost unplanned, his heart racing as he watched her face for a reaction. It wasn’t a line, not some shallow attempt at flattery—it was genuine. Shikabane, for all her sharp edges and aloof demeanor, had a kind of understated beauty that was impossible to ignore.

To his surprise, Shikabane didn’t respond immediately. Instead, her gaze darted away from him, her usual confidence replaced by something far more vulnerable. The shift was subtle—her shoulders tensed slightly, her lips parted as if to speak but no words came out. For the first time since he’d met her, Shikabane looked... unsure.

“Beautiful, huh?” she finally said, her tone softer than usual, almost skeptical. Her eyes flicked back to him briefly, searching his face for something—confirmation, perhaps, or maybe evidence that he was just saying it to say it. “That’s not... really something people say about me.”

Haida blinked, taken aback by her response. Shikabane, who always seemed so untouchable, so indifferent to what others thought of her, suddenly seemed shy, almost self-conscious. It was a side of her he’d never seen before, and it struck him deeply.

“I mean it,” Haida said earnestly, his hands giving her waist a gentle squeeze as he leaned in closer. “You’re gorgeous, Shikabane. The way you carry yourself, the way you don’t pretend to be anyone but you—it’s... it’s amazing.” He paused, his voice growing quieter but no less sincere. “I don’t think you hear that enough.”

Shikabane’s lips twitched, a flicker of a smile that she quickly suppressed. Her cheeks, normally pale and purple and unassuming, took on the faintest hint of red color, and she glanced down, avoiding his gaze. “Guess I’m not used to that kind of thing,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Haida’s heart clenched at her words, at the quiet vulnerability she was letting him see. She wasn’t brushing off the compliment like he thought she might—she was taking it in, even if she didn’t fully believe it. And in that moment, he realized just how much he wanted her to see herself the way he saw her.

“You should be,” he said softly, his thumbs brushing against her sides in a small, comforting motion. “You deserve to hear it. And not just from me.”

Shikabane looked up at him then, her eyes filled with something that bordered on gratitude, though it was still guarded, still hesitant. “You’re such a dork, Haida,” she said finally, but there was no edge in her voice, no teasing bite. Instead, her words were soft, almost affectionate.

Haida chuckled, leaning his forehead lightly against hers. “Yeah, well, I mean every word,” he replied, his voice warm and steady.

For a moment, they stayed like that, close but not rushing, the vulnerability between them creating a connection that felt far deeper than anything Haida had anticipated. And as he held her, his hands still resting lightly on her waist, he couldn’t help but feel like he was seeing the real Shikabane.

And she was, without a doubt, beautiful.

Haida's hands moved with deliberate care, trailing from Shikabane’s waist upward until they rested lightly against her chest. His touch was hesitant at first, a mix of nervousness and reverence, as if he was afraid of breaking the fragile intimacy that had grown between them.

Taking her silent permission, Haida’s fingers traced along the curve of her chest, exploring her gently. He marveled at how warm and soft she felt beneath his hands, the sensation sending a strange, grounding comfort through him. It wasn’t purely about desire, though that was certainly there—it was also about the quiet connection they were sharing, the unspoken trust she was giving him in this moment.

"Your chest," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself, "is… cute."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced slightly, bracing himself for a sharp retort or a sarcastic remark.

“Cute, huh,” she murmured, almost to herself, as though trying to make sense of it. “You’re weird, Haida. But… it’s kind of sweet.”

Haida smiled, his confidence growing as he leaned in closer. “You think I’m sweet?” he teased, his voice soft but playful.

“Don’t push it,” she shot back.

When she didn’t pull away, he pressed a soft kiss against the top of her chest, his lips lingering as his hands continued their gentle exploration. The warmth of her skin against his mouth sent a shiver through him, and he let himself get lost in the moment, his kisses growing bolder as he moved lower.

When his tongue flicked out, tasting the softness of her skin, Shikabane let out a quiet, surprised breath. Her fingers gripped his shoulders lightly, her body tensing for a moment before relaxing again. She didn’t say anything, but the way she tilted her head slightly, exposing more of herself to him, was all the encouragement he needed.

Haida continued, his lips and tongue working in tandem, his movements slow and unhurried.

It wasn’t perfect—there was a shyness to Haida’s touch, a cautiousness that he couldn’t entirely shake—but it didn’t need to be. Shikabane met him halfway, her steady presence reassuring him without words.

Shikabane’s hands rested lightly on his back, her fingers grazing his skin in a way that was almost absentminded. Her touch wasn’t demanding or calculated; it was natural, a small gesture of comfort and closeness that spoke volumes about the shift between them. Haida could feel her heartbeat beneath his hand, steady and strong, a reminder that she was as present in this moment as he was.

Haida leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers. His hands remained on her waist, holding her lightly but with purpose, as if he were afraid to let go too soon. His chest still rose and fell with the effort of catching his breath, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke.

“You okay?” he asked, the words quiet but carrying more weight than they seemed to on the surface. It wasn’t just about the moment—they were a question, an offering, a reassurance all at once.

Shikabane blinked slowly, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat before she nodded. Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, the kind of smile that felt unguarded, unfiltered. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice soft and almost fragile in the stillness of the room. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he said simply, his voice light but sincere. “I’m glad.”

For a while, neither of them moved.

Until Haida rolled onto his back and allowed Shikabane to take charge. The slow part was over.

She rested her hands lightly on his thighs. There was no awkwardness in her movements, only a calm sense of purpose.

Her lips brushed against him, soft and deliberate, testing the waters. Haida exhaled slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as he tried to steady himself.

Haida couldn’t help but watch her, his breath catching at the sight of her in this new light.

The sight of Shikabane licking at the tip of his cock, before trailing down his shaft, all while stroking him. She was even able to lap at his balls without shame.

Shikabane was thoroughly tasting his dick.

As she continued, Haida reached out, his hand brushing gently against her cheek. Shikabane paused for a brief moment, glancing up at him with a look that was both teasing and sincere.

Haida’s breathing was steady but deep, his exhalations mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioner. The gentle sounds were almost hypnotic, creating a rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the closeness between them.

Each subtle motion brought with it the faintest of sounds—soft, almost imperceptible, but enough to fill the space between them.

Her mouth and tongue had gotten his prick considerably wet.

Haida hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering in the air as he debated whether to touch her. It wasn’t a hesitation born of doubt but of a nervous awareness of how new this all felt. He finally let his fingers settle gently on the top of Shikabane’s head, his touch tentative but steady. Her head was soft beneath his hands, and the sensation grounded him, helping him push through the whirlwind of thoughts racing in his mind.

She didn’t react at first, though he noticed the slight upward twitch of her brow, as if silently acknowledging his gesture. Encouraged, Haida’s hands relaxed, his fingers brushing lightly against her scalp in a way that was both affectionate and hesitant. He didn’t push or guide her; he simply let his touch rest there, a quiet sign of encouragement.

“You’re, uh... you’re amazing at this,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly at the edges. He winced internally, realizing how awkward he sounded. Dirty talk wasn’t exactly his forte, and the moment didn’t leave much room for rehearsals.

Shikabane’s eyes flicked up to meet his, her expression unreadable but with the faintest glint of amusement. She didn’t say anything, but the corners of her mouth twitched, as if she were holding back a laugh. Truthfully, her mouth was simply too busy holding his dick.

Haida, emboldened but still painfully aware of his own awkwardness, decided to try again. “I mean, uh... yeah, you’re... really good at this. Like... pro-level?” His words trailed off into uncertainty, and he could feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

That was enough to break Shikabane’s composure. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly as if to say, Are you serious? Her amusement was subtle but undeniable, and Haida couldn’t help but chuckle along with her.

“Okay, okay,” he said, his tone self-deprecating as he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while the other remained on her head. “So maybe dirty talk isn’t my thing. But, you know, I’m trying here.”

“Clearly,” Shikabane replied.

Despite his awkward attempts, the moment had become oddly intimate, their shared laughter easing some of the tension in the room. Haida’s hands remained gentle on her head, his touch becoming more confident but never forceful.

“I… I think I’ve always been into you,” Haida admitted, his voice quieter than he intended but heavy with sincerity. He felt the burden of the confession settle in the space between them, his hands brushing lightly against her hair as he leaned forward, trying to gauge her reaction. “I didn’t realize it before, but... yeah, I should’ve. I should’ve done something sooner.”

Shikabane paused for a moment, her movements slowing as she tilted her head to look up at him. Hand still lightly jerking him off. Some of his pre-cum clung to her lips.

“You’re serious?” she asked, though her tone wasn’t skeptical. There was something softer in her voice, a quiet vulnerability that mirrored his own. “That’s... kinda messed up, Haida. You’re married.”

“I know,” Haida said quickly, his voice tinged with regret but also determination. “I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t even be here. But… I don’t know. With you, it feels like… like I can actually be me. Like this is... right. Or at least, more right than anything else has been in a long time.”

Shikabane let out a soft sigh. “You’re such a dork,” she said, though her tone lacked any real bite. “But, I’ll admit... it’s kinda nice hearing that. Even if it’s morally wrong, like... seriously wrong.”

She shifted slightly, her hands steadying themselves against him as she leaned forward, her expression both amused and genuine. “Still,” she added, her voice dropping slightly, “I guess I’m into it too. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna pretend it’s not screwed up, though.”

Haida’s heart pounded as her words sank in. For a moment, he forgot the transactional nature of the night entirely. This didn’t feel like a business arrangement. It was like fate, like some strange and imperfect twist of destiny that had brought them together in this room, at this moment.

The audible sounds Shikabane made as she continued broke through Haida’s thoughts, grounding him in the present. He couldn’t help but focus on her, the way she seemed so at ease, so unapologetically herself even now.

Haida, feeling a surge of welcome confidence, gently lifted Shikabane, shifting their positions with care but determination. The intimate moment between them had deepened beyond what he had anticipated, and the connection they shared gave him a newfound sense of boldness. As he steadied her against him, he looked into her enigmatic eyes, his voice firm but tinged with an earnest sincerity.

"I want to make love to you," he said, the words leaving his lips with more weight than he had expected.

Shikabane’s expression shifted immediately, her lips twitching as she tilted her head slightly, her usual detached smirk reappearing. “Ugh. Make love?” she echoed, her tone laced with dry amusement. “That’s so... corny. Let’s not romanticize this, Haida. Let’s just... fuck.”

The bluntness of her words hit Haida like a bucket of cold water, and he blinked, caught completely off guard. “What? I mean, isn’t that... kind of the same thing?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine confusion. His confidence wavered slightly, but her steady gaze kept him from retreating entirely.

Shikabane rolled her eyes. “Not the same at all,” she said, her tone as casual as if they were discussing a game strategy. “Making love sounds like some cheesy drama. What we’re doing... it’s not that.”

Haida opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, trying to process her perspective. He wasn’t entirely sure he agreed, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment by debating semantics. Shikabane had her own way of looking at things, and in a strange way, her bluntness was part of what drew him to her in the first place.

“Okay,” he said finally, a small, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him as he adjusted to her frame of mind. “Then let’s... do it your way.”

“Good call,” Shikabane replied, her smirk softening slightly as she leaned closer to him. “Don’t overthink it, Haida. Like I keep saying. Just... be here.”

Slowly, she guided his cock, still wet with her saliva, toward her pussy. And with a firm grip, she placed the tip inside of her tight passage.

Before either of them knew it, Haida was dicking her and she was riding him.

The room seemed to amplify the subtler sensations—her soft huffs as she adjusted, the faint rustling of the sheets beneath them, the occasional muffled sound that escaped Haida’s lips when the moment overwhelmed him. The heat between them was tangible, a mix of shared effort and the natural intimacy of two people completely focused on each other.

She felt absolutely amazing and an intense rod of heat gravitated through Haida’s cock. He never was so aroused before.

Haida’s thoughts drifted in and out, caught between the present and the surreal feeling of being here with her. He noticed everything—the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her breath caught every so often, the way her movements were both confident and careful.

And he could tell that he was really stretching her out. The petite thing that she was.

Of course, it was a lot like when he was with Retsuko, but somehow, Shikabane was tighter… or maybe, in his head, he became bigger.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured without thinking.

Shikabane paused briefly as she caught her breath. “Don’t get sappy,” she teased.

Haida laughed softly, the sound warm and relaxed as he let his head fall back against the pillow. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his hands giving her ass a gentle squeeze. “This... you... it’s kind of hard to believe.”

She leaned forward, her movements slowing as she rested her hands on his chest for support. The shift in pace brought with it a new kind of closeness, their breaths mingling.

There was considerable effort from Haida, as well, who grasped unto her small, cute ass while he pounded up into her. Fleshy sounds bouncing out from the striking of his body into her’s.

He didn’t even think about how he wasn’t wearing a condom. Just that he was balls deep into Shikabane. Balls deep into the greatest sin of marriage, infidelity.

When Shikabane finally slowed, her breathing heavy and her movements easing into stillness, she leaned forward again, resting her forehead lightly against his. Neither of them spoke, their breaths mingling in the quiet as the moment settled around them. The scent of the room was that of her wet pussy.

“You okay?” Haida asked softly, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

Shikabane gave a small nod, hiding the fact that taking his hyena dick had begun to hurt some. “Yeah,” she murmured, her tone quieter than usual. “You?”

“Yeah,” Haida replied, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. “More than okay.”

And without realizing it, suddenly, the cum had arrived.

In an intensely heated burst, he shot his hyena sperm up into her pussy. His white pearls kissing at her womb.

As the moment came to its quiet conclusion, Haida had a surge of emotion—relief, exhilaration, and something he couldn’t quite name—as his breathing slowed and he lay back against the rumpled sheets. His body became light, almost weightless, as though he’d shed a burden he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

His brain screamed about how incredible it was to fuck her.

His dick almost wanted more.

Shikabane shifted beside him, her movements unhurried but purposeful. Haida turned his head to look at her, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips, but the sight that greeted him gave him pause. Shikabane was already on her phone, her face illuminated by its faint glow. Her expression was as neutral as ever, her focus entirely on the screen as she scrolled with the same detached efficiency he had come to expect from her.

The subtle intimacy of the moment seemed to evaporate, replaced by a quiet ache in Haida’s chest that he couldn’t quite place. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as the reality of the situation settled over him. This wasn’t what he’d wanted it to be. Or rather, it wasn’t what he’d allowed himself to imagine it could be in the heat of the moment.

His mind wandered, and suddenly, a troubling thought surfaced. He turned his head back toward her, his voice hesitant. “Uh, Shikabane... about earlier. I mean, we didn’t, you know, use anything. Is... is that okay?”

Shikabane glanced at him briefly, her thumb still scrolling. She didn’t seem surprised by the question, nor did she seem particularly concerned. “It’s fine,” she said casually, her tone even. “I don’t usually do that without a condom, but... I have day-after pills for situations like this.”

Her answer was practical, straightforward, and devoid of the emotional heaviness Haida had expected—or perhaps hoped for. But it didn’t reassure him. Instead, it left him feeling hollow, a quiet pang of guilt and unease creeping into his chest.

“Oh,” he replied softly, his voice barely audible. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, his thoughts swirling. The transactional nature of their night had always been there, unspoken but undeniable, and now it loomed over him with an uncomfortable clarity. She wasn’t here because of some shared spark or connection. She was here because he had reached out, because she had agreed, because this was what she did.

Haida closed his eyes, the earlier high of the moment replaced by a sinking feeling he couldn’t shake. He had wanted to believe it was something more—something real, something meaningful—but her casual response brought him back to reality. To her, this wasn’t about them. It was just another night, another transaction.

The quiet of the room seemed heavier now, the faint sounds of the city outside serving as a distant reminder of the world beyond these walls. Haida let out a slow breath, his chest tightening as he tried to make sense of his emotions. He felt amazing physically, yes—but emotionally, he was left with more questions than answers.

Shikabane, still focused on her phone, didn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil. Or perhaps she did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. Either way, the gap between them became larger than it had before, a quiet chasm that left Haida feeling more alone than he had expected.

“Get some sleep,” Shikabane said after a while, her voice low but not unkind. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Haida nodded faintly, though he wasn’t sure if he believed her. As he lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet hum of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder what it all meant—what it said about him, about her, about the choices they had made.

And for the first time that night, he wasn’t sure if this was the escape he had been searching for or just another trap he had willingly stepped into.

Chapter Text

Haida shuffled into his apartment, the quiet stillness of the space greeting him like an old companion. It felt almost unsettling after the night he’d had, the memories still fresh and vivid in his mind. He slipped off his boots, setting them neatly by the door, and glanced around the apartment. Everything was in its place—tidy, predictable, utterly ordinary. Except for one thing: Retsuko wasn’t there.

He checked the time. It was later than he thought, but not so late that the emptiness made sense. Dropping his keys on the counter, Haida wandered into the bedroom and noticed the neatly made side of the bed that Retsuko slept on. A note on the dresser confirmed his suspicion: she’d already left for work. No goodbye, no mention of last night. Just gone, like a ghost, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Haida collapsed onto the bed, letting out a long sigh as he stared up at the ceiling. The events of the night before swirled in his mind like an unrelenting storm, pulling him between waves of guilt, confidence, and confusion. He reached into his pocket almost without thinking and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open with the ease of habit. That’s when he saw it—the missing cash.

For a moment, he just stared, the realization settling over him slowly. He’d paid her. He had actually paid Shikabane for sex.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known, on some level, that the night was transactional. But seeing the evidence so plainly—the empty spot where the money had been—made it feel painfully real. It stripped away the thin veil of fantasy he’d allowed himself to indulge in the night before, forcing him to confront the raw truth of what had happened.

He let the wallet fall onto the bed beside him, his hand covering his face as he groaned softly. The confidence he’d felt the night before—the rare sense of control and purpose—was now mingled with an undeniable sense of shame. He did not know what was worse: the fact that he had paid for it, or the fact that he had almost convinced himself it had been something more.

But it wasn’t all bad. That was the strangest part.

As much as the unease gnawed at him, there was another part of him—quieter but undeniably present—that felt... better. Stronger, even. He had taken charge, for once. He’d been confident, assertive, and capable of making decisions without spiraling into self-doubt. That feeling, however fleeting, lingered in him now, a faint ember of something that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t know if it was pride or just relief, but it felt important.

Still, the guilt was there too, coiled around his chest like a heavy chain. What kind of person was he now? A guy who cheated on his wife, who paid for intimacy, who told himself it was okay because, deep down, he’d been craving an escape. An escape from what, though? His marriage? His job? His life? The answers felt just out of reach, like trying to grasp at smoke.

Haida sat up, running his hands through his messy fur, and looked around the apartment. He had another day off, which should have felt like a gift—time to relax, to decompress. Instead, it felt like a strain, a question he didn’t know how to answer. What was he supposed to do with himself now?

The hours stretched before him like a blank canvas, and Haida had no idea how to fill them. He thought about texting Shikabane, the temptation lingering for longer than he wanted to admit. But what would he even say? Last night had already complicated things enough. Reaching out would only make it worse.

His mind wandered to Retsuko. She had been so distant lately, their schedules barely overlapping. The warmth and connection they’d once shared felt like a faint memory, replaced by polite exchanges and the quiet monotony of married life. When had things become so... empty?

Haida stood and wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge out of habit more than hunger. The cold air brushed against his face, but he barely noticed as he stared blankly at the shelves. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—something to eat, something to drink, something to distract him. He closed the door without grabbing anything, leaning against the counter as the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him.

He felt like he was in limbo, caught between two versions of himself. One was the dutiful husband, the salaryman trying to make it work, trying to be what everyone expected him to be. The other was... something else. Someone freer, bolder, but undeniably flawed. He didn’t know which version he wanted to be—or if he even had a choice.

The silence of the apartment was deafening, each passing second a reminder of how alone he was. Haida returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. The memory of Shikabane lingered in his mind, vivid and unshakable. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing now, if she had already moved on to her next client, her next distraction.

And yet, despite everything, a part of him couldn’t regret it. For all the guilt and confusion, the night had given him something he hadn’t felt in years—a sense of clarity, however fleeting. Now, he just had to figure out what to do with it.

Haida sighed, leaning back onto the bed again as he let his thoughts swirl. The day stretched out before him, uncertain and daunting, but one thing was clear: he couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to change. He just wasn’t sure what—or how.

Haida lay back on his bed, the stillness of the apartment pressing down on him. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating in its silence, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. The events of the past night lingered in his mind, vivid and unrelenting, but so did the restless energy that had carried over into the morning. His phone sat on the nightstand, a beacon of distraction, and he reached for it without thinking.

Old habits die hard.

He opened Instagram, his thumb instinctively scrolling through his feed. Familiar faces popped up—co-workers from his past, acquaintances from jobs he’d long left behind. At first, it was innocent enough. He looked at photos of Washimi, poised and powerful as ever, her sleek demeanor captured perfectly in candid moments at work functions and outings. Then came Tsunoda, her Instagram filled with vibrant selfies and fashion shots, each one exuding a playful confidence that seemed to leap off the screen.

Haida’s scrolling slowed as his thoughts turned darker. He lingered longer on each photo, his mind wandering in directions he didn’t want to admit. There was Fenneko, her dry humor and aloof personality contrasted by the rare glimpses of her softer side in photos with friends. And then... there was Retsuko.

At first, he looked at her photos with the usual pang of guilt that accompanied his thoughts about their strained marriage. But as he clicked deeper into her account, he found older photos—images he hadn’t seen in years, ones that stirred feelings he hadn’t let himself dwell on. There was one of her and her mother, taken at some family gathering long before they were married. Her mom was smiling warmly, her features echoing Retsuko’s but with a maturity and grace that caught Haida off guard.

And that’s when it happened.

Haida set the phone down for a moment, his heart racing as the realization of where his thoughts were headed settled in. He knew it was wrong—objectively, morally, unequivocally wrong—but the pull of those thoughts, those feelings, was stronger than his sense of shame. His hand moved instinctively, his mind spinning through the images he had just seen. Washimi, Tsunoda, Fenneko… Retsuko. And then her mom.

He let himself go completely, giving in to the unsavory thoughts he’d tried so hard to suppress. The act itself was almost mechanical, but the mental release it brought him was profound. For the first time that day, the knot of tension in his chest loosened, replaced by a strange sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t pride—far from it. It was more like relief, the kind that came from giving in to something you’ve been fighting for too long.

When it was over, Haida lay there, his chest rising and falling as he stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet again, the faint sound of traffic outside the only noise breaking the stillness. He grabbed a tissue from the bedside table, cleaning himself up mechanically, his thoughts racing even as his body began to settle.

He should have felt ashamed. He knew he should have. Yet instead of shame, there was something else—a strange, twisted sense of clarity. For the first time in what felt like weeks, maybe months, his mind wasn’t clouded with indecision and self-loathing. Giving in to those guilty thoughts, those taboo fantasies, felt oddly... freeing.

Haida reached for his phone again, scrolling back through the photos he had lingered on earlier. His rational mind told him to stop, to close the app and do something more productive, something that didn’t feel like he was spiraling deeper into his worst tendencies. But he didn’t listen. He didn’t want to listen.

His thumb hovered over the screen as he opened Retsuko’s account again, his eyes lingering on the images of her smiling with her friends, her family, her mother. It was wrong—he knew it was wrong—but that realization didn’t stop him. Instead, it fueled a strange epiphany that had been bubbling beneath the surface ever since last night.

He liked it. All of it. The fantasies he had kept locked away, the urges he had tried to suppress—all of it felt like a release, a way to reclaim something he hadn’t even realized he’d lost.

Haida sat up, running a hand through his fur as he tried to make sense of the tangled mess of thoughts in his head. His rational mind was still screaming at him, reminding him that this wasn’t who he was supposed to be, that this wasn’t what a good husband—or even a good person—did. But another part of him, quieter but insistent, whispered something different.

What if this was just who he was now?

What if giving in to these urges wasn’t a failure but a kind of freedom? What if, instead of fighting it, he embraced it—fully, unapologetically? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. He thought back to Shikabane, to the way she had looked at him last night, the way she had teased him about his awkward sincerity. She had seen something in him that he hadn’t dared to see in himself: a person capable of taking what he wanted without overthinking it, without drowning in guilt.

Haida’s grip on his phone tightened as a new idea began to take shape. He wanted more. More nights like last night, more moments where he didn’t have to second-guess himself, more of the strange, electrifying satisfaction that came from crossing the lines he had always been too afraid to approach.

He wanted to sleep with more women—not out of love or even lust, but out of a need to feel that freedness again. To reclaim control over his life in the most primal, unfiltered way possible. It wasn’t about romance. It was about liberation.

The thought startled him at first, but the more he turned it over in his mind, the more it began to feel like truth. He didn’t want to be the guy who played by the rules anymore. He didn’t want to be the husband who sat at home waiting for a wife who barely seemed to notice him anymore. He wanted to be the version of himself he had glimpsed last night—the version who didn’t apologize for what he wanted.

Of course, there were consequences. There would always be consequences. But for the first time, Haida found himself wondering if the risk might be worth it. What if the guilt wasn’t something to fear but something to embrace? What if indulging his desires was the key to feeling whole again?

As the morning sun crept through the blinds, Haida swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his movements slow but deliberate. He still didn’t know exactly what he was going to do with the rest of his day, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to spend it fighting himself.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on as he headed for the door. For better or worse, something had changed in him. And while he didn’t know where this new path would lead, he wasn’t going to turn back now.

He contemplated texting Shikabane again, the memory of last night still vivid in his mind. The temptation was strong, but he hesitated. Having just indulged in his own fucked up thoughts, his mood wasn’t quite there yet. It was like a fire that had burned bright and now smoldered, not extinguished but not roaring either.

Letting out a sigh, Haida set the phone down and stood, stretching briefly before heading to the bathroom. The warm spray of the shower helped clear his mind, the water washing away the lingering tension in his muscles. He closed his eyes and let the steam envelop him, trying to make sense of the strange mix of emotions coursing through him. Guilt, confidence, freedom, confusion—it was all tangled together in a knot he couldn’t quite untie.

When he stepped out and toweled off, he caught his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he stared at himself, his damp fur slightly disheveled, his eyes holding a strange mixture of exhaustion and something harder to define. Determination, maybe. Or defiance.

Pulling on a fresh shirt and his leather jacket, Haida grabbed his keys and left the apartment. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but his feet seemed to carry him with purpose, as though some invisible force was guiding him. The streets of Tokyo were alive with their usual bustle, the chatter of pedestrians and the hum of traffic providing a familiar backdrop as he walked.

It wasn’t until he turned a corner and saw the old building in the distance that he realized where he was headed: the internet café.

He hadn’t been back since those difficult days when he had called it home, a place of refuge when he had nowhere else to go. It was where he had first met Shikabane, their paths crossing in the dim glow of computer screens and the haze of late-night gaming sessions. The café had been a haven, a strange little pocket of stability in a time when his life felt completely untethered. And now, for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, he felt drawn back to it.

Haida slowed as he approached, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. The building looked different now, though the structure was the same. The once-faded sign had been replaced with something sleek and modern, the faint outline of construction scaffolding still visible on the side. It wasn’t entirely open yet—he’d heard it was under new management—but something about the sight of it stirred a deep sense of nostalgia within him.

Why was he here?

It wasn’t like the café could offer him anything tangible. It wasn’t even operational yet, and even if it were, he didn’t need a place to stay anymore. But the pull wasn’t about practicality—it was about memory. About trying to connect with a part of himself slipping away.

Standing in front of the doors, Haida peered through the glass, his breath fogging up the surface slightly. The inside was a mix of old and new—some of the original layout remained, but it was clear the new management was transforming the place into something sleeker, more high-tech. It didn’t look like the place he had known. And yet, it still held a strange familiarity, like an old photograph with new colors painted over it.

He leaned back, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he stared at the building. The memories came flooding back—the long nights spent gaming, the camaraderie he’d shared with the other regulars, and, of course, the first time he had met Shikabane. She had been so different from anyone else he’d known, her sharp wit and detached demeanor masking a depth he had only started to understand.

Maybe that was why he’d come here—to reconnect with that feeling, that time when things were simpler in their chaos. When he hadn’t been trying so hard to fit into a mold that didn’t seem to suit him. When he hadn’t been trapped in a marriage he didn’t know how to navigate.

He stepped back from the door, glancing around the street as if expecting to see someone he knew. But the sidewalk was empty, save for the occasional passerby who paid him no attention. He debated going inside, but the sign on the door made it clear the café wasn’t accepting customers yet.

Still, Haida didn’t move. Something inside him was calling him to this place, even if he didn’t fully understand why. Maybe it was the pull of nostalgia, or maybe it was the hope of finding some kind of answer—or even just a sense of clarity. Whatever it was, it kept him rooted to the spot, staring at the building like it held the key to a question he hadn’t yet figured out how to ask.

As he stood there, the memories continued to wash over him, a mix of bitterness and warmth. He didn’t know if he was looking for redemption, escape, or something else entirely. But for now, standing in front of the café, there was a strange sense of peace, even if it was fleeting.

Haida hesitated for a moment at the entrance of the café, the faint scent of sawdust and fresh paint wafting through the door as it swung open. A low hum of activity filled the space—the sounds of drills, hammers, and distant conversation echoing off the walls. The interior was almost unrecognizable from what he remembered. Where there had once been rows of dimly lit cubicles and cluttered desks, now stood scaffolding, half-finished walls, and gleaming new fixtures that seemed to signal a completely different vision for the place.

Before he could take another step, a construction worker in a reflective vest spotted him. The man, a stout figure with a clipboard tucked under his arm, approached Haida briskly. “Ah, you must be the safety inspector. About time you got here,” the man said, thrusting a red hardhat into Haida’s hands without waiting for a reply.

Haida opened his mouth to correct him but faltered. Something about the worker’s no-nonsense tone made him decide against it. Instead, he muttered, “Uh, yeah, thanks,” and slipped the hardhat onto his head. The red helmet stood out starkly from the orange, white, and yellow ones worn by the other workers, marking him as something apart—a role he wasn’t entirely sure how to play but wasn’t about to argue against.

Wandering deeper into the café, Haida tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. The place was changing—drastically. The faint smell of old carpet and the muffled hum of computer fans were gone, replaced by an air of polished sterility that felt foreign and impersonal. New walls were being installed to create private rooms, and sleek signs with placeholders for premium services hung on temporary partitions. The muted charm of the old café, with its lived-in feel and sense of community, had been replaced by something corporate and pristine.

It didn’t take long for Haida to figure out what the new owners had in mind. This wasn’t going to be an internet café for people down on their luck, looking for a cheap place to stay and escape the grind of their daily lives. It was being transformed into something entirely different—an upscale hybrid between a capsule hotel and a trendy gaming lounge. A place where gainfully employed people or influencers could sip overpriced lattes in ergonomic gaming chairs while streaming their latest conquests online.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

As he wandered through the partially finished halls, Haida’s mind drifted back to his own time here. The nights spent hunched over a keyboard, desperately job hunting or losing himself in games to forget how precarious his situation had been. The camaraderie with other regulars who shared the same struggles—silent nods of understanding, shared tips on where to find cheap meals, or lone nights gaming side by side, united by the unspoken bond of hardship.

This place had been a lifeline for him, a necessity born out of desperation. And now, it was being rebranded into something trendy, something marketable to people who would never understand what it meant to rely on a place like this to survive. To them, it was just a quirky alternative to a hotel, a novelty they could Instagram and move on from.

Haida stopped in one of the unfinished rooms, his hand brushing against the frame of a newly installed door. It was sleek and modern, its polished edges reflecting the overhead lights. He sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his thoughts. This wasn’t just a renovation—it was an erasure of everything the café had once represented.

For people like him, places like this were disappearing. The spaces where the lines between survival and escapism blurred, where the walls didn’t judge you for how far you’d fallen or how little you had left to give—those were being replaced with designer aesthetics and premium memberships. The people who would come here after the renovations were done wouldn’t know what it felt like to sit in the dark corner of an old cubicle, counting the last yen in their pocket and hoping it would be enough to stay one more night.

The gentrification of something so essential felt almost cruel. Haida clenched his fists at his sides, his mind swimming with conflicting emotions. He was no longer homeless, no longer in the same position he had been back then, but the loss still felt personal. The thought that this place would never again be a refuge for someone like him—someone scared and scraping by—stung in a way he hadn’t expected.

He looked around at the workers bustling past him, most of them too busy to notice his presence. Some were installing high-tech equipment, others laying down carpet that was far too expensive-looking for a place that once smelled faintly of spilled soda and burnt-out monitors. Haida couldn’t help but feel like a ghost walking through his own memories, watching them be overwritten with something shinier but far emptier.

This place had saved him once, in its own way. Now, it felt like it was being taken away—not from him, but from the countless others who might have needed it as he once had.

Turning to leave, Haida reached up to adjust the red hardhat, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. It felt like an emblem of his own displacement, a reminder that he no longer belonged here, not in the way he once did. As he made his way back to the entrance, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the construction, at the bright future the café was being built for, and felt an ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain.

Haida was just about to hand the red hardhat back to the worker at the door when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Well, color me surprised. Haida, is that you?”

Haida froze, turning slowly to see none other than Tadano, casually striding through the half-renovated café. His unmistakable presence filled the room, as it always seemed to, effortlessly commanding attention without even trying. Tadano’s crisp white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, his tie loosened just enough to make him look both professional and approachable. He carried a paper bag with the logo of a nearby restaurant in one hand and his signature easygoing grin on his face.

“T-Tadano?” Haida stammered, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “You’re the... owner? That’s right, you did buy this place, huh… In fact, didn’t I suggest that even?”

Tadano chuckled, adjusting the bag in his hand. “That’s right! Figured it had potential, you know? Turn it into something fresh, something people will actually want to stay at.” He gestured around the room, his expression a mix of pride and excitement. “Still a work in progress, but it’s coming together. So, what brings you here? You’re not moonlighting as a safety inspector, are you?” He nodded toward the red hardhat on Haida’s head, his grin widening.

Haida laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, no. Not exactly. I... just kind of wandered in. This place, it, uh... used to mean a lot to me. I stayed here for a while when I was, you know, down on my luck.”

Tadano’s expression softened, the humor in his eyes replaced with something more thoughtful. “I get it,” he said, his tone quieter but still warm. “Places like this can really stick with you. They’re more than just buildings, right? They’re... memories.”

“Yeah,” Haida replied, his voice barely above a mumble. He looked down at the floor, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He wasn’t sure how to feel about Tadano owning the café now. On one hand, it made sense—Tadano was always chasing new ideas, reinventing things. But on the other hand, it felt like yet another piece of his past being polished into something unrecognizable.

Tadano tilted his head slightly, studying Haida with a curious look. “Hey, you doing okay? You look... well, no offense, but a little lost.”

Haida opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. Was he okay? Not really. But how do you explain that to someone like Tadano, who always seemed to have it all figured out?

Before Haida could fumble through an answer, Tadano clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what. I just picked up some takeout, and I was heading to the back office to eat. Why don’t you join me? We can catch up properly. It’s been a while.”

Haida blinked, surprised by the offer. “Oh, I, uh... I don’t want to intrude or anything.”

“Nonsense,” Tadano said, waving off the concern. “I’ve got plenty of food, and I could use the company. Come on. It’ll be like old times. Well, sort of.”

There was an ease to Tadano’s invitation, a casualness that made it hard to refuse. Haida hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Tadano’s grin returned, and he led Haida through the half-finished café, weaving between scaffolding and stacks of materials. They passed workers installing wiring and painters adding finishing touches to the walls, all of whom greeted Tadano with a mix of respect and familiarity. Haida couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly Tadano seemed to connect with everyone around him, as if he belonged wherever he went.

When they reached the back office, Tadano pushed the door open and gestured for Haida to follow. The room was modest compared to the sleek renovations happening outside, with a plain desk, a few chairs, and a small table where Tadano set the bag of takeout. He grabbed a couple of plates from a nearby cabinet and began unpacking the food.

“Hope you like teriyaki,” Tadano said, placing containers of steaming rice, grilled meat, and vegetables onto the table. “It’s from this great little spot down the street. Best in the area, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, teriyaki’s great,” Haida said, sitting down awkwardly in one of the chairs. He felt out of place, unsure of what to say or do. Tadano, as always, seemed completely at ease, humming softly to himself as he divided the food between their plates.

“So,” Tadano began, sliding a plate toward Haida before taking a seat across from him. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. Still working at the same place?”

Haida hesitated, poking at the rice on his plate with his chopsticks. “Yeah. Got a steady job now, so that’s... good, I guess.”

Tadano raised an eyebrow, his smile softening. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“It’s fine,” Haida said quickly, avoiding Tadano’s gaze. “Just... you know, same old grind. Work, home, repeat.”

Tadano nodded thoughtfully, taking a bite of his food. “I get it. The grind can wear on you. But hey, at least you’re keeping things steady. That’s something to be proud of.”

Tadano’s casual charm began to feel almost hypnotic. His easy laugh, his sharp observations, the way he listened with genuine interest—all of it worked together to draw Haida out of his shell in ways he hadn’t expected. Tadano wasn’t just good at making conversation; he had a knack for reading people, for peeling back the layers they tried to hide behind. It was unsettling but strangely comforting at the same time.

“So,” Tadano said between bites of his teriyaki, his tone casual but laced with curiosity, “you’ve got a steady job, a wife, the whole deal. Sounds like you’re living the dream, right?”

Haida chuckled awkwardly, his chopsticks hovering over his plate. “Yeah, I guess. It’s... fine.”

“Fine, huh?” Tadano repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly a glowing endorsement. Come on, Haida. I’m not gonna judge. What’s really going on?”

Haida hesitated, his gaze dropping to his plate. Something about Tadano’s tone, the way he asked the question without pushing too hard, made it feel safe to answer. “It’s just... I don’t know. Marriage is hard, I guess. Harder than I thought it would be.”

“Of course it is,” Tadano said with a knowing nod. “People act like marriage is the endgame, like you cross some magical finish line and everything’s perfect after that. But it’s not. It’s work. And sometimes, it’s not even worth the work.”

Haida blinked, surprised by Tadano’s bluntness. “You really think that?”

Tadano leaned back in his chair, his chopsticks tapping lightly against the edge of his plate. “I think people lie to themselves about what they want out of marriage. They think it’s about love, commitment, all that romantic stuff. But a lot of the time, it’s just... convenience. Or expectations. You get married because that’s what you’re supposed to do, not because it’s what you really want.”

Haida shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the burden of Tadano’s words settling heavily in his chest. He didn’t want to agree, but he couldn’t deny that some of it hit close to home. “Yeah... maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe?” Tadano said with a sly grin. “Come on, Haida. You can be honest with me. What’s really going on in that head of yours?”

And that’s when it happened. The floodgates opened. Haida didn’t even know why—maybe it was the way Tadano looked at him, like he wasn’t judging, like he actually cared. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of carrying everything inside for so long. Whatever the reason, Haida found himself spilling everything: the distance growing between him and Retsuko, his feelings of inadequacy, the nights spent alone in their apartment wondering what had gone wrong. And finally, the confession that had been weighing on him since last night.

“I... I cheated,” Haida said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Last night. With someone I used to know.”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Haida braced himself for Tadano’s reaction, expecting shock, disappointment, maybe even disgust. But Tadano didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Haida’s face.

“Well,” Tadano said finally, his tone calm but thoughtful. “That’s... surprising. But not entirely unexpected.”

Haida’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it takes guts to admit something like that,” Tadano replied, leaning forward slightly. “Most people would keep it buried, pretend it never happened. But you’re owning it. That’s... brave, in its own way.”

Haida let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Brave? It doesn’t feel brave. It feels... terrible.”

Tadano shrugged, his expression thoughtful. “Terrible, sure. But honest. And that’s more than most people can say.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Tadano leaned back in his chair again, a faint smile playing at his lips. “You know, this is exactly why I don’t believe in marriage.”

Haida blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Marriage,” Tadano said, gesturing with his chopsticks, “is a dying institution. Especially in modern Japanese society. Look around you—how many people do you know who are actually happy in their marriages? I’m not talking about the ones who pretend to be happy for the sake of appearances. I mean really happy.”

Haida frowned, his mind racing. He didn’t have an answer.

“Exactly,” Tadano said, as if Haida’s silence had proved his point. “Monogamy, marriage, the whole thing—it’s outdated. People are clinging to it because it’s tradition, because it’s what their parents did, because they think it’s the only way to live. But the world’s changing. People are changing. We’re not built to live like this anymore.”

“So... what’s the alternative?” Haida asked, his voice hesitant.

Tadano’s grin widened. “Freedom. Honesty. Letting go of these arbitrary rules we’ve created for ourselves. Why limit yourself to one person for the rest of your life? Why force yourself into a mold that doesn’t fit?”

Haida shifted in his seat, his thoughts swirling. He wanted to argue, to push back against Tadano’s cynicism. But a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth in his words. Was he unhappy because of marriage itself, or because he was trying to live up to an ideal that didn’t match who he really was?

“You think everyone should just... give up on marriage?” Haida asked finally.

“Not give up,” Tadano said, his tone thoughtful. “Just rethink it. Redefine it. Make it something that works for you, not something you force yourself into because society says you should. And if that means letting go of the whole idea? Then yeah, maybe it’s time to move on.”

Haida stared at his plate, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Tadano’s words were unsettling, but they were also liberating in a way he hadn’t expected. For the first time, he felt like someone was giving him permission to question everything he’d been taught to believe.

And that, more than anything, scared him.

Chapter Text

Tadano leaned back in his chair, setting down his chopsticks and letting the silence hang between them for a moment. Haida fidgeted, unsure of what to say or do next. The ghost of his confession was still heavy in the air, and he felt exposed, vulnerable, in a way that made him want to retreat. But Tadano’s calm demeanor was disarming, making it impossible to pull away entirely.

“So,” Tadano said, breaking the quiet with a thoughtful tone, “let’s talk about The Scary Things.”

Haida blinked, confused. “The... what?”

“The Scary Things,” Tadano repeated, his voice calm but with a hint of gravity that caught Haida off guard. “The stuff no one wants to talk about. The stuff we all shove into a little box and pretend doesn’t exist. Fear, doubt, guilt, shame—all the things that make us who we are but we’re too afraid to face.”

Haida frowned, feeling the discomfort rise in his chest. “Uh... okay. And what does that have to do with...?”

“With everything,” Tadano interrupted gently, leaning forward slightly. “Every man has a coward inside of him. A little voice that tells him to run away, to hide, to bury his head in the sand. And that coward? He’s the vessel for all The Scary Things. Every fear you’ve ever had, every doubt you’ve ever pushed aside, every truth you’ve refused to acknowledge—it all lives in that coward. And most of us spend our whole lives avoiding him.”

Haida swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “That’s... a bit heavy.”

Tadano smiled faintly. “Yeah, it is. But it’s true. And until you face that coward, until you confront The Scary Things, you’re just going to keep running in circles.”

Haida didn’t know how to respond. The words felt too close to home, like Tadano had somehow peered into his soul and pulled out the things he didn’t want to admit even to himself. He looked down at his plate, the remains of his meal now forgotten as his thoughts churned.

“And speaking of scary things,” Tadano continued, his tone still calm but pointed, “let me ask you something. Have you ever considered that Retsuko might be... doing the same thing you are?”

Haida’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “What? No. I mean... she wouldn’t.”

Tadano raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t she? You just told me you cheated, Haida. Do you think you’re the only one struggling in your marriage? The only one feeling unfulfilled?”

The words hit Haida like a punch to the gut. His mind raced, flashes of doubt and jealousy rising unbidden. He thought about the nights Retsuko came home late from work, the times she seemed distracted or distant. He thought about the photos on her social media, the people she spent time with. Could she be...?

“That’s... different,” Haida stammered, his chest tightening. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe she’s not happy, but that doesn’t mean...”

“It doesn’t mean anything for sure,” Tadano agreed, his voice steady. “But it’s more common than you think. Married women in Japan cheat all the time. It’s not even a secret—half the time, it’s with someone they know. A co-worker, a friend. Someone convenient.”

Haida’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as the jealousy surged inside him. The idea of Retsuko being with someone else, of her sharing that same kind of intimacy with another person, made his stomach churn. But then, like a cold wave crashing over him, another thought struck him: he was a hypocrite.

“I’m no better,” Haida muttered, his voice heavy with guilt. “I did the same thing. I... I can’t even be mad, can I?”

Tadano nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “No, you can’t. And maybe that’s the point.”

Haida looked up at him, confusion etched across his face. “The point?”

“Think about it,” Tadano said, leaning forward slightly. “You both have your secrets. You both have your struggles. But maybe... maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe those secrets are what keep you going. What let you stay together without tearing each other apart.”

Haida frowned, his mind spinning. “You’re saying it’s... good? That we’re both lying to each other?”

“I’m saying it might be necessary,” Tadano replied. “Think about it. If you both admitted everything, if you laid all your cards on the table, what would happen? Would it bring you closer, or would it destroy everything?”

Haida opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He didn’t know the answer. The idea of confessing everything to Retsuko felt impossible, like it would only widen the already growing gap between them.

“Sometimes,” Tadano continued, his tone softer now, “secrets aren’t about betrayal. They’re about survival. You and Retsuko... you’re both navigating your own paths, figuring out what you need to be okay. And maybe, just maybe, keeping those paths separate is the only way to stay together.”

Haida stared at him, his thoughts a chaotic mess. The jealousy, the guilt, the strange sense of relief—it all swirled together, leaving him feeling more lost than ever. But there was also a small, stubborn part of him that couldn’t ignore the truth in Tadano’s words.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” Haida asked finally, his voice quiet. “The marriage, I mean. Do you think there’s anything left to save?”

Tadano smiled faintly, his eyes thoughtful. “Only you can answer that, Haida. But if you want my opinion? As long as there’s something worth fighting for—some connection, some shared history—it’s worth trying. Just... don’t expect it to be perfect. Nothing ever is.”

Haida nodded slowly, the conversation settling over him like a heavy blanket. He didn’t have all the answers, and he had no idea what his next move would be.

Tadano leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he reached for a small container sitting on the corner of the desk. With a casual flourish, he opened it, revealing a smooth, glistening chocolate flan. Its rich aroma filled the small office, the scent of bittersweet cocoa mingling with the faint tang of caramelized sugar.

“Dessert?” Tadano offered, sliding the container toward Haida. “It’s a Spanish-style chocolate flan. One of my favorites. Rich but not too heavy.”

Haida hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should accept after everything they’d just discussed. But his stomach—and the enticing smell—got the better of him. “Uh, sure. Thanks,” he said, taking the flan and a spoon Tadano handed him.

The first bite was heavenly. The creamy texture melted in his mouth, the bittersweet chocolate perfectly balanced by the caramel’s warmth. For a brief moment, Haida allowed himself to savor it, letting the complexities of their conversation fade into the background.

Tadano, however, wasn’t finished. He watched Haida with an amused expression before leaning forward, his tone shifting to something more contemplative. “You know, Haida, I’ve been thinking. About your... situation. About where you are right now.”

Haida paused mid-bite, glancing up at him. “What about it?”

“I think you should keep going,” Tadano said simply, his voice steady but pointed. “Continue on this journey of yours. See where it takes you.”

Haida blinked, setting the spoon down as his brow furrowed. “What? You mean... keep cheating? Why would you—?” He stopped, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Is this about Retsuko? Because you used to—”

Tadano raised a hand, cutting him off with a small laugh. “Relax, Haida. This isn’t about me trying to get back at Retsuko or anything like that. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

Haida frowned, his confusion deepening. “The opposite?”

Tadano nodded, his expression calm but earnest. “I care about Retsuko, sure. And I hope she’s out there having as much fun as possible. I hope she’s finding people who make her feel alive, who help her break free from the expectations society places on her. And honestly, Haida? I want the same for you.”

Haida leaned forward, trying to process what he was hearing. “You want me to... cheat more? How does that make any sense?”

Tadano smiled, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Because, Haida, the rules we’re living by—they don’t make sense. They’re outdated, arbitrary, designed to keep people confined to roles they didn’t choose for themselves. Monogamy, marriage, all these societal norms—they’re not about love or connection. They’re about control. And I think you and Retsuko both deserve better than that.”

Haida shook his head, still struggling to wrap his mind around Tadano’s perspective. “But... isn’t that just making things worse? If we’re both out there, doing whatever we want, doesn’t that destroy everything we’ve built?”

“Maybe,” Tadano admitted with a shrug. “But maybe what you’ve built isn’t worth keeping if it’s only making you both miserable. Or maybe—and this is the part that people never talk about—it could actually save your relationship.”

Haida’s eyes narrowed. “Save it? How?”

Tadano leaned forward again, his voice dropping slightly. “Because it frees you both from the pressure of being everything to each other. You stop trying to fit into some perfect mold of what a husband or wife should be, and you start figuring out what actually works for you. You both get to explore, to grow, to find out what you really want—without tearing each other down in the process.”

Haida looked away, his thoughts spinning. The idea felt radical, almost absurd. But there was a small part of him that couldn’t dismiss it entirely, that wondered if Tadano might be onto something.

“You’re... different,” Haida said finally, his tone drifting off. “I don’t get why you think like this.”

Tadano chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “It’s all about perspective, Haida. Take the kanji for ‘society.’ It’s written to look like people holding each other up, right? A noble idea, in theory.”

Haida nodded hesitantly. “Yeah. So?”

“So,” Tadano continued, his grin widening, “what if we’ve been interpreting it wrong? What if those figures aren’t holding each other up—they’re pulling each other down? Dragging people from the top back to the bottom, so no one gets ahead. That’s what society really is, isn’t it? A constant struggle to keep people in line, to make sure no one steps out of place.”

Haida blinked, surprised by the sharpness of Tadano’s words. “That’s... bleak.”

“Maybe,” Tadano said, his tone softening slightly. “But it’s also freeing. Because once you stop worrying about being on top or doing things the ‘right’ way, you start focusing on what actually matters: equality. Not in the sense of everyone being the same, but in the sense of no one holding moral high ground over anyone else. No one trying to control anyone else.”

Haida sat back, his mind racing. “You know... my brother’s been talking about this kind of stuff lately. He’s a politician, and he’s been pushing for reforms—breaking down some of the old norms. I didn’t think much of it at first, but... maybe he’s onto something.”

Tadano smiled, nodding approvingly. “Sounds like he is. The world’s changing, Haida. People are starting to question the systems that have kept them locked in place for so long. And you? You’re in a unique position to figure out what works for you. Not what society says you should do, not what anyone else expects—what you want.”

Haida stared at the now-empty container of flan, his thoughts a tangled mess. He didn’t have all the answers, but Tadano’s words had planted something in his mind—a seed of possibility, a question he couldn’t ignore.

“Maybe,” Haida said quietly, more to himself than to Tadano. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Here’s to figuring it out, Haida. Whatever ‘it’ ends up being.” Tadano’s grin widened, and he raised his glass of water in a mock toast. “Maybe we should give each other some homework, to make the process go by a little smoother.”

Haida leaned forward even more so, his elbows resting on the table as he listened intently to Tadano’s words. The air in the room felt charged, the conversation taking a turn that was both exhilarating and unsettling. The flan sat forgotten in front of him as Tadano’s sharp, calculating eyes held his own.

“Homework?” Haida repeated, his voice tinged with confusion. “What kind of homework are we talking about here?”

Tadano leaned back in his chair, his smile shifting into something more enigmatic. “Not the boring kind, that’s for sure. Think of it as a cooperative effort—a way for us both to push past the limits society has placed on us. You’re not the only one who feels stuck, Haida. I’ve been wanting to take this journey myself for a while now. And, well, it seems like we’re in the same boat.”

Haida frowned, the knot of doubt in his chest tightening. “A journey?”

Tadano nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Exactly. A journey to deconstruct ourselves, to strip away all the baggage and expectations we’ve been carrying for years. Think about it—how can you know what you really want, what you’re truly capable of, if you don’t first break down the framework society has built around you?”

Haida’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. The idea was radical, almost absurd, but there was something undeniably compelling about it. He’d spent so much of his life trying to live up to expectations—his family’s, society’s, Retsuko’s. What if there was another way?

“So... what are you suggesting?” Haida asked hesitantly.

Tadano’s grin widened, his voice dropping slightly. “We draft up a plan. A cooperative effort to free ourselves from modern conventions and concepts. But before we start building a better version of ourselves, we need to break down the old versions. We need to deconstruct who we are—strip away all the pretense, all the fear, all the rules that have been holding us back.”

Haida felt a chill run down his spine, a mix of excitement and apprehension. He wasn’t sure if it was the flan, the conversation, or Tadano himself, but something about this felt almost... dangerous. Still, he couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop himself from being drawn in.

“Deconstruct ourselves?” Haida repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Exactly,” Tadano said, his tone taking on a sharper edge. “Before we can rebuild, we need to face the parts of ourselves we’ve been avoiding. And that means doing things that scare us. Things that challenge us. Things that force us to see the world—and ourselves—differently.”

Haida swallowed hard, the knot in his chest loosening just enough for curiosity to take hold. “Like what?”

Tadano’s eyes sparkled with a strange intensity as he leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against the table. “Three things. Three reckless acts. Consider them a trial by fire, a way to burn away the old you and make room for something new.”

He held up a finger. “First: Go out and have sex with someone you don’t know and aren’t even attracted to. It’s not about the pleasure—it’s about confronting your own discomfort and realizing that desire isn’t always about perfection or connection. It’s raw, messy, and primal.”

Haida’s jaw dropped slightly, but before he could object, Tadano raised a second finger. “Second: Get into a fight. A real one. And lose. Feel what it’s like to be powerless, to face physical vulnerability head-on. It’s humbling, but it’s also liberating.”

Haida’s stomach churned at the thought, but Tadano pressed on, raising a third finger. “And finally: Commit a petty crime. Nothing serious, just something that forces you to challenge authority in a tangible way. A little act of rebellion to remind yourself that the rules aren’t set in stone.”

The room fell silent as Tadano let his words sink in, his gaze locked on Haida’s. The weight of the suggestions hung in the air like a challenge, daring Haida to step outside his comfort zone.

Haida’s mind reeled. The ideas were insane—borderline reckless—but there was a strange logic to them, a twisted kind of sense that he couldn’t ignore. He thought about how he’d always fallen into other people’s power plays, how he’d let himself be swept along by stronger personalities. But this... this felt different. Tadano wasn’t trying to manipulate him. He was inviting him. Offering him a chance to break free from the constraints that had held him down for so long.

“I don’t know...” Haida said finally, his voice trailing off. “This seems... a lot.”

Tadano shrugged, his expression softening slightly. “It is. But so is life, Haida. You’ve been playing it safe for too long. You’ve been trying to fit into a mold that doesn’t suit you. This isn’t about being reckless for the sake of it—it’s about discovering who you really are when all the rules are stripped away.”

Haida looked down at the table, his thoughts a swirling mess. The idea of doing any of those things terrified him, but it also intrigued him. He thought about the way Tadano was looking at him—not with pity or condescension, but as an equal. Someone who saw him not for who he was, but for who he could become.

“Alright,” Haida said finally, his voice steadier than he expected. “I’ll do it. But... only if you do it too.”

Tadano’s grin returned, wide and genuine. “Deal,” he said, extending a hand. “Let’s burn it all down, Haida. And then, let’s build something better.”

As Haida shook Tadano’s hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of something monumental. Whether it was a breakthrough or a breakdown, he didn’t know.

—-

Retsuko sat on the edge of Hyodo’s bed, her posture slightly hunched as she rubbed her lower back and adjusted her skirt. Her face was flushed, not just from exertion but from the lingering embarrassment of their earlier activity.

“I didn’t think sodomy would be so... taxing,” she muttered, her voice laced with a mix of annoyance and amusement. “I mean, no one tells you how much it’s going to feel like... a workout.”

Hyodo, reclining on a lounge chair near the bed, exhaled a slow stream of smoke from his cigarette. His casual demeanor contrasted sharply with her flustered state, his shirt unbuttoned and draped loosely over his shoulders. “First time’s always the roughest,” he said with a smirk, his tone teasing but not unkind. “You get used to it. Or, you know, not.”

A nearby camcorder on a stand had recorded the relentless ass-fucking in great detail. It would become one of Hyodo’s favorite personal home videos, no doubt.

Retsuko shot him a glare but said nothing, focusing instead on the OTMGirls outfit draped across a nearby chair. The once-pristine fabric was now wrinkled and marked in places, stained with the unmistakable remnants of their intimacy. She grimaced, picking up the jacket gingerly between two fingers. “Great. This is ruined,” she said with a sigh, holding it up for inspection.

Hyodo chuckled, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Think of it as a memento,” he said, with dry humor. “Adds character.”

Retsuko rolled her eyes, her blush deepening. “Not exactly the kind of character I was going for.”

As she slipped back into her street clothes, she glanced over her shoulder at Hyodo, who seemed lost in thought, the cigarette between his fingers slowly burning down. The silence between them was comfortable, but it was clear he had something on his mind.

“What?” she asked, turning to face him. “You’re staring.”

Hyodo took another drag, his gaze steady but contemplative. “You ever think about what happens to idols after they’re done?” he asked, his tone casual but carrying an edge of curiosity.

Retsuko blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Hyodo said, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette, “you’ve seen the headlines. A lot of them end up in JAV.”

The room fell silent for a beat as Retsuko processed his words. Her face turned an even deeper shade of red, and she waved her hands in front of her defensively. “What? No! That’s... I mean, I’ve never thought about that. Why would you even bring it up?”

Hyodo shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Because it happens more often than you’d think. Some of them don’t have a choice. Others... well, they see it as a way to stay in the spotlight. Different kind of audience, sure, but it’s still attention.”

Retsuko’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The thought unsettled her, not just because of the stigma associated with the industry, but because she could see the faint thread of logic in what he was saying. “I mean, isn’t that... kind of depressing?” she said finally, her voice more soft.

“Depends on how you look at it,” Hyodo replied, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the tray. “For some, it’s liberation. No more contracts, no more fake smiles for fans who’ll turn on you the second you show a hint of humanity. Just... doing what they want. Owning it.”

Retsuko frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s one way to spin it. But it’s not exactly the dream they started out chasing, is it?”

Hyodo’s gaze met hers, his expression sharp but not unkind. “Dreams change, Retsuko. Sometimes by choice, sometimes not. The real question is, what do you do when the dream’s over? Do you sit around mourning it, or do you adapt?”

The words struck a chord in Retsuko, and she looked away, her thoughts racing. She thought about her own journey—from being an ordinary office worker to the unexpected rise of OTMGirls, and now, the uncertain in-between space where she felt both empowered and trapped. She wasn’t sure what her dream was anymore, or if she even had one.

“So what are you saying?” she asked finally, her voice hesitant. “That it’s just... inevitable?”

Hyodo shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “Not inevitable. Just an option. One of many. You’re smart, Retsuko. You’ve got options most people don’t. But the world’s not kind to people who cling to what’s gone. You either evolve, or you get left behind.”

Retsuko bit her lip, his words sinking in deeper than she wanted to admit. She didn’t want to imagine herself in that position, didn’t want to think about the possibility of falling so far from the life she had worked so hard to build. But at the same time, she couldn’t ignore the truth in what Hyodo was saying. The world didn’t stop for anyone.

As Hyodo finished his cigarette and snuffed it out in the tray, he gave her a pointed look. “Relax, I’m not saying this is where you’re headed. Just... something to think about. A reminder that you’ve got more control over your life than you think. Don’t let the world decide for you.”

Retsuko nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the stained OTMGirls outfit. It wasn’t the kind of reminder she wanted, but it was a reminder nonetheless. One she wasn’t sure she could ignore.

“So,” Hyodo said, his tone casual as he glanced at her. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day? Head home? Back to reality?”

Retsuko huffed, crossing her arms as she looked away. “Yeah, something like that,” she muttered. “I’ve got a lot to think about after this... conversation.”

Hyodo chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. “Glad I could give you something to chew on,” he said, stepping closer. His expression shifted slightly, his usual teasing edge softening into something more curious. “Though... if you’re not in a rush, we could always... you know, keep the conversation going.”

Retsuko raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching as if she were about to snap back with one of her usual quips. But then her gaze faltered, her thoughts clearly drifting elsewhere. “Hyodo, I’m not... sure that’s a good idea,” she said finally, though her tone lacked its usual conviction.

Hyodo tilted his head, studying her carefully. “Not a good idea, or just an uncomfortable one?” he asked, his voice dropping slightly, the words laced with a quiet challenge.

Retsuko flushed, standing and pacing a small circle before looking back at him. “I don’t know, okay? Last time was... I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s not something I ever thought I’d try, let alone twice.”

Hyodo’s smirk widened, but there was no mockery in his expression—just an easy confidence that seemed to pull her in despite herself. “No pressure, Retsuko,” he said, his tone light. “But if you’re curious, there’s no harm in exploring. It’s not about getting it perfect. It’s about figuring out what works for you.”

Retsuko sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It can be,” Hyodo said, stepping closer. “But only if you want it to be. No expectations, no judgment. Just... curiosity.”

She hesitated, her thoughts spinning as she weighed the decision. Part of her wanted to laugh it off, to decline and walk out the door, leaving the awkwardness behind. But another part of her—a quieter, more daring part—felt intrigued. Why not get used to it? she thought, her face burning at the idea.

“Fine,” she said suddenly, crossing her arms and fixing him with a determined look. “But only because I want to get better at it.”

Hyodo raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Hey, I’m just here to help,” he said, his voice light but sincere. “No expectations, remember?”

As they moved closer, the atmosphere shifted, the tension between them growing thicker but not uncomfortable. Retsuko couldn’t quite explain the mix of nervousness and curiosity that bubbled inside her, but for now, she decided to lean into it—into the strange, unexpected dynamic they had found themselves exploring.

Retsuko huffed as she adjusted her position, her face bright red as she muttered under her breath. Preparing her ass for another dose of his cum.

“This better be worth it,” she grumbled, her usual deadpan tone tinged with embarrassment. “I swear, if I can’t sit down properly tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

Hyodo chuckled, leaning back slightly and giving her an amused grin. “You’ll be fine. This is all about progress, Retsuko. Modest steps. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” In his hand, he prepared his prick again.

“Yeah, yeah,” she shot back, waving a hand dismissively. “But Rome didn’t have to deal with this.”

Her comment was punctuated by a slightly awkward noise as he pushed into her asshole again, somewhere between a squeak and a groan, as she shifted again, her determination battling with her discomfort. “Ugh! I sound like a deflating balloon!”

Hyodo’s laugh deepened, his voice warm and teasing. “It’s all part of the process,” he said, his tone taking on a mock-serious edge. “You’ve got this. Just think of it like training for a marathon. A very... specific marathon.”

“Hyodo!” Retsuko barked, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to glare at him. “Do you have to make it sound so ridiculous?”

In and out, in and out.

Retsuko’s tiny body and even tighter hole could take some surprising punishment.

“I’m just keeping you motivated,” he replied, his grin widening. “You’re doing great, by the way. Gold star for effort.”

Retsuko groaned again, her head falling forward as her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “This is so stupid,” she muttered, though there was no real malice in her tone. “Why am I even doing this?”

Such a strange thing to say now, after he already was pummeling her ass. Pushing the cum from before deeper into her. The size difference meant that his balls would slam against her and even hit her clit from behind.

“Because you’re a perfectionist,” Hyodo quipped, giving her a playful nudge. “And because you’re curious. And because deep down, you know you’re going to ace this, just like you ace everything else.”

An ace at taking it in the ass like a JAV slut.

Retsuko rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugged at her lips. “You’re the worst motivational speaker I’ve ever had.”

“And yet, here we are,” Hyodo replied, his tone light but genuine. “You’re still giving it your all. That’s what I like about you, Retsuko—you commit. Even when you think it’s dumb, you commit.”

He continued to pump into her.

Retsuko snorted, the sound loud and unladylike as she shook her head. “I hate that you’re kind of right,” she said, her voice muffled as she covered her face with her hands. “This is... weirdly empowering. In the stupidest way possible.”

“See? That’s the spirit,” Hyodo said, his voice softening slightly. “Sometimes, the things that feel the most ridiculous are the ones that end up teaching us the most.”

Retsuko peeked at him through her fingers, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You better be right about this,” she said, her tone both a warning and a joke.

“I’m always right,” Hyodo replied, winking at her. “Just ask anyone. But hey, no matter what happens, you’re a champ in my book.”

Chapter Text

Retsuko sat on the train, her hands clasped tightly around the strap of her bag as she stared out the window. The city blurred past in a haze of lights and motion, a reflection of her racing thoughts. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her cheeks flushing as she became acutely aware of a lingering sensation she couldn’t ignore. The evidence of her earlier activities with Hyodo. It clung to her, a quiet, intimate reminder that made her skin prickle with embarrassment. She crossed her legs, trying to shake the thought, but it was no use. It was there.

It was literally his cum in her ass.

The train jolted slightly, and Retsuko glanced around the carriage. It was the usual crowd of tired commuters, their faces pale and drawn under the flickering fluorescent lights. Most were too absorbed in their phones or nodding off to pay her any attention. She exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm in her chest. No one knows. She repeated the thought to herself like a mantra. No one knows. Just act normal.

But just as she began to relax, she felt it—a slight brush against her side. At first, she thought it might have been an accident, a casual bump from someone jostling for space in the crowded car. But then it happened again, more deliberate this time. Her breath caught as her gaze darted to the man standing beside her. He was older, dressed in a plain suit, his face expressionless as his hand moved just enough to brush against her thigh.

Retsuko’s heart hammered in her chest, a flash of anger surging through her. Seriously? Here? Now? The gall of it, the sheer audacity, made her blood boil. She tightened her grip on her bag, her knuckles whitening as her mind raced. For a moment, all she could think about was breaking his wrist—feeling the snap beneath her fingers, hearing him yelp in pain. She had the strength for it, she knew that much. One quick move, and he’d regret ever laying a hand on her.

But just as she prepared to act, something stopped her. Her grip loosened slightly, and she froze, her thoughts spiraling in a direction she didn’t expect. Why bother? The question echoed in her mind, tinged with a strange, unsettling curiosity. She let her shoulders relax, her breathing steadying as she considered the situation.

The man’s hand moved again, more confident now, and Retsuko didn’t flinch. She didn’t move at all. Let him. The thought came unbidden, quiet but insistent. Let him do it.

Her anger ebbed, replaced by a cold, detached sense of control. She didn’t feel helpless—far from it. She knew she could stop him at any moment, could make a scene that would leave him humiliated and probably injured. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned slightly into the movement, watching him out of the corner of her eye. His face remained impassive, but there was a nervous tension in the way he moved, as if he were waiting for her to react.

Is this what power feels like? she wondered, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wasn’t enjoying it—not exactly. But there was something darkly satisfying about holding all the cards, about letting him think he was getting away with something while she remained entirely in control. She shifted slightly, forcing him to adjust, his hand retreating momentarily before returning.

The train slowed as it approached the next station, and Retsuko glanced at the man, her expression unreadable. When the doors opened, she stood abruptly, causing him to stumble back slightly, his hand snapping to his side as if caught in the act. She didn’t say a word, didn’t even spare him a glance as she stepped off the train and onto the platform. The cool night air hit her like a wave, and she exhaled sharply, her heart still racing.

Walking toward the exit, Retsuko tried to make sense of the moment. Why didn’t I stop him? The question lingered, heavy and unanswerable. She didn’t feel violated, exactly. If anything, she was... detached. Like she had observed something about herself she hadn’t fully understood before. It wasn’t about submission or fear—it was about choice. About letting herself exist in a gray area she’d never allowed herself to explore.

As she exited the station and made her way toward her apartment, Retsuko couldn’t shake the strange mix of emotions churning inside her. Anger, curiosity, power, shame—they all swirled together, leaving her unsure of where one ended and another began. The sensation from earlier still lingered, a quiet reminder of the intimacy she’d shared with Hyodo. But now, it was like part of something larger, something she couldn’t yet define.

By the time she reached her door, the feelings had settled into a quiet hum, a faint undercurrent in the back of her mind. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar comfort of her apartment wrapping around her like a blanket. Dropping her bag on the table, she paused for a moment, staring at the darkened room.

What does this mean? she wondered, her fingers brushing against the strap of her bag. The night had revealed something about her—something she wasn’t sure she was ready to confront. But for now, she pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of her breathing and the quiet stillness of the apartment around her.

Retsuko slipped off her shoes and stepped into the quiet comfort of her apartment, the soft click of the door closing behind her the only sound breaking the stillness. She flicked on a light, bathing the space in a warm glow, and sighed deeply. It felt... good to be home. Not just because it was familiar, but because it was hers—hers alone, for the moment.

As she moved through her routine, setting her bag down, tidying the remnants of the morning rush, and pouring herself a glass of water, a thought began to form in the back of her mind. It was nice to have the apartment to herself again. It wasn’t something she wanted to admit, even to herself, but the realization crept in quietly, like the faint hum of an air conditioner you’d grown so used to you didn’t even notice it anymore.

Having a break from Haida wasn’t just tolerable—it was enjoyable.

Retsuko frowned at her own reflection in the kitchen window, guilt prickling at the edges of her thoughts. She didn’t hate him, far from it. But over time, the daily grind of their relationship had started to feel less like a partnership and more like a routine—one that left her feeling stifled and worn down. Having the apartment to herself gave her space to breathe, to think, to... be.

And then there was the other part of it. The part that had been bubbling beneath the surface for months, maybe even years. The part that made her feel even guiltier than the relief of Haida’s absence. She liked the attention from other men.

It wasn’t about replacing Haida, she told herself. It wasn’t about falling out of love or betraying him. It was about something deeper—something primal. She liked being pursued, being desired, being reminded that she was more than a wife, more than a worker, more than a cog in the endless machinery of life. She liked the thrill of the chase, the spark of curiosity in someone’s eyes, the intoxicating feeling of being wanted.

Her thoughts drifted back to Hyodo, to the way he had looked at her, the way he had made her feel like the most interesting person in the room. He wasn’t the first, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. And that was what excited her most of all. The realization that she didn’t have to limit herself to one experience, one person, one version of who she was supposed to be.

Setting the glass down on the counter, Retsuko pulled out her phone and stared at the screen for a moment. She had a sudden, overwhelming need to share this... enlightenment with someone. Not Haida—he wouldn’t understand. Not anyone at work—they’d judge her, or worse, pity her. No, she needed someone who would get it, someone who wouldn’t try to talk her out of it or make her feel worse for what she was feeling.

Puko.

The thought came to her almost immediately. Puko had always been her sounding board, her confidant in the moments when life was too heavy to carry alone. She’d always admired how Puko seemed so free, so unbound by the expectations that weighed Retsuko down. If anyone could understand what she was going through, it was her.

Retsuko opened her messaging app and hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. How did she even begin to explain this? How do you tell someone that you’re discovering a side of yourself that feels exhilarating and terrifying all at once? That you’re finding joy in something you were raised to believe was shameful?

Finally, she began typing:

Hey, Puko. Can I share something weird with you?

The message came off as tentative, almost shy, but she hit send anyway, watching as the little “delivered” icon appeared beneath the text. She didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

Of course. What’s up?

Retsuko took a deep breath, her thumbs moving quickly over the screen as she began to pour her thoughts into the conversation:

I’ve been thinking about how nice it is to have the apartment to myself again. I know it sounds bad, but it’s such a relief to get a break from Haida. Not because I don’t care about him, but because it gives me space to... I don’t know, explore things. Like meeting new people. Having them pursue me. It’s stupid, right?

There was a pause, and Retsuko’s heart pounded in her chest as she waited for the reply. When it came, she couldn’t help but smile.

That’s not stupid at all. You’re a young lady, Retsuko. And it sounds like you’re finally letting yourself feel that. So... what’s the plan?

Retsuko laughed softly, her fingers hovering over the screen as she considered the question. What was the plan? She didn’t know yet. But for the first time in a long time, she knew the possibilities were endless.

She began typing again, her thoughts spilling out with an ease that surprised her:

Honestly? I don’t have one yet. I just know I don’t want to stop. I want to see where this takes me.

As she sent the message and set the phone down on the counter, Retsuko had a strange sense of clarity. The guilt was still there, lingering at the edges of her thoughts, but it no longer felt overwhelming.

Retsuko watched as the typing indicator flickered on her phone screen. She could sense a mix of excitement and trepidation about what Puko might say. Their conversations always had a way of cutting through her insecurities, but this felt different. It was more vulnerable, more personal than anything she had shared in a while.

Finally, Puko’s reply appeared:

There’s nothing stupid about wanting to feel desired, Retsuko. We all want to be seen, to be pursued. And you’ve spent so much of your life doing what other people expect of you—it’s about time you started asking yourself what you want.

Retsuko smiled faintly, the tension in her chest easing slightly. Puko always had a way of saying the right thing, of making her feel less alone in her tangled thoughts.

Yeah, but it feels so... wrong, Retsuko typed back. Like I’m betraying everything I’m supposed to stand for. Marriage, loyalty, all that stuff.

Supposed to stand for? Puko replied almost immediately. Says who? Society? Your family? Do you even believe in all that stuff, or are you just going along with it because it’s what’s expected?

Retsuko stared at the message for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Did she believe in it? She wasn’t sure anymore. She had thought she did—she had wanted to—but the reality of marriage had turned out to be far messier, far more complicated than she’d imagined.

I don’t know, she typed. I thought I did, but now... it’s all so confusing.

Puko’s next message came quickly, as if she had been expecting that response. It’s not confusing, Retsuko. It’s just life. Marriage isn’t what it used to be. People are realizing that monogamy doesn’t work for everyone, that there are other ways to live and love. Promiscuity isn’t a dirty word anymore—it’s just natural. And for some women, it’s even a career.

Retsuko frowned, tilting her head. A career?

Yeah, Puko replied. Think about JAV actresses. Some of them are former idols, just like you. And you know what? They own it. They take control of their image, their bodies, their lives. It’s not something to pity or judge—it’s a legitimate path, and for a lot of them, it’s empowering.

Retsuko’s cheeks flushed as she read the message. The idea was startling, but she couldn’t deny that it intrigued her. I don’t know if I could ever do something like that, she replied. But... I guess I can see how it could be freeing.

Exactly, Puko typed. It’s about freedom. About choosing your own path instead of letting someone else dictate it. You don’t have to become a JAV star or anything, but maybe it’s time to stop worrying so much about what’s ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ and start asking yourself what makes you happy.

Retsuko exhaled slowly, the words sinking in. Puko was right—she had spent so much of her life chasing other people’s ideals, trying to live up to expectations that didn’t feel like her own. Maybe it was time to let go of all that. Maybe it was time to figure out who she really was.

Thanks, Puko, she typed. You’re the best.

Always here for you, Puko replied. Now go do something that makes you feel alive. You deserve it.

After their conversation ended, Retsuko set her phone down at the darkened screen. She felt lighter somehow, as if a weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying had been lifted. But alongside that lightness was a spark of curiosity, a question that lingered at the edges of her thoughts.

She grabbed the remote and turned on her smart TV, the glow of the screen illuminating the room. Scrolling through the apps, she hesitated when she saw one for adult videos. Her finger hovered over the icon, her heart pounding in her chest.

Why not? she thought, her cheeks flushing as she selected the app.

The interface was sleek and surprisingly inviting, with categories and search bars that made it all too easy to navigate. Biting her lip, Retsuko typed in a search term that had stuck in her mind ever since her conversation with Puko: “former idol.”

The results popped up almost instantly, and Retsuko stared at the screen, her breath hitching slightly. There were dozens of videos, each with bright, glossy thumbnails featuring women who looked polished and confident, their past lives as idols woven into the titles and descriptions.

She selected one almost at random, the curiosity too strong to ignore. As the video began, Retsuko leaned back on the couch, her thoughts a whirlwind. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—understanding, validation, inspiration—but as the scenes played out, she found herself captivated not just by the content but by the women themselves.

They weren’t victims. That much was clear. They were owning their choices, presenting themselves with a kind of confidence that Retsuko couldn’t help but admire. And for the first time, she began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Puko was right.

Promiscuity wasn’t a weakness. It was a choice. A way of reclaiming power in a world that so often tried to take it away. And as Retsuko sat there, watching, she couldn’t help but feel that maybe, in her own way, she was starting to reclaim her own.

Each thumbnail, each title hinted at a life, a choice, a story that was so far removed from her own experience and yet felt strangely relatable.

As her fingers navigated the interface with increasing confidence, she paused abruptly. Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto a particular thumbnail. It couldn’t be.

But there it was.

The woman in the thumbnail was positioned in an artful pose, her face partially obscured by the app’s censoring blur. Yet despite the pixelation, Retsuko sensed a jolt of recognition shoot through her. The shape of her head and ears—it all screamed Manaka.

“No way,” Retsuko whispered aloud, leaning closer to the screen. Her finger hovered over the thumbnail, her mind racing. Was it really her? Could Manaka—the confident, blunt, no-nonsense friend from her idol days—really have entered a world like this? The idea had become almost surreal, but the more she looked, the more certain she became. It was her. It had to be.

With a mix of disbelief and overwhelming curiosity, Retsuko clicked on the video.

The screen shifted, revealing the glossy production quality that was typical of the genre. The camera panned over the actress, lingering on details that made Retsuko’s cheeks burn even as her curiosity intensified. It was definitely Manaka. Even with the deliberate obfuscation of her face, Retsuko could tell. There was something unmistakable about her posture, her mannerisms, the way she moved.

As the video progressed, Retsuko found herself watching not with arousal but with fascination. The persona Manaka projected on-screen was both familiar and alien—a heightened version of the bold, confident woman Retsuko had known, yet somehow more vulnerable and raw. She was captivating, commanding the camera with a magnetic presence that seemed to leap off the screen.

What struck Retsuko most, however, was the way Manaka seemed entirely at ease. There was no hesitation, no trace of shame or discomfort. If anything, she seemed to be having fun, throwing herself into the performance with a kind of uninhibited freedom that left Retsuko both awestruck and envious.

The video ended, the screen fading to black before the app suggested other related content. Retsuko sat back, her thoughts swirling. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen—not because it shocked her, but because it had challenged so many of the assumptions she hadn’t realized she was holding onto.

This wasn’t what she had expected. Manaka didn’t seem like a victim, or someone forced into a situation against her will. If anything, she seemed empowered, in control of her image and her choices. The woman Retsuko saw on-screen wasn’t just playing a role—she was owning it, turning it into something uniquely hers.

Retsuko stared at the remote in her hand, her thumb brushing over the buttons absently as she replayed the scenes in her mind. What had led Manaka to this point? Was it a choice she had made out of necessity, or was it something she had actively pursued? And, more importantly, how did she feel about it?

The questions buzzed in Retsuko’s mind like an unrelenting swarm. She couldn’t shake the image of Manaka, couldn’t stop thinking about the confidence and freedom she had exuded. Was that kind of liberation possible for her, too? Could she ever reach a point where she felt that comfortable in her own skin, that unapologetic about her choices?

For a long moment, Retsuko just sat there, staring at the screen as the app continued to cycle through recommendations. Then, almost impulsively, she grabbed her phone and opened her messaging app. Her fingers hovered over Manaka’s contact, the familiar name staring back at her like a challenge.

Should she reach out? Should she ask?

She hesitated, her thoughts a jumble of uncertainty and curiosity. But deep down, she knew she couldn’t let this go. Not without understanding, not without knowing what it meant—for Manaka, and maybe even for herself.

Taking a deep breath, Retsuko typed out a simple message:

Hey, Manaka. Long time no see. Can we talk?

She focused at the message for a moment before hitting send, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever came next, she knew one thing for certain: her perspective was shifting. And there was no going back.

Hey, Retsuko! Been a while. What’s up?

The casual tone immediately eased some of Retsuko’s tension, and she smiled faintly as she began typing her reply. The two exchanged pleasantries, catching up on the basics—work, life, mutual acquaintances. It felt like old times, their conversation flowing naturally despite the years that had passed since they last spoke regularly.

But as the chat continued, Retsuko couldn’t ignore the reason she had reached out in the first place. Her curiosity burned inside her, and before she could talk herself out of it, she typed:

Manaka... I saw something. On a site. And I think it was you.

There was a long pause before the typing indicator appeared. When Manaka’s reply came through, it was sharp and direct.

What exactly are you saying, Retsuko?

Retsuko swallowed hard, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She didn’t want to upset her friend, but she also couldn’t let the conversation drop. I mean... JAV, she typed hesitantly. I saw a video, and I recognized you. Or at least, I’m pretty sure it was you.

Manaka’s response came quickly, the tone unmistakably defensive. And? What about it? Why are you bringing this up?

Retsuko bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her as she typed back. I’m not judging or anything! I was just... surprised. And curious. I wanted to understand why.

Another pause. This one longer, heavier. When Manaka finally replied, the message was blunt.

Yeah, it’s me. So what?

Retsuko’s heart skipped a beat. Even though she had been certain, hearing—or rather, reading—Manaka admit it made the situation feel more real. I’m not judging, she repeated quickly. I just want to understand. Why did you... you know, do it?

Manaka’s next message was slower in coming, and when it arrived, the defensive edge had softened slightly. It’s not as scandalous as you probably think, she wrote. I did it because I wanted to. I needed the money, sure, but more than that... I wanted to feel confident again. After the idol stuff, I felt like I’d lost control of my life. This was a way to take it back.

Retsuko stared on the message, her mind racing. She hadn’t expected such a vulnerable answer, and it only deepened her curiosity. Do you regret it? she asked.

Sometimes, Manaka admitted. But mostly? No. It gave me something I didn’t have before—control. Power. And yeah, the money doesn’t hurt.

Retsuko nodded to herself, digesting the response. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to be just as honest. I’ve been feeling... out of control too, she wrote. And I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. Like... I’ve been having an affair.

The typing indicator blinked for several seconds before Manaka’s reply appeared. With who?

Retsuko hesitated, then typed: Hyodo.

The response came almost immediately. Seriously? The OTMGirls producer?

Retsuko could almost hear the incredulity in Manaka’s words, and she felt her face flush as she replied. Yeah. It just... happened. I don’t know how to explain it.

Manaka’s next message surprised her. You don’t have to explain it to me. I get it. Life gets messy. But you’re playing with fire, Retsuko.

I know, Retsuko replied. But I don’t know how to stop. It’s like I’m finally feeling something I haven’t felt in years. Like I’m alive again.

Manaka’s response was slower this time. If you’re serious about exploring this side of yourself, I could... help you out.

Help me? How? Retsuko asked, her curiosity piqued.

I could get you a JAV audition, Manaka wrote. You’d be a natural. Former idol turned actress? It’d sell. And you’d have control over it. You could choose what you want to do, how you want to present yourself.

Retsuko’s heart raced as she read the message. The idea was as terrifying as it was intriguing. But before she could respond, Manaka added another message.

But there’s something I want in return.

What? Retsuko asked, her palms sweating as she typed.

Manaka’s reply was blunt. A night with Haida.

Retsuko’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the screen, unsure if she had read it correctly. What? she typed back, the single word carrying all her shock and confusion.

You heard me, Manaka replied. I want to spend a night with your husband. Call it an even trade.

Retsuko’s thoughts spun wildly. The proposition was insane, but there was a small, nagging part of her that couldn’t dismiss it entirely. She had been unfaithful herself, and part of her wondered if this was some twisted form of balance. But another part of her—the part still clinging to the conventions she had grown up with—screamed that it was wrong.

Why? Retsuko typed finally, her hands trembling. Why would you even want that?

Manaka’s response was cool, almost casual. Because I’m curious. And because I think you are too. You’re already breaking the rules, Retsuko. Why not see how far you can bend them?

Retsuko sat back on the couch, her mind a storm of emotions. The idea was outrageous, but it was also... tempting. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to feel. All she knew was that her life was becoming more complicated by the second.

her heart raced as she mulled over the proposition, the sheer audacity of it both thrilling and terrifying. How had she gotten to this point? She had always considered herself a relatively conventional person, but here she was, entertaining ideas she never thought would cross her mind.

The influence of everything she had seen in the past few hours lingered like an intoxicating haze. The JAV videos she had watched, the confidence of the actresses, the unapologetic way they owned their choices—it had all wormed its way into her thoughts, reshaping how she viewed herself and her relationships.

Was this what freedom felt like?

Taking a deep breath, she began typing her response to Manaka.

Fine, she wrote, her fingers trembling slightly as she hit send. I’ll make it happen. But there’s one condition—I want to watch.

Manaka’s reply came almost immediately, and Retsuko could almost hear her laugh as she read the text.

You’re full of surprises, Retsuko. But yeah, cool. I’m down for that.

Retsuko exhaled, her chest tightening as the reality of what she had just agreed to began to sink in. She wasn’t sure if she felt empowered or completely insane. But before she could dwell on it, another message from Manaka appeared.

We should give each other some homework, though.

Retsuko frowned, tilting her head as she typed back. Homework? What do you mean?

It’s this new business trend, Manaka explained. They’re teaching it at vocational shops for salarymen, actresses, actors, anyone in high-pressure environments. The idea is that you give each other specific goals—homework—to ensure things happen. It’s about accountability and pushing yourself out of your comfort zone.

Retsuko considered this, her curiosity piqued. It sounded practical, albeit a little odd, but given how unconventional everything else about this situation was, it didn’t seem out of place. Alright, she replied. What kind of homework are we talking about?

Manaka’s next message was direct, with no hint of hesitation. Simple. Your homework is to talk to Haida. You have to ask for his consent and make sure he fully understands what’s happening. You might even have to admit your affair. It’s the only way this works—honesty, no matter how brutal.

Retsuko’s stomach dropped as she read the words. The thought of confessing everything to Haida made her heart race with anxiety. She had been able to rationalize her actions in the privacy of her mind, but saying it aloud—to him—felt like a completely different challenge. Still, she couldn’t deny that Manaka was right. If she wanted to move forward, she needed to face the truth head-on.

And what about you? Retsuko typed, her fingers shaking slightly. What’s your homework?

I’ll handle Hyodo, Manaka replied. I want him to start formally supporting his former idols getting into JAV. It’s a natural transition for some of them, and it shouldn’t be treated like a dirty secret. If anyone can make that happen, it’s him.

Retsuko fixated on the message, her thoughts spinning. She admired Manaka’s conviction, her willingness to tackle the situation with such clarity and purpose. It made her own doubts feel small by comparison.

I’m going to need a lot of strength to do this, Retsuko admitted. But I think you’re right. It’s the only way to fix things—with myself, with Haida, with everything.

You’ve got this, Manaka replied. It’s scary as hell, but it’s worth it. Trust me.

Retsuko set her phone down and stared at the darkened TV screen. She didn’t know how Haida would react, didn’t know if their marriage could survive the truths she was about to reveal. She was taking control of her life, her choices, her future.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she steeled herself for what lay ahead. Tomorrow, she would begin her homework. And no matter what happened, she would face it with open eyes and an open heart.

Chapter Text

His tie was loosened, his jacket slung over one shoulder as he walked aimlessly, his thoughts a jumble of mundane work stress and a vague unease he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t like anything specific had happened.

And yet, as he stood on the sidewalk, looking in the direction of their apartment, a strange sensation gnawed at him.

Haida sighed, running a hand through his fur and glancing around. He didn’t feel like heading straight home, not yet. Instead, he turned into the familiar glow of a corner store, the comforting hum of refrigeration units and the soft beeps of the cash register welcoming him. FamilyMart. It was always his go-to for killing time.

He grabbed a small basket and wandered aimlessly down the aisles, his feet moving without purpose. A pack of spicy chips. A can of his favorite coffee. A sandwich he probably wouldn’t eat until tomorrow. It wasn’t about what he needed—it was about stalling. He lingered by the refrigerated drinks, his eyes scanning the rows of colorful cans and bottles, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Why didn’t he want to go home?

Haida frowned, gripping the basket tighter as he moved toward the candy section. It wasn’t like him to avoid home, especially now that he had gotten a new method to relieve his stress and dread. Sure, things weren’t perfect, but they weren’t bad. Or at least, they hadn’t been until... recently.

He picked up a small pack of chocolates, turning it over in his hands without really seeing it. The truth was, he’d been feeling off ever since last night. After his night with Shikabane, more discouraging thoughts had simmered beneath the surface, gnawing at him in ways he couldn’t quite articulate.

The high of that moment had long since faded, leaving him with this uncomfortable unease. It wasn’t just about Retsuko, though she was always at the center of his thoughts. It was about everything—his job, his marriage, his identity. He felt like a man teetering on the edge of something he didn’t fully understand.

Haida sighed again, tossing the chocolates into his basket and making his way to the checkout counter. As he waited in line, he pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. No messages. No calls. Just the usual notifications from social media and work apps he didn’t care about. He opened Retsuko’s contact, his thumb hovering over the screen. He thought about texting her, asking if she’d be home on time, but decided against it. Better to let things play out.

After paying for his snacks, Haida stepped outside, the crisp evening air hitting him as he stood on the sidewalk. He glanced in the direction of their apartment again, his stomach tightening. That feeling was still there. That sense of something hanging in the air, something unspoken waiting to be addressed.

He couldn’t shake the thought that when he got home, things would change. Maybe it was just paranoia, the residual shame from his own actions making him overly sensitive.

Haida’s steps faltered as he approached the corner leading to his apartment. He glanced down the street toward the familiar building but found himself hesitating again. The dreadful unease that had been with him all evening was back, sharper than before, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shrug off.

Instead of continuing home, he turned abruptly and headed in the opposite direction, his feet carrying him toward a place he wasn’t entirely sure he should be going. The love hotel. The same one where Shikabane worked out of. Or around. At the very least, the vicinity of it.

The warm glow of the lobby lights spilled onto the sidewalk as Haida stepped inside, the faint scent of air freshener mingling with the low hum of soft background music. He was greeted almost immediately by the lady deer at the front desk—a petite, bubbly girl with short, dyed-pink hair and a sharp sense of style that contrasted with the subdued uniform she wore.

“Welcome!” she said with a cheerful smile, her voice bright and inviting. Her eyes lit up when she saw Haida, her tone playful. “Oh, you look new here. First time?”

Haida chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he said, his words stumbling slightly. “I, uh, was just looking for someone.”

The girl tilted her head, her smile widening as she leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the counter. “Well, if it’s me, I’m flattered,” she teased, her tone light and flirtatious.

Haida laughed awkwardly, feeling a slight flush rise to his cheeks. “You’re pretty cute, I’ll admit,” he said, trying to match her playful tone. “But I was actually looking for someone else. Is, uh, Shikabane here tonight?”

The girl’s expression shifted slightly, her teasing grin softening into something more matter-of-fact. “Oh, Shikabane-chan? Yeah, she’s here,” she said, glancing at a small clipboard beside her. “But she’s with another client for the night.”

Haida’s stomach sank at her words, though he did his best to mask his disappointment. “Ah, I see,” he said, forcing a casual tone. “Busy night, huh?”

The girl nodded, her bright demeanor returning. “Always is. She’s pretty popular, you know.”

Haida laughed softly, though it came out more bitter than he intended. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say next. The idea of Shikabane being with someone else tonight gnawed at him, a strange, possessive jealousy bubbling beneath the surface. But he shook it off quickly, redirecting his attention to the front desk girl.

“So, uh,” he said, his tone lightening as he leaned slightly against the counter, “are you available? Asking for a friend.”

The girl laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, you’re funny,” she said, shaking her head. “But no, I’m not on the menu. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Too bad,” Haida said with a grin, playing along. “Your boyfriend must be a lucky guy.”

Her expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she smiled again. “Thanks,” she said. “Though... he doesn’t exactly know I work here.”

Haida raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Seriously? How do you manage that?”

The girl shrugged, her tone casual but tinged with something that might have been regret. “He’s been living abroad for a few years, working for some news station in California. Long-distance, you know? Makes it easier to keep some things... private.”

“California, huh?” Haida said, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s pretty cool. What’s he doing out there?”

“Something with production,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “I don’t ask too many questions. It’s complicated.”

Haida chuckled, though he felt a pang of sympathy for her situation. “Complicated seems to be the theme of the day,” he said, pushing himself off the counter. “Well, thanks for the chat. I should probably get going.”

“Sure thing,” she said, flashing him another bright smile. “Take care, okay? And maybe next time, Shikabane-chan will be free.”

Haida nodded, offering a small wave as he turned and made his way toward the exit. As the doors closed behind him, the cool night air hit him like a splash of water, clearing his head slightly.

He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, staring down the street as he processed the encounter. The jealousy he had felt earlier lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, but so did something else—a strange mix of guilt, relief, and the faintest hint of clarity. What was he even doing here?

Just as he began to gather himself to head home, a sleek black car pulled up a few meters away.

He recognized it instantly: Tadano’s car. The distinct luxury vehicle was impossible to mistake, even in this light. His ears perked up as the passenger door opened, and out stepped Tsunoda.

She paused, glancing at the car before giving a small wave to the driver. “Thanks, Kobayashi-san!” she called cheerfully. The Schnauzer behind the wheel gave her a curt nod before pulling away, the car blending into the flow of city traffic.

Tsunoda turned and froze when her eyes landed on Haida. For a moment, her expression flickered between surprise and embarrassment, her ears twitching slightly. But in true Tsunoda fashion, she recovered quickly, her lips curving into a sly smile as she sauntered toward him.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice dripping with playful mischief. “If it isn’t Haida. Fancy seeing you here. And right in front of a love hotel, no less.”

Haida’s ears flattened, and his heart sank into his stomach. Of all the people to run into right now... why her?

“Tsunoda,” he said awkwardly, his voice cracking slightly. “Uh, hi. What are you doing here?”

She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye as she stepped closer. “Oh, you know. Just... getting dropped off.” Her tone was casual, but the faint blush on her cheeks suggested there was more to the story.

Haida glanced down the street where Tadano’s car had disappeared. “Was that... Tadano’s car?”

Tsunoda’s smile faltered for a split second before she quickly regained her composure. “What? Oh, yeah. That was Kobayashi-san. You know, his driver. He’s nice enough to give me rides sometimes.”

“Rides?” Haida repeated, his brow furrowing. “Like... often?”

Tsunoda rolled her eyes, placing a hand on her hip. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Haida. It’s not like it’s a big deal. Kobayashi and I... we see each other from time to time.”

Haida blinked.. He remembered Kobayashi—a quiet, professional Schnauzer who rarely spoke unless necessary. Tadano’s trusted personal driver. The idea of him and Tsunoda...

“Wait,” Haida said, his confusion mounting. “You’re dating Tadano’s driver?”

“Dating’s a strong word,” Tsunoda replied with a coy smile. “But, you know, we have fun. He’s got this whole ‘stoic gentleman’ vibe that’s kind of irresistible. And those paws? Perfect for—” She stopped herself, laughing as Haida’s face turned crimson. “Anyway, why are you asking me about my love life? You’re the one standing in front of a love hotel.”

Haida’s stomach twisted as the attention shifted back to him. “I, uh... it’s not what it looks like.”

Tsunoda arched an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Oh, really? Because it looks like you’re here to meet someone. What’s the matter? Things with Retsuko not so perfect these days?”

“That’s none of your business,” Haida muttered, avoiding her gaze.

Tsunoda leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a teasing whisper. “You’re cheating, aren’t you?”

Haida’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “I—I’m not! It’s complicated, okay? Just... drop it.”

Tsunoda chuckled, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Relax, Haida. I’m just messing with you.” She paused, studying him with a curious glint in her eye. “But seriously, what’s going on? You’re not the type to hang around places like this for no reason.”

Haida hesitated, debating whether to come up with an excuse or deflect entirely. But Tsunoda’s sharp gaze left little room for evasion. “I was just... looking for someone,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Someone?” Tsunoda repeated, her tone laced with intrigue. “Let me guess. A certain goth gamer chick?”

Haida froze, his ears flattening further. “How do you...?”

Tsunoda laughed, crossing her arms. “Oh, please. You’re not exactly subtle, Haida. I know some of the girls who work here, you know? So, what? You two hooked up or something?”

“It’s not like that,” Haida mumbled, though his lack of conviction betrayed him.

Tsunoda smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Haida groaned, rubbing his temples. “Can we not do this right now? I’m not in the mood.”

“Alright, alright,” Tsunoda said, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll let you off the hook—for now. But seriously, Haida... maybe you should think about what you’re doing. Cheating’s a slippery slope.”

Haida frowned, the guilt in his chest flaring up again. “Yeah. Thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

Haida’s stomach churned as Tsunoda’s teasing grin widened, her playful demeanor radiating a kind of confidence that made him feel both uneasy and, he hated to admit, intrigued. She leaned slightly closer, her perfume faint but noticeable, the faint scent of something sweet mingling with the crisp night air.

“So,” Tsunoda said, her voice low and laced with mischief, “if you’re not here to meet someone, then what are you doing, Haida? Looking for inspiration? Or maybe... for company?”

Haida shifted uncomfortably, his ears flicking back as he tried to maintain some semblance of composure. “Just... passing by,” he mumbled, his words stumbling over themselves. “Checking on Shikabane, alright? Just making sure she’s alright…”

“Oh, really?” Tsunoda purred, tilting her head and letting her antlers catch the light from a nearby streetlamp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like someone’s feeling a little lonely tonight. And I think you were checking in on her, because you wanted to give her the kind of company only a man could give a girl!”

“I’m not,” Haida replied quickly, though the defensive edge in his voice betrayed him. He glanced away, trying to avoid the sharp, knowing look in her eyes. Why is she like this?

Tsunoda smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Relax, Haida. I’m just messing with you. Unless...” She let the word hang in the air for a moment, stepping just close enough for her presence to feel deliberate. “Unless you really are looking for something of that sort—”

Haida swallowed hard, his eyes flicking over her almost against his will. Tsunoda was effortlessly alluring, her figure emphasized by the casual yet stylish outfit she wore. The faint glint of mischief in her eyes only added to her appeal. ‘In the mood for some deer,’ huh? The thought crept into his mind unbidden, and he cursed himself for even entertaining it.

“I’m not looking for anyone,” he said finally, his voice firmer this time. “I’m just... saying hi to a friend. I’ve been worried ever since she started working this gig.”

Tsunoda laughed softly, the sound both genuine and teasing. “Sure, sure.”

Haida rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to think of a way to redirect the conversation. “What about you? What are you doing here exactly? Not just saying hi to some friends too?”

Tsunoda shrugged, her casual demeanor perfectly calculated. “Oh, you know. Just... between gigs.”

“Gigs?” Haida repeated, narrowing his eyes. “You mean, like, a side job?”

Her grin widened, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “Maybe. Why? You interested in hiring me for a night?”

Haida’s face turned crimson, and he stumbled over his words. “Wh-what? No! That’s not—”

“Haida,” Tsunoda interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Why so burdened? I’ve been working here off and on. It’s easy money, and, well... some people appreciate a doe with a little more personality.”

Haida wasn’t sure if she was being serious or just playing with him, but the way she looked at him—sharp, confident, utterly unbothered—made him feel like he was the one out of place.

“So, what about you?” she asked, leaning in slightly. “Trouble in paradise with Retsuko? Chasing some new romantic flame?”

Haida stiffened at the mention of his wife. The truth was, he didn’t want to go home—not yet. The thought of facing Retsuko, of sitting in the silence of their apartment waiting for her to get off work, made his chest tighten. And if Tsunoda was here now, it probably meant Retsuko was off tonight too. What if she got home before him? What if she noticed something off about him?

He groaned again, running a hand through his fur. “Can we not do this right now? I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“Oh, come on,” Tsunoda said, stepping back with a laugh. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. You’re so serious all the time. Loosen up a little.”

Haida sighed, his shoulders slumping as he glanced back at the love hotel. The neon lights seemed to mock him, a stark reminder of everything he was trying—and failing—to ignore.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe I should.”

Tsunoda raised an eyebrow, her playful grin returning. “You’re not actually thinking about going in there, are you? Without a date?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No. I’m just... thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” she quipped, crossing her arms. “But hey, if you’re ever feeling really lonely, maybe I could pencil you in. Just kidding,” she added with a wink, though the glint in her eye suggested she wasn’t entirely joking.

Haida hesitated, his mind spinning as he watched Tsunoda’s confident smirk linger. The teasing glint in her eye, the way she carried herself with effortless allure—it all felt like a challenge he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle. But something about the moment, the night, and his own tangled emotions pushed him over the edge.

With a nervous gulp, he cleared his throat and said, “Alright, fine. What’s your price for the night?”

“Well, well,” she said, her tone dripping with playful mischief. “You really are sleeping around on Retsuko, so naughty, Haida.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering slightly. “You sure about this? Because I’m not cheap.”

Haida nodded, his throat dry as he tried to muster some semblance of confidence. “I’m sure,” he said, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him. “Name your price.”

Tsunoda tilted her head, tapping her chin as if she were considering her options. “Hmm... for you? Let’s say fifty thousand yen. Upfront.”

Haida’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. He knew it was expensive—outrageously so—but in that moment, his judgment had left the building entirely. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, fumbling slightly as he counted out the bills.

Tsunoda watched him with an amused expression, her arms crossed as she waited. When he handed over the money, her fingers brushed his briefly, and she let out a soft laugh. “Guess you’re serious after all,” she said, tucking the bills into her purse. “Alright, Haida. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Before he could second-guess himself, she grabbed his hand and gave it a firm tug, pulling him toward the entrance of the love hotel. Haida stumbled slightly but followed, his heart pounding in his chest as they stepped into the neon-lit lobby.

The same pink-haired receptionist from earlier gave them a curious glance but didn’t say a word as Tsunoda led him toward the elevator. What am I doing? The thought echoed in his head, but it was too late to turn back now.

As the elevator doors slid closed behind them, Tsunoda leaned against the wall, her teasing smile never faltering. “You know,” she said, her tone casual, “I always knew there was a wild side to you, Haida. Retsuko can’t handle that, can she?”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal a dimly lit hallway lined with numbered doors. Tsunoda led him to one near the end of the hall, unlocking it with a practiced ease before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Haida hesitated on the threshold, his nerves threatening to get the better of him. But Tsunoda turned back, her hand still holding his, and gave him a gentle but firm pull. “Come on, Haida,” she said, her voice low and inviting. “Going to let a little doe be in here all by herself?”

—

Haida’s nerves were frayed as he stood awkwardly near the edge of the bed, his jacket long since discarded and his tie loosened.

“You’re not going to stand there all night, are you?” she asked, her tone a mix of playful teasing and challenge.

Haida swallowed hard.

As the night unfolded, Haida found himself surprised by the shift in his own demeanor. What had begun as an awkward, hesitant interaction quickly gave way to something more assertive. Tsunoda’s encouragement—her flirtatious jabs, her subtle nods, the way she met his actions with her own—stoked a confidence in him he hadn’t felt in years.

Her tiny doe body was perfect for dominating. Her tight deer pussy eagerly accepted his cock. And it was incredible that he even fit, Haida would mentally tell himself over and over again.

There was something powerful in how he thrusted into her, how wet she got at his numerous intrusions to her cunt. The warmth that radiated from his balls, through his shaft and to the tip—it made him seriously question why the edge of infidelity sparked his fire so much.

“You’ve got more fire than I gave you credit for,” Tsunoda murmured at one point, her voice low as she leaned closer to him. Her ears fluttered at the sound of his meaty hyena cock slapping into her, his balls adding additional resonance. “Retsuko could never take it like this?”

“Nooo, she could never~” Gasped Haida, having already felt every centimeter of the doe’s inner walls and his dick was eager for more.

She egged him on with a wicked grin, her words a mix of taunts and praise that left him both flustered and emboldened. “Come on, Haida,” she whispered at one point, her breath warm against his ear. “You can do better than that. Show me what you’ve got.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

But it wasn’t just physical—it was mental, too. Tsunoda had a way of getting inside his head, of coaxing out the thoughts and feelings he’d been too afraid to confront. She pressed him, not just with her body but with her words, her questions, her relentless insistence that he be honest with himself.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice soft but loaded with intent. “You like this. You like... cheating.”

Haida froze for a moment, the weight of her words settling over him. He opened his mouth to deny it, to insist that this wasn’t who he was—but the truth was already written across his face, in his actions, in the way he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“I...” He hesitated, his voice faltering.

“Say it,” Tsunoda pressed, her tone both coaxing and commanding. “Admit it. You love this, don’t you?”

Haida’s chest tightened, a swirl of guilt and exhilaration flooding his senses. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and there was no turning back now. “I... I love it,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love it.”

Tsunoda’s grin widened, a spark of satisfaction lighting up her eyes. “Good,” she said, her tone dripping with approval. “Now tell me something else. Tell me how cute I am.”

The request caught him off guard, but before he could second-guess himself, the words tumbled out. “You’re... you’re cute,” he said, his cheeks flushing even as he felt a strange sense of liberation in the admission.

“And tight,” Tsunoda added with a teasing smirk. “Don’t forget that part.”

“Tight,” Haida echoed, his voice growing steadier. “You’re... tight.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Tsunoda said with a laugh, her expression softening slightly. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

Haida gripped the edge of the bed, trying to steady himself. He did not know if she came already or if she just got this wet naturally.

Suddenly, Tsunoda reached for her phone on the bedside table, her lips curving into a sly smile as she glanced at Haida over her shoulder. “Let’s make this more interesting,” she whispered, her voice low and teasing.

Haida blinked, his breath hitching as he tried to decipher her intent. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice hoarse with a mix of nervousness and adrenaline.

Tsunoda didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she unlocked her phone with a practiced swipe and scrolled through her contacts. Haida’s heart sank when he saw the familiar name on the screen: Retsuko.

“Tsunoda,” he said, his voice rising in alarm. “Don’t—”

But it was too late. Tsunoda had already pressed the call button, holding the phone to her ear with a casual air that belied the audacity of her actions.

“Hey, Retsuko!” she chirped, her voice bright and cheerful. “Just checking in to see if you got home safe. You know, it’s late and all.”

Haida froze, his brain racing as panic set in. He clamped a hand over his mouth, his other gripping the sheets tightly as he tried to stifle any sound. On the other end of the line, Retsuko’s voice was faint but audible. “Oh, hey, Tsunoda. Yeah, I just got back not too long ago. Why are you calling so late?”

Tsunoda’s grin widened, her tone taking on a playful lilt. “Oh, you know, just being a good friend. It’s important to look out for each other, right?” Her eyes flicked to Haida, her expression brimming with mischief as she added, “By the way, is Haida home yet?”

Haida’s heart pounded in his chest, the sound almost deafening in his ears.

Retsuko sounded confused. “Not yet, but he should be soon. Why?”

Tsunoda’s voice softened, laced with faux innocence. “Oh, no reason. I just thought I saw him a little while ago. He looked... preoccupied.”

Haida’s grip tightened as he fought to keep himself composed. The situation was surreal, and the tension in the room was almost unbearable. Tsunoda, meanwhile, was reveling in the moment, her expression a mix of amusement and challenge.

“Preoccupied?” Retsuko asked, her confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

Tsunoda hesitated for just a fraction of a second, as if deciding how far to push. “Oh, nothing important,” she said finally, her tone light and breezy. “He was probably just on his way home. I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”

There was a pause on the other end before Retsuko replied, her tone warm but distracted. “Yeah, probably. Thanks for checking in, Tsunoda. Talk later?”

“Of course!” Tsunoda chirped, her smile widening as she glanced at Haida. “Take care, Retsuko.”

The call ended with a soft beep, and the silence that followed was almost deafening. Haida stared at Tsunoda, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened.

“Are you insane?” he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. “What was that?”

Tsunoda turned to face him fully, her grin unrepentant. “Just having a little fun,” she said, her tone dripping with mischief. “You have to admit, it added a little... spice.”

Haida ran a hand through his fur, his mind still reeling. “You almost blew everything.”

“But I didn’t,” Tsunoda countered, her voice playful but firm. “And you know what? You should thank me. If anything, it just made things more exciting, didn’t it?”

As much as he wanted to deny it, she had a way of pulling him into her orbit, leaving him both exhilarated and off-balance.

“Let’s just... not do that again,” Haida muttered, his voice trailing off as he avoided her gaze.

Tsunoda laughed softly, her tone light but tinged with satisfaction. “Whatever you say, Haida. But you have to admit—it was fun. Now,” she teased, her breath warm against him. “Finish strong. Show me what you’ve got.”

And he did. With one final surge, Haida gave in entirely, pulling away at the last second and letting instinct take over.

His dick drenched in her pleasure, he pulled himself out and used it as lube to masturbate himself furiously. Haida practically yelped as the white, warm pearls began to spit out from the tip of his cock.

As he collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving, the weight of what they’d done began to settle over him like a heavy blanket.

Tsunoda remained poised for a moment, her eyes flicking down at herself with an expression that could only be described as amused satisfaction. “Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with dry humor. “You really went for it, huh?” A strand of white had landed on one of her ears, but most of it hit her chest.

Haida didn’t respond immediately, still catching his breath as he sprawled out on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His thoughts were a tangled mess of exhilaration, guilt, and something he couldn’t quite put into words.

As he lay there, Tsunoda grabbed her phone from the bedside table, her fingers moving deftly over the screen. She angled it perfectly, capturing the mess he’d left on her, along with his dazed form in the background. She smirked, her lips curving into a mischievous smile as she tapped the button.

“Perfect,” she murmured, tucking the phone back into her bag before Haida could notice.

Sliding off the bed, Tsunoda stretched her arms above her head, the movement graceful and unbothered. “Alright, champ,” she said, heading toward the small en-suite bathroom. “I’m hopping in the shower. You might want to clean up too, unless you want to take all that home with you.”

Haida groaned softly, running a hand through his fur as he tried to summon the energy to move. His muscles ached, his focus was foggy, and all he wanted to do was lie there and let the night fade away. But as Tsunoda disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of running water filled the room, another thought crept into his brain—one that caught him completely off guard.

Shikabane.

He frowned, turning his head to stare at the faintly glowing light on the nightstand. He hadn’t thought about her in hours, but now, as the adrenaline began to fade, she came rushing back to him like a wave he couldn’t outrun. What was she doing right now? Was she still with that client? Was she okay?

The bathroom door cracked open slightly, steam billowing out as Tsunoda’s voice cut through his reverie. “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” she called, her tone playful. “I’m not scrubbing this room down by myself.”

Haida let out a tired laugh, forcing himself to sit up despite the weight in his limbs. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “I’m getting up.”

—

The boar was broad and muscular, his tailored suit and commanding demeanor suggesting a life of boardrooms and big deals. He grunted with every movement, his focus entirely on the act.

Shikabane, however, was miles away. Her head rested against the soft pillow, her eyes half-lidded as she stared blankly at the wall. Her mind drifted, tuning out the sounds of the client’s effort and the faint creak of the bed beneath them. Why is he trying so hard? she thought idly. This isn’t a job interview, dude.

Her thoughts wandered further, settling on the latest game she’d been grinding. She mentally mapped out her strategy for her next match, envisioning the corridors she’d camp in, the perfect loadout to maximize her chances. I need to switch to that new rifle... or maybe try dual pistols. They’ve been nerfed, but I bet I could still make it work.

The boar let out a low groan, pulling her attention back to the present for a fleeting moment. She glanced up at him, taking in his flushed face and the sheen of sweat on his brow. He’s not bad-looking, I guess, she mused. But honestly, this is just... meh.

Her gaze flicked to the bedside clock. The session wasn’t close to being over yet, which meant more time to kill. She considered striking up a conversation just to break the monotony, but one look at the salaryman’s face told her he wasn’t in a talking mood. Fine by me, she thought, her mind slipping back to her imaginary match. At least I don’t have to hear him talk about stock portfolios or golf.

As the client’s movements became more insistent, Shikabane’s thoughts shifted to the internet café she’d been scouting, the very one that was a former home. The renovations were nearly complete, and she was itching to check it out. Hopefully the new setup doesn’t suck, she thought. The last thing I need is another overpriced tourist trap.

The salary-boar’s voice broke through her reverie, a deep, almost guttural sound that indicated he was nearing his climax. Guys like him enjoyed her body enough that they didn’t bother with how much she was into it. Shikabane blinked, glancing at him with a mix of detached curiosity and mild amusement. Good for you, buddy. Wrap it up already.

He finally slowed, letting out a loud exhale as he collapsed onto the bed beside her, his chest rising and falling heavily. Shikabane remained still, still fixated on her virtual battleground. She could already hear the sound effects, feel the adrenaline of dodging enemy fire, the satisfying click of landing a perfect headshot. God, I miss playing.

“Damn,” the guy muttered, breaking the silence. “You’re something else.”

Shikabane turned her head slightly, offering him a faint, obligatory smile. “Thanks,” she said, her voice monotone but polite. “You weren’t too bad yourself.”

Then came a chuckle, clearly taking her lukewarm compliment as genuine. “We should do this again sometime,” his tone suggestive.

Shikabane resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Sure, let me just pencil you in between my next gaming session and the heat death of the universe. “Maybe,” she said noncommittally, sitting up and reaching for her phone on the nightstand. She checked her messages, her fingers itching to log into her favorite gaming forum.

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re a tough one to figure out, you know that?”

Shikabane shrugged, not looking up from her screen. “Not much to figure out,” she replied, her voice detached. “I’m just here doing my thing.”

As she scrolled through her messages, her thoughts briefly flickered to Haida.

Wonder what that dork is up to. Probably overthinking something dumb.

The boring boar finally got up and began gathering his things, humming softly to himself as he dressed. Shikabane barely noticed, her focus already shifting back to her plans for the evening. Once he was gone, she’d have just enough time to squeeze in a match or two before crashing for the night.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Shikabane let out a long sigh and stretched, her limbs languid as she lay back against the pillows. Another night, another client. But her thoughts, as always, were somewhere else entirely. I wonder if that café has good enough Wi-Fi for ranked matches.

Chapter Text

The pharmacy’s fluorescent lights buzzed in the quiet, wrapping Retsuko in sterile white noise as she waited at the counter. The shelves around her were lined with everything from cold medicine to brightly colored bandages, but her focus was on her phone as she scrolled absentmindedly through social media. Another distraction from the endless noise in her head.

The chime of a bell above the door snapped her attention back to reality as a familiar voice broke through the silence.

“Ah, Miss Retsuko,” the pharmacist greeted, stepping up to the counter with a warm smile. He was an armadillo, his wiry frame tucked neatly into a crisp white coat. His glasses glinted slightly under the harsh lighting as he adjusted them on his nose. “Here for your refill, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Retsuko replied, her tone polite but subdued as she slipped her phone into her pocket.

The pharmacist—whose name tag read “Mr. Ara”—nodded as he retrieved her prescription from a drawer behind the counter. “It’s always nice to see you. You’re one of my most punctual customers,” he said, his tone friendly but with a slight hint of something... more.

Retsuko offered a faint smile, not quite sure how to respond. “Uh, thanks. I try to stay on top of things.”

“Well, you’re certainly better than most,” he said with a chuckle, sliding the small paper bag across the counter. “Most people forget, then come rushing in at the last minute. But you? Always prepared. It’s impressive.”

She nodded, her fingers brushing over the bag as she picked it up. “I guess it’s just part of my routine.”

Mr. Ara leaned slightly against the counter, his smile turning more casual. “Routine’s important. Keeps life organized. But every now and then, it’s good to shake things up a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

Retsuko raised an eyebrow, unsure where he was going with this. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“I mean, someone like you—smart, punctual, obviously hardworking—deserves a little excitement now and then,” he continued, his tone light but edged with a hint of flirtation. “Don’t you think?”

Retsuko blinked, her grip on the bag tightening. Was he... flirting? She glanced at him, taking in the easy smile on his face and the faint flush on his cheeks. He is.

“Oh, I’m... not sure about that,” she said, laughing awkwardly as she took a small step back. “I think I’m good with things as they are.”

Mr. Ara chuckled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Fair enough,” he said, his tone remaining friendly. “But if you ever change your mind, feel free to stop by. Even if it’s just for some advice or... a chat.”

“Thanks,” Retsuko said, her voice a little firmer now as she gave him a polite nod. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

With that, she turned and headed toward the door, her heart beating a little faster than usual. As she stepped outside, the cool evening air hit her, and she took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened. He was definitely flirting, right?

Despite herself, she felt a faint blush rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t like her to attract that kind of attention, at least not from someone like Mr. Ara—calm, confident, and genuinely charming in an understated way. She had turned him down, of course. It wasn’t like she was interested. But still... it was nice to be noticed.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking her train of thought. Pulling it out, she saw Tsunoda’s name flashing on the screen. What does she want at this hour? Retsuko sighed and answered the call, her tone distracted as she said, “Hey, Tsunoda.”

The conversation went as you all remember it.

As she continued walking, her thoughts flickered between the strange call and her encounter with Mr. Ara. Why did tonight feel so... off? She shook her head, trying to clear the growing unease in her chest. Maybe she was just overthinking it.

—

Retsuko reached her apartment building, her keys jingling softly as she fumbled for the right one. The quiet of the hallway seemed amplified, her footsteps echoing faintly against the walls. It had been a strange evening, her encounter with Mr. Ara still lingering in her mind along with Tsunoda’s cryptic call. What a weird night, she thought, sighing as she slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

Sitting casually on the couch in her small living room, legs crossed and arms draped across the back, was Hyodo. His broad, confident posture filled the space, his ever-present glasses perched low on his nose as he gave her a glance that was equal parts charming and infuriating. A faint whiff of cigarette smoke clung to him, though he had clearly extinguished it before entering.

“Hyodo?!” Retsuko exclaimed, her voice rising an octave as she quickly shut the door behind her. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

Hyodo shrugged, the grin that spread across his face making her stomach twist. ‘Door was unlocked,’ he lied easily. She never left the door unlocked. “And as for what I’m doing here... well, I missed you. Thought I’d drop by.”

The man worked full time cleaning windows. No doubt, he managed to climb into one. Possibly? That was the only possible solution.

The security of ladies in Japan is surprisingly lacking.

Retsuko’s heart pounded in her chest, her cheeks flushing as she tried to process the audacity of it all. “You can’t just... show up at my apartment like this! What if Haida comes home?”

Hyodo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he fixed her with a piercing gaze. “Doesn’t seem like he’s in the habit of coming home on time these days, does it?” he said, his voice calm but pointed.

Retsuko opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He’s not wrong. Haida had been distant lately, spending more and more time out of the apartment, though she hadn’t pressed him on it. Still, the sheer nerve of Hyodo’s statement left her flustered.

“That doesn’t mean you can just waltz in here,” she said, her voice shaky as she dropped her bag onto the floor. “This is... it’s crossing a line.”

Hyodo stood, his towering presence filling the room as he closed the distance between them. “Maybe,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I realized something.”

“What?” Retsuko asked, her breath hitching as she took a step back, only to bump into the wall behind her.

“I want you,” Hyodo said simply, his voice firm but not forceful. “Here. In your own bed.”

Retsuko’s heart raced, her mind spinning as she tried to reconcile the overwhelming mix of emotions coursing through her. On one hand, she was mortified by the boldness of his declaration, by the sheer gall of him showing up to her and Haida’s shared space. But on the other hand... she couldn’t deny the heat rising within her, the thrill of his confidence, his unyielding desire.

“You’re crazy,” she muttered, though her voice lacked conviction. “You can’t just... I mean, this is my home. Haida’s home.”

Hyodo smirked, leaning in slightly so that their faces were mere inches apart. “Exactly,” he said. “Doesn’t that make it more exciting?”

Retsuko’s cheeks burned, her resolve wavering as she pushed against his chest lightly, trying to create some space between them. “Hyodo, this is insane. You need to leave before—”

“Before what?” he interrupted, his voice soft but insistent. “Before Haida comes back? Do you really think he’d notice? Or care?”

“That’s not fair,” Retsuko shot back, her voice rising slightly. “He’s been working hard—”

“And leaving you here, alone, every night,” Hyodo finished for her, his tone unyielding. “I’m not saying he’s a bad guy, Retsuko. But let’s be honest—he’s not here. I am.”

Retsuko’s chest heaved as she struggled to find a response, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come. Why does he have to be so... blunt? So relentless?

“Hyodo,” she began, her voice softer now, “this isn’t right.”

He stepped back slightly, giving her just enough space to breathe but keeping his gaze locked on hers. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But tell me you don’t want it. Tell me to leave, and I will.”

Retsuko opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her heart pounded in her ears, her thoughts a chaotic mess as she grappled with the truth she didn’t want to face. Did she want this? Could she really say no?

Hyodo tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost... understanding. “I’m not here to make your life harder, Retsuko,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I just want to make you feel... wanted.”

The words hit her like a freight train, her breath catching in her throat as she looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wanted. How long had it been since she’d felt that? Since someone had looked at her the way Hyodo was looking at her now?

“I...” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hyodo waited patiently, his presence steady and unwavering as he gave her the space to decide. And in that moment, Retsuko realized something terrifying and exhilarating: She didn’t want him to leave.

Retsuko’s mind was a whirlwind, her heart raced as her rational thoughts tried—and failed—to claw their way to the surface.

Hyodo's smirk had softened into something more intense, his focus entirely on her as he guided her toward the bed—her bed, the one she shared with Haida. She hesitated for a fleeting second as her eyes caught on the framed photos perched on the bedside table and hung neatly on the walls. Pictures of her wedding, of her and Haida smiling on their honeymoon, filled the space with a warmth that now felt mocking.

Retsuko looked up at him, her breathing uneven as she tried to form a response. Her gaze flicked to the photos again, then back to Hyodo. Her hands trembled at her sides, but she wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t stopping this.

“I...” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “Just don’t stop.”

The bed creaked beneath them as he pressed her down onto the familiar sheets, the scent of her laundry detergent mingling with the electric tension in the air. Every detail of the room—the neatly folded blankets at the foot of the bed, the cheerful marriage photos on the wall, the shared items on the nightstand—screamed at her, reminded her of the life she had built with Haida. And yet, as Hyodo’s movements became more deliberate, more insistent, those reminders only fueled the storm inside her.

Before she knew it, her emotions exploded in the only way she truly knew how to express them: through song.

Retsuko threw her head back, her voice erupting into a visceral scream that echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t the polished, rehearsed metal she’d perfected in the karaoke booth—it was raw, untamed, an unfiltered outpouring of everything she was feeling. Her lyrics came unbidden, words spilling out as she gave voice to the anger in her heart:

“LIES! GUILT! THIS BED’S A MOCKERY!
PROMISES SHATTERED, BUT I’M FINALLY FREE!
HYODO, YOU BASTARD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!
AND WHY DOES THIS FEEL LIKE SO MUCH FUN?!”

Hyodo didn’t falter as her screaming filled the room, his smirk twisting into something almost amused. “That’s the Retsuko I know,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over her wailing. “Give it everything you’ve got.” And in turn, his cock rammed harder and harder into her, taking turns between the holes.

Retsuko’s eyes darted to the wedding photo on the bedside table, the one where she and Haida were smiling so brightly, so naively. All while now, she took Hyodo’s dick in the her ass. The irony of it twisted in her chest, adding fuel to the fire of her song:

“MARRIAGE, A CAGE I BUILT MYSELF!
HAPPINESS STAGED, LOVE ON A SHELF!
BUT HERE I AM, WITH YOU INSTEAD,
SCREAMING MY LUNGS OUT ON MY OWN DAMN BED!”

The intensity of her performance only seemed to drive Hyodo further, his movements syncing with the rhythm of her unrestrained outpouring. The room was alive with the energy of her voice, the jumping beat of the bedframe against the wall almost like a drum accompanying her impromptu concert.

As the song reached its crescendo, Retsuko’s voice cracked, raw from the force of her screams. She collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving, her mind spinning as the reality of what she’d just done began to creep in around the edges of her euphoria.

Hyodo leaned over her, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and admiration. Pearls of white poured from her holes. He really did a number on her, once again.

Retsuko didn’t respond immediately, her gaze locked on the ceiling. The photos on the wall seemed to mock her now, with their cheerful smiles.

What had she done? And why, even in the face of her guilt, did part of her feel... liberated?

Hyodo brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “No regrets, right?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.

Retsuko’s breath hitched, her thoughts a jumbled mess as she struggled to find an answer. Finally, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I don’t know.”

—

Haida stepped out of the shower at the love hotel, steam billowing around him as he ran a towel over his fur. The warm water had washed away the physical remnants of the night, but he couldn’t shake the gnawing unease in his chest. Do I still smell like... that? He sniffed at his arm discreetly, paranoia creeping in. No matter how much soap he’d used, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the scent of his infidelity lingered. Get it together, Haida. You’re overthinking this.

He pulled on his clothes, adjusting his tie in the foggy mirror before stepping out into the cool night air. The walk back to his apartment was like a march to his own judgment, each step heavy with the weight of his actions. By the time he reached his building, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the faint smell of citrus cleaner wafting through the hallway.

When he opened the door to his apartment, the scent hit him full force. The place was spotless—pristine, even. The faint hum of an air purifier in the corner filled the silence as Haida looked around, his eyes landing on freshly vacuumed carpets and countertops that gleamed under the overhead lights. Retsuko had clearly been busy.

“Hey,” she called from the kitchen, her voice light but carrying a note of curiosity. “You’re back later than I expected. Did you get side-tracked?”

Haida froze for a fraction of a second before forcing a casual smile and holding up the plastic bag he’d brought from the convenience store. “Yeah, uh, just stopped to grab some snacks,” he said, his voice a little too rehearsed. “Thought I might have a gaming session soon. Been a while, you know?”

Retsuko turned to look at him, her hands still holding a towel she’d been folding. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes scanning him briefly before she nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” she said simply, setting the towel down.

Her lack of reaction threw Haida off balance. He had expected some kind of pushback—maybe a comment about how he hadn’t gamed in ages, or even a question about why he didn’t come home earlier. But her response was calm, almost... too calm. She’s suspicious, isn’t she? Haida’s mind raced as he tried to gauge her mood, but she had already turned her attention back to her task.

He shuffled awkwardly into the bedroom, dropping his bag on the dresser before pulling off his tie and kicking off his shoes. The room was just as spotless as the rest of the apartment, the faint scent of fabric softener clinging to the freshly laundered sheets. He stripped down to his boxers and flopped onto the bed with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the mattress.

Retsuko appeared in the doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. “Are you going to shower?” she asked, her tone light but with an edge of curiosity. “I just took one, so the hot water should be ready again.”

Haida hesitated, his mind flashing back to the shower he’d taken earlier at the love hotel. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. “Nah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll take one in the morning. I’m too tired right now.” He nearly added another one but caught himself just in time, clamping his mouth shut before the words could slip out.

Retsuko lingered for a moment, her gaze lingering on him before she nodded and moved toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, her movements quiet and deliberate as she settled under the covers. Her arm brushed against his as she curled up next to him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

Haida lay stiffly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as his mind raced. The warmth of her body against his should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like a spotlight shining on every secret he was trying to keep.

“You okay?” Retsuko asked softly, her voice breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Haida replied quickly, too quickly. “Just tired.”

She nodded, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she closed them, her breathing evening out as she settled in. Haida remained still, his thoughts churning. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to come.

And yet, he could feel the weight of her own unspoken words hanging in the air between them. There was a tension, subtle but unmistakable, in the way she curled against him. It was as if she, too, wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right moment—or the courage.

As the minutes stretched on, Haida’s chest tightened with the unbearable weight of their silence. I should say something. I should tell her... But what would he say? That he was sorry? That he was a coward? That he didn’t know how to fix the growing distance between them?

Instead, he closed his eyes, his body tense as he lay there beside her. The silence between them wasn’t new.

And for the first time, Haida wondered if there would ever be a way back from it.

—

Haida’s sleep came in fits and starts at first, his mind still racing with thoughts of the night’s events. But eventually, the weight of exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into the kind of deep, chaotic sleep that only came when he was completely drained—physically and emotionally.

The stage lights pulsed red and blue, casting sharp halos in time with the drumbeat. Haida gripped the mic, the crowd a restless, roaring shadow. Haida stood at the mic, gripping the neck of a battered bass covered in stickers and scratches, his leather jacket hanging loose on his shoulders. Behind him, a faceless drummer and guitarist pounded out a fast, aggressive rhythm.

“This one’s for everyone who’s sick of being another cog in the goddamn machine!” Haida shouted into the mic, his voice rough and defiant.

The crowd roared, their fists pumping in unison as Haida launched into a blistering riff, his fingers flying over the strings. His voice tore through the noise, sharp and biting as he spat out lyrics that swelled like they were coming from somewhere deep inside him:

“You want control, you want compliance,
Build your towers, sell your silence!
But we’re the spark, we’re the fire,
We’ll burn it down, your corporate empire!”

He leaned into the mic, his eyes scanning the audience as he fed off their reactions.

But then, something caught his eye—a familiar face in the sea of shadows. His brother, Jiro.

Jiro was standing near the back, his arms crossed, his sharp suit a stark contrast to the chaotic energy around him. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was enough to throw Haida off balance. For a moment, his fingers faltered on the strings, and the crowd seemed to ripple in confusion, their cheers dimming.

“Jiro?” Haida muttered, his voice barely audible over the drums and distorted guitar. The spotlight swung toward his brother, isolating him in the crowd as everything else seemed to fade away.

“You’re embarrassing yourself, Haida,” Jiro said, his voice calm but cutting, though it shouldn’t have been audible over the noise. Somehow, it was.

“What are you doing here?” Haida demanded, his grip loosened on the bass as he stepped closer to the edge of the stage.

“Same thing you always do,” Jiro replied, his tone cold. “Trying to play the rebel when you’re just running from your responsibilities.”

The words hit Haida like a punch to the gut, and the crowd began to distort, their faces warping into twisted masks of disapproval. The music faltered, the sound warping into something dissonant and grating as the lights flickered.

“Shut up!” Haida shouted, his voice cracking. He tried to launch into another riff, but his fingers wouldn’t move, the guitar feeling heavy and alien in his hands.

Jiro smirked, his expression full of pity and something darker. “You can’t hide from who you are, Haida. Not forever.”

The lights around him exploded, the sound reaching a deafening crescendo as the dream fractured like glass. Haida jolted awake, his chest heaving as he stared up at the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. His heart was racing, and for a moment, he could still hear the distorted echo of the crowd in his ears.

The scent of food wafted through the air, cutting through his lingering unease. He blinked, his mind slowly registering the soft clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen. The dream faded into the background as he sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.

Dragging himself out of bed, Haida shuffled toward the kitchen, his bare feet padding against the cool floor. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes landing on Retsuko, who was standing at the stove, her back to him as she carefully arranged dishes on a tray. The table was already set with a traditional Japanese breakfast—steaming bowls of miso soup, perfectly grilled fish, rice, and small side dishes of pickled vegetables.

“You’re up,” Retsuko said without turning around, her voice calm but carrying a hint of something unreadable. “I made breakfast.”

Haida’s stomach growled involuntarily at the sight and smell of the food, but his mind was still tangled in the remnants of his dream. “Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved to sit at the table.

Retsuko brought over the tray, setting it down with quiet precision before taking a seat across from him. She glanced at him briefly, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp. “You looked like you didn’t sleep well.”

“Yeah,” Haida admitted, picking up his chopsticks. “Weird dreams.”

She nodded, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned her attention to her food. The silence between them was heavy, the clinking of chopsticks against bowls the only sound. Haida couldn’t shake the image of Jiro in the crowd, his brother’s cutting words echoing in his mind.

As they ate, Haida stole a glance at Retsuko, wondering if she could sense the guilt he was carrying. What was she thinking? He wanted to ask, to break the silence, but the words became stuck in his throat.

Retsuko’s voice broke the silence as they ate, her chopsticks pausing over her bowl of miso soup. “So,” she said casually, though there was a note of genuine curiosity in her tone, “what was the dream about?”

Haida glanced up from his rice, his first instinct to brush off the question with a vague answer. But something in Retsuko’s expression—calm, expectant—made him hesitate. He sighed, setting his chopsticks down and leaning back slightly in his chair.

“It was... weird,” he began, his voice unsure as he searched for the right words. “I was on stage, playing in a punk band. The crowd was wild, and I was shouting all this anti-corporate stuff. You know, the kind of rebellious stuff I used to listen to when I was younger.”

Retsuko tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing in interest. “That doesn’t sound too weird. I mean, you’ve always been into that kind of music, right?”

“Yeah,” Haida said, nodding. “But then, in the middle of the crowd, I saw Jiro.”

Retsuko blinked, her chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Your younger brother?”

“Yeah,” Haida said, his voice growing quieter. “He was just standing there, watching me, wearing one of his expensive suits like he didn’t belong there at all. And he... he said I was embarrassing myself. That I was just pretending to be something I’m not.”

Retsuko set her chopsticks down gently, folding her hands in her lap as she watched him. “What do you think that means?” she asked softly.

Haida rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze drifting toward the table as he tried to piece his thoughts together. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it got me thinking... Jiro used to love that kind of music. Punk, rock, even some metal. He had this massive collection—vinyls, CDs, even old cassettes. When he left for university, he gave me all of it.”

Retsuko’s expression softened, her curiosity evident. “I didn’t know that about him. What happened? Why did he change?”

Haida let out a humorless laugh, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Our dad happened,” he said bitterly. “Jiro was the new golden child, the one who was supposed to carry on the family legacy or whatever. But when he was a teenager, he rebelled hard. He’d sneak out to live shows, dye his fur weird colors, skip family dinners to hang out with his bandmates. He was emulating me, I guess.”

He paused, his gaze distant as he continued. “But then... one day, he just stopped. He cut his hair, put away his guitar, and started wearing suits. It was like a switch flipped, and suddenly, he was everything Dad wanted him to be. Everything I swore I’d never be.”

Retsuko reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “That must’ve been hard to watch.”

Haida shrugged, his expression tight. “It was weird. I mean, Jiro didn’t say anything about it. He just... changed. And the worst part is, I never even called him out on it. I just took his records and pretended it didn’t bother me.”

He hesitated, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And now... I’m starting to wonder if I’m doing the same thing.”

Retsuko’s eyes widened slightly, her grip on his arm becoming more harsh. “What do you mean?”

Haida sighed deeply, running a hand through his fur. “I mean... look at me. I’ve got a steady job, a wife, an apartment. On paper, I’m doing everything right. But it’s not me. It’s not what I wanted. I spend more time worrying about being the ‘ideal husband’ or the ‘ideal salaryman’ than actually... being myself. And the more I try to live up to those expectations, the more I feel like I’m just turning into Dad.”

Retsuko’s expression softened, her eyes full of understanding. “You’re not your dad, Haida,” she said firmly. “You’re allowed to change and grow without losing who you are.”

Haida looked at her, his chest tightening as he tried to absorb her words. “But what if I already have?” he asked quietly. “What if I’ve already lost that part of me?”

Retsuko didn’t answer immediately, her gaze thoughtful as she studied him. “Maybe you’ve just forgotten where that part of you is,” she said finally. “But it’s still there. You just have to find it again.”

Haida let out a shaky breath, his mind swirling with memories of late-night jam sessions, cramped venues, and the raw, unfiltered energy of a scene he hadn’t been a part of in years. Could he really go back to that? Could he even find that version of himself again?

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause, his voice tentative but tinged with hope. “Maybe you’re right.”

Retsuko smiled faintly, her hand still resting on his arm. “I know I am. You’re not the kind of person who gives up, Haida. You’ve just got to remember why you started in the first place.”

As they returned to their meal, the silence between them was no longer heavy but contemplative. Haida’s mind churned with possibilities, the faintest spark of something familiar flickering to life in his chest. Maybe he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

The silence between them stretched on for a moment after Haida’s hesitant reply, the faint clinking of chopsticks against bowls filling the air. Retsuko seemed lost in thought, her gaze distant as she toyed with a piece of pickled vegetable on her plate. Haida, still mulling over their conversation about his dream and his brother, was startled when she suddenly spoke.

“I have something to tell you,” Retsuko said, her voice flat but firm. She didn’t look up, her fingers tightening slightly around her chopsticks.

Haida blinked, caught off guard. “Uh... okay?” he said cautiously, his mind racing. What now?

Retsuko set her chopsticks down carefully, folding her hands in her lap as she took a deep breath. “I’ve been cheating on you.”

Chapter Text

The words landed like a bomb, reverberating through the room. Haida froze, his mind going blank as he stared at her, his mouth slightly open. The sheer bluntness of her admission left no room for ambiguity, no space to soften the blow.

“Wait, what?” he stammered, his voice cracking as the reality of her words began to sink in. “You’re... you’re serious?”

Retsuko finally looked up at him, her expression a mixture of guilt and resignation. “Yes,” she said simply. “I am.”

Haida’s thoughts were a whirlwind, his emotions careening wildly between shock, anger, and... relief? He didn’t know what he had expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. And yet, deep down, he felt a twisted tension lifting from his chest, a strange sense of freedom that he couldn’t fully explain. If she’s cheating, then... maybe I don’t have to feel so guilty about what I’ve done.

“Who?” he asked, his voice steadier now, though his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the table. “How long?”

Retsuko hesitated, her gaze flickering to the side as if debating how much to reveal. “It’s... been a little while,” she admitted. “And it’s... with Hyodo.”

Haida’s eyes widened, the name hitting him like a second punch to the gut. “Hyodo?!” he repeated, his voice rising. “Your old manager? The guy who ran OTMGirls? That Hyodo?”

“Yes,” Retsuko said, her tone calm but firm. “That Hyodo.”

Haida leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his fur as he tried to process the information. His initial shock was quickly giving way to a cascade of emotions, each more confusing than the last. Anger simmered just beneath the surface, but it was tempered by the strange, almost liberating relief that had begun to creep in. She’s not perfect either.

“Why?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now. “Why him?”

Retsuko’s shoulders slumped slightly as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Because... he made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time,” she said honestly. “Wanted. Desired. Like I wasn’t just a wife or an employee or... whatever else people expect me to be.”

Haida bit the inside of his cheek, the irony of her words not lost on him. He had sought out Shikabane for similar reasons, hadn’t he? To escape the pressure of expectations, to feel alive again. And yet, hearing Retsuko voice the same feelings felt like a slap to the face.

“Does that mean you don’t...?” He trailed off, unable to finish the question.

“I don’t know,” Retsuko said softly, her eyes meeting his. “I still care about you, Haida. I always will. But I think we’ve both been lying to ourselves about what this marriage is.”

Haida swallowed hard, his throat dry as he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe we have.”

The room fell silent again. Haida wanted to say something, to confess his own infidelity, to level the playing field. But the words wouldn’t come. What good would it do?

Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table as he let out a long sigh. “So... what now?” he asked, his voice tired but resigned.

Retsuko shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But at least we’re being honest now. That’s... a start, isn’t it?”

Haida nodded slowly, though a pang of guilt twisted in his chest. Honest. Sure. Except I’m not. But as he looked across the table at Retsuko, he realized that he wasn’t ready to share his own secret—not yet. For now, he would let her carry the weight of her confession alone, even as his own weighed heavily on his mind.

“Yeah,” he said finally, forcing a faint smile. “It’s a start.”

“I want to make it up to you,” she said softly, her eyes flicking between his and the table. Her tone was cautious, but there was an unmistakable resolve in her posture.

Haida raised an eyebrow, confused. “Make it up to me?” he repeated. “What does that even mean?”

Retsuko hesitated, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she gathered her thoughts. “I mean... I want to make things even. Balance things out.”

“Okay...” Haida said slowly, unsure where this was going. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she looked him directly in the eye, her voice firm despite the color rising to her face. “I wouldn’t mind if you... slept with someone else.”

The words hung in the air like a live wire, electrifying the space between them. Haida’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled to process what she had just said. “You... what?”

Retsuko looked away, her face now fully red. “I mean it,” she said, her voice quieter now but still steady. “If it’s with someone I know and trust... I’d be okay with it.”

Haida blinked, his brain still scrambling to catch up. “Okay, hold on,” he said, holding up a hand. “Are you serious? Like... actually serious? Because this doesn’t sound like something you’d be okay with.”

Retsuko nodded, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “I’ve been thinking a lot about... us,” she admitted. “About what we both want. And I think... I think we need to explore this. Try something new. Together.”

Haida leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his fur as he tried to make sense of her words. “I... I don’t even know what to say to that,” he said honestly. “Do you even have someone in mind?”

To his surprise, Retsuko nodded again, her cheeks still flushed. “Manaka.”

Haida’s jaw dropped. “Manaka?” he repeated incredulously. “You’re suggesting... Manaka? Why?”

Retsuko shifted uncomfortably, her hands twisting together in her lap. “Because I trust her,” she said simply. “And because... I want to explore this new dynamic as much as I can. Together.”

Haida stared at her, his mind reeling. “What does that even mean? ‘Explore this dynamic’? Retsuko, this is... I don’t even know what this is.”

“It means,” Retsuko said firmly, finally meeting his gaze, “that I want to see what it’s like. I want to see you with someone else. I think it could... help us. And if it’s with someone I know and trust, like Manaka, then I feel like it’s a safe way to try.”

Haida’s stomach churned as he tried to process her words. What the hell is happening? Part of him felt like he was walking straight into a trap, like this was some elaborate test he was bound to fail. And yet, another part of him—the part still reeling from her confession—wondered if this was some kind of bizarre gift.

“I... don’t even find Manaka that attractive,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Retsuko’s blush deepened, but she didn’t back down. “That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is... I want this. I want to try this.”

Haida rubbed his temples, his mind flashing back to Tadano’s “homework” and the list of tasks he was supposed to complete. Have sex with someone I don’t even like or find attractive. This would certainly tick that box, and it felt disturbingly like fate had handed him an easy out. But was it worth the potential fallout?

“You’re serious about this?” he asked again, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Yes,” Retsuko said without hesitation. “I am.”

He let out a long sigh, his head falling into his hands. Am I the luckiest guy alive, or am I about to walk into my own personal hell? He wasn’t sure. But the look in Retsuko’s eyes—the mixture of determination and vulnerability—made it impossible for him to say no.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice resigned. “I’ll... talk to Manaka.”

Retsuko’s face lit up with a mix of relief and anticipation. “Thank you,” she said softly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “I think this is the right step for us. For both of us.”

Haida nodded absently, his mind already racing with the implications of what he had just agreed to. This is either going to fix everything or destroy it completely.

—

Haida trudged down the crowded sidewalk, the morning sun beating down on the concrete jungle as he made his way to his IT job. His bag slung lazily over one shoulder, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone to distract himself from the monotony of the commute. Without overthinking, he opened his messages and tapped out a casual text to Tsunoda.

“Hey. Thanks for last night. Appreciate it.”

He stared at the screen for a moment before hitting send, the memory of the previous evening flashing briefly through his mind. It still felt surreal—like something out of a dream he wasn’t sure he wanted to have. Why did she have to be so... Tsunoda about everything?

Moments later, his phone buzzed with a reply.

“It was alright,” Tsunoda wrote, her tone somehow managing to sound nonchalant even through text. “We should make it a weekly thing.”

Haida sighed, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious, but knowing Tsunoda, it was probably a bit of both.

“Is there a discount for frequent flyers?” he typed back, adding a smirking emoji for good measure.

The reply came almost immediately.

“Nope. My time is valuable, Haida. Don’t be cheap.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath, earning a strange look from an elderly rabbit walking past him. Shaking his head, Haida typed back.

“Fine, fine. I’ll think about it.”

“You do that, Mr. Salaryman. ;)”

The conversation left him feeling oddly lighter, even as the reality of his actions continued to weigh on him. What the hell am I doing? he thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he crossed the street. This isn’t sustainable.

But before the guilt could take root, his phone buzzed again, pulling him back into the moment. This time, he hesitated, staring at the screen as he scrolled through his contacts. His finger hovered over a name he hadn’t reached out to in a while: Shikabane.

After another moment of indecision, he opened their chat and typed out a hesitant message.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

The reply didn’t take long, as if she’d been waiting for something to distract her.

“Same as always. Why?”

Haida’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard before he decided to dive into honesty.

“Just... thinking about things. About everything.”

“Everything?” she replied, followed by a small skull emoji.

“Yeah,” Haida wrote back. “You know, about... how it’s all kind of a mess. But also... not? Like, in some weird way, it’s kind of nice knowing I’m not the only one feeling like this.”

There was a longer pause this time before Shikabane replied.

“Yeah. It’s messed up. But I guess it’s freeing? In a way.”

Haida stared at the message, letting the words sink in. Freeing. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but maybe she was right. As chaotic as everything was, there was a strange relief in knowing that he wasn’t alone in it. That someone else got it.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Exactly. It's hard to put it in my own words…”

“I get it,” Shikabane wrote back. “Life’s not great. Might as well enjoy the parts that don’t suck.”

Haida couldn’t help but laugh softly, earning another curious glance from a passerby. He texted back quickly.

“You always know how to put it perfectly.”

“That’s why you like me, right?”

Haida settled into his cubicle at the IT office, the hum of computers and the quiet murmur of his colleagues forming a familiar backdrop to his morning. His desk was a cluttered mess of papers, sticky notes, and half-finished projects he had no motivation to tackle. He booted up his computer and stared blankly at the screen, the cursor blinking at him like it was mocking his lack of productivity.

He leaned back in his chair, pulling his phone out of his pocket to distract himself. A notification lit up the screen—a new message from Shikabane.

“Bored. Wanna play something?”

Haida smirked at her bluntness, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he replied.

“Can’t. I’m at work.”

The response came almost immediately.

“So? You still have your phone. Don’t tell me you’re actually working.”

Haida chuckled softly under his breath. She’s not wrong, he thought. His eyes flicked to the stack of unfinished reports on his desk before typing back.

“Fine. What are we playing?”

Shikabane sent him a link to an online multiplayer game. The interface was cartoonishly simple: colorful crewmates navigating a spaceship, trying to complete tasks while rooting out the imposters. Haida rolled his eyes but clicked the link anyway, the game loading quickly on his phone.

“Don’t make me carry you,” Shikabane messaged as the lobby screen loaded.

“No promises,” Haida replied, laughing under his breath.

The first round started, and Haida found himself assigned as a crewmate. His little character waddled around the virtual spaceship, completing simple tasks like connecting wires and calibrating engines. Shikabane’s messages popped up periodically in the in-game chat, her dry ‘humor’ evident even in text.

“Haida, stop looking so sus.”

“I’m not! I’m literally doing tasks!”

“That’s exactly what someone sus would say.”

Despite himself, Haida found the game surprisingly engaging. The mix of teamwork and deception kept him on edge, and he couldn’t help but smile at Shikabane’s relentless trolling. When the first round ended, he realized he was already looking forward to the next one.

As the day wore on, Haida became more absorbed in the game. His coworkers passed by his cubicle without a second glance, none of them seeming to notice that his focus was entirely on his phone and not on the stack of paperwork in front of him. Shikabane, as expected, dominated most of the rounds, her sharp instincts and strategic thinking making her a formidable imposter.

“Haida, stop following me,” she typed in one round when he, as a crewmate, stuck close to her to avoid getting killed.

“I’m protecting you!” he replied.

“You’re annoying me.”

Haida laughed softly, the sound drawing a curious glance from a coworker a few desks over. He quickly coughed and pretended to shuffle some papers, but as soon as they turned away, he was back on his phone, navigating his crewmate through the spaceship.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, Haida realized with a pang of guilt that he hadn’t done a single meaningful thing all day. His inbox was overflowing with unanswered emails, and the reports he was supposed to finish sat untouched.

“Should we call it?” he messaged Shikabane.

“Call what?” she replied.

“Game over. I should actually get some work done.”

“Lame,” she typed back, followed by a skull emoji. “But fine. You’re probably useless at your job anyway.”

Haida smirked, shaking his head. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime,” she replied. “Text me later.”

As the game disconnected and his screen returned to his work emails, Haida leaned back in his chair, his focus entirely shot. He couldn’t even muster the energy to feel bad about wasting the day. Instead, a faint smile lingered on his lips, the banter with Shikabane replaying in his mind.

Maybe today wasn’t productive, he thought. But at least it wasn’t boring.

—

The office was its usual hub of quiet productivity, the faint tapping of keyboards and the occasional rustle of papers.

Retsuko sat at her desk, her eyes fixed on her computer screen, though her thoughts were far from her work. She had managed to keep her composure all morning, burying the emotional rawness of her confession to Haida beneath a practiced veneer of professionalism. But now, the cracks in her resolve were beginning to show.

A shadow fell across her desk, and Retsuko looked up to see Tsunoda leaning casually against the partition, her ever-present smirk firmly in place.

“Morning, Retsuko,” Tsunoda said, her tone light but carrying that familiar edge of mischief. “You’re looking... pensive. Something on your mind?”

Retsuko straightened in her chair, quickly shaking her head. “No, nothing,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “Just trying to get through the day.”

“Hmm,” Tsunoda mused, her gaze sharp as she studied Retsuko’s face. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice you came in a little late today. That’s not like you.”

Retsuko’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she kept her tone even. “I was just running behind. Made breakfast for Haida and lost track of time.”

Tsunoda’s smirk widened, and she tilted her head as if considering something. “How sweet,” she said, her voice dripping with mock admiration. “You’re such a good wife, Retsuko. Always putting in the effort.”

Before Retsuko could respond, several of their coworkers chimed in from nearby desks.

“That’s so cute, Retsuko!” one of them said, her tone genuinely admiring. “I wish I could find the time to do that for my husband.”

“You’re really setting the bar high for the rest of us,” another added with a laugh.

Retsuko smiled awkwardly, mumbling a quick “Thanks” as she turned back to her computer. She could feel Tsunoda’s gaze lingering, though, and she braced herself for whatever comment was coming next.

“Well,” Tsunoda said, her voice quieter now, “you know, it’s interesting how much effort you’re putting in at home these days. Almost... compensating for something, maybe?”

Retsuko’s hands froze on her keyboard, her heart skipping a beat. She glanced up at Tsunoda, whose smirk had taken on a knowing edge.

“What are you getting at?” Retsuko asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“Oh, nothing,” Tsunoda said with a shrug, pushing off the partition. “Just thinking out loud. You know me—always noticing things.”

Before Retsuko could press her further, the familiar sound of Komiya’s wheezy laughter broke through the office noise. “Late again, Retsuko?” he said, his tone a mix of teasing and derision. “You’ve been slacking more and more this fiscal year. I’m starting to think you’re taking advantage of Director Ton’s good nature.”

Retsuko’s cheeks burned as she turned to see Komiya and Director Ton standing near the office printer, both of them looking her way. Ton grunted, adjusting his glasses as he folded his arms.

“You know, Komiya might have a point,” Ton said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “You used to be one of our most punctual employees. What’s going on, Retsuko?”

Retsuko swallowed hard, trying to ignore the stares of her coworkers as she scrambled for a response. “I... I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Komiya chimed in with a smirk. “This isn’t a karaoke bar, you know.”

Ton waved a hand dismissively, his expression softening slightly. “Just get your act together. We’re all under a lot of pressure this year, and I need everyone on top of their game.”

“Yes, sir,” Retsuko said, bowing her head slightly as she turned back to her computer.

The office noise resumed, but Retsuko’s mind was spinning. Tsunoda’s cryptic comment, the lingering tension from the morning, and now the added scrutiny of her supervisors—all of it felt like too much. She clenched her fists under her desk, forcing herself to focus on her work even as her thoughts churned.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Tsunoda whispered suddenly, leaning in close. “Komiya and Ton are just grumpy old men who need to feel important.”

Retsuko glanced at her, unsure whether to be grateful or suspicious of the comment.

“And as for Haida...” Tsunoda continued, her voice dropping even lower, “well, let’s just say he’s not exactly setting the same ‘good spouse’ example you are.”

Retsuko’s heart skipped another beat, her gaze snapping to Tsunoda’s face. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tsunoda smiled, straightening up and brushing imaginary dust off her blouse. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, turning to walk away. “Just noticing things, as always.”

As Tsunoda sauntered back to her desk, Retsuko sat frozen, her thoughts spiraling. What does she know? How much does she know?

And why, despite everything, did she feel like the walls around her were starting to close in?

Retsuko was just beginning to settle back into the rhythm of work, her fingers tapping away at her keyboard as she tried to drown out the nagging thoughts Tsunoda had planted. But the reprieve was short-lived. Out of nowhere, Fenneko’s unmistakable voice cut through the office noise like a precision strike.

“Retsuko,” she said, sliding into the seat next to her desk with an intensity that made Retsuko tense immediately. “What’s going on with you and Haida?”

Retsuko blinked, her fingers pausing mid-typing. She turned to Fenneko, her friend’s sharp eyes practically glowing with curiosity. “Uh... what do you mean?” Retsuko asked cautiously.

Fenneko leaned in, her voice dropping slightly as she smirked. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like I haven’t noticed. Something’s up with you two.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Retsuko said quickly, her voice a little too high-pitched to be convincing. “Everything’s fine.”

Fenneko arched an eyebrow, her expression making it clear she wasn’t buying a word of it. “Retsuko, please,” she said, pulling out her phone and tapping on the screen. “Do you think I don’t pay attention? I’ve been following both of you on social media for years. And lately... let’s just say things don’t add up.”

Retsuko’s heart sank as Fenneko held up her phone, displaying a series of Instagram stories and posts. “For starters,” Fenneko began, swiping through the images with practiced precision, “you two haven’t mentioned each other in your stories in, like, months. No cute anniversary shoutouts, no pictures of the two of you at dinner, nothing. It’s like you’re living separate lives.”

Retsuko opened her mouth to respond, but Fenneko didn’t give her the chance.

“Then there’s the wedding rings,” Fenneko continued, zooming in on a recent photo of Retsuko holding a karaoke mic. “Yours is missing in this one, and this one... and this one.” She swiped again, pulling up a picture of Haida at what looked like an after-work gathering. “And he’s not wearing his either. That’s not normal, Retsuko.”

“I—” Retsuko started, but Fenneko steamrolled over her attempt to defend herself.

“Then there’s the vibe of your posts lately,” Fenneko said, her tone turning almost clinical. “You’re both posting like single people. Flirty selfies, ambiguous captions... Haida’s been posting a lot of pictures at bars and concerts. Meanwhile, you’ve been looking... suspiciously dolled up in all your photos lately.”

“I can’t believe you’re analyzing this so much,” Retsuko muttered, her cheeks burning as she turned back to her computer. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Oh, I’m multitasking,” Fenneko said breezily, leaning back in her chair. “Anyway, it’s not just me who’s noticed. People in the office are starting to talk.”

Retsuko’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “What?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“Relax,” Fenneko said, waving a hand. “They don’t know anything specific. But people are saying you’ve both been acting... different. They also have you guys followed and added everywhere online, you know? And honestly, the signs are all there, Retsuko. If I had to guess...” She paused for dramatic effect, her grin widening. “I’d say you’re having an affair. And so is Haida.”

Retsuko’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to formulate a response. “That’s ridiculous,” she said finally, her voice faltering slightly. “You’re reading too much into this. Haida and I are fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Fenneko said, clearly unconvinced. She studied Retsuko’s face for a moment, her sharp gaze unrelenting. “You know, the harder you try to deny it, the more obvious it is that I’m right.”

Retsuko groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “Fenneko, please. Can we not do this right now? I have work to do.”

Fenneko smirked, clearly enjoying herself, but she finally relented. “Fine,” she said, standing up and slipping her phone back into her pocket. “But don’t think I’m letting this go. If you ever feel like coming clean... you know where to find me.”

With that, she sauntered off, leaving Retsuko sitting frozen at her desk, her mind swirling with panic. The idea that Fenneko might piece everything together—her affair, Haida’s own possible infidelity, the crumbling state of their marriage—made her stomach churn.

She forced herself to focus on her computer screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she tried to drown out the noise in her head. But no matter how hard she worked, Fenneko’s words lingered, a constant reminder that the fragile facade she had built was beginning to crack.

How much longer can I keep this up?

Retsuko sat at her desk, the glow of her monitor reflecting off her slightly furrowed brow as she tried to focus on the task at hand. Her inbox was a mess, the spreadsheet on her screen half-complete, and the looming deadline only added to the pile of stress she was juggling. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to force her thoughts back to work, her mind kept wandering to the possibility that Haida, too, had been unfaithful.

The idea gnawed at her, a mix of emotions swirling in her chest that she couldn’t fully unpack. Guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders, pulling her posture slightly forward as she clicked aimlessly between tabs, her focus splintering. If he’s cheating, too, does that make me a bad wife? Or are we just even now?

A sharper, more uncomfortable thought bubbled up, one she didn’t dare voice even to herself. Why does the idea of him being with someone else make me feel... this way? Is it jealousy? Or something else? Her face flushed at the notion, a mix of shame and a strange, confusing thrill blooming in her chest.

The flurry of emotions was too much to handle at her desk. Pushing her chair back abruptly, Retsuko stood and muttered something about needing a break to no one in particular. She moved briskly toward the bathroom, her heels clicking against the office floor as she avoided eye contact with her coworkers. She felt their gazes briefly flicker toward her, but she ignored them, her focus solely on getting to a place where she could breathe.

Once inside the bathroom, she leaned heavily against the sink, gripping the edges as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The fluorescence above cast a harsh, unflattering glow, making the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced. Her neatly styled fur was beginning to fray slightly, a reflection of how she felt inside—pulled apart at the seams.

“What are you doing, Retsuko?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the faint hum of the ventilation system. Her reflection offered no answers, only the same tired eyes staring back at her.

She let out a heavy sigh, her grip on the sink tightening. Who have I become? The question echoed in her mind, relentless and unforgiving. She had always thought of herself as a good person—honest, hardworking, loyal. But now? Now, she wasn’t so sure.

The memories of the morning resurfaced, her confession to Haida replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape. She had admitted her affair, something she never thought she’d do. And yet, instead of feeling lighter, she felt heavier, weighed down by the reality of what her marriage had become. I cheated. I broke our vows. But what if he did, too?

Her thoughts shifted to Haida, to the strange moments she had overlooked in recent weeks. His late nights, the vague excuses, the way he seemed both distant and... freer. The idea that he might also be stepping out of their marriage was both infuriating and oddly... arousing. The heat in her cheeks deepened as she clenched her jaw, trying to suppress the confusing feelings that threatened to overwhelm her.

“What is wrong with me?” she muttered, her voice sharper this time. She looked down at the sink, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror as she tried to piece together the kind of person she was becoming.

The Retsuko she saw in her mind’s eye—the dutiful, cheerful, dependable wife—was no longer someone she could recognize. Instead, she saw someone grappling with her own desires, someone who had stepped outside the boundaries of her marriage and was now questioning everything she thought she knew about herself. Is this who I’ve always been, deep down? Or am I just... broken?

She straightened up, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands as she tried to compose herself. The image in the mirror was the same, but she felt different—more aware of the cracks in her facade. I don’t have time to fall apart right now.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and forced herself to meet her own gaze. “You’ll figure it out,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “You always do.”

The sound of the bathroom door opening startled her, and she quickly adjusted her expression into something neutral as a coworker walked in. Without a word, Retsuko turned and left, her heels clicking against the tiles as she returned to her desk. But even as she sat back down and tried to focus on her work, the questions lingered, haunting her like a shadow she couldn’t escape. Who am I, really? And who do I want to be?

—

Retsuko clutched the microphone tightly as she scrolled through the song selection. Washimi and Gori sat on the plush couch behind her, chatting softly over their drinks, their tones light and casual. They were unaware of the storm brewing inside their friend.

When the song selection stopped on a heavy metal track, Washimi and Gori exchanged a quick glance. They knew this tone, this energy. Retsuko was gearing up for one of her infamous venting sessions, and by the look on her face, this one was going to be intense.

As the heavy, guttural guitar riff blasted through the speakers, Retsuko stepped up to the mic, her posture rigid and her eyes blazing. She gripped the mic stand like a lifeline, and when the lyrics hit, she unleashed a scream that reverberated through the small room, raw and unfiltered:

“BETRAYAL, LIES, THIS MARRIAGE IS A SHAM!
WHAT HAPPENED TO ‘FOREVER’? A SICK, TWISTED SCAM!”

Washimi and Gori froze, their drinks halfway to their lips as the lyrics hit them like a freight train. They shared another look, this one filled with concern and confusion. But Retsuko wasn’t done.

“I CHEATED FIRST, BUT NOW I SUSPECT,
MY HUSBAND’S DOING THE SAME—WHAT THE HELL DID I EXPECT?
WE’RE PLAYING THIS GAME, HIDING THE PAIN,
PRETENDING THAT WE’RE FINE, BUT IT’S ALL IN VAIN!”

The microphone crackled slightly as Retsuko’s voice climbed higher, the raw emotion in her screams making the room feel charged, almost suffocating. Washimi set her drink down, her composed demeanor slipping slightly as she leaned forward, her brows knitting together. Gori, on the other hand, was clutching her purse tightly, her eyes wide as she watched her friend unravel.

“SECRETS ON MY PHONE, WHISPERS IN THE DARK,
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LOVE THAT USED TO SPARK?
I’M LOST IN THIS MESS, DROWNING IN DOUBT,
DO I WANT TO FIX THIS, OR JUST BURN IT ALL OUT?!”

Retsuko’s screams reached a crescendo, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. When the final note hit, she stood frozen, the mic trembling in her hand as the room fell into a heavy silence. The sound of her labored breathing was the only thing cutting through the stillness.

Washimi and Gori sat on the couch, both stunned into silence. Washimi’s sharp, composed exterior cracked just enough to reveal the worry in her eyes. Gori, usually quick with emotional reassurance, seemed at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to process what she had just heard.

“Retsuko...” Washimi began, her voice low and cautious. “What... was that?”

Retsuko let out a shaky laugh, setting the microphone down as she turned to face them. “That,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming, “is what’s been going on in my life lately.”

Gori finally found her voice, though it was shaky. “You... you cheated on Haida?” she asked, her tone a mix of shock and disbelief. “And you think he might be cheating on you?”

Retsuko nodded, collapsing onto the couch next to them. “Yeah,” she said simply, her voice flat. “That’s the short version.”

Washimi crossed her legs, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she studied Retsuko with a critical eye. “And you thought the best way to tell us was through a death metal ballad?” she asked dryly.

“It seemed fitting,” Retsuko muttered, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”

Gori reached out, placing a hand on Retsuko’s shoulder. “Retsuko, this is... a lot,” she said gently. “I mean, I’m glad you told us, but... are you okay?”

“No,” Retsuko admitted, her voice muffled by her hands. “I’m not okay. I’m a mess. My marriage is falling apart, and I don’t know if I even care enough to fix it.”

The honesty of her words hung heavy in the air, leaving both Washimi and Gori struggling to respond. Washimi finally broke the silence, her voice calm but firm.

“Look,” she said, “this isn’t something you can just scream about and hope it goes away. You need to figure out what you want, Retsuko. Do you want to save your marriage, or are you ready to walk away from it?”

“I don’t know,” Retsuko said quietly, her hands falling to her lap. “I thought I did, but now... I don’t.”

Gori leaned forward, her expression earnest, her large hands gesturing as she spoke. “Retsuko, listen to me. If there’s any genuine love left between you and Haida, then you owe it to yourselves to try and fix this. A marriage isn’t something you just throw away because things get tough. What’s happened can be forgiven and forgotten—if you both commit to rebuilding what you have.”

Washimi, seated with her legs crossed and a hand resting elegantly on the arm of the couch, raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you propose they do that, Gori? Sweep everything under the rug and pretend it never happened? That’s not how people work. Unmet needs don’t just vanish; they become desires. And those desires? They find a way out—whether you like it or not.”

“That’s the kind of thinking that leads to chaos!” Gori shot back, her voice tinged with frustration. “Marriage isn’t about chasing every fleeting desire. It’s about commitment, sacrifice, and building a stable life together. Retsuko can’t just act impulsively and expect things to magically work out.”

Washimi’s calm demeanor didn’t waver, but there was an edge to her tone as she replied, “Commitment and stability are all well and good, but they mean nothing if the foundation is cracked. And let’s be honest—traditional marriage, especially in today’s world, is an outdated institution built on unrealistic expectations. It’s no wonder so many people feel trapped and unsatisfied.”

“Outdated?” Gori repeated, her voice rising. “You think building a life with someone you love is outdated? Marriage is about two people working together, growing together. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it.”

Washimi tilted her head slightly, her sharp gaze locking onto Gori. “Is it worth it if one or both people are suffocating under the weight of those expectations? Look at Retsuko. She’s clearly not happy, and neither is Haida, if he’s truly cheating as well. What good is a marriage if it’s just a performance?”

“It’s not a performance if they both commit to making it real again,” Gori countered, her voice softer but no less firm. “Retsuko, you said you still care about Haida, right?”

Retsuko, who had been staring down at her hands the entire time, looked up at the sound of her name. “I... I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I care about him, but... everything feels so complicated now.”

“Of course it’s complicated,” Gori said gently, leaning toward her. “But love is messy. That’s why you have to fight for it. Running away from the problem or giving in to temptation doesn’t solve anything—it just creates more hurt.”

Washimi shook her head. “Sometimes, the problem isn’t about fighting for love. It’s about redefining what love means in the first place. Maybe Retsuko and Haida need to take a step back and figure out what they actually want—individually and as a couple. Clinging to outdated notions of what a marriage should be will only make things worse.”

“Outdated notions?” Gori snapped, her frustration bubbling over. “You make it sound like commitment is some kind of prison! Marriage is about building a life together, not tearing it down because you feel unfulfilled for five minutes!”

“And that kind of thinking,” Washimi said coolly, “is why so many people end up miserable in their so-called perfect marriages. Denying your own needs for the sake of an idealized version of love doesn’t make you noble—it makes you miserable. And misery breeds resentment.”

Retsuko sat frozen between them, her gaze darting back and forth as they argued. She felt like a spectator at a tennis match, their words volleying over her head, each point hitting harder than the last. A part of her wanted to speak up, to defend herself, but she didn’t even know where to begin. They’re both right. And they’re both wrong.

The tension in the room grew palpable as Gori leaned back, crossing her arms with a huff. “Well, Retsuko? What do you think?” she asked, her tone still carrying a hint of frustration.

Retsuko looked up, her cheeks flushing as both women turned their full attention on her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her thoughts a tangled mess. “I... I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I want. I just... I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Washimi’s gaze softened slightly, and she reached out to place a hand on Retsuko’s shoulder. “Then maybe the first step is figuring out what you need—not what society expects, not what Haida expects, but what you truly want.”

“And once you figure that out,” Gori added, her voice gentler now, “you’ll have to decide if Haida is part of that future—or if it’s time to move on.”

Retsuko nodded slowly, her throat tight as she fought back tears. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the tension of their conversation settling over all three of them. For now, there were no easy answers, no tidy resolutions. Just the messy, complicated truth of a situation that none of them fully understood—but all of them were invested in helping her navigate.

—

Retsuko stepped out of the karaoke club, the cool night air brushing against her face as she started her walk home. The streets were quieter now, the hum of distant traffic mingling with the faint buzz of streetlights. Her mind still buzzed with the tension from her conversation with Washimi and Gori, but instead of letting it linger, she pulled out her phone and began to scroll aimlessly. It was a familiar habit, one that offered her a strange sort of comfort even as it filled her mind with more noise.

As she swiped through headlines, her feed was a mix of the usual doom and gloom. Articles about North Korea’s latest missile tests were splashed across every major outlet, accompanied by blurry satellite images and videos of stern-faced world leaders giving statements. Great, more things to worry about, Retsuko thought, scrolling past without clicking.

The next headline was about rising tensions in the Pacific, with countries scrambling to fortify their defenses amid growing uncertainty. The accompanying image showed a fleet of Japanese ships in formation, their imposing silhouettes stark against the ocean backdrop. As if things weren’t already bad enough, she muttered to herself, her thumb swiping faster.

Then, a headline caught her eye, its bright text standing out against the usual monotony: Prime Minister Oowada Proposes Radical 4-Day Work Week Initiative to Address Japan’s Declining Birth Rate.

Retsuko hesitated, her thumb hovering over the link. Oowada, huh? The purple tapir had been a constant presence in the news lately, his speeches and policies sparking both admiration and controversy. Despite his polarizing nature, Oowada had a knack for addressing Japan’s most pressing issues with bold, sometimes reactionary, ideas.

Curiosity won out, and Retsuko tapped on the article. It opened to a sleek layout featuring a still image of Oowada at a podium, his confident posture and piercing gaze making him look every bit the seasoned leader. Below the image was a video of the speech itself. She hit play.

The video started with Oowada adjusting his microphone, his expression calm but determined as the room full of reporters buzzed with anticipation. The backdrop displayed the Japanese flag alongside the slogan “Building a Future for All Generations.”

“Good evening,” Oowada began, his voice steady and resonant. “Today, I address an issue that has plagued our nation for far too long. Japan’s declining birth rate and aging population are not just challenges for the future—they are crises we face here and now.”

Retsuko watched as the camera panned over the audience, journalists scribbling furiously in their notebooks or typing on laptops. Oowada continued, his tone unwavering.

“We must act decisively to secure the future of our great nation. To this end, the government will begin experimenting with a revolutionary initiative: a 4-day work week. This policy is designed to give our citizens more time to focus on what truly matters—family, health, and building a life beyond the confines of work.”

Retsuko blinked, her pace slowing as she walked. A 4-day work week? It sounded almost too good to be true, especially in a country where overwork and karoshi—death from overwork—were still prevalent issues. She paused under a streetlamp, the soft glow illuminating her face as she watched the video intently.

“This policy,” Oowada continued, “is not just about reducing work hours. It is about creating a society where individuals feel empowered to prioritize their personal lives without sacrificing their careers. We must foster an environment where marriage and parenthood are not seen as burdens but as aspirations—essential elements of our national identity.”

The camera zoomed in on Oowada as he leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. “For too long, our culture has glorified endless productivity at the expense of emotional connection. If we are to reverse the trends of declining birth rates and an aging workforce, we must rethink the way we live and work.”

Retsuko couldn’t help but scoff softly. Emotional connection? She thought about her own life—her crumbling marriage, her tangled web of secrets, and the growing disconnect she felt from everyone around her. The idea of balancing work and personal life sounded great in theory, but in practice? Good luck convincing the average salaryman—or their bosses—for that matter.

As the speech continued, Oowada laid out the details of the initiative. Pilot programs would be introduced in select industries, with government subsidies provided to participating companies. Employees would work four days a week without any reduction in salary, with the expectation that productivity would be maintained through more focused, efficient workdays.

“Our hope,” Oowada concluded, “is that this initiative will inspire a cultural shift—one that values family and community alongside ambition and hard work. Together, we can build a future where every individual has the opportunity to thrive, both professionally and personally.”

The video ended with polite applause, and Retsuko stood there for a moment, her phone still in hand. She didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, the idea of a 4-day work week sounded like a dream—something that could genuinely improve people’s lives. But on the other hand, it felt... out of reach. How many companies would actually embrace such a change? How many workers would even feel comfortable taking advantage of it?

She resumed walking, her thoughts swirling as she tucked her phone back into her bag. Oowada might mean well, but words and policies can only do so much. People like me—we’re stuck in our routines, our obligations. A shorter work week won’t fix what’s broken in my life.

And yet, a small part of her couldn’t help but wonder. If something like this had existed earlier, would things have turned out differently for me and Haida?

—

Retsuko stepped into her apartment, the soft click of the door closing behind her echoing in the quiet space. She sighed, slipping off her shoes and tossing her bag onto the nearby chair. The stillness of the apartment was both a relief and a reminder—Haida wasn’t home yet. Again.

Kicking off her routine obligations for the night, she made her way to the bedroom, her thoughts still lingering on Oowada’s speech and the chaos that had become her personal life. The idea of unwinding was too tempting to resist. Tonight, though, she decided, she needed something more than mindless scrolling or a glass of wine. She needed... release.

Retsuko opened her closet, her eyes landing on the inconspicuous Amazon box that had been delivered earlier in the week. She blushed as she pulled it down and opened it, revealing an assortment of toys she’d impulsively purchased during a late-night shopping spree. The product names still made her laugh: “Blissful Buddy,” “The Rabbit Wrangler,” and, her personal favorite for sheer absurdity, “Sensational Sea Cucumber.”

Laying them out on the bed, she hesitated for a moment, feeling oddly shy despite being alone. For some reason, she even decided to dress up, slipping into a silky black slip she hadn’t worn in months. It clung to her curves in a way that made her feel both alluring and slightly ridiculous. To top it off, she grabbed a lacy pair of thigh-high stockings from her drawer. Why am I doing this? No one’s even here.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding one of the toys in her hand and inspecting it like it was some alien artifact. Her cheeks burned as her mind flashed to Hyodo. She could practically hear his gravelly voice and see his smug grin. A pang of shame coursed through her, and she shook her head as if to dispel the memory. Focus, Retsuko. This is about you, not anyone else.

But just as she was beginning to relax, a sharp knock at the door jolted her out of the moment. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she scrambled to hide the toys, shoving them haphazardly into the drawer of her bedside table. The silky slip clung to her awkwardly as she searched for something to throw over it, finally grabbing a blue jacket that hung on the back of a chair. She pulled it on, zipping it up halfway and patting herself down to make sure she looked presentable.

The knocking came again, more insistent this time. Who the hell is that? she wondered, her pulse still racing as she padded to the door and opened it cautiously.

To her utter surprise, standing in the hallway was Haida’s younger brother, Jiro Haida.

Chapter Text

Jiro was impeccably dressed as always, his tailored suit fitting him perfectly. His posture exuded confidence, his piercing gaze landing on her as his expression shifted to one of mild surprise.

“Retsuko,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying that same commanding tone she’d come to associate with him. “I wasn’t expecting you to answer the door like... this.” His eyes flicked briefly to her outfit, and Retsuko felt her cheeks heat up again as she clutched the edges of the jacket.

“Jiro,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “What... what are you doing here? Hai-err… Taro’s not home right now.”

“When will be back then?” Jiro’s sharp eyes lingered on Retsuko for a moment longer, as if he were carefully weighing her reaction. Finally, he straightened his posture, his tone softening slightly. “It’s… personal. It’s about our father.”

“Your father?” Retsuko asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped aside to let Jiro further into the apartment. “Is everything okay?”

Jiro exhaled deeply, a rare flicker of weariness crossing his otherwise composed face. “Not exactly,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “His health has been... declining. The doctors aren’t optimistic, and I felt it was time Taro heard it directly from me.”

Retsuko nodded, gesturing toward the couch. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable. Haida—uh, Taro—should be home eventually.”

Jiro inclined his head slightly in thanks, stepping into the living room with his usual measured grace. He took a moment to look around, his sharp eyes scanning the space. The apartment wasn’t particularly lavish, but it was neat and cozy, with small touches of personality that reflected both Retsuko’s and Haida’s tastes: a stack of vinyl records near the entertainment center, a framed wedding photo on a side table, and a few decorative cushions that Retsuko had picked out herself.

As Jiro settled onto the couch, Retsuko caught herself fiddling with the zipper of her jacket, suddenly acutely aware of what she was wearing underneath. Why did I dress up for myself tonight of all nights? she thought, her cheeks flushing slightly as she busied herself pouring two cups of tea from the kettle on the counter.

When she handed a cup to Jiro, he accepted it with a small nod of thanks. “How has he been lately?” Jiro asked, his tone casual but probing.

Retsuko hesitated, her grip tightening slightly on her own cup. “He’s... fine,” she said carefully, avoiding Jiro’s gaze. “Busy with work, you know. Typical stuff.”

Jiro’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the hesitation in her voice, but he chose not to press her. Instead, he took a sip of his tea, his expression unreadable. “Typical, huh? That doesn’t sound like Taro. He’s never been one to embrace the grind like the rest of us.”

Retsuko let out a small, nervous laugh. “Yeah, well, things change.”

Jiro raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment further. The silence between them stretched for a moment, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Retsuko cleared her throat, desperate to steer the conversation away from any potential landmines.

“So... your father,” she began, her voice tentative. “What’s going on?”

Jiro’s expression grew more serious, his tone softening as he leaned forward slightly. “It’s his heart. And everything else. It is all getting much worse. He’s been having issues for a while now, but he refused to see a doctor until recently. Stubborn as ever.” He paused, his gaze distant for a moment before continuing. “The prognosis isn’t good. They’re recommending surgery, but even with that, the chances of a full recovery are slim.”

Retsuko’s heart sank at the news, her own frustrations with Haida momentarily eclipsed by the gravity of the situation. “I’m... sorry to hear that,” she said sincerely. “Have you told Taro anything yet?”

Jiro shook his head. “No. I wanted to do it in person. It’s not the kind of thing you tell someone over the phone.”

Retsuko nodded, her mind already racing with thoughts of how Haida would react. He rarely talked about his family, and his relationship with his father was... complicated, to say the least. How is he going to take this?

“Well, he should be home soon,” she said, setting her tea down on the coffee table. “You’re welcome to stay and wait for him. I’ll try to make sure he doesn’t stop off anywhere on the way.”

“Thank you,” Jiro said, his tone genuinely appreciative. He leaned back on the couch, his posture still as composed as ever despite the conversation. “And... thank you for being understanding. I know this isn’t easy for either of you.”

Retsuko offered a small, tight-lipped smile, unsure how to respond. Easy isn’t exactly the word I’d use, she thought, but she kept the comment to herself. Instead, she excused herself to tidy up the kitchen, hoping to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts.

As she rinsed out her cup, her mind wandered to Haida. Does he even realize how much he’s been pulling away lately? she wondered. And how is he going to handle this news on top of everything else?

Jiro’s presence in the apartment felt like a reminder of the life Haida had kept at arm’s length—a life filled with complicated family dynamics and expectations that Haida had always seemed to resist. And now, it was all about to come crashing down on him.

For Retsuko, it was yet another reminder of how tangled their lives had become, how far they had drifted from the simple, happy marriage she had once envisioned. But maybe this is a chance for us to reconnect, she thought, a faint glimmer of hope piercing through the fog of her thoughts. Maybe we can figure this out—together.

Jiro sipped his tea, his gaze wandering briefly around the apartment before settling back on Retsuko. Breaking the silence, he said, “You know, I’ve been meaning to say—I have no hard feelings about the election in Tokyo Ward 8. Politics can get... personal, but that’s the nature of the beast.”

Retsuko blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “Oh,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “Congratulations on the win. I didn’t get to say that before.”

“Thank you,” Jiro said with a small nod, his expression unreadable. “It was… certainly a time in our lives.”

Retsuko managed a polite smile. “Well, I’m glad I’m not involved in politics in any way anymore,” she admitted, leaning back slightly. “Just watching it from the sidelines is exhausting enough.”

Jiro’s lips quirked upward in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Politics is messy—always has been, always will be. But it’s also... necessary. Someone has to keep the gears turning, even if the machine itself is far from perfect.”

Their conversation drifted for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator in the background the only sound. Then Jiro tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze fixing on her. “Speaking of politics, what do you think of Oowada’s latest initiative? The four-day work week?”

Retsuko’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “The one to encourage more family time and boost the birth rate?” she asked, and Jiro nodded. “I mean, it sounds good on paper. Who wouldn’t want a shorter work week? But... I’m not sure how realistic it is.”

Jiro’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes. “It’s certainly ambitious,” he said. “But it raises some interesting questions, doesn’t it? About what we really value as a society. Is it about giving people more time for genuine emotional connections? Or is it just a calculated move to bolster the workforce for the next generation?”

Retsuko frowned slightly, considering his words. “I guess that’s true,” she said. “It’s hard to tell if it’s about making people happier or just... making them more productive in the long run.”

Jiro set his tea down on the coffee table, leaning forward slightly. “That’s the heart of the issue, isn’t it? What does emotional connection even mean in modern-day Japan? Is it about traditional roles—marriage, children, family—or is it something more fluid? More... adaptable?”

His tone was calm and measured, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made Retsuko pause. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a moment. “I think it depends on the person. Some people thrive in those traditional roles, and for others... it’s just not what they want.”

Jiro nodded thoughtfully, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly at work. “That’s where Oowada becomes interesting,” he said. “He presents himself as a reformer, but his policies often lean toward reinforcing traditional structures. The four-day work week may sound progressive, but at its core, it’s a conservative reaction to a perceived societal decline.”

Retsuko tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Do you think he’s a reactionary, then?”

Jiro chuckled softly, a rare sound that seemed more amused than dismissive. “Reactionary is a strong word. Let’s just say he’s a man who understands the power of appearances. He knows how to adapt conservative ideas to appeal to a broader audience, which is why he’s so effective. But whether those ideas truly address the underlying issues? That’s another question entirely.”

Retsuko considered his words, swirling her tea in her cup absently. “Do you think it’s possible to have emotional connections without those traditional structures?” she asked. “Or are we just fooling ourselves into thinking we can?”

Jiro’s gaze softened slightly, and for a moment, there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. “I think emotional connection is a deeply personal thing,” he said slowly. “It’s not about fitting into a mold or meeting societal expectations. It’s about finding what makes you feel... understood. Seen.”

Retsuko nodded, though she couldn’t help but feel like there was more behind his words than he was letting on. “I guess that makes sense,” she said. “But it’s not easy, is it? Finding that kind of connection.”

Jiro’s smile was faint but genuine. “No,” he said simply. “It’s not.”

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, their words settling between them. For the first time, Retsuko felt like she was seeing a side of Jiro that was rarely on display—a thoughtful, introspective side that went beyond his polished political persona.

And though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, there was something in his tone, in the way he spoke about connection, that felt... personal.

Retsuko felt her face flush as Jiro leaned back on the couch, his posture effortlessly composed. His suit hugged his athletic frame perfectly, and the way he carried himself—reminding her of Hyodo.

As he sipped his tea, she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander, taking in the strong lines of his jaw, the way his shirt collar framed his neck, the subtle scent of his cologne that lingered in the air.What am I doing? she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. A wave of shame washed over her, and she forced her gaze to the table, gripping her cup tightly as if to ground herself. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop. Her mind raced, spiraling into dangerous territory.

Revenge cheat. The words whispered seductively in her head, growing louder with each passing second. It was so wrong, so vulgar, so utterly disgusting—and yet, the very idea of it sent a thrill down her spine. With his younger brother. His hot, fit, professional, wealthy younger brother.

Her breath hitched, and she shifted in her seat, the guilt already pooling in her stomach. She shouldn’t be thinking this way. Jiro was here for an entirely serious, personal reason—to discuss their father’s declining health with Haida. And yet, here she was, entertaining fantasies that she couldn’t possibly admit to anyone. Not even herself.

She glanced at Jiro again, her cheeks burning as she tried to shove the thoughts aside. He was completely unaware of her internal turmoil, his expression calm as he stared into the distance, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

Meanwhile, Jiro’s mind was preoccupied with something entirely mundane. What should I have for dinner? he mused, glancing briefly at the clock. He’d eaten a light lunch during a meeting earlier in the day, and his stomach was beginning to rumble. Something healthy, maybe. Or should he indulge? He hadn’t had sushi in a while—perhaps he could pick some up after talking to Taro. Or ramen? He hadn’t been to his favorite spot in months.

Jiro was so focused on his own quiet deliberations that he didn’t notice the way Retsuko’s hands fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, or the way her gaze flickered nervously between him and the floor. Nor did he notice the faint tremor in her voice when she finally broke the silence.

“So, um...” Retsuko began, her words faltering as she tried to steady herself. “How long are you planning to stay this side of the ward?”

Jiro turned his attention back to her, his expression polite but distant. “Just for a day or two,” he said casually. “I have meetings back in the office later this week, and my schedule’s already packed.”

She nodded again, her mind still racing. Say something normal, Retsuko. Stop thinking about... that. But the intrusive thoughts wouldn’t go away, and the more she tried to suppress them, the stronger they became. The idea of Jiro, so composed and professional, breaking that facade—even for a moment—because of her, was intoxicating.

Jiro’s voice pulled her back to the present. “And you? How have you been?” he asked, his tone polite but genuinely curious. “Taro doesn’t talk much about your day-to-day life.”

The mention of Haida snapped her back to reality like a bucket of cold water. Her stomach churned with guilt, and she forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Oh, you know,” she said quickly, waving a hand. “Work keeps me busy. Same old, same old.”

Jiro nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting back to the clock. Maybe I should just grab something quick. Convenience store sushi isn’t great, but it’ll do. Or maybe I could order something and have it delivered to Taro’s place.

Meanwhile, Retsuko was doing everything she could to keep herself from imploding. Stop it, stop it, stop it, she chanted internally, her fingers tightening around her cup. You’re being ridiculous. This is Taro’s brother. You can’t—

But the thought was still there, simmering beneath the surface. The idea of revenge cheating with someone so close to Haida, someone who represented everything Haida wasn’t—successful, composed, in control—was both terrifying and thrilling. She hated herself for even entertaining it, but she couldn’t help the way her heart raced or the heat that crept up her neck.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. “Do you want another cup of tea?” she asked abruptly, standing up before Jiro could answer. “I’ll... I’ll make some more.”

Jiro glanced at his half-full cup and shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “I’m fine.”

Retsuko nodded, retreating to the kitchen anyway. She needed a moment to collect herself, to push the thoughts out of her head and remind herself of who she was—of what was at stake. This isn’t you, Retsuko. Pull it together.

But even as she stood at the counter, pretending to busy herself with the kettle, the thoughts lingered, taunting her. And deep down, she knew they wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

Jiro’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Retsuko had been acting. The fidgeting, the unsteady voice, the awkward pacing—it was far from the composed and cheerful woman he had come to know through his brother. He watched her as she bustled around the kitchen, pretending to be busy, her body language practically screaming discomfort. Finally, he set his cup down with a deliberate clink, his calm but commanding voice cutting through the tension.

“Retsuko,” he said firmly, “what’s going on?”

She froze, her hands gripping the counter. Slowly, she turned to face him, her face pale and her eyes darting nervously. “What do you mean?” she asked weakly, though her voice betrayed her.

Jiro arched an eyebrow, leaning back on the couch with a measured air. “You’re clearly upset about something,” he said. “And if it’s related to Taro, I’d rather hear it directly than guess. So, what is it?”

Retsuko hesitated, biting her lip as she debated how to respond. Finally, she moved to the chair opposite him and sat down, her posture stiff and her gaze fixed on the table. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally spoke.

“Are you... with someone?” she asked, her cheeks flushing as soon as the words left her mouth.

Jiro blinked, the question catching him off guard. “Excuse me?” he said, leaning slightly forward.

Retsuko squirmed in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I mean... are you seeing anyone? Romantically?”

The silence that followed was heavy, and Jiro’s sharp mind began piecing together the implications. His expression turned from confusion to something more serious as he studied her face, the blush, the avoidance of eye contact. This isn’t just an innocent question.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice steady but cautious. “I am with someone. Why do you ask?”

Retsuko’s throat felt dry as she tried to form a response. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her shame only grew with each passing second. “I just... I was wondering if... if you wanted to—”

“Stop,” Jiro interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. He sat up straighter, his sharp eyes narrowing as he locked his gaze on her. “Retsuko, if you’re about to say what I think you’re about to say, let me make something perfectly clear: I will not sleep with my brother’s wife.”

The words hit her like a slap, and her face crumpled as she buried her head in her hands. Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice cracked as she spoke. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just... everything is so messed up.”

Jiro leaned back slightly, his expression softening as he watched her break down. The composed, professional mask he always wore shifted slightly, revealing a flicker of genuine concern. “Retsuko,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, “talk to me. What’s going on?”

She sniffled, wiping her eyes as she tried to steady her breathing. “It’s everything,” she said, her voice trembling. “My marriage, my job, my... my whole life. I thought I could handle it all, but it’s falling apart, and I don’t know what to do.”

Jiro listened intently, his expression unreadable as he let her continue.

“Taro and I... we’re not the same anymore,” she admitted, her hands trembling in her lap. “We barely see each other, and when we do, it’s like there’s this... wall between us. I’ve made mistakes, horrible mistakes, and I know he has too. But instead of fixing it, I just... I keep doing worse things. And now I don’t even recognize myself.”

The room was silent for a moment, save for the sound of her quiet sniffles. Jiro exhaled slowly, his sharp mind processing everything she had said. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he chose his words carefully.

“Retsuko,” he began, his tone calm but firm, “I’m not going to pretend I understand everything you’re going through. But what I do know is that avoiding the problem—or trying to escape it—isn’t going to help. You and Taro need to have an honest conversation. About everything. No secrets, no half-truths.”

She nodded weakly, her gaze still fixed on the table. “I know,” she whispered. “But what if it’s too late?”

“It’s only too late if you both decide it is,” Jiro said. “Marriage is hard. Believe me, I’ve seen it fail more times than I can count. But if there’s even a shred of love left between you, it’s worth trying to salvage.”

Retsuko looked up at him, her tear-streaked face filled with uncertainty. “What if we can’t fix it?” she asked.

“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” Jiro said simply. “But you can’t make that decision until you’ve both been completely honest with each other.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Retsuko nodded slowly, her mind racing with his advice. Despite her shame and regret, she felt a faint flicker of hope—a small but significant reminder that it wasn’t too late to change the course she was on.

Jiro stood, his composed demeanor returning as he adjusted his jacket. “When Taro gets home, let him know I need to speak with him,” he said. “And Retsuko... take care of yourself.”

She nodded again, her voice too shaky to respond. As Jiro left, the apartment felt impossibly quiet.

he couldn’t escape the intrusive thoughts that had gripped her earlier, the sharp pangs of shame and desire intertwining in ways that made her feel completely unmoored.

She stood abruptly, pacing the room as she tried to shake the overwhelming emotions threatening to drown her. But no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept circling back to Jiro—his composed demeanor, his confident presence, the way he seemed so effortlessly in control. It was everything Haida wasn’t, and that contrast made her feelings even more confusing.

Retsuko opened her bedside drawer and stared at the toys she had hastily stashed away earlier. Her face flushed as she reached for them, hesitating for a moment as everything bore down on her. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just... be normal?

She sank onto the bed, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the toy. In her mind, she could hear the echoes of her own screams, the lyrics she so often poured her frustrations into at karaoke. She imagined herself on that stage again, the words flowing out unfiltered, her raw emotions given form:

“BETRAYAL AND DESIRE, A WAR INSIDE MY HEAD!
TARO, WHERE ARE YOU WHILE I’M LEFT FOR DEAD?
JIRO, STRONG AND PERFECT, YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE,
I’D BURN THIS HOUSE DOWN JUST TO SURVIVE!”

Her voice wasn’t literal now, but the lyrics played in her mind like a backing track to her actions. The thoughts that accompanied them weren’t logical—they were visceral, primal, a reflection of the tangled mess of emotions she could barely comprehend.

“FIGHT FOR ME, PROTECT ME, SHOW ME THAT I MATTER!
BUT HAIDA, YOU’RE FADING—OUR LOVE LEFT TO SHATTER!”

She froze, the words echoing in her head. The image of Haida confronting Jiro flashed vividly in her mind—a ridiculous, melodramatic fantasy that made her chest tighten. I just want to feel wanted. To feel like I mean something.

The fantasy shifted, and she saw herself standing between them, caught in a tug-of-war between two versions of the life she’d built and the life she wanted. The tension, the passion, the yearning for resolution—it was all too much.

She set the toy down and buried her face in her hands, her breaths uneven as tears pricked at her eyes. The catharsis she’d been searching for felt farther away than ever. Instead of release, she felt trapped—caught between her own desires and the expectations she had spent her whole life trying to meet.

Finally, she lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts quieted. The silence in the apartment was heavy, but in it, she found a strange sense of clarity. I need to figure out what I want—what I really want. Not just in this moment, but for my life. For Haida. For me.

—

Haida slouched at the bar, nursing his third beer as the low hum of conversation and soft clinking of glasses.

Across from him, Fenneko sat with her ever-present smirk, swirling her cocktail idly as she watched him like a predator sizing up its prey. The cream-colored turtleneck she wore clung perfectly to her petite frame, a rare deviation from her usual office attire, and Haida found himself glancing at her more than he cared to admit.

“Another round?” Fenneko asked, raising an eyebrow as she tipped her glass toward him.

“Uh, sure,” Haida muttered, avoiding her sharp gaze. He knew this wasn’t just a friendly night out. Fenneko didn’t do anything without a reason, and tonight, her reason was clearly him. He could feel her scrutinizing him, dissecting his every word and action, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of unraveling him.

Fenneko waved at the bartender and ordered another round for both of them, her tone breezy but her eyes glittering with curiosity. “You’ve been acting weird lately, Haida,” she said, her voice casual but edged with intent. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Haida replied quickly, taking a long sip of his beer to avoid elaborating. “Just, you know, work stuff.”

“Work stuff,” Fenneko repeated, her smirk widening.

Haida chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, I’ve been keeping busy, okay? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

“Keeping busy, huh?” Fenneko leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. “Funny, because the last time you were ‘keeping busy,’ you ended up living at an internet café and losing your job.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder,” Haida moaned, but there was no bite in his tone. He took another sip, his gaze flickering to her again.

“You’re not fooling me, you know,” Fenneko said, her voice breaking through his thoughts. “Something’s up. Spill.”

Haida shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Nothing to spill,” he said, his voice even. “I’m just... living life. Doing my thing.”

“Your thing?” Fenneko repeated, her smirk turning into a grin. “Come on, Haida. You’ve got ‘guilty conscience’ written all over you. What did you do? Cheat on your taxes? Eat Retsuko’s snacks?”

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” Haida insisted, but his face grew redder with each word.

Fenneko’s grin widened as she picked up on his discomfort. “Oh, I see,” she said, her tone dripping with mock realization. “It’s about Retsuko, isn’t it?”

“What? No!” Haida’s response was a little too quick, and Fenneko’s eyes lit up.

“Bingo,” she said, leaning back in her chair triumphantly. “So, what is it? You mess something up? Or is she the one acting weird?”

Haida sighed, taking another long sip of his beer. He wasn’t about to tell Fenneko everything—not that he could even put his own feelings into words at this point. The tangled mess of his marriage, his recent escapades, and his growing sense of detachment were things he barely understood himself. But he knew one thing for sure: Fenneko wasn’t going to let this go.

Fenneko chuckled, shaking her head as she took another sip of her drink. “You’re lucky I find this entertaining,” she said. “Watching you squirm is almost as fun as karaoke.”

“I’m not squirming,” Haida couldn’t meet her gaze.

Fenneko leaned forward again, her smirk softening into something more genuine. “Look, whatever’s going on, you don’t have to tell me,” she said. “But you might want to figure it out before it blows up in your face. Just saying.”

Haida nodded, grateful for the change in tone but still feeling the weight of her words. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll figure it out.”

For a moment, the two sat in silence, the noise of the bar filling the space between them. Fenneko’s sharp gaze softened slightly as she watched him, and Haida couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of gratitude and guilt. She was a terrible enabler, sure, but she also cared—whether she’d admit it or not.

“Anyway,” Fenneko said, breaking the silence with a smirk. “You gonna finish that beer, or are you waiting for me to drink it for you?”

Haida chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s all mine,” he said, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Fenneko replied, her grin returning as she clinked her glass against his. Despite her relentless teasing, Haida felt a little lighter, even if just for the moment. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t keep dodging the truth forever.

“You know,” she began again, her voice light and teasing but carrying that familiar undercurrent of mischief, “you might not care about office drama anymore, but people still talk about you.”

Haida frowned, setting his beer down with a soft clink. “I haven’t worked there in ages,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would anyone still be talking about me?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Fenneko replied, her smirk widening. “Your glorious exit left quite an impression, you know. Plus, office gossip has a way of sticking around—especially when it involves someone as... let’s say, memorable as you.”

Haida groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Great. Just what I need. More reminders of what a trainwreck I was.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Fenneko said, her tone laced with mock sympathy. “You weren’t a trainwreck. You were more like... a car crash. Messy, loud, and impossible to look away from.”

“Thanks,” Haida muttered, rolling his eyes. He took another sip of his beer, hoping to drown out the conversation, but Fenneko wasn’t done.

“Remember how people used to whisper about you and Himuro?” she said, her smirk turning downright devious. “Now that was some juicy gossip.”

Haida nearly choked on his drink, coughing as he set the glass down. “What?” he sputtered, his face turning red. “What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Fenneko said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. “You were always hanging around him, looking up to him, practically idolizing the guy. People noticed, Haida. Some of them thought you had a little crush on him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Haida said quickly, his voice a little too defensive. “I admired him because he was a good boss, that’s all. He had his life together. I wanted to learn from him.”

“Uh-huh,” Fenneko said, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s true!” Haida insisted, his face burning. “I wasn’t... it wasn’t like that. Besides, Himuro wasn’t exactly perfect. He had his flaws, too.”

“Sure,” Fenneko said with a shrug, clearly enjoying how flustered he was. “But you’ve gotta admit, you were kinda obsessed with the guy. Always trying to impress him, following his lead... sound familiar?”

Haida opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He hated to admit it, but Fenneko had a point. Back then, he had been so desperate to prove himself, to earn Himuro’s approval, that he’d ignored all the red flags. And now? Now he was doing the same thing, only this time, it wasn’t about work—it was about the tangled mess of his personal life.

Shaking off the uncomfortable realization, Haida raised his hand to flag down the bartender. “I need another beer,” he said, trying to sound casual. “And I’m ordering some food. Your tab, right?”

Fenneko rolled her eyes but didn’t object. “Fine,” she said, smirking. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. We’re not done talking about this.”

As Haida ordered a plate of finger foods to go with his beer, he couldn’t help but reflect on the path that had led him here. Back then, with Himuro, he had been so focused on climbing the ladder and proving his worth that he hadn’t realized how much he was sacrificing. Now, he was making similar mistakes, chasing after things that might not even matter in the end.

When the food arrived, Haida popped a piece of karaage into his mouth and washed it down with a sip of beer. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I do think about those days sometimes. With Himuro, I mean. I thought if I could just be more like him, I’d figure everything out. But looking back... I don’t know if he was happy, either.”

Fenneko’s smirk softened into something more thoughtful. “Maybe not,” she said. “But you don’t have to make the same mistakes he did. Or the same mistakes you made back then, for that matter.”

“Yeah,” Haida said, his gaze distant as he mulled over her words. “Easier said than done.”

Fenneko shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “True. But hey, at least you’ve got me to keep you grounded. Or to roast you mercilessly until you get your act together.”

Haida chuckled, shaking his head. “Thanks, Fenneko. You’re a real gem.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, grinning. “Now, hurry up and eat. You’re paying me back for this someday.”

—

Jiro Haida adjusted the scarf around his neck, pulling it higher to obscure more of his face. The flat cap he wore was tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, adding another layer of anonymity. As he entered the building, the warm lobby welcomed him with an air of discretion that made places like this thrive.

Behind the reception desk, a deer woman glanced up from her phone, her glossy, professional demeanor slipping into a polite smile. “Good evening,” she said, her tone neutral but pleasant. Then, her brows furrowed slightly in recognition. “Were you looking for Shikabane?”

Jiro paused, taken aback. “No,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I’m here for someone else.”

“Ah, my apologies,” the receptionist replied quickly, her smile returning as she looked back down at her screen. “Enjoy your stay.”

Jiro gave her a curt nod before heading to the elevator, his shoes clicking softly against the polished floor. Once inside the lift, he exhaled quietly, pulling out his phone to double-check the room number. 502. The number glowed on the screen, and he tapped it off before slipping the device back into his pocket.

When the elevator chimed softly, Jiro stepped out, his movements precise and purposeful. He walked down the hallway, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps. Outside Room 502, he hesitated for just a moment before knocking twice. The door opened almost immediately.

Himuro stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed even in casual attire. His tailored shirt was open at the collar, and his hair was as perfectly styled as ever. The air of professionalism that surrounded him was almost palpable, but there was a warmth in his eyes as he stepped aside to let Jiro in.

“Jiro,” Himuro greeted, his tone as smooth as ever. “Right on time.”

“Himuro,” Jiro replied, his voice clipped and formal. The two men exchanged a brief handshake, as though this were nothing more than a business meeting. Inside, the room was clean and understated, the muted colors and soft lighting offering a sense of privacy and intimacy. The television on the wall played a muted replay of Prime Minister Oowada’s speech, the subtitles crawling across the bottom of the screen.

Himuro gestured for Jiro to sit, but Jiro remained standing, crossing his arms as he spoke. “I went to Taro’s apartment before coming here,” he began. “I spoke with Retsuko.”

Himuro arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “And?”

Jiro sighed, leaning slightly against the small desk in the corner of the room. “She admitted things aren’t going well between them,” he said. “But Taro wasn’t home, so I didn’t get the chance to speak to him directly.”

“That’s concerning,” Himuro said, his voice calm but carrying a note of genuine worry. “Taro’s always been... sensitive to these kinds of issues.”

Jiro’s sharp gaze flickered to Himuro, his tone tightening. “It’s interesting to hear you say that,” he said. “Considering how you handled him when you were his boss.”

Himuro’s lips curved into a faint smile, his calm demeanor unaffected by the subtle jab. “I knew Taro well,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Perhaps better than you think.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Jiro’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the television, Oowada’s image flickering across the screen. Jiro opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Himuro closed the distance between them, placing a hand lightly on Jiro’s arm.

“Let’s not dwell on Taro right now,” Himuro said softly, his tone shifting to something more intimate. “We have more... pressing matters.”

Jiro’s response was cut off as Himuro leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was both confident and tender. For a brief moment, Jiro stiffened, his mind still lingering on the conversation they’d just had. But as the kiss deepened, he found himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders melting away.

The professional veneer that both men carried fell away like a discarded mask as they moved toward the bed. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as though savoring the contrast between their usual restraint and the raw vulnerability of this moment. Himuro’s hands were steady as they undid the scarf around Jiro’s neck, letting it fall to the floor, and Jiro’s fingers found their way to the buttons of Himuro’s shirt, slipping them open with surprising ease.

They fell onto the bed together, the muted light casting soft shadows across their faces. The world outside the room faded away, replaced by the quiet intimacy they shared

Above them, the television continued to play, Oowada’s face a silent observer to the scene unfolding below. The Prime Minister’s speech about family, societal expectations, and emotional connection felt almost ironic in the context, but neither man paid it any attention.

—-

“So,” she began, her words slightly slurred but still cutting, “I was talking to Tsunoda the other day. You remember her, right?”

Haida froze mid-bite of karaage, his stomach sinking at the mention of Tsunoda. He nodded, forcing a nonchalant expression as he popped the food into his mouth. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

Fenneko’s smirk widened, her sharp eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, nothing,” she said, her tone dripping with faux innocence. “She just had some... interesting things to say. You know how she loves her gossip.”

Haida’s pulse quickened, his mind racing. What does she know? What did Tsunoda tell her? He scrambled for a response, but Fenneko didn’t give him the chance.

“Relax,” she said, waving her hand dismissively as she took another sip of wine. “I’m just teasing you. Your face, though? Priceless.” She laughed, the sound loud and unrestrained, and Haida let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Not funny,” he said, reaching for his beer to cover his nerves.

“It’s a little funny,” Fenneko countered, grinning as she finished off her glass. “Anyway, I’m gonna hit the restroom. Don’t go running off while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Haida said, managing a weak smile as she stood and sauntered off toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. He watched her go, her confident stride slightly offset by the tipsiness in her steps.

As soon as she was out of sight, Haida slumped back in his chair, exhaling deeply. Why does she always have to mess with me like that? He reached for the plate of fries and grabbed a handful, hoping the food would help him sober up just enough to keep his guard up. Fenneko was relentless, and he knew the night was far from over.

But as he chewed, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Fenneko’s name. Hesitating, he picked it up and unlocked it, his eyes widening at the image that greeted him.

It was a picture of Fenneko’s thighs, clad in black leggings, her skirt hitched up just enough to show off the curve of her legs. The dim lighting of the hallway gave the image an intimate, sultry vibe. Beneath the photo was a message:

“What do you think? Want some more drinks when I get back? Or... should we take this discussion to my place instead?”

Haida’s throat went dry, and he immediately took a gulp of beer to steady himself. What the hell is she doing? He stared at the message. He told himself not to respond, to let it slide and pretend it never happened. She’s drunk, she’s just messing with me... right?

But as much as he wanted to convince himself of that, the image was burned into his mind, and the flirty tone of her message stirred something in him. Before he could overthink it, he found himself typing a response, his fingers moving almost on their own.

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

The moment he hit send, he regretted it. He set his phone down like it was on fire, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering under his breath. What the hell are you doing, Haida? He reached for his beer again, draining half the glass in one go as if the alcohol could drown out the knot of guilt and excitement twisting in his stomach.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor drew his attention, and he looked up to see Fenneko returning to the table, her smirk more pronounced than ever. She slid back into her seat, picking up her empty glass and signaling the bartender for another round.

“So,” she said, leaning in just a little too close, her voice low and teasing. “What’s the plan, Haida?”

Haida swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to play it cool. “Plan?” he echoed, his voice cracking slightly. “I thought we were just, you know, hanging out.”

Fenneko chuckled, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she rested her chin on her hand. “Oh, we are,” she said, her tone dripping with mischief. “But I think we could make it... a little more interesting. Don’t you?”

Haida’s heart pounded in his chest, and he forced himself to meet her gaze. He had no idea where the night was headed, but one thing was certain—Fenneko wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

Chapter Text

Haida found himself pressed against the wall, Fenneko standing on her toes as her hands gripped his jacket, pulling him down toward her. Their lips met with an urgency that surprised even him, a mix of heated passion and drunken recklessness driving their every move.

Fenneko tasted faintly of the alcohol she’d been drinking earlier, and Haida couldn’t help but notice how her usually sharp, teasing demeanor had softened into something more unguarded and raw. Her fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, as if she couldn’t get enough. Haida’s hands hesitated for a moment before settling on her waist, his grip tightening as he gave in to the moment.

“This is so unlike you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice barely audible between kisses. “You sure you’re not just messing with me?”

Fenneko pulled back slightly, her half-lidded eyes meeting his with a glimmer of mischief. “Haida,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “do I look like I’m messing with you right now?”

Before he could respond, she leaned in again, her lips capturing his in a way that silenced any doubts he might have had. The intensity of her kiss left him breathless, and he found himself gripping her hips more firmly, pulling her closer as their bodies pressed together.

The faint hum of the building’s air conditioning was the only sound accompanying their whispered breaths and muffled movements. Fenneko’s hands slid down to Haida’s chest, pushing his jacket open as her fingers explored the fabric of his shirt beneath. She let out a soft hum of approval, her lips curling into a sly smile even as she kissed him again.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper. “All this time, and I had no idea you could be this... motivated.”

Haida chuckled nervously, his face flushing despite the heat of the moment. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you’re not exactly what I expected, either.”

“Good,” Fenneko replied, her smirk widening as she nipped at his lower lip. “I like keeping you on your toes.”

As their kisses grew more heated, Fenneko reached for the keys in her pocket, fumbling slightly as she tried to unlock the door without breaking their connection. Haida laughed softly, pulling back just enough to give her room to work.

“Need some help?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Shut up,” Fenneko shot back, though her tone lacked any real bite. She finally managed to slide the key into the lock, the door clicking open with a soft creak. She turned back to Haida, her smirk returning as she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside.

The door closed behind them with a quiet thud, and the hallway fell silent once more.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Fenneko grabbed Haida’s hand and led him through the modest but cozy apartment with a giddy sort of urgency. Her laughter rang out as she tugged him down the narrow hallway toward her room, her usual deadpan sarcasm replaced with something raw and excited. She pushed the door open, revealing a room that was surprisingly neat, decorated with a few personal touches—some framed posters of indie bands, a set of neatly organized figurines on a shelf, and a well-loved gaming chair by her desk.

Before she could say anything, Haida took the lead, surprising her. He wrapped his arms around her and, with surprising strength, scooped her up off the floor. Fenneko let out a small, startled laugh as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

"Whoa, Haida!" she exclaimed, her voice breathless with excitement. "Where’s this coming from?”

Haida grinned as he carried her to the bed and gently placed her down on the soft covers. "Maybe I’ve had enough of holding back," he stated firmly as he leaned over her, brushing her hair aside to kiss her neck. His lips were warm against her fur, sending a shiver down her spine as he pressed soft, lingering kisses along the curve of her neck and shoulder.

Fenneko let out a soft hum of approval, tilting her head to give him more access. “Okay,” she murmured, half-joking, half-serious. “This is way better than those VR dating sims.”

Haida chuckled against her skin, his breath hot against her collarbone. “That’s a low bar, Fenneko.”

She laughed, her hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “Still,” she whispered, her eyes half-lidded as she watched him. “You’re scoring some serious points right now.”

As he continued kissing her neck, her mind wandered despite the heat of the moment, her thoughts spiraling in a way that caught even her off guard. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m in bed with my best friend’s husband. The thought was equal parts scandalous and thrilling.

She pulled Haida closer, her fingers digging into his shirt as if to anchor herself to the moment. "You’re full of surprises tonight," she whispered, her usual teasing tone softening into something more sincere.

Haida pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “Maybe you’ve just never seen the real me,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Fenneko’s breath hitched at his words, her heart racing. "Well," she said with a wry smile, "if this is the real you, I think I’m gonna need another drink to keep up.”

Haida laughed, shaking his head as he leaned down to kiss her again, this time slower, deeper. The room felt warmer, the outside world fading away as they let themselves get lost in the moment. The bed creaked slightly beneath them.

Haida's hands roamed her back, fingers tracing along the fabric of her sweater before slipping under the hem slightly, feeling the warmth of her beneath.

Fenneko pulled back briefly, her lips parted, a mischievous glint in her half-lidded eyes. “You know,” she whispered, brushing a strand of her hair behind one ear, “for someone who acts clueless half the time, you’re... surprisingly good at this.”

Haida laughed softly, his face still flushed. “I could say the same about you,” he replied. “You’re usually too busy roasting me to seem... this soft.”

Fenneko’s grin widened, her sharp wit still intact despite the moment’s vulnerability. “I’m full of surprises,” she teased, leaning forward and brushing her lips against his again, feather-light but deliberate. Her hands traced the outline of his jaw before trailing lower. “And right now... I feel like being generous.”

Before Haida could process her words, she shifted her weight and moved lower, her eyes locking onto his as if to test his reaction. There was something deliberate in her movements—not rushed, but purposeful. Haida’s heart raced as Fenneko’s sharp yet surprisingly affectionate nature came through in how carefully she handled the tension between them, almost as if proving that the playful mask she wore had layers beneath.

His breath hitched as she began, and for a moment, Haida’s overthinking mind started to creep in. But the thoughts melted away as her soft hums of amusement and concentration filled the room.

Still, Fenneko wasn’t completely silent. She looked up at him with that familiar gleam of mischief. “Enjoying yourself, or do you need me to give you running commentary?” she joked, her voice laced with humor but gentle, trying to ease his nerves.

Haida let out a breathless laugh, his hand resting at the back of her head as if to steady himself. “Shut up,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Exactly,” she replied smugly.

The softness of her teasing broke something in him—not in a bad way, but in the way someone’s armor cracks when they realize they’re finally seen for who they are. When she finally stopped and met his eyes again, the room felt warmer than before, more intimate in a way he didn’t expect.

Without a word, Haida shifted and kissed her again, cupping her face with surprising tenderness. His pulse was still racing, but he wasn’t thinking about what came next. He was thinking about the way Fenneko looked at him—not with judgment, not with pity, but with curiosity, excitement, and maybe even something deeper.

“Your turn,” Haida said, his voice low but steady as he gently guided her back onto the bed. Fenneko’s raised eyebrow was her only response, though she didn’t resist. Instead, she let out a small, amused hum as she leaned back against the pillows, watching him with anticipation.

Haida lowered himself beside her, his hands trailing along her sides with uncharacteristic confidence. This time, it was her breath that caught in her throat as his movements slowed and his focus became unwavering. She didn’t say anything, for once not feeling the need to fill the silence with a joke or a quip.

Her sharp wit faded for a moment as she let herself get lost in the moment, her head tilting back slightly as Haida’s affection deepened. She realized, somewhere in the haze of sensation, that this wasn’t just about desire or rebellion. There was something about being seen, being valued in a way she didn’t expect—not as an office gossip, not as a snarky friend, but as someone worth holding onto, if only for tonight.

And then…

The rest of the encounter would be burned into Haida’s mind forever.

His hyena cock pushing in and out of her fennec pussy. The size difference was similar to him and Retsuko and the insecurities about the size of his cock melted away as he melted into her…

Haida proceeded to ignore the fact that he liked smaller ladies because it made his average length just seem so huge.

—

Haida sat at the edge of the bed, his hair tousled, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His mind was still trying to process everything that had just happened—the whirlwind of emotion, the heat, the electricity of it all.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor with wide, almost disbelieving eyes. “Holy crap,” he muttered under his breath, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That was... incredible.”

Behind him, Fenneko shifted, reaching for a small tin case from the nightstand. She pulled out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, and lit it with a practiced flick of her lighter. The soft crackle of the flame was the only sound for a moment, followed by the faint hiss as she exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

Haida glanced over his shoulder, watching as Fenneko lay back against the pillows, the sheet draped lazily over her waist. Her cream-colored turtleneck from earlier was long discarded, replaced by a loose tank top that clung to her skin. The light highlighted the curve of her collarbone and the contented half-smile on her face as she took another drag.

She caught him staring and smirked, blowing out another stream of smoke. “What?” she asked, her voice soft but teasing. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Haida shook his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “No ghost,” he said. “More like... I can’t believe that just happened.”

Fenneko chuckled, resting her cigarette hand on the edge of the bed. “What, you didn’t think I had it in me?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Or did you think you didn’t?”

Haida rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing slightly despite everything. “It’s not that, it’s just... never happened before, ya know?”

“Like what?” Fenneko asked, sitting up slightly. “Slept with a friend? Or cheated on your wife?”

Her words were sharp, but there was no malice in her tone—just the bluntness he’d come to expect from her. Haida winced slightly at the reminder, guilt flickering briefly in his chest before being drowned out by the lingering buzz of euphoria.

Actually, I never came twice in a row before.

Fenneko’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as she took another drag. “Well,” she said, blowing out the smoke slowly, “I hate to break it to you, Haida, but you’re a lot better at this than you give yourself credit for.”

Haida blinked, looking over at her again. The way she said it wasn’t flippant or sarcastic—it sounded genuine, like a compliment she wasn’t used to giving. “Thanks,” he said, his voice soft.

Haida leaned back on his hands, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he replayed everything in his mind—the way Fenneko had pulled him into the room with that mischievous grin, the way her touch had been both playful and surprisingly gentle, the way she’d murmured his name in a way no one had before.

“You okay?” Fenneko asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

Haida nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Just... processing, I guess.”

Fenneko snorted softly. “Typical Haida,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette in a small ceramic ashtray on the nightstand. “You overthink everything—even the good stuff.”

Haida smiled, though it was faint. “It’s just how I’m wired,” he tried to justify it.

Fenneko lay back down, resting her head on one arm as she looked at him. “You don’t have to overthink this,” she said, her tone unusually serious. “We’re two adults who made a choice. That’s all.”

Haida’s smile faded slightly as he nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

Fenneko reached out and gave his arm a light squeeze, as if sensing the spiral of thoughts building in his head. “Hey,” she said softly. “You did good.”

Haida let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a small, genuine smile returning to his face. “Thanks, Fenneko.”

She grinned. “Anytime, rockstar.”

Fenneko leaned back against the bed’s headboard, a smirk plastered across her face as she watched Haida fumble with his phone, looking both tired and content. She rested her hands behind her head, stretching lazily, her small frame radiating confidence.

"You know, for someone who likes to think he’s deeply conflicted," she teased, her eyes glinting with amusement, "you’re looking pretty pleased with yourself right now."

Haida looked up from his phone, his ears flicking slightly in surprise. “What? I’m just... checking messages,” he muttered defensively, his tail twitching behind him.

Fenneko snorted, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re so bad at lying,” she laughed. “Come on, I bet you’re looking at some dumb meme someone sent you to avoid eye contact.”

“I am not,” Haida protested, but the sheepish grin spreading across his face betrayed him.

Fenneko rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand as she gave him an exaggerated look of pity. “And to think,” she sighed dramatically, “this is the guy I just let pick me up and toss me around like I was one of those virtual NPCs in a fighting game.”

Haida rubbed the back of his neck, his blush deepening. “You... didn’t seem to mind,” his tone somewhere between flustered and smug.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Fenneko shot back with a sly grin. “But I do mind that you’re zoning out on your phone after all that. What, am I boring now?”

Haida’s ears flicked again as he set the phone down on the nightstand. “No way,” he said, leaning closer to her. “Just... processing.”

Fenneko gave him a playful shove, laughing as he toppled sideways. “You’re always processing, Haida. Live in the moment a little.”

Haida groaned from where he lay sprawled on the bed. “This is me living in the moment,” he confirmed, looking up at her with a lopsided grin. “You just make it really hard to keep up.”

Fenneko’s grin softened, and for a brief second, something warmer flickered in her eyes before she covered it up with another joke. "That’s because I’m awesome, obviously." She poked his side, making him squirm. "But if you keep acting this distracted, I’m gonna have to make you regret zoning out.”

Haida shot her a skeptical look. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?”

Fenneko sat up with mock seriousness. “Oh, you don’t even wanna know. My arsenal of roasts is unmatched.” She placed her hands on her hips, looking absurdly smug. "Starting with your hair—it’s like you’re cosplaying as a garage band guitarist who never made it past his high school reunion.”

“Hey!” Haida tried to sit up, but he was laughing too hard to properly defend himself. “That’s... low.”

“Truth hurts,” Fenneko replied, blowing an imaginary kiss before collapsing back onto the pillows.

Haida shook his head, still grinning as he reached over and rested a hand lightly on her arm.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was the kind of silence that comes when two people have already said everything that matters, even if they used jokes to say it. The city buzzed faintly outside the window, but in that room, there was nothing but the low hum of the heater and the quiet sound of their breathing.

After a moment, Fenneko reached for her phone and snapped a quick picture of Haida lying on the bed, looking half-asleep but undeniably happy. “Evidence,” she said, waving the phone at him.

“Evidence of what?” Haida asked suspiciously.

“That I actually managed to shut you up,” Fenneko replied, her grin returning. "Might frame it.”

Haida groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fenneko said, settling back down beside him, “here you are.”

—

The morning sun filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting soft stripes of light across the walls. Haida blinked groggily as he sat up, the familiar dull ache of a hangover pounding behind his eyes. The bed was surprisingly warm and comfortable—too comfortable, considering the circumstances. He rubbed his face and squinted at his phone on the nightstand, tapping the screen to check the time.

Several notifications lit up the screen. Most of them were unimportant—promotional emails, app updates—but then he saw them: several messages from Retsuko.

Retsuko: Hey, where are you?
Retsuko: Everything okay?
Retsuko: Did you get caught up at work?

Haida stared at the screen for a moment, his heart sinking slightly. But almost instinctively, his thumb brushed past the messages, clearing them from view. Later. I’ll deal with it later. It was becoming second nature—avoiding the uncomfortable conversations, ignoring the reminders of how far they’d drifted apart.

But then another message caught his eye, one that made his breath catch in his throat.

Jiro: Taro. We need to talk.

The use of his first name sent a strange chill down Haida’s spine. Jiro never called him "Taro" unless it was something serious—something that went beyond their typical familial distance. Haida swallowed hard, staring at the screen for a long moment before locking his phone and setting it aside. I’ll deal with that later, too.

The faint clinking of dishes pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward the open bedroom door and caught the familiar scent of something cooking—eggs, maybe? Or was that miso soup? Curiosity and hunger pulled him out of bed, and he padded down the short hallway into the kitchen.

Fenneko stood at the stove, wearing an oversized hoodie that almost swallowed her petite frame, her ears drooping slightly as she stirred something in a small pot. Her usually sharp, lively expression was replaced with one of weary concentration. A bottle of vitamin C tablets, a pack of instant miso, and a bright green bottle of electrolyte drink sat on the counter beside her—a makeshift "hangover cure potion" in progress.

Haida leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before speaking. “Morning,” he said, his voice raspy. “How’re you holding up?”

Fenneko glanced over her shoulder, her eyes half-lidded and dull with exhaustion. “Like death warmed over,” she muttered. “But at least I’m functional enough to whip up some magic.”

Haida chuckled, stepping into the kitchen. “That’s impressive, considering how much you had last night. You looked like you were aiming for a speedrun in getting wasted.”

Fenneko groaned, stirring the pot lazily. “Yeah, yeah,” she clarified. “I know. But I’m alive, aren’t I?” She grabbed the small bottle of electrolyte drink, poured a hefty dose into a glass, and dropped in a fizzy vitamin tablet that hissed as it dissolved. “This,” she said, holding up the glass like a scientist showing off a discovery, “is the key to surviving mornings like this.”

Haida watched the mixture bubble for a moment before nodding toward the pot on the stove. “That for you or for both of us?”

Fenneko arched an eyebrow. “For me. But I can make you one too, since you’re looking almost as wrecked as I feel.”

“Deal,” Haida said, sliding onto one of the kitchen stools. “Whatever’s in that, I need it.”

Fenneko poured him a glass of the strange concoction, her movements slow but precise despite the hangover weighing her down. She slid the glass across the counter, and Haida caught it, eyeing the murky greenish-yellow liquid with some skepticism. “It looks... ominous,” he admitted.

“Just drink it,” Fenneko said, rolling her eyes. “I promise it’s not poison.”

Haida took a cautious sip, wincing at the bitter, tangy taste before setting the glass down. “It tastes like poison.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the cure is worse than the disease,” Fenneko replied with a faint smirk. She leaned against the counter, rubbing her temples with one hand while holding her glass with the other. “You gonna tell me what’s really eating you, or are we just pretending everything’s fine?”

Haida hesitated, the image of Jiro’s message flashing in his mind again. “It’s nothing…”

Fenneko’s gaze sharpened slightly, though the weariness in her eyes remained. “Bullshit,” she said quietly. “You’ve got that same look you had back when you quit the office—like you’re carrying a boulder on your back but trying to pretend it’s just a pebble.”

Haida let out a long sigh, swirling the contents of his glass absently. “Jiro messaged me,” he admitted finally. “Said we need to talk.”

Fenneko blinked, her expression shifting slightly. “Your brother? The politician?”

“Yeah,” Haida said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the counter. “He doesn’t usually reach out unless something serious is going on.”

Fenneko watched him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Think it’s about your dad?” she asked, her tone softening.

“Probably,” Haida said with a slight shrug. “But with Jiro, it’s hard to tell. He always keeps things... formal. Even when it’s personal.”

Fenneko hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip of her hangover cure. “Well, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out,” she said.

Haida let out a small, bitter laugh. “You give me way too much credit.”

Fenneko’s smirk returned, though it was softer this time. “Yeah, well,” she said, “someone has to.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the hum of the stove and the faint bubbling of the miso soup the only sounds in the room. Despite the lingering haze of the previous night’s indulgence, Haida felt a strange sense of calm—a rare reprieve from the constant noise in his head.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, meeting Fenneko’s gaze. “For... all this.”

Fenneko shrugged, though her ears twitched slightly, betraying her slight fluster. “Don’t get used to it,” she moaned. “I’m not running a soup kitchen.”

Haida chuckled, taking another sip of the bitter concoction despite its taste. “Noted.”

—

The train’s rhythmic clatter against the tracks provided a dull, steady backdrop as Haida sat in his seat, staring out the window with a distracted look. The cityscape blurred past, but his mind wasn’t on the passing scenery—it was a tangled mess of half-finished thoughts and unanswered questions. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, but he didn’t bother checking it. It’s probably Retsuko again... or maybe Jiro. Everything—his marriage, his mistakes, his brother’s ominous message—it all felt heavier than the small commuter bag slung over his shoulder.

When the automated announcement rang out, signaling his home station was next, Haida sighed and stood up, adjusting his jacket. The platform greeted him with a familiar wash of cold air as he stepped off the train, his shoes making a soft thud on the concrete. He began weaving through the small crowd of passengers, his feet carrying him almost on autopilot toward the station’s exit.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

A figure standing just beyond the ticket gates, his lanky frame awkward and hunched in an all-too-familiar way. The man’s scruffy hair was longer now, curling around his collar, and his eyes darted nervously as if scanning the crowd. But it wasn’t just his posture or his disheveled appearance—it was the unsettling aura that clung to him, the same one Haida remembered all too well.

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. No way. His pulse quickened as he tried to steady himself. He took a step closer, squinting to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Is that... him? The stalker?

The man shifted slightly, his face partially obscured by the brim of his cap, but the resemblance was undeniable. The flash of recognition hit Haida like a shock to the system. Memories of that terrifying night rushed back—the confrontation outside Retsuko’s apartment, the frantic struggle, the fear in her eyes. Haida’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. Why the hell would he be here? After all this time…

Haida’s legs moved before his brain could catch up. He pushed through the flow of commuters, his eyes locked on the figure near the exit. The man seemed to pause for a moment, his head turning slightly as if sensing he was being watched. Haida quickened his pace, weaving through the crowd, his heart pounding.

“Hey!” Haida called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the station. A few passersby glanced at him, confused, but the man didn’t turn around.

The figure took a step back, slipping between two clusters of people like a shadow. Haida’s stomach twisted as he watched the man slip out of sight. He broke into a light jog, his breath shallow as he tried to close the distance. The station wasn’t that big—he could catch him if he just—

But when Haida reached the turnstiles and scanned the crowd beyond them, the man was gone.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the faces of the passersby. Commuters shuffled by in their suits and coats, some chatting on their phones, others lost in their own worlds. But the stalker—if it even was him—had disappeared like smoke.

Haida stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as adrenaline coursed through him. His mind raced with questions. Was that really him? Did I just imagine it? Am I losing it? He ran a hand down his face, his fingers brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw.

“Damn it,” he swore under his breath.

A nearby station announcement blared overhead, momentarily pulling Haida out of his daze. He moved toward the exit slowly, his eyes still darting across the crowd, searching for any sign of the man. But there was nothing—just the ordinary bustle of strangers heading home.

By the time he reached the street outside the station, the cold evening air hit him like a slap, making him shiver. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe I’m just paranoid... maybe I’m projecting. But the feeling in his gut said otherwise.

He glanced over his shoulder one last time, scanning the entrance to the station. There was still no sign of the man.

I should tell Retsuko... The thought was immediate but uncomfortable. But what if it wasn’t him? What if I’m just seeing things? After everything that had happened between them, the last thing he wanted was to sound paranoid—or worse, like he was making up excuses to distract from his own issues.

With a heavy sigh, Haida turned down the street toward home, his steps slow and contemplative. The noise of the station faded behind him, but the unease lingered. The familiar hum of the city felt different somehow, the shadows between the buildings seeming deeper, darker.

If it really was him... why is he back? The question echoed in his mind, unanswered and unsettling. Haida stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, the distant sound of traffic mixing with the dull hum of his thoughts.

By the time he reached his apartment building, he still hadn’t convinced himself that he’d imagined it. And something told him that this wasn’t the last time he’d see that face again.

Chapter Text

The apartment was still, almost unnervingly so. There was no sound of Retsuko humming as she tidied up or the faint noise of a show playing on the TV in the background. Just silence.

He slipped off his shoes and walked into the living room, glancing around. Everything was in its usual place—the neatly folded blanket on the couch, the books stacked on the coffee table, and the empty mug Retsuko had forgotten to put in the sink. But without her presence, the place felt hollow, like a beautifully furnished but lifeless showroom.

Haida sank onto the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. Why does it feel like this now? he wondered. He had come home to an empty apartment plenty of times before, but today, the emptiness felt... different. It gnawed at him, hollowing out a space in his chest that he didn’t know how to fill.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, staring at the screen. Jiro’s message from earlier still sat at the top of his notifications, glowing like a beacon of unresolved tension. Haida hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. Do I really want to deal with this right now? But avoiding it wouldn’t make it go away. With a resigned sigh, he opened the chat and typed out a short message.

Taro Haida: Where do you want to meet?

He hit send and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. The dull hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound in the apartment, its steady drone amplifying the swirling of his thoughts. He didn’t know if he was ready for whatever Jiro wanted to talk about, but there was no avoiding it.

A few moments later, his phone buzzed in his hand. The screen lit up with a reply:

Jiro: Come to Mom and Dad’s house. I’ll be there in an hour.

Haida stared at the message, the familiar feeling of familial obligation pressing down on him. Their parents' house—the place he had spent his childhood, the place that still carried the echoes of old arguments, expectations, and memories that felt more like burdens than comforts. Of course it’s there, he thought bitterly. Where else would it be?

He rubbed his eyes, the ache of exhaustion creeping in. There was something final about the way Jiro phrased the message—no explanation, no reassurance, just the directive. It was so typically Jiro. Everything about him now was precise, controlled, and wrapped in an air of authority, even when it came to family. It wasn’t always like this…

Haida’s thoughts drifted to their last family gathering—how out of place he had felt standing next to Jiro, who always seemed so composed, so polished. Jiro had seamlessly stepped into the role of the perfect son, the pride of the Haida family, while Haida had always been the black sheep, the one who could never quite measure up. And now, with their father’s health hanging in the balance and the looming specter of whatever conversation Jiro wanted to have, Haida felt that same old anxiety clawing its way back to the surface.

He set his phone down on the coffee table and leaned forward again, his hands clasped together tightly. He could feel the knot of tension tightening in his chest, the familiar pressure of old expectations pressing down on him. But beneath the anxiety, there was something else—something that had been festering since his encounter at the train station.

Was it really him? The image of the stalker’s face lingered in his mind like a phantom. If it truly was the same man, what did that mean? And if it wasn’t... what did it say about him that he was starting to see ghosts from his past?

He let out a long, shaky breath and glanced at his phone again. The seconds on the screen ticked by, indifferent to his turmoil.

An hour. He had an hour to pull himself together, to decide how he was going to face his brother, to figure out whether he was going to tell Jiro about what he’d seen—or thought he’d seen—at the station.

Haida stood up, his legs feeling heavier than usual as he moved toward the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, watching the droplets slide down his reflection in the mirror. His own eyes stared back at him, tired but resolute.

It’s time to stop running from this.

He grabbed his keys from the counter and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, heading for the door. As he stepped out into the hallway, he tried to steel himself for whatever lay ahead. His heart was heavy with unspoken truths, but beneath the fear, there was a small ember of determination flickering to life.

For better or worse, he was finally ready to face it.

—

Haida’s heart was pounding as he walked down the long, winding driveway that led to his family’s estate. The familiar stone path, lined with meticulously kept trees and flowerbeds, seemed strangely lifeless today. The moment the house came into view, a strange and unsettling scene unfolded before him—a cluster of official vehicles parked outside, red and blue lights flashing silently. The air was filled with the low hum of voices, the crackle of radios, and the faint sounds of camera shutters clicking.

Haida froze, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight. A stretcher was being wheeled out the front door, draped in a pristine white sheet that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Paramedics moved methodically, their expressions somber. A small crowd of reporters was already gathered at the edge of the property, their murmurs filling the air as they craned their necks for a better view.

“What... what the hell?” Haida whispered, his legs moving before his brain could catch up. He broke into a jog, his heart hammering in his chest as he neared the house. “No... no, this can’t—”

Before he could reach the front steps, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the front porch—Jiro. His brother’s usually composed demeanor was still intact, but his eyes betrayed something raw, something close to breaking. He raised a hand to stop Haida as he approached.

“Haida—Taro, wait,” Jiro said, his voice low but firm.

Haida’s momentum carried him forward until he was just a few feet from Jiro. He could barely breathe as he took in the grim set of his brother’s jaw, the faint tremor in his usually steady hands. “Jiro... what’s going on?” Haida’s voice cracked, his gaze darting from his brother to the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance. “Is that... is that Dad?”

Jiro nodded once, slowly. “Yes.”

The single word hit Haida like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back a step, his legs threatening to give out. “No... no, no, no.” His chest felt tight, his pulse roaring in his ears. “This can’t be real.”

Jiro’s expression softened slightly as he reached out, placing a hand on Haida’s shoulder. “I didn’t know,” Jiro said quietly. His voice, usually so authoritative, was weighed down by something uncharacteristically fragile. “I didn’t know he passed until this morning... just before you messaged me.”

Haida blinked, the words swirling in his mind like a chaotic storm. “He was... he was this sick?” he asked.

Jiro nodded again, his gaze steady but pained. “He’s been in home hospice for the past two weeks,” he explained. “The doctors said... it wouldn’t be long. But I didn’t think...” He trailed off, his composure wavering for just a second before he took a deep breath and straightened. “I thought we had more time.”

Haida’s knees buckled slightly, and he grabbed onto the porch railing for support. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Jiro’s grip on Haida’s shoulder tightened briefly before he let his hand drop. “We didn’t want to worry you,” Jiro said, his tone almost mechanical, as if he’d rehearsed the explanation in his head. “You’ve had enough on your plate already. I did try and come to your apartment the other day, but… still, I know I should have reached out sooner, now.”

Haida’s head snapped up, anger flaring in his eyes. “That’s not your call to make!” he shouted, the words raw and unrestrained. The reporters at the edge of the property seemed to take notice, their cameras clicking faster. Jiro shot them a sharp glance, but his focus quickly returned to Haida.

“I know,” Jiro admitted, his voice soft but firm. “You’re right. But Dad... he asked for things to be quiet. He didn’t want to make it harder on anyone.”

Haida let out a bitter, shaky laugh, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Harder? Jiro, this is the hardest damn thing I’ve ever—” He broke off, his voice catching in his throat. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I don’t even fucking like him that much, but I deserved the right to!”

Jiro’s face remained composed, but Haida could see the cracks forming beneath the surface—the tightness in his jaw, the slight sheen in his eyes. “Neither did I,” Jiro said quietly.

The weight of those words settled between them, heavy and unyielding. The sound of the ambulance doors closing punctuated the silence like a grim exclamation point. Haida watched as the vehicle slowly pulled away, its lights still flashing as it disappeared down the driveway.

The media began murmuring louder, some of them taking photos of the Haida brothers. Jiro straightened his suit and stepped in front of Haida slightly, shielding him from view. “Ignore them,” Jiro said firmly. “They’re vultures. This isn’t their moment—it’s ours.”

Haida felt a lump form in his throat as he stared at the empty driveway where the ambulance had been. His father was gone. The man who had shaped so much of who he was—for better or worse—was gone.

“I don’t know what to do,” Haida whispered.

Jiro placed a hand on Haida’s back, guiding him gently toward the house. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice steady once more. “Together.”

—

The sitting room of the Haida family estate was eerily quiet except for the faint crackle of the small ceramic heater and the occasional clink of sake cups against the lacquered table. Haida and Jiro sat across from each other, their postures slack, their ties loosened, their expressions unreadable. Between them sat an ornate tray holding an old ceramic bottle of sake, already half-empty.

Haida poured himself another cup, his hand somewhat shaky but precise enough not to spill. Jiro watched in silence, his face unusually somber. Neither of them had spoken much since they came inside, choosing instead to drown themselves in the familiar burn of rice wine. Each sip felt like a tiny defiance against the reality pressing in from all sides—the reporters outside, the cameras, the whispers of condolence that would soon come flooding in from their father’s political allies.

The sliding door to the sitting room creaked open, and both brothers looked up. Their mother stepped inside, carrying a fresh bottle of sake with the elegance she’d always been known for. Her figure was still slender despite her age, her sharp black dress impeccable and modest. Her hair was pinned back neatly, and there was something regal about the way she moved—deliberate, practiced, as though she’d been performing this role her entire life.

"Mom," Haida muttered, sitting up slightly straighter as she entered.

Jiro followed suit, bowing his head respectfully. "Mother."

She gave them both a small nod, her expression neutral as she placed the new bottle of sake on the table. Then, to their surprise, she sat down with them, folding her legs beneath her in a graceful motion. She took the sake bottle and poured herself a cup, her movements fluid and precise.

Haida blinked at her, momentarily stunned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pour one for yourself,” he said, a faint, almost disbelieving smile on his face. “At least... not like this.”

Their mother—Masako Haida, though rarely referred to by her first name—gave him a small, almost wistful smile. “There was no point before,” she said quietly, lifting the cup to her lips and taking a delicate sip. Her eyes softened as the warmth of the drink spread through her. “But I’m a free woman now.”

The words hung in the air like an unspoken truth, heavier than anything Haida had expected.

Haida stared at her, the cup halfway to his mouth. “Free?” he echoed, his brow furrowing.

Masako’s gaze remained calm but unwavering as she set her cup back down. “Yes,” she said simply. “For the first time in decades.”

Jiro shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his own cup. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Haida, however, couldn’t stop himself from pressing further.

“Are you saying... you’re glad he’s gone?” Haida’s voice was quiet, but there was a tremor of disbelief beneath it.

Masako didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders relaxing in a way Haida had never seen before. “I’m not celebrating,” she clarified, though there was no sorrow in her voice. “But I’m not pretending to be devastated, either.”

Jiro finally spoke, his tone carefully measured. “Mother... he was your husband.”

Masako turned her gaze to Jiro, her expression soft but resolute. “He was my husband in name,” she said. “But I spent more years being his ornament than his partner.”

Haida felt a pang of something—shock, maybe, or sadness—as he watched the composed mask his mother had worn for so long crack just a little. “I never... I never knew you felt that way,” he admitted.

“You wouldn’t,” Masako said gently, though there was no accusation in her tone. “I never showed it to you. I had my duty, and I performed it. But now, with him gone... I feel as though I can finally breathe again.”

The silence that followed was thick, punctuated only by the soft clink of Masako pouring herself another cup. Haida struggled to process her words. He had always seen his father as a towering figure, an indomitable force of expectations and criticism. But he’d never thought about what it had been like for his mother—to be married to that man, to endure his presence day in and day out without the option to escape.

“He wasn’t perfect,” Jiro said, his voice low. “But he wasn’t a monster.”

Masako’s gaze didn’t waver. “He was worse than a monster, Jiro,” she said quietly. “He was... indifferent.”

The word hit harder than anything else she could have said. Haida felt it in his bones—that cold indifference their father had mastered, the way he could make you feel small without ever raising his voice. Masako took another sip of sake, her eyes distant.

“Every decision I made was for his image, for his reputation,” she continued. “I stayed silent when I wanted to scream. I nodded when I wanted to argue. And now... I don’t have to do any of that anymore.”

Haida leaned back. He took a long drink from his cup, the sake burning as it slid down his throat. He felt unmoored, like the ground beneath him was shifting.

“Well,” he said after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. “Here’s to freedom, then.”

Masako raised her cup in a quiet toast, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips. “To freedom,” she echoed.

Jiro hesitated, his jaw tightening again before he reluctantly lifted his cup as well. “To freedom,” he muttered, though his expression remained conflicted.

The three of them sat in silence, their cups raised in a shared but complicated gesture. The sake was warm, but the air between them felt cool and brittle, like glass that could shatter at any moment. For the first time, Haida saw his mother not as an elegant figure bound by duty, but as a woman who had lived with a quiet strength born of sacrifice and endurance.

And for the first time, he wondered what freedom might look like for him.

—

The neon lights of the Pachinko parlor flashed in rhythmic bursts, casting the street outside in hues of electric pinks, blues, and golds.

Hyodo stood outside, a bucket of soapy water by his feet, a squeegee in one hand, and a rag draped over his shoulder. He moved with practiced efficiency, his strokes even and methodical as he cleaned the large glass windows, one after another. His reflection stared back at him in the freshly cleaned glass—every day, he was recognizing himself less and less. Just another job. Just another day.

As he wiped the last streak off the corner of the window, he paused, gazing through the glass at the customers inside. Office workers on their lunch breaks, retirees clutching their coin buckets with desperate hope, and thrill-seekers chasing dopamine hits.

Just as Hyodo bent down to rinse the squeegee in the bucket, something caught his eye—a figure across the street. At first, it was just the faint shimmer of gold jewelry glinting in the neon light. But as he straightened up, wiping his hands on his rag, he got a clearer look. A tall woman with a confident, leisurely gait approached, flanked by two associates who walked a step behind her, their movements sharp, like bodyguards.

The woman was striking. She was a tiger—a literal tiger, her sleek fur patterned with dark stripes that framed her face like war paint. Her hair was cut short, stylishly tousled in a way that suggested she didn't care but somehow looked perfect. She wore a leather jacket with bright embroidery that mimicked traditional yakuza-style tattoos: snarling dragons, blooming chrysanthemums, and fierce tigers. The jacket hung open to reveal a fitted black jumpsuit beneath, hugging her athletic frame.

Her fingers glimmered with an array of silver and gold rings, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses sat perched on her nose, even though the streetlights were glowing bright.

Hyodo narrowed his eyes as he watched her approach. She wasn’t just anyone—he could tell that at a glance. Her presence had that same cold intensity that only people with power carried. The two men following her were equally intimidating, their arms sleeved with intricate tattoos of koi fish swimming upstream. They moved like shadows, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.

As the trio neared the entrance to the Pachinko parlor, the tiger lady slowed and raised a hand, signaling her companions to pause. She stood in front of Hyodo for a moment, tilting her head slightly as if sizing him up.

Hyodo met her gaze—or rather, the reflective lenses of her sunglasses. For a second, the world around them seemed to fall away, the noise of the street fading into the background. The tiger lady’s lips curled into a faint smirk.

“Clean work,” she remarked, her voice smooth but edged with a gravelly rasp. Her accent was refined, but there was a sharpness to it, like she’d learned diplomacy after years of something rougher.

Hyodo shrugged, resting his squeegee against the bucket. “It pays the bills,” he said nonchalantly, though his eyes remained attentive.

The tiger lady reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. She tapped it open and slid a cigarette between her lips, pausing as one of her bodyguards stepped forward with a lighter. A small flame flickered, and she leaned in to light her cigarette, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily into the air.

Hyodo watched the smoke curl upward, the scent of tobacco mixed with something faintly floral. “You new around here?” he asked, though the answer was obvious. He’d worked enough gigs in this part of town to know the regulars—and she wasn’t one of them.

The tiger lady smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Passing through,” she said simply. “But maybe I’ll stay... if I like the atmosphere.”

Hyodo’s gaze flicked to her associates, who were watching him with silent intensity, their hands resting near their sides as if they were ready for anything. He’d seen guys like them before—the kind who didn’t need to flex their muscles to make a point.

“You don’t look like the pachinko type,” Hyodo remarked, folding his arms across his chest.

She laughed—a low, throaty sound that was more amusement than genuine mirth. “I’m not,” she admitted, taking another drag from her cigarette. “But I’ve got an eye for interesting places... and interesting people.”

Hyodo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s your name?” he asked, his curiosity outweighing his caution.

The tiger lady exhaled a long stream of smoke before pulling off her sunglasses and hooking them onto the front of her jacket. Her golden eyes, fierce and feline, locked onto his. “Takara,” she said. "And I’m not here to play small games."

Hyodo’s instinct screamed that this wasn’t just a chance encounter. Takara wasn’t just here to indulge in some idle curiosity—there was a purpose behind her presence, even if she wasn’t showing her full hand yet. He’d dealt with a lot of different people during his time as an idol manager, but there was something about her that felt different. Dangerous.

“Hyodo,” he said, introducing himself simply.

Takara smiled again, but this time it was sharper, more knowing. “I’ve heard of you,” she said. "You’re a man who understands survival. From debtors, at least. You’re the window who took out all those sketchy loans for your own failed little idol project.”

Hyodo’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t let it show. He forced a grin, even as unease settled in his gut. “And what about you?” he asked, his tone casual. “What are you all about?”

Takara’s eyes glittered with something unreadable. “Adaptation,” she replied smoothly. “The strong survive because they change. The weak die clinging to their rules.”

Hyodo nodded slowly, letting her words sink in. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re probably right.”

Takara glanced up at the Pachinko parlor’s flashing sign and took one last drag from her cigarette before flicking it to the ground and crushing it beneath her heel. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said, her voice low and enigmatic. With that, she turned and strode toward the entrance, her bodyguards following silently behind her.

Hyodo watched her go, his mind racing. What the hell was that about? He bent down to pick up his bucket and squeegee, but his hands felt unsteady.

“Adaptation,” he muttered under his breath, the word lingering like smoke in the back of his mind.

A small group of local yakuza stepped out of the parlor, their laughter loud and crude as they shoved the glass doors open. The pachinko balls clinked and spun inside as the automatic doors slowly shut behind them.

There were four of them—an eclectic mix of streetwise animals who looked like they belonged more on the set of a crime drama than in real life. A burly Doberman with a scar running down his cheek led the pack, his leather jacket studded with silver accents that glinted in the artificial glow. A sly ferret with a cigarette dangling from his lips strutted beside him, while a lanky, aloof greyhound in a flashy suit trailed a few steps behind, checking his reflection in the window. The fourth, a stout boar with tattoos visible beneath his tank top, lumbered after them, chewing gum with a loud, open-mouthed pop.

As they passed Hyodo, the Doberman slowed down and sneered, tapping the side of the freshly cleaned window with his knuckle. “Look at this,” he said, glancing at his companions with a grin. “The mighty Hyodo, former idol manager extraordinaire... reduced to scrubbing windows like some nobody. Just a step above sucking cock.”

The ferret snickered, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Gotta say, man, I didn’t think you’d fall this far,” he added. “Thought you’d be living the high life after OTMGirls got all that buzz. What happened? Or wait—did they finally figure out you were just a washed-up con man?”

Hyodo’s grip on the squeegee tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. Don’t engage, he told himself. They’re just looking for a reaction.

But the greyhound wasn’t done. He adjusted the collar of his gaudy suit and leaned in, his sharp teeth visible in a smug grin. “Maybe you’re closer to paying back what you owe, huh?” he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. “You got any big ideas? Or are you just gonna keep cleaning glass until you die of embarrassment?”

The boar chuckled, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Hey, maybe we should cut him a deal,” he said, loud enough for anyone passing by to hear. “You know, go easy on him... if he’s willing to put his girls to work.”

Hyodo’s ears twitched, and his stomach turned as the implication settled in.

The Doberman took a step closer, his grin widening as he saw the flicker of offense in Hyodo’s eyes. “Yeah,” he drawled, his voice slow and taunting. “We’re always looking for fresh talent. Maybe your precious OTMGirls could do a little... ‘customer service’ on the side. I bet the ex-idol tagline would make a killing. Hell, they’d be lining up.”

The laughter that followed was low and mean, like the growl of a pack circling its prey. Hyodo’s jaw clenched, his knuckles cracking around the handle of the squeegee. His mind raced with conflicting emotions—anger, shame, and a faint, bitter twinge of helplessness.

But beneath all of that, there was something else... something darker. A small, unwelcome thought that wormed its way into his brain and refused to leave. What if they’re right? It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered desperate measures before. Showbiz was ruthless, and he knew better than anyone how quickly fame could turn into infamy. The OTMGirls were talented, but talent didn’t pay the bills—not in a world like this. People wanted spectacle. They wanted scandal.

For a brief, terrifying moment, he imagined what it would be like if they pivoted into something darker—what if they leaned into the allure of controversy? What if they sold their fame not with music, but with something else?

No. He shook the thought away, disgusted with himself. That’s not who they are. That’s not who I am.

But even as he told himself that, the kernel of the idea remained, stubborn and persistent.

The Doberman noticed the flicker of something in Hyodo’s eyes and laughed. “There it is,” he said, pointing at Hyodo. “That’s the look of someone who knows we’re not wrong.” He turned and started walking away, the others following, still laughing and making crude jokes.

The ferret blew a kiss in Hyodo’s direction. “Think about it, Hyodo,” he called over his shoulder. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?”

The group rounded the corner, their laughter fading into the city noise.

Hyodo stood there for a long moment. The city lights flickered above him, and the sounds of the pachinko parlor resumed their relentless hum. He stared at his reflection in the window—his face tired, his eyes hollow.

He set the squeegee down slowly and wiped his hands on his rag, staring blankly at the soapy water in the bucket. How did it come to this? he wondered bitterly. He had once been respected, even admired. Now, he was being mocked openly, reduced to a joke.

But no matter how much he wanted to dismiss their words as nonsense, he couldn’t shake the creeping thought in the back of his mind: What would I be willing to do to get back on top?

Hyodo picked up the squeegee again, his movements slower, more deliberate. The sky above had darkened, and the neon lights cast a strange glow on the glass. As he worked, the reflection of the tiger lady—Takara—flickered in his mind’s eye, her words from earlier echoing like a challenge.

Adaptation. The strong survive because they change. The weak die clinging to their rules.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He hated how much sense it made.

Chapter Text

Haida stepped into the office building’s main lobby, the familiar rush of synthetic air conditioning hitting him as the glass doors slid shut behind him. The space was pristine—polished marble floors, towering black and chrome fixtures, and an enormous logo emblazoned on the back wall in stark, minimalist letters: KANEDA TECH. Their slogan, displayed beneath it in smaller, ominously corporate font, read: Innovating Tomorrow, Securing Today.

Haida adjusted his bag strap over his shoulder and made his way toward the security gates, scanning his employee badge at the checkpoint. The small light flashed green, but the mechanical beep felt more like a judge’s gavel than permission to pass. He walked through, his mind already on autopilot, his feet knowing the way without him having to think about it.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the same polished interior he’d seen every day for months. The buttons glowed faintly under his fingers as he pressed the one for his floor. Haida’s reflection stared back at him from the mirrored panel—a reflection that seemed more tired, more hollow than it used to. His tie was crooked, and his fur looked scruffier than usual, but he didn’t care enough to fix it.

The familiar jingle of the elevator's automated system chimed as the doors opened to Floor 42—R&D and Systems Security. Haida stepped out and was immediately greeted by the dull hum of computers, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the low murmur of coworkers exchanging jargon-heavy sentences that all blurred together.

The cubicles were uniform—gray dividers, thin monitors perched on cluttered desks, and the same soulless potted plants placed at arbitrary intervals. The windows, heavily tinted against the outside world, allowed in only the faintest trace of natural light, giving the entire floor a strange, dreamlike quality, as though time passed differently here.

Haida made his way to the conference room at the end of the hall, barely acknowledging the nods and greetings from a few passing coworkers. When he arrived, he paused for a moment outside the frosted glass doors, staring at the words etched in bold text: Innovation Briefing Room. He sighed and pushed the door open.

The room was already full. His coworkers sat around the long, rectangular table, some of them scrolling through documents on their tablets, others sipping coffee from identical company-issued mugs. Haida recognized a few of them—his team lead, a wiry coyote named Nishida, who always wore the same blue blazer, and a handful of others he’d exchanged pleasantries with but never really knew.

At the head of the table stood their department manager, a tall, intimidating ram named Tsukishima. He was impeccably dressed, his suit tailored to perfection, and his piercing eyes scanned the room with the precision of a predator. Tsukishima was known for his brutal efficiency and his ability to make subordinates feel like insects under a magnifying glass.

Haida slid into an empty chair near the back of the room, setting his bag down by his feet. He didn’t know why he was here—he didn’t even remember what the meeting was about. His mind drifted as Tsukishima cleared his throat and began to speak.

“This quarter,” Tsukishima began, his voice cold and methodical, “we’re implementing an additional layer of security protocols for our external APIs to ensure there are no vulnerabilities.”

The words washed over Haida like white noise. He stared at the presentation slides displayed on the large screen at the front of the room—diagrams and charts filled with dense, incomprehensible data points. It all blurred together in a mess of arrows and technical jargon.

“...In conclusion, this isn’t just a precaution,” Tsukishima continued. “It’s a necessity. Any oversight will be considered a direct failure of your teams. Understood?”

A chorus of murmured acknowledgments rippled through the room, but Haida barely registered them. His eyes glazed over as he watched Nishida scribble notes into his leather-bound planner with mechanical precision. Across the table, another coworker absentmindedly scrolled through a meme page on their phone, careful to angle the screen away from view.

Haida’s mind wandered. What the hell am I even doing here? he thought bitterly. How did I end up in a place like this? The whole room felt like a hollow theater performance where everyone played their assigned roles without question or passion. He was a ghost in a room full of people who barely knew he existed—and maybe didn’t care if he did.

He shifted in his chair, glancing around at the blank, resigned faces of his coworkers. The room reeked of coffee and stale ambition. His gaze drifted to the motivational posters on the wall—framed images of mountains, oceans, and abstract digital designs, each paired with meaningless slogans like “Success is the journey” and “Perfection is within reach.” They felt like a joke—empty platitudes meant to keep people docile, to keep them grinding away for the sake of progress they’d never see.

Haida’s eyes narrowed as he remembered his dream from the night before—the punk band, the rush of music and adrenaline, the raw defiance of standing on that stage. Is this who I’ve become? A cog in a machine? Just another desk jockey being worn down by pointless meetings and meaningless tasks?

Tsukishima’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Haida.”

Haida blinked, sitting up straighter as his name rang out in the silent room. The other employees turned to look at him, some with curiosity, others with mild amusement.

“Yes, sir?” Haida asked, trying to sound composed.

Tsukishima arched a brow, his expression unreadable. “Do you have any input on the proposed cybersecurity measures? Or have you decided to just sit there and zone out?”

A few coworkers chuckled under their breath, and Haida’s ears flattened in embarrassment. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I don’t even know what the hell this meeting is really about, he realized.

Tsukishima’s gaze sharpened. “Thought so,” he muttered. “Try to stay present, Haida. You’re being paid to think, not daydream.”

Haida’s stomach churned as Tsukishima moved on, addressing another team member. The rest of the meeting droned on, but Haida barely heard it. His pulse thudded in his ears as he stared down at the untouched notepad in front of him.

Is this what my life is now? A series of meetings where I pretend to care until I go home, sleep, and do it all over again?

—

The lunch lobby was a cold, impersonal space filled with sleek tables, plastic chairs, and vending machines humming away in the corner. The walls were sterile white, adorned with bland artwork depicting abstract gears turning together—another reminder of the company’s obsession with productivity and efficiency. Employees shuffled in and out, their conversations blending into a dull hum that barely registered with Haida as he sat alone at a corner table, stirring his cup of miso soup without any real intention of eating it.

The cafeteria smelled faintly of reheated bento boxes, instant noodles, and stale coffee. Haida took a sip from his drink, wincing slightly at the overly salty taste. Another flavorless part of the daily grind, he thought bitterly. Everything in this place is either over-processed or hollow.

He let his eyes drift toward the other tables, observing the small clusters of employees chatting in hushed voices or scrolling through their phones. Some looked dead-eyed and exhausted, others wore forced smiles as they laughed at jokes they probably didn’t find funny. It was the same scene every day—a play with the same script, the same roles, and no room for improvisation.

Just as Haida was about to tune out entirely, he caught a snippet of conversation that made his ears perk up.

Near the vending machines, a group of HR employees stood in a loose circle, sipping their coffee and chuckling among themselves. There were three of them—a sharp-dressed cheetah in a fitted blazer, a lemur with glasses who always looked smug, and a raccoon with an ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. They didn’t notice Haida sitting nearby, their voices carrying over as they spoke in low, conspiratorial tones.

“I’m telling you,” the cheetah said with a grin, “that guy from Systems practically resigned on the spot after his last ‘performance review.’ You should’ve seen his face—he didn’t even fight it.”

The lemur laughed, adjusting his glasses. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Make ‘em think quitting is their idea. Saves us the trouble of firing them—and the company doesn’t have to pay severance.”

The raccoon snickered, tapping her clipboard. “Less paperwork, too. Win-win.”

Haida’s stomach turned as he listened to their casual banter, his hand tightening around his spoon. Are you serious? he thought, his jaw clenching. Is this really how they see people? As liabilities to be manipulated and discarded? He had always suspected that HR operated in the company’s interest more than the employees', but hearing them talk about it so openly felt like a punch to the gut.

The cheetah took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Honestly, some of these employees need to be pushed out. Dead weight, y’know? If they can’t keep up, it’s better for everyone if they’re gone.”

The lemur nodded, a smirk on his face. “Survival of the fittest, right?”

Haida’s hands trembled slightly as he set down his cup. He stared blankly at the swirling remnants of his miso soup, the words survival of the fittest echoing in his mind.

A wave of anger and helplessness surged through him, tightening his chest. He thought of the coworker they were laughing about—their unnamed victim who had probably come to work every day hoping to do his best, only to be crushed by the system and forced out with nothing. It could be any of us. Hell, it could be me.

The worst part wasn’t just their cruelty—it was how comfortable they were with it. They weren’t whispering in fear of being overheard. They were chatting openly, like this was just another part of the job, as mundane as filing paperwork or scheduling meetings.

Haida pressed his palms flat against the table, trying to steady himself. He could feel the familiar wave of frustration building, that old, bitter resentment toward a system that seemed designed to strip people of their dignity and worth. They’re right, in their own twisted way, he thought bitterly. The system keeps turning because we let it. And we keep showing up like suckers, hoping it’ll get better when we know damn well it won’t.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath as he tried to keep his composure. But instead of calming him, the darkness behind his eyelids filled with images—the monotonous gray cubicles, Tsukishima’s cold stare, the condescending sneers of the HR team. The endless, grinding cycle of work and burnout and resignation.

Somewhere deep inside him, something cracked. Let it all fall apart, a voice in the back of his mind whispered. Let it burn. It deserves to.

Haida opened his eyes, staring blankly at the tabletop. He wasn’t a religious man—he’d never really believed in divine intervention or higher powers. But in that moment, he found himself silently praying—not to any god or deity, but to something. Something stronger than this broken system. Something powerful enough to bring it all crashing down.

Please... let it end. Let the cracks spread until this whole damn structure collapses.

The weight of his thoughts struck him like an anvil, making it hard to breathe. He felt the familiar pull of hopelessness creeping in, but beneath it, there was something else—something sharp and simmering.

He wanted justice. Not just for himself, but for everyone who had been trampled by the machine. But he wasn’t sure if justice was even possible anymore. Maybe the only way to fix something so rotten was to let it burn to ashes.

The HR group laughed again, oblivious to the storm brewing in Haida’s mind. He glanced at them one last time before standing up, leaving his half-finished meal on the table. As he walked away, he didn’t look back.

His footsteps echoed in the corridor as he headed back to his desk, but the sound wasn’t just footsteps—it was the beginning of something new. A quiet but deliberate shift inside of him.

If they wanted a system of survival and sacrifice, maybe it was time someone rewrote the rules.

—

The restaurant was located on the quieter side of town—a sleek, high-rise building nestled between luxury boutiques and designer storefronts. The entrance was discreet, marked by an understated brass sign that read Il Fiorire. The windows glowed warmly against the cold night air, inviting yet intimidating at the same time. Haida hesitated outside for a moment before pushing the heavy glass door open.

The inside was stunning. The restaurant was a seamless blend of modern elegance and old-world charm. Warm wooden accents and ambient lighting gave the space a cozy, intimate feel, while the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling wine shelves whispered of wealth and exclusivity. The tables, draped in crisp white linens, were spaced far apart, each set with polished silverware and delicate centerpieces of fresh flowers.

But what struck Haida most wasn’t the decor—it was the emptiness. The entire restaurant was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of classical music playing softly through hidden speakers. There wasn’t a single patron in sight. The only people present were the sharply dressed waitstaff, standing at respectful attention near the bar, and Tadano himself, seated at a table near the center of the room.

Tadano waved casually as Haida stepped in, his relaxed demeanor completely at odds with the opulence surrounding him. He was dressed impeccably as always, his blazer tailored perfectly, but his signature air of casual indifference remained. A glass of red wine sat half-full in front of him, its rich color glowing in the low light.

“Yo, Haida!” Tadano called out, his grin wide and welcoming. “Over here, man!”

Haida walked over slowly, still trying to process the surreal scene. “Uh... am I in the right place?” he asked, glancing around again as if expecting a crowd to materialize out of nowhere.

Tadano chuckled, gesturing to the empty chairs around the table. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not hallucinating. Come sit.”

Haida pulled out a chair and sat down, his eyes narrowing as he took in the pristine but empty restaurant. “Where... where is everyone? Did I miss some kind of VIP event?”

Tadano took a slow sip of his wine before answering. “Nah,” he said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “I bought the whole place out for the evening.”

Haida blinked. “You what?”

Tadano shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “Yeah. I figured we could use some privacy, and honestly, I like the vibe better when it’s just us.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “No nosy strangers, no crowded tables. Just good food and good conversation.”

Haida stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the sheer level of extravagance. “You... bought out an entire restaurant just for a dinner?” he asked, his voice somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Tadano smiled, his expression calm but knowing. “Look, man, money’s just a tool. And if you’ve got the means, why not make life more comfortable?” He gestured toward the table, where a polished menu sat neatly folded beside a bottle of imported olive oil. “Besides, I wanted to treat you. You’ve had a rough week, yeah?”

Haida rubbed the back of his neck, his tail twitching slightly. “I mean... yeah,” he admitted. “But this feels... surreal.”

Tadano waved a hand dismissively. “Surreal’s kind of my thing,” he said with a grin. “But hey, this isn’t just about the ambiance. It’s about unwinding. You need that more than you think.”

Before Haida could respond, a waiter approached their table with a bottle of wine and two fresh glasses. The sommelier, a stoic lynx with sharp eyes, expertly poured the wine before retreating with a polite bow. The rich aroma of Chianti filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of fresh basil and garlic.

Tadano raised his glass, motioning for Haida to do the same. “To surviving the chaos,” Tadano said, his tone light but meaningful.

Haida hesitated for a moment before lifting his glass. “To... whatever this is,” he said, a small, uncertain smile creeping onto his face.

Their glasses clinked softly, and Haida took a sip. The wine was smooth and full-bodied, a far cry from the cheap drinks he was used to. He set the glass down, still feeling slightly out of place but grateful nonetheless.

The first course arrived—a beautifully plated arrangement of bruschetta topped with fresh tomatoes, burrata, and a drizzle of balsamic reduction. Haida stared at it for a moment, almost reluctant to disturb the perfect presentation.

Tadano, however, dug in immediately, taking a bite and letting out an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. “Man, I love this place,” he said, his mouth half-full. “They’ve got the best stuff in town.”

Haida took a cautious bite, the flavors bursting on his tongue in a way that felt almost overwhelming. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that moment. “Okay,” he admitted after swallowing. “This is really good.”

Tadano smiled but didn’t press further, giving Haida a moment to enjoy the food in silence. After a few more bites, Haida finally leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“So,” Tadano said, setting his fork down. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to talk. You’ve been on my mind, Haida. I can tell something’s eating at you.”

Haida’s eyes flickered with something—hesitation, maybe, or exhaustion. He let out a slow breath. “There’s... a lot,” he muttered. “Work’s been hell. Retsuko... things aren’t great. And I don’t even know where to start with Jiro and... everything that happened with my dad.”

Tadano’s expression softened. “That’s a lot of weight to carry, man,” he said gently. “You ever think about just... letting it go?”

Haida frowned. “What do you mean?”

Tadano swirled his wine glass thoughtfully, watching the dark liquid spiral. “I mean stepping back and asking yourself if any of this really matters. The job, the expectations, the stuff you’re forcing yourself to hold together... what if you just let it all crash?”

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. “Crash?”

Tadano nodded. “Yeah. What if you stopped fighting to fit into a mold that was never made for you?” His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something else—conviction, maybe, or rebellion. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is let the old stuff burn so you can build something better.”

Haida stared at him, the wine glass cold in his hand. Let it burn. The thought felt both terrifying and liberating. He wasn’t sure if Tadano’s words were brilliant or dangerous—or both.

“Think about it,” Tadano said, his eyes glinting in the soft light. “Tonight’s yours. No rules, no limits. Just you, figuring out what the hell you want.”

The soft clink of their wine glasses filled the otherwise quiet restaurant as Tadano leaned back in his chair, swirling the remaining Chianti lazily. The flicker of candlelight reflected in his sharp eyes, which never seemed to lose their mischievous glint, even when the conversation turned darker.

“So,” Tadano began, his tone casual yet pointed, “how’s the ‘homework’ coming along?”

Haida nearly choked on his sip of wine, coughing slightly as he set his glass down. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, trying to regain his composure. “You seriously remembered that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tadano’s grin widened. “Of course I did. I don’t give out assignments just for fun... okay, maybe a little for fun. But I’m invested, man. You gotta tell me how it’s going.”

Haida hesitated for a moment before answering, leaning forward on the table. “Well... I did manage to sleep with someone I wasn’t initially attracted to.” He paused, his mind flashing back to Fenneko’s sharp smirk and the chaotic spiral that had followed. His face heated slightly, but he pressed on. “I mean, it ended up being... not what I expected.”

Tadano raised his glass, toasting silently. “Congratulations. You’re one-third of the way to graduation.”

Haida let out a small, rueful laugh. “Yeah, well... I still have to get in a fight and lose.” His expression soured as he swirled the wine in his glass. “And to be honest, I have no idea how to even go about that one. The thought of getting my ass kicked on purpose isn’t exactly... appealing.”

Tadano nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. Fighting isn’t exactly my thing either. But the third assignment...” He leaned in slightly, his grin taking on a more dangerous edge. “That one? I can help with.”

Haida’s ears flicked with curiosity, but a knot formed in his stomach. “You mean the stealing?”

Tadano set his glass down, interlacing his fingers as he regarded Haida with an unsettling calm. “Yep. You said you wanted to ‘steal something,’ right? But why settle for something petty when you could steal something that actually matters?”

Haida narrowed his eyes. “What... what are you talking about?”

Tadano leaned forward, his voice low but steady. “Corporate espionage,” he said bluntly. “Sabotage. Your workplace is a goldmine of sensitive information—and you’re sitting right in the middle of it.”

Haida blinked, the words hitting him like a gut punch. “You’re joking... right?”

Tadano smiled, but his expression didn’t soften. “I’m dead serious, Haida. Think about it. You’ve told me before how much you hate the place—how they bleed you dry and toss people aside like garbage. Wouldn’t it feel good to stick it to them?”

Haida’s heart began to race, a mixture of fear and... something else. Something dangerous and exhilarating. “You... you’re asking me to steal from Kaneda Tech?” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.

Tadano shrugged, as if he were suggesting something as harmless as a prank. “Think of it as redistributing the wealth. They hoard secrets and tech that could make the world better, but they only care about profits. You, on the other hand... you could make a real difference. And I’d make it worth your while.”

Haida stared at him, struggling to process the enormity of what Tadano was proposing. “How... how much are we talking?”

Tadano’s smile grew. “Let’s just say you’ll never have to worry about rent or bills again. Plus, full legal protection. My lawyers are the best in the business—you’d be untouchable.”

Haida’s grip tightened on his glass. The idea was insane. Dangerous. Illegal. But beneath the panic, he felt a strange thrill—a spark of rebellion that he hadn’t felt since his punk band days. What if I actually did it? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He imagined walking into Kaneda Tech not as a passive worker bee, but as someone with a purpose—a saboteur in plain sight.

But another part of him screamed for caution. “Why me?” Haida asked, his voice cautious. “Why not hire someone else—someone who’s done this kind of thing before?”

Tadano shrugged again, his expression easy but calculated. “Because I trust you,” he said simply. “And because you’ve got the perfect cover. You’re already in. Nobody would suspect a thing. Besides...” He said, his grin softening. “You deserve a way out. And I’m giving you one.”

Haida leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as Tadano’s words settled over him. A way out. That was what he’d wanted for so long—to break free from the grind, from the crushing expectation and mediocrity. But was this really the way to do it? Was he willing to burn everything down for a chance at freedom?

The faint hum of the restaurant’s ambient music played in the background as Haida sat in contemplative silence. The empty chairs and polished surfaces around them felt like witnesses to a secret pact—a decision that could change everything.

Tadano poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, waiting patiently. “No rush,” he said. “Take your time. But I think you already know what you want.”

Haida’s pulse thudded in his ears as he stared down at the rich red liquid in his glass. Let it burn. The thought echoed in his mind again, louder this time, more certain. He wasn’t sure if Tadano was a friend offering salvation or a devil tempting him toward destruction. Maybe he was both.

Slowly, Haida lifted his glass and met Tadano’s gaze. “If I do this,” he said carefully, “I need to know... what happens to me after?”

Tadano’s eyes gleamed. “You’ll be free,” he said simply. “For the first time in your life.”

The words hung in the air between them like a promise—or a challenge. Haida’s hand trembled slightly as he took a sip of wine, letting the bitter warmth settle in his chest.

Freedom. Sabotage. A life without chains. Was this really the path forward—or the beginning of his fall?

Tadano smiled again, as though he could read Haida’s mind. “Welcome to the real game, Haida.”

Haida was mid-sip of his wine when Tadano’s words hit him like a curveball.

“So,” Tadano began, resting his chin on his hand with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I’ve been thinking... I could use your help with my side of the homework.”

Haida paused, the glass still at his lips. He set it down slowly, narrowing his eyes. “My help?” he asked warily. “You mean with the stealing?”

Tadano shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Nah, we’re covered on that front. I’m talking about the ‘fight and lose’ part.” He pointed at Haida. “You’re ahead of me, and I’m a sore loser.” He chuckled, though there was something strangely earnest beneath his usual charm. “I’ve never been in a real fight before. And if I’m gonna cross this off my list... I figure it’d be easier if it’s with someone I trust.”

Haida blinked, incredulous. “Wait... you’re serious? You want me to fight you?”

Tadano nodded, still smiling. “Think of it as a favor between friends.”

Haida let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re out of your damn mind, man.”

Before Haida could process anything else, Tadano suddenly stood up and walked over to his side of the table. In one fluid motion—almost too fast to register—Tadano balled his fist and lightly punched Haida in the face.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was enough to make Haida’s head jerk back slightly. His eyes widened in surprise as he rubbed his cheek. “Ow! What the hell, dude?”

Tadano looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers like he was testing the motion. “Was that okay?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I mean... did I do it right?”

Haida blinked at him, completely dumbfounded. “Did you do it right? What is this, a sparring class? No, Tadano! That punch sucked.” He gestured toward Tadano’s stance, or lack thereof. “Your form was all wrong, your weight wasn’t balanced, and... wait, why are we even doing this?”

Tadano shrugged sheepishly, taking a step back and shaking out his hand as if it stung. “Like I said... I’ve never done this before.” His grin softened slightly, his usual bravado giving way to something more vulnerable. “Look... I know I’m not gonna win, Haida. That’s kind of the point, right? I need to lose. But I figured if I’m gonna get my ass kicked, I’d rather it be by someone who’s not gonna turn it into a bloodbath.”

Haida stared at him for a long moment, searching Tadano’s face for some sign that this was just another one of his elaborate jokes. But there was no mockery in Tadano’s expression—just an odd mixture of nervousness and determination.

“You... want to lose?” Haida repeated, his voice slower now, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of it.

Tadano nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been on top of things my whole life. Always winning, always smooth-talking my way out of trouble.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his smile turning a little self-deprecating. “But sometimes, I think... maybe I’ve missed out on something. That feeling of getting knocked down, of having to get back up. I’ve always been afraid of losing, Haida. And I think... if I can face that fear, maybe I’ll stop being such a sore loser.”

Haida let out a slow breath, still rubbing his cheek. “Man... that’s some next-level self-help stuff,” he muttered. He stood up, adjusting his jacket. “You’re really serious about this?”

Tadano smiled. “As serious as a guy who’s about to get punched in the face can be.”

Haida took a step forward, sizing Tadano up. “Alright,” he said slowly. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. No cheap shots, no flailing around like an idiot.”

Tadano raised his hands in mock surrender. “No flailing. Got it.”

Haida sighed and rolled his shoulders, getting into a loose stance. “Okay,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is officially the weirdest night of my life.”

Tadano grinned. “Welcome to my world.”

Haida hesitated for a second longer before drawing his fist back. “You asked for this,” he muttered, and with one swift motion, he threw a punch—not too hard, but enough to make Tadano stumble back a step.

Tadano winced, holding his jaw as he steadied himself. “Damn!” he laughed through the sting. “Okay... okay, yeah. That’s the real deal.”

Haida shook his hand out, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. “Told you.”

Tadano rubbed his jaw, still smiling despite the red mark forming on his cheek. “You’re pretty good at this.”

Haida smirked. “Don’t flatter me. We’re not done yet.”

Tadano nodded, his grin widening. “Bring it on.”

Haida felt a strange sense of catharsis—not just from the punches thrown, but from the absurdity of it all.

As Tadano took another swing, his laughter echoed through the empty restaurant, mingling with Haida’s own. For once, the chaos felt like freedom.

The polished floors of the restaurant were soon scuffed by hurried footsteps as the staff began to gather, their curiosity overriding their professional demeanor. Waiters and bartenders lined the walls, their eyes wide as they watched the surreal spectacle unfolding before them. The elegant, candlelit Italian restaurant had transformed into an impromptu fight club, the ambiance of classical music and fine dining overshadowed by the thuds of fists and grunts of exertion.

Haida and Tadano circled each other near the center of the room, the wine glasses on the table trembling with every sudden movement. Tadano’s usually pristine blazer was unbuttoned, one sleeve half-hanging, and his once perfectly styled hair was disheveled, strands sticking to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Haida’s shirt collar was loose, and his knuckles were beginning to swell.

The tension was palpable as Tadano feinted left before landing a surprise jab to Haida’s cheek. The impact made Haida’s head snap to the side, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The staff collectively gasped at the sight of it—Tadano drew first blood.

For a moment, Haida staggered, his vision blurring slightly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue and felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. He steadied himself, locking eyes with Tadano, who had a crooked grin plastered on his face.

“Not bad, huh?” Tadano quipped, bouncing lightly on his feet. “I might be terrible at this, but I’ve got heart.”

Haida stared at him, his chest rising and falling with deep, labored breaths. And then, something inside him snapped.

It wasn’t Tadano he was looking at anymore—it was every condescending boss, every humiliating performance review, every moment he’d been made to feel small, weak, and disposable. All the suppressed anger and frustration from his dead-end job, his crumbling marriage, and his father’s cold indifference surged forward like a tidal wave.

“You want to feel what it’s like to lose?” Haida growled. “Fine. Let’s make this real.”

Tadano barely had time to react before Haida lunged at him, landing a brutal hook to his ribs. Tadano stumbled back, a choked grunt escaping his lips as the force knocked the wind out of him. Haida didn’t let up. He followed with a sharp uppercut, sending Tadano sprawling onto the floor with a heavy thud.

The restaurant fell silent, the classical music still playing softly in the background as the fight took a darker turn.

Tadano tried to prop himself up on one elbow, but Haida was already on top of him, straddling his torso. Haida’s fists came down like sledgehammers, over and over. His knuckles connected with Tadano’s cheek, his jaw, his brow—each punch more brutal than the last. The staff’s horrified gasps filled the room as Tadano’s face reddened and began to swell, a small cut above his eyebrow leaking crimson down his temple.

“Stop!” one of the waiters shouted, taking a hesitant step forward but freezing in fear.

But Haida couldn’t hear them—he was lost in the moment, his vision narrowing until all he saw was the broken, bloodied expression beneath him. His breath came out in ragged, animalistic gasps as his fists continued to slam down. Each impact sent a jolt through his body, but it wasn’t pain—it was something else. Something terrifying.

Tadano’s head lolled to the side, and his laughter—weak, but unmistakable—cut through the haze. Haida paused mid-swing, his fist hovering above Tadano’s bruised face.

Tadano’s swollen lips curled into a grin, and he coughed out a laugh, his voice hoarse but full of admiration. “Holy... shit... you’re stronger than I thought.” He let out another ragged chuckle. “I... I surrender.”

The words took a moment to register. Haida’s breath caught in his throat as he stared down at his friend—because that’s what Tadano still was, despite everything—a friend who had willingly thrown himself into this madness just to experience something real.

Haida’s arms went slack as the realization hit him. His pulse pounded in his ears as he lowered his fists, his body trembling. He looked down at his hands, covered in Tadano’s blood. The stark red against his fur made his stomach churn.

The room was dead silent except for the hum of the music and Tadano’s slow, labored breathing.

Haida scrambled off of Tadano, stumbling back until he was sitting on the floor, his back pressed against one of the polished wooden chairs. He felt sick. The adrenaline that had fueled him moments ago was draining fast, leaving behind a hollow pit of shock and guilt.

Tadano groaned as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, wiping his bloodied face with the sleeve of his jacket. His grin never fully faded, even as he winced. “Damn, man... you really went for it,” he said, his voice raspy but amused. “That... that was incredible.”

Haida stared at him in disbelief. “Incredible?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “Tadano... I could’ve seriously hurt you.”

Tadano waved a hand dismissively, though it was clear he was struggling to stay upright. “Nah. You held back at the end,” he said, winking despite his swollen eye. “I saw it. You stopped yourself.”

Haida’s hands were still shaking as he wiped them on his pants, though the stains of blood didn’t come off. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he muttered, but the question felt more directed at himself than at Tadano.

The staff remained frozen, unsure whether to intervene or simply retreat. One of the waiters whispered something to another, who nodded and disappeared into the back to call for assistance.

Tadano leaned back against the base of the table, letting out a slow, pained breath. “I needed that,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

Haida ran a hand through his hair, his head spinning. “You’re insane,” he muttered.

Tadano chuckled softly, the sound weak but genuine. “Probably,” he admitted. “But you are too. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Haida closed his eyes, feeling the cold marble beneath him.

When Haida finally opened his eyes, he saw Tadano looking up at the ceiling, his smile faint but content. “Guess I passed my homework,” Tadano murmured. “Now we’re even. We both got one down.”

Haida didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he let out a slow, shaky breath and muttered, “Yeah... I guess you did.”

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment as one of the waiters returned with a first-aid kit, looking uncertain but determined. Tadano waved weakly in thanks, his grin as unapologetic as ever.

And Haida, still staring at the blood on his hands, wondered just how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen—and if there was any turning back.

—

The hum of commuters filled the air—murmured conversations, the shuffle of feet, the soft ding of vending machines. Haida hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, but he could feel the weight of people’s stares as he walked down the platform.

A group of high school students near the exit gave him a wide-eyed glance before whispering to each other, their voices just loud enough for him to catch snippets.

“Is that guy okay?”
“Looks like he got into a fight.”
“Must’ve been bad... look at his face.”

Haida adjusted the strap of his bag, resisting the urge to cover his face. His knuckles were raw, scabbed, and still slightly swollen. He could only imagine how busted his face looked—bruised, maybe a bit swollen around his left cheekbone. I probably look like I crawled out of a bar brawl, he thought bitterly.

As he reached the stairs leading up to the station’s exit, Haida exhaled slowly, willing himself to ignore the whispers and curious glances. The last thing he needed was to get into another altercation—or worse, draw unwanted attention from station security.

The cold evening air hit him like a slap to the face as he ascended the steps. He zipped up his jacket, the chill biting against his sore ribs. The street outside the station was illuminated by rows of streetlamps and the soft glow of shopfronts. People moved in streams around him, too caught up in their own routines to notice much of anything.

But then Haida noticed something—or rather, someone. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure lingered by the vending machines near the bike racks. He almost dismissed it as another loiterer, but something about the way the figure stood, partially cloaked in shadow, made his pulse quicken.

It was subtle—too subtle for most people to catch—but Haida had seen that posture before: stiff shoulders, head tilted downward just enough to obscure the face but still allowing for side glances.

He slowed his pace, pretending to fiddle with his phone while keeping the figure in his peripheral vision. The glowing light from the vending machine flickered, illuminating flashes of the person’s silhouette. They were wearing a dark, oversized hoodie—one that hung loosely enough to mask their build—and their hands were shoved deep into the pockets.

Haida’s fur bristled. No way...

His heart began to pound as the memories came flooding back.

Haida’s rational mind told him he was just imagining things. It’s late. You’re tired. You’re paranoid. But another part of him—a darker, more primal part—was screaming that this was no coincidence.

He stopped a few steps away, pretending to check something on his phone as he observed the figure more closely. The man’s hood obscured his features, but there was something unmistakable about his presence—the way he seemed to lurk rather than stand, like he was waiting for someone or something.

The figure shifted slightly, his foot tapping nervously against the pavement. For a brief second, he turned his head just enough for Haida to glimpse part of his profile

It’s him.

The realization sent a chill down his spine. His grip on his phone tightened as adrenaline surged through his veins. He was torn between two impulses—approach the man head-on or walk away and pretend he didn’t see anything.

The figure turned back toward the vending machine, reaching into his pocket for what looked like a coin. But Haida wasn’t convinced. Is he trying to act normal? Or is he really just buying a drink?

Haida’s mind raced as he weighed his options. He didn’t have any proof that this was the same stalker—not yet. But something told him that if he let this moment pass, he’d regret it later.

He took a cautious step forward, his breath visible in the cold air. The faint hum of the vending machine filled the space between them, masking the sound of his footsteps. But just as Haida was about to speak—about to demand an explanation—the figure turned suddenly and disappeared into the crowd of commuters heading toward the station entrance.

Haida’s heart leapt into his throat. “Hey!” he called out, but his voice was drowned out by the noise of the bustling station.

He broke into a jog, weaving through the mass of people, but it was no use. The figure had already blended into the sea of bodies, vanishing like smoke in the wind. Haida came to an abrupt stop near the corner, his chest heaving as he scanned the crowd in vain.

Gone. Just like that.

He pressed his hands to his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the frustration and paranoia swirling in his mind like a storm. He straightened slowly, wiping a hand over his face and wincing as he brushed against the fresh bruises.

—

The cool metal of the apartment key felt heavy in Haida’s hand as he stood in front of the door, staring blankly at the chipped number plate.

He had been looking forward to coming home, collapsing into bed, and letting the night wash away everything—the fight, the stares, the encounter at the station. But now that he was here, the threshold seemed like a boundary between himself and... something else. Something he didn’t want to confront.

He turned the key over between his fingers, frowning as he tried to shake the feeling.

He clenched his jaw, slipping the key back into his pocket. Not tonight.

Without really thinking about it, Haida turned and walked back down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time until he was outside again. The chill of the night air wrapped around him, sharp against his bruised skin, but instead of recoiling, he welcomed it. The hum of city life beckoned him—the glow of streetlights, the faint thrum of distant music, the chatter of people spilling out of bars and cafes. The night’s not over yet.

His feet carried him through familiar streets, past the convenience stores and vending machines that punctuated the city’s nighttime rhythm. The buzz of neon signs flickered overhead, promising warmth and distraction. A block over, the familiar glow of a bar caught his eye—Blue Ember, one of the quieter spots he remembered passing a few times after work. He’d never actually gone inside before, but tonight, it felt like the perfect place to disappear for a while.

The wooden door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, stepping into the amber-lit interior. The air was thick with the scent of whisky and tobacco, and soft jazz played from a small, retro jukebox in the corner. A few patrons sat at the bar, nursing their drinks and murmuring in low voices. It wasn’t crowded—just the way Haida liked it.

He approached the bar and slid onto a stool, nodding briefly at the bartender—a stout otter with a neatly trimmed mustache and a no-nonsense demeanor. Haida didn’t need to think about his order.

“Whisky,” he muttered. “And keep it coming.”

The otter raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. He poured a generous measure of amber liquid into a glass and slid it across the bar. Haida picked it up, staring into the swirling liquid before taking a long, burning sip. The warmth spread through his chest, dulling the ache in his ribs and cheek.

As the alcohol settled into his system, the tension in his shoulders began to ease—until he heard the sound of familiar laughter behind him.

A low, cruel chuckle.

Haida froze for a moment before glancing sideways, his grip tightening around the glass. At the end of the bar, three figures were huddled around a table, their postures lazy but their presence unmistakable. The Doberman in the leather jacket, the greyhound in the flashy suit, and a ferret with the perpetual cigarette hanging from his lips.

The Doberman was the first to notice him, his scarred face splitting into a grin. “Well, well,” he drawled, nudging the ferret with his elbow. “Looks like someone lost a fight, eh?”

The greyhound followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as recognition dawned. “Aeehhh… he’s that politician. Jiro Haida, yeah?” He tilted his head. “Yeah, it’s that guy. The scruffy salary-slave. What is a fucking corpo suit doing here? Shouldn’t he be on his knees back at the office?”

The ferret snickered, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the tray. “Looks like someone roughed him up pretty good.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he grinned at Haida. “Hey, man... what happened? Did your daddy finally snap? Or was it your boyfriend?”

The Doberman barked out a laugh, raising his glass in mock salute. “Hope you hit back at least once, yeah?”

Haida closed his eyes briefly, inhaling a slow breath through his nose

He turned back to the bar and took another long sip of whisky, letting the heat dull the sting of their words. But the laughter behind him didn’t stop.

The greyhound stood up, wandering closer with a lazy swagger. “You really do look like shit,” he remarked, circling Haida like a vulture. “Rough night?”

Haida didn’t look at him. Instead, he tapped his empty glass on the counter. The otter bartender frowned slightly but refilled it without a word. Haida picked up the glass and took another slow sip, his heart pounding in his chest as he fought to stay calm.

But the greyhound wasn’t done. “Hey... you wouldn’t happen to be one of those ‘fallen samurai’ types, would you?” he sneered. “The ones who think pride’s gonna fill their empty wallet?”

The Doberman and the ferret snickered, clearly enjoying the show.

Haida clenched his teeth, forcing himself to remain still.

But the whisky was beginning to have an effect—not just dulling his senses, but loosening something inside him. All the pent-up rage and frustration from the past few days simmered just below the surface, begging to be released. How much longer am I supposed to swallow this?

The greyhound leaned in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol. “C’mon,” he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Tell us the truth—did you lose a fight, or did life just beat you down?”

Haida’s grip on his glass tightened, the faintest crack forming along its surface. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him, could hear the faint murmurs of concern from the bartender.

One more word, he thought. Just one more, and I’m done playing nice.

The greyhound’s grin widened as if sensing how close Haida was to breaking. But instead of speaking, he chuckled and returned to his seat, satisfied with having pushed the limits.

The laughter from the table resumed, but Haida no longer heard it. He stared into his glass, watching the fractured light refract through the whisky. Slowly, he raised it to his lips, draining it in one long gulp before setting it down with a soft clink.

The bartender gave him a wary glance. “You good, man?” he asked quietly.

Haida exhaled through his nose, his breath slow but heavy. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Just... give me one more.”

The otter hesitated but eventually nodded, refilling Haida’s glass.

The warm scent of whisky surrounded Haida as he nursed what was supposed to be his last drink of the night. The burn in his chest dulled the ache in his bruises, and for a brief moment, he felt disconnected from everything—the fight with Tadano, the stalker, Retsuko, the job that felt like a slow death. Everything blurred into the background, white noise in his mind.

The greyhound, Doberman, and ferret exchanged glances before standing up in unison, their laughter turning sharp and malicious.

Before Haida could react, the Doberman grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up from his stool with surprising force, nearly knocking over the glass in front of him. The room spun for a second, the whisky hitting him harder than he realized.

“Hey, Jiro,” the Doberman sneered, twisting Haida’s shirt in his grip. His breath reeked of cheap beer and smoke. “You really thought you could drink here without showing respect to the local families? Thought you could sit there all smug, huh?”

Haida’s sluggish mind tried to process what was happening. Jiro? Did they think I was... The realization hit him, but the confusion only made him more disoriented.

“I’m not Jiro...” he muttered weakly, but the words barely left his lips before the greyhound grabbed him from behind, locking an arm around his neck and pulling him into a rough headlock.

“Doesn’t matter what you call yourself,” the greyhound growled into Haida’s ear, his grip tightening like a noose. “Your dad was Yakuza-affiliated, wasn’t he? And you’re his son... so you should know better than to act like you’re above us.”

The ferret flicked his cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his heel as he stepped closer, his grin sinister. “Yeah... everyone around here knows the Haida name. Your old man might’ve been something, but you? You’re just a punk who doesn’t know how to pay his respects.”

The words cut deep, not because they were right, but because they dug into wounds that had barely begun to heal. Memories of his father’s cold, distant eyes flashed in Haida’s mind—those silent, unspoken expectations that had haunted him since childhood.

“My dad’s dead,” Haida muttered, his voice thick with alcohol and bitterness. His head lolled slightly in the greyhound’s grip, the room swaying around him. His stomach churned violently from the whisky and adrenaline.

The Doberman sneered. “Yeah? So what?”

Haida’s lips curled into a grim, bitter smile. “So... he’s not gonna care if I...”

Before he could finish, his stomach lurched, and he vomited—hot, acidic bile that splattered across his own shirt and hit the ferret square in the chest.

The ferret froze, his eyes widening in disbelief as the warm mess soaked into his clothes. “You... you piece of—”

His words dissolved into a snarl as he lunged forward, shoving Haida so hard that the greyhound lost his grip for a split second. Haida staggered, barely keeping his balance before the Doberman’s fist collided with his ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through his entire torso. He doubled over, coughing, his breath knocked out of him.

The first punch was bad—but it wasn’t the last.

The greyhound swung next, his fist crashing into Haida’s jaw and snapping his head to the side. The taste of blood filled Haida’s mouth as he stumbled back into the bar, knocking over a stool. The otter bartender shouted something from behind the counter, but the chaos drowned it out.

The ferret, still furious and covered in vomit, wiped his face with his sleeve and charged at Haida, delivering a brutal kick to his stomach. Haida collapsed onto his knees, gasping for air. The world spun violently as his vision blurred with pain and exhaustion.

The Doberman grabbed him by the collar again, hauling him up just enough to look him in the eye. “You’ve got no respect,” he spat, his voice low and seething. “No respect for your name... or for this city.”

Haida tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, wheezing sound. Another punch connected with his face, and the room darkened around the edges.

The Yakuza trio didn’t stop until Haida was barely conscious, his body slumped and defenseless. His fur was matted with blood and sweat, and his mind drifted in and out of awareness as they dragged him toward the back exit.

The cold night air hit his battered body as they tossed him unceremoniously into the alley behind the bar, his body landing in a crumpled heap against the grimy pavement.

“Stay down, bitch.” the Doberman growled before spitting on the ground next to Haida. The sound of their footsteps faded as they walked away, their laughter echoing down the narrow alley.

For a long moment, Haida lay still, the world spinning and distant. The cold concrete pressed against his bruised cheek, and the faint sound of the city hummed in the background—a distant, indifferent lullaby.

His body ached with every breath, but the pain was almost comforting. It was something real—something tangible in a world that had felt so distant and surreal lately. As the blood trickled down his face, mixing with the rainwater that pooled in the cracks of the alley, Haida’s mind whispered the same thought over and over:

How did I get here?

But there was no answer—just the sound of his heartbeat thudding weakly in his ears.

He fought and lost. That meant he was once again, one ahead of Tadano.

Chapter Text

Retsuko stood by the open window, the sheer curtain billowing gently as the cool afternoon breeze filtered into the apartment. The late sun cast a soft, amber glow over the living room, highlighting the quiet domesticity of the space—the neatly folded blankets, the framed wedding photo of her and Haida on the bookshelf, and the small, half-finished cup of green tea on the coffee table.

Hyodo sat lazily on the couch, his arm draped over the backrest as he watched Retsuko with an amused, yet thoughtful expression. Despite his usual carefree demeanor, there was something more contemplative in his gaze today, as though he could sense the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Hyodo remarked, breaking the silence. His voice was casual but laced with curiosity. "When you asked me to come over, I figured it wasn’t just for... you know." Anal sex. His grin softened slightly. "So, what’s really going on?"

Retsuko sighed, closing the window and letting the curtain fall back into place. She didn’t face him right away. Instead, she folded her arms, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I... I don’t know where to start,” she murmured.

Hyodo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Try me," he said, his voice low but reassuring.

Retsuko finally turned to face him, her expression conflicted. “It’s about Haida... and everything that’s been happening between us. Things have... changed.”

Hyodo nodded slowly, gesturing for her to sit beside him. She hesitated before sinking onto the couch, though she kept some distance between them. "Changed how?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Retsuko exhaled shakily. "We’ve both been... distant. Drifting apart. I think we’ve been pretending that things are normal when they’re really not.” She wrung her hands together, her fingers twisting nervously. “I... I’ve done things I never thought I’d do.” She met his gaze, searching for understanding. “I made a deal with someone. With Manaka.”

“Manaka?” he echoed.

Retsuko nodded. "She reached out to me... and she knows things. About my life. About Haida. She—” Retsuko swallowed hard. "She offered me something... an opportunity to... break free, I guess. But it came with a condition."

Hyodo tilted his head, watching her closely. “What kind of condition?”

Retsuko’s cheeks flushed with shame as she forced herself to continue. “She... she asked for a night with Haida,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "And... she suggested I should watch. Like it would make things... clearer for me. Help me figure out what I really want." She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”

Hyodo sat back, absorbing her words. The playful smirk he usually wore was gone, replaced by a more serious expression. “That’s... intense,” he said after a pause. But he could dig it on the down low, for real.

Retsuko let out a bitter laugh. “Tell me about it.” She lowered her hands, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been watching everything fall apart around me, and it’s like... part of me just wants to lean into the chaos. I’m so tired of pretending everything’s fine.”

Hyodo was quiet for a moment, his gaze softening. "You’re not alone in feeling like that," he said quietly. "But are you sure this is what you want? Or is it just... something you’re doing because you don’t know how to stop the spiral?”

Retsuko blinked, surprised by his insight. She had expected Hyodo to brush it off, to make a cheeky remark or suggest something impulsive, but instead, he was grounding her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“I... don’t know,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “But the thought of seeing Haida with someone else—it scares me. And... and it excites me. Isn’t that messed up?”

Hyodo leaned in slightly, his eyes steady. “I don’t think it’s about right or wrong. If we think about that… then we are really in the wrong.”

Retsuko nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don’t want to lose him,” she whispered. “But I also don’t want to lose... myself.”

Hyodo reached out, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “I think I can help you out somehow…”

Of course, she would have to pay him with her ass.

—

The late afternoon sun glinted off the glass panes as Hyodo wiped the windows with practiced, efficient strokes. His OTMGirls hoodie was loose and worn, a quiet reminder of where he had once been, and where he was now.

The flashing lights inside the parlor cast a kaleidoscope of colors onto the street, an unintentional juxtaposition to Hyodo’s muted, repetitive task. Despite everything, he found some comfort in the mundane rhythm of cleaning—it was simple, unlike the mess in his life.

As Hyodo moved to the next window, he heard the low rumble of voices approaching. A trio of figures emerged from the nearby corner—the same Doberman, greyhound, and ferret who had tormented him before. They were laughing and talking loudly, their conversation laced with a mix of bravado and crude humor.

Hyodo stiffened as they drew closer, instinctively gripping the handle of the window squeegee like it could be a shield. He wasn’t eager for another run-in, but there wasn’t exactly anywhere to hide.

The Doberman’s gruff voice carried over first. “You should’ve seen the look on his face,” he boasted, his laughter harsh. “Poor bastard didn’t even put up a fight.”

“Didn’t he puke all over you?” the greyhound chimed in with a snicker, jabbing the ferret with his elbow.

The ferret scowled. “Yeah, and I’m still not over that. If I see that Jiro guy again, he’s getting another beating just for that.”

Hyodo frowned, trying to piece together what they were talking about. Who the hell is Jiro? he wondered. Isn’t that Haida’s brother’s name? His curiosity got the better of him, and before he could think it through, he turned around.

“Hey,” Hyodo called out, his voice casual but firm. “Who’s this ‘Jiro’ you’re talking about?”

The trio stopped in their tracks, their laughter dying down as they turned to face him. Their eyes narrowed, sizing him up.

The Doberman was the first to speak, his tone filled with suspicion. “Why do you care?”

Hyodo leaned against the window frame, trying to appear unfazed. “Just curious. You guys always seem to have stories to tell.” He paused for a beat, then asked, “By the way... is Takara calling the shots around here now?”

The second the name left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavier, the casual sneers on their faces twisting into something darker.

The greyhound took a step forward, his ears pinned back. “What did you just say?”

Hyodo kept his cool, though his pulse quickened. “I asked if Takara was in charge now. She’s been making waves, right?”

The ferret’s eyes glinted dangerously. “You don’t just throw names around like that, especially not hers. You trying to dig up something you shouldn’t?”

Hyodo’s grip on the squeegee tightened as he forced himself to stay calm. “I’m not digging anything up. I’m just trying to figure out how things work around here. I ran into her recently and she’s the talk of the neighborhood so…”

The Doberman let out a low growl, stepping forward until he was inches away from Hyodo. The sheer size of him was intimidating, but Hyodo didn’t flinch. “You think you’re smart, huh?” the Doberman snarled. “Throwing out names you shouldn’t even know. I should fuck your face with my fist.”

Hyodo squared his shoulders, meeting the Doberman’s gaze head-on. “I’m just trying to do my job and get to know the people I see every day,” he said evenly. “But I’m not gonna let you treat me like dirt.”

The ferret sneered. “Big words for a guy cleaning windows. You should be worried about your debts before we skin you alive and put a video of it on the internet.”

Hyodo’s jaw clenched. “Someone’s gotta do it,” he shot back. “At least I’m not throwing my weight around to feel important.”

For a split second, there was silence—the kind that happens just before an explosion. Then, the Doberman’s fist came out of nowhere, slamming into Hyodo’s gut with enough force to make him double over. The air left his lungs in a painful rush as he staggered back, clutching his stomach.

The greyhound and ferret closed in, delivering punches and kicks with cruel precision. Hyodo stumbled, his vision swimming as he tried to block the hits. He swung out wildly with the squeegee, but it was knocked from his hand before he could land a strike.

“Think you’re tough?” the greyhound sneered, delivering a sharp kick to Hyodo’s ribs. “You’re nothing.”

Hyodo collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for air as pain radiated through his entire body. His cheek pressed against the cold ground, but he refused to cry out. Not in front of them. He could taste blood on his tongue, bitter and metallic.

The ferret crouched down beside him, grabbing a fistful of his hoodie and yanking him up slightly. “Next time, mind your business,” he spat before shoving Hyodo back down.

The trio exchanged satisfied glances before turning away, their laughter ringing out as they walked off down the street. One of them kicked over Hyodo’s cleaning bucket on the way out, the soapy water spilling across the pavement in a spreading puddle.

Hyodo lay there for what felt like an eternity, his body aching with every shallow breath. The world seemed distant, the sounds of the city fading into a dull hum. The neon lights from the pachinko parlor reflected in the puddle beside him, casting distorted colors across the wet ground.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, groaning as every muscle protested.

The world around Hyodo was still spinning when the click of heels echoed down the alley. The rhythmic sound cut through the haze of pain, and Hyodo, still sprawled on the ground, managed to shift his head slightly. His vision was blurry, but the silhouette coming toward him was unmistakable.

As she drew closer, the distinct scent of something herbal and unmistakably pungent filled the air—marijuana. She wasn’t trying to hide it. If anything, she was flaunting it.

Takara.

The tigress moved with a lethal grace, the smoke from her blunt curling lazily around her in the alley light. Her golden eyes locked onto Hyodo as she exhaled slowly, the plume of smoke catching in the chill night air.

Hyodo coughed and tried to sit up further, every movement sending pangs of pain through his ribs and back. He blinked hard, trying to focus. The world still was surreal, but he recognized her immediately—the Yakuza woman whose name he’d foolishly dropped earlier.

Takara stopped a few feet away from him, one hand casually in her coat pocket while the other held the half-burned blunt between her sharp claws. She took another slow drag, her expression unreadable as she looked him up and down.

"You've been asking about me," she said finally, her voice smooth but with an edge that demanded attention. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

Hyodo swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He nodded weakly. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Takara’s lips curved into a faint, almost amused smile. She crouched down gracefully, bringing herself closer to his eye level but never losing her aura of dominance. The scent of her blunt mixed with the lingering metallic tang of blood in the air, creating a strange, heady atmosphere.

“I’m not here to play small games, Hyodo,” she said bluntly, her tone both commanding and disinterested. “I don’t have time for wannabes poking around in things they don’t understand.”

Hyodo gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up straighter despite the stabbing pain in his side. “I wasn’t... trying to disrespect you,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. He could barely keep himself upright, but he refused to stay lying down in front of her.

Takara’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took another drag and exhaled slowly. “That’s the problem with guys like you,” she said. “You don’t even realize when you’re already in too deep.” She tapped the ash from her blunt onto the ground, her gaze never wavering. “But I’ll give you credit—you’ve got guts, even if you’re an idiot.”

Hyodo’s chest rose and fell in labored breaths as he tried to steady himself. He didn’t know what to say—what could he say? He had walked straight into this mess, and now he was paying for it. But even through the pain and humiliation, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of curiosity. There was something magnetic about Takara, something that made it impossible to look away.

She straightened up, brushing a strand of her neatly styled hair behind her ear. “If you really want to understand how things work around here,” she said, “then you’re going to have to come and see for yourself.”

Hyodo blinked up at her, confused. “What... what do you mean?”

Takara reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a sleek, black business card. The only thing printed on it was an address in silver letters—no name, no title, no phone number. Just an address.

She handed it to him, her sharp claws brushing against his fingers as he took it. “Tomorrow night,” she said, flicking the end of her blunt toward the ground and grinding it out with her heel. “Come to that address. Alone.”

Hyodo looked down at the card in his hand, the address burning itself into his mind. He knew the street—it was in one of the city’s more discreet neighborhoods, known for its private lounges and backroom deals.

Takara’s golden eyes glinted as she leaned in closer, her voice low and almost conspiratorial. “If you show up,” she continued, “you’ll get answers. But if you waste my time again...” Her smile was anything but friendly. "You’ll wish those thugs back there were the worst of your problems.”

Hyodo’s grip on the card increased instinctively, though he nodded in silent acknowledgment. His pulse was racing, though whether it was from fear or something else, he wasn’t sure.

Satisfied, Takara stepped back and adjusted the collar of her coat. “Don’t be late,” she said, turning on her heel with a final, graceful flick of her tail.

Hyodo watched as she walked away, her figure disappearing into the shadows of the alley. The only sign she’d ever been there was the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air.

He sat there for a long moment, staring at the black business card in his trembling hand. His body was screaming at him to rest, to stop, to go home and pretend none of this had happened. But his mind was already racing ahead, replaying Takara’s words over and over.

Answers.

The very thing he’d been chasing for so long was now dangling in front of him, but at what cost? He had no idea what he was walking into—or if he’d make it out unscathed.

—

His nerves buzzed beneath his fur, but he forced himself to stand tall, adjusting the lapels of his suit. He had to blend in, or at least try to appear like he belonged.

The address led to a building that looked unassuming at first glance. The sign above the door read Lotus Springs in delicate gold script, complete with decorative cherry blossom motifs that made it seem like a legitimate massage parlor. But Hyodo wasn’t naive. The faint scent of expensive incense mixed with cigarette smoke told a different story. A front, he thought grimly. Of course.

He took a steadying breath and stepped inside.

The interior was barely lit with low, ambient music playing in the background. Ornate screens separated the reception area from the rest of the parlor, casting shadowed silhouettes of figures moving behind them. The decor was tasteful but veiled in a layer of indulgence that was performative—plush furniture, softly glowing lanterns, and faint traces of floral perfume hanging in the air.

A sharply dressed woman at the front desk—a lynx wearing a sleek qipao—looked up from her tablet as Hyodo entered. Her eyes narrowed slightly, though she forced a polite smile. “Welcome,” she said smoothly. “Do you have an appointment?”

Before Hyodo could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Look who decided to show up.”

Hyodo barely had time to turn before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. The Doberman from before grinned maliciously, his scarred face practically glowing with anticipation. “Fancy suit,” the Doberman mocked, eyeing Hyodo up and down. “You trying to impress someone?”

The greyhound and ferret appeared on either side of him, their presence looming like a storm cloud. Hyodo’s heart sank as he realized he’d walked straight into their den.

“Guys,” Hyodo started, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. “I’m just here to talk to Takara.”

“Yeah?” The ferret smirked. “Well, you can talk to her after we have a little chat.”

Before Hyodo could respond, the Doberman’s fist collided with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for air, but another punch to his ribs sent him crashing to his knees.

“Thought you’d learned your lesson last time,” the greyhound muttered, grabbing Hyodo by the collar. His glasses slipped from his face and clattered to the floor.

The lynx receptionist watched with mild disinterest, tapping at her tablet as though this kind of scene was routine.

“Pick him up,” the Doberman ordered.

Hyodo groaned as they hauled him to his feet, dragging him past the reception desk and through a narrow hallway lined with private rooms. The ambient music grew quieter, replaced by muffled voices and the faint sound of paperwork being shuffled.

The thugs pushed open a heavy, frosted-glass door and shoved Hyodo inside, sending him stumbling onto a worn leather sofa. The air in the room was thick with cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of expensive cologne. Hyodo coughed as he straightened himself, blinking through his blurred vision.

At the center of the room, Takara sat behind an ebony desk, legs crossed, her fur immaculate despite the cigarette in her hand. She was speaking in low tones to a man seated across from her—a decently dressed fox wearing a tailored suit adorned with the Kaneda Tech logo on his lapel.

The fox barely glanced at Hyodo, too engrossed in whatever contract was being passed between him and Takara. “As long as the terms remain discreet, I don’t see an issue,” the fox murmured, signing the paper with a sleek, silver pen.

Takara exhaled a thin stream of smoke, her eyes flickering toward Hyodo as she leaned back in her chair. “I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly,” she replied coolly. “My reputation speaks for itself.”

Hyodo shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, his ribs throbbing with pain. The room was claustrophobic, the air thick with unspoken deals and power plays.

As the fox stood, Takara gestured toward the side door. A young cat—clearly the "client"—stepped forward. Hyodo’s stomach twisted. She was strikingly beautiful but carried an air of detachment, her expression blank despite the circumstances. Her hair was styled immaculately, and she wore an outfit that, while elegant, felt more like a costume for someone's fantasy.

Hyodo’s blood ran cold as realization dawned on him—she wasn’t here of her own free will. This isn’t just a meeting. It’s a sale. The thought made his already bruised body tense with anger.

The fox nodded approvingly, adjusting his cufflinks. “Pleasure doing business, Takara,” he said before exiting with the young woman in tow.

The door clicked shut, leaving the room eerily silent.

Takara leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk as she regarded Hyodo with a faint smirk. “You actually showed up,” she said, tapping ash into a ceramic dish.

Hyodo’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Is this what you wanted me to see?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Some... business arrangement?”

Takara’s eyes glinted. “This?” She gestured at the empty chair where the fox had been sitting. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. You came here to try and fix some debts or get a loan, didn’t you? Well... welcome to reality. If you wanna make money and pay money back… Lots of omelets, lots of eggs to be broken, you get it.”

Hyodo’s mind raced as he processed what he’d just witnessed. Everything about the room—the expensive decor, the contracts, the exchange—reaffirmed what he’d suspected all along: Takara wasn’t just a player in this world. She was a queen on the board, making moves that could topple entire lives.

“Why give me a chance after all?” Hyodo muttered, meeting her gaze despite the throbbing in his head.

Takara took another drag from her cigarette, her smile faint but calculating. “Because you’re desperate,” she said simply. “And desperate people... are useful.”

The room was growing smaller by the second, the smoke from Takara’s cigarette curling in the air like binding chains. Hyodo adjusted his position on the sofa, wincing at the dull ache in his ribs, but he forced himself to speak. If there was one thing he still had, it was his ability to sell an idea—to turn a losing hand into something profitable. And right now, he needed leverage.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, meeting Takara’s intense gaze without flinching. “You’ve heard of OTMGirls, right?” he began, his voice surprisingly steady despite the mood of the room. “We’re still niche after falling out of the limelight, but we’ve got a loyal following. And... we’ve got Retsuko.”

Takara’s ears twitched slightly, a flicker of interest crossing her face at the mention of Retsuko’s name.

Hyodo pressed on, sensing the shift in her demeanor. “You know her story—everyone does. Viral death metal karaoke star. Former idol. And yeah... she even had a stint in politics.” He paused for effect, leaning back just a little. “But here’s what no one else knows—her marriage? It’s a mess. Falling apart at the seams.”

Takara arched an eyebrow, tapping ash into the tray. “Go on.”

Hyodo gave a bitter chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s sleeping with me,” he admitted bluntly, the words hanging in the air like a grenade waiting to go off. “Her husband’s clueless—or maybe he isn’t. Either way, the whole thing’s imploding.” He exhaled slowly. “She’s at a crossroads. And if someone like you stepped in? With the right... contract?” He let the implication settle before continuing. “OTMGirls could be more than just a dying idol brand. We could pivot. Hard. JAV contracts for exclusive content.”

Takara’s eyes narrowed, her expression contemplative. “You’re suggesting we take a niche idol group and turn them into... assets,” she said slowly. “Including Retsuko.”

Hyodo nodded, though his stomach churned at the thought. He wasn’t entirely sure where the idea had come from—maybe desperation, maybe greed, maybe both. “Think about it,” he continued, trying to mask the unease in his voice. “Retsuko’s name alone would draw massive attention. People already have this image of her—the rage-filled metalhead with a sweet face. The contrast sells itself.”

Takara’s smile returned, small but dangerous. She leaned back in her chair, taking another slow drag from her cigarette. “You’re not wrong,” she mused. “An exclusive JAV contract would... redefine their careers, in a way.” Her tone was clinical, devoid of empathy. “But you do realize what you’re asking for, don’t you?”

Hyodo swallowed but didn’t break eye contact. “I know what this means.”

Takara flicked her ashes onto the desk, the embers glowing briefly before fading. “A JAV contract with our people isn’t just a job. It’s slavery,” she stated bluntly. “No freedom, no choice. Everything they do, everywhere they go—it’ll be controlled. And once they’re in, they don’t get out.”

The room grew deathly silent.

Hyodo’s heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his expression as neutral as possible. He’d expected as much. This wasn’t a business deal—it was a trade, a complete handover of control. And yet, there was something darkly seductive about the simplicity of it. No more debts. No more Yakuza breathing down his neck. A clean slate.

“How much?” Hyodo asked quietly.

Takara’s smile widened slightly. “You?” She exhaled another cloud of smoke and shook her head. “You wouldn’t make a single yen.” She leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “But all your debts? Gone. Wiped clean. You could walk away from all of this. Live a normal life... if that’s still something you care about.”

Hyodo’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sofa, the soft leather creaking under the pressure. He knew that the kind of freedom Takara was offering came with a price—a price paid by others. By people he cared about, whether he’d admit it to himself or not.

The temptation was almost overwhelming. No more sleepless nights worrying about collectors. No more scrubbing windows at pachinko parlors, no more fighting to stay afloat. But in the back of his mind, a voice whispered: At what cost?

Takara’s golden eyes studied him, as if she could see the gears turning in his head. “So?” she asked, her voice low and expectant. “Do we have a deal?”

Hyodo’s throat was dry, but he forced himself to speak. “And if I don’t agree?”

Takara’s smile faded, replaced by something colder. “Then your debts remain. And you know how that ends.”

Hyodo sat in silence. His entire life had been one long series of bad choices and regrets. But this... this was the ultimate crossroads. And deep down, he knew there was no easy way out.

He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “Give me time to think.”

Takara nodded once, surprisingly patient. “You’ve got twenty-four hours,” she said, standing and smoothing down her coat. “But don’t waste it.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the door, the click of her heels echoing in the dim room. The thugs outside straightened as she passed, their eyes flicking briefly toward Hyodo before following her out.

Hyodo remained seated, staring at the black business card still clutched in his hand. His reflection in the nearby glass looked foreign—someone battered, desperate, and barely holding it together. The only question left was how far he was willing to go.

Chapter Text

The glass double doors reflected his disheveled figure as he entered—his fur matted around the edges where the bandages didn’t quite cover his face. A faint bruise still darkened the side of his jaw, and his left wrist was wrapped in a clumsy but functional brace. His once pristine blazer was wrinkled from his rushed commute, and he hadn’t even bothered with his tie.

As soon as he stepped off the elevator and into the open-plan office, he could feel their eyes on him—sharp, judgmental glances slicing through the hum of keyboards and idle chatter. Conversations dulled to whispers, the air thick with unspoken questions. The soft click of a coffee machine felt deafening as someone nearby adjusted their chair to get a better look at him.

Haida kept his gaze down, heading toward his desk near the corner. He could already hear the murmurs.

“Did he get into fight?”
“Looks like he barely survived it this time… Did he fight a damn rhino?”
“Why is he even here? You’d think someone like that would’ve quit by now.”

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as he passed by a trio of coworkers—two rabbits and a lizard—huddled near the break area.

“Hey, Haida!” one of the rabbits called out, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Rough weekend?”

Haida forced a tight, humorless smile. “Yeah,” he muttered, not slowing his pace.

“Looks like you wrestled with a tornado and lost,” the lizard added with a smirk, earning chuckles from the group.

The other rabbit—a timid one who usually kept to herself—offered a small, nervous wave. “Um... do you need help with anything? Maybe someone from HR could... I mean...” Her voice trailed off when she saw the tired, almost lifeless look in Haida’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past them.

As he reached his desk, he let out a slow breath, placing his bag down with more force than necessary. The dull thud reverberated through the cubicle, earning a glance from his nearest deskmate—an otter in a pressed suit and slicked-back fur who prided himself on maintaining an air of superiority.

The otter wrinkled his nose as though Haida’s mere presence was offensive. “You know, Haida,” he began, leaning back in his chair, “there’s something to be said for professionalism. It’s not just about doing your job—it’s about how you present yourself.”

Haida stared blankly at his computer monitor, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “Thanks for the lecture,” he muttered dryly. “I’ll be sure to print it out and frame it.”

The otter chuckled, clearly amused by his own audacity. “I’m just saying... the office has standards. And showing up looking like you’ve been through a war zone? Not exactly inspiring confidence, you know?”

Haida’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his knuckles still bruised. He clenched his fist, feeling the sting in his wrist, but he didn’t turn around.

Another voice piped up from a nearby cubicle—a squirrel with a headset resting around her neck. “It’s true, though,” she said, her tone annoyingly casual. “Word’s going around that management’s been keeping an eye on you.”

Haida finally turned, his eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice low.

The squirrel shrugged, fiddling with a stack of sticky notes. “Well, yeah. I mean, you’ve been... kind of a mess lately, right? Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Haida muttered, turning back to his monitor and logging in. The screen’s glow flickered to life, displaying rows of reports he needed to review—mundane, soul-sucking tasks that blurred together into an endless stream of spreadsheets and flagged emails.

He could feel his coworkers’ eyes lingering on him as they returned to their own work. The open-plan design of the office suddenly felt suffocating, every cough and whisper amplified. Even the distant hum of the printers felt oppressive.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours, and Haida tried to focus on his tasks. He typed up responses to client emails, flagged issues in the code repository, and updated documentation. But the words swam on the screen, refusing to stay still. His mind kept drifting—back to the fight with Tadano, the beating from the Yakuza, the smell of the sterile alley behind the bar where he’d been left like trash.

He blinked hard, shaking his head. Focus. Just focus.

But the thoughts wouldn’t leave him. The faces of his coworkers, their quiet judgment, their smug whispers—it all felt like one big joke at his expense. Why am I still pretending this job matters?

The tap of approaching footsteps made Haida tense up involuntarily. He turned slightly and saw her—the sleek figure of the company’s HR manager, Miss Kawashima, a tall crane with cold, calculating eyes. She approached his desk with a clipboard in hand, her beak set in a thin line.

“Haida,” she said curtly.

Haida straightened, though his muscles protested. “Yeah?”

Kawashima’s eyes flickered to the bandages on his face, and she pursed her lips. “A word,” she said, gesturing toward the glass-walled meeting room at the far end of the office.

Haida sighed internally but nodded, standing slowly. He could feel every gaze in the room following him as he walked toward the meeting room, Kawashima’s heels clicking like a metronome behind him.

As they entered, she shut the door behind them, cutting off the low murmur of the office. The room was small, sterile, and cold, with nothing but a round table and a few chairs.

Kawashima didn’t waste any time. “You’ve become a topic of concern,” she began, her tone clinical. “Management is questioning whether you’re fit to continue in your current role.”

Haida stared at the table, his fingers brushing over the edge. “I’m doing my work,” he said flatly.

Kawashima folded her arms. “That may be true, but your appearance, your demeanor... they’re affecting office morale. You need to present yourself as a capable professional—someone who isn’t bringing personal issues into the workplace.”

Haida’s lips twitched into a bitter smile. “Is that what they’re calling it now? ‘Office morale’?”

Kawashima’s gaze sharpened. “We need you to get yourself together, Haida. Take leave if you need to, but... this can’t continue.”

Haida’s chest felt tight, a mix of anger and exhaustion swirling inside him. He nodded, not because he agreed, but because he didn’t have the energy to argue. “Got it,” he muttered.

The crane studied him for a moment before nodding briskly. “Good. You can return to your desk.”

As he stepped back into the office, the whispers resumed, quieter but no less cutting. Haida walked past them all without a word, his expression carefully blank.

But inside, something was unraveling—something that whispered that his life, as it stood, was nothing more than a fragile illusion. And sooner or later, it was all going to break.

—

"Hey," Fenneko’s familiar voice pulled her out of her spiral. The fennec fox leaned against the edge of Retsuko’s desk, holding a cup of coffee and wearing her usual mischievous grin. "You’ve been zoning out for like five minutes. You okay?"

Retsuko blinked and forced a small smile. "Just... thinking," she murmured, pretending to refocus on her report.

Fenneko took a long sip from her coffee before setting the cup down with a soft clink. "So... how’s Haida?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though her eyes flickered with something else—curiosity? Guilt?

Retsuko’s fingers froze on her keyboard. She inhaled slowly before turning toward Fenneko, her expression unreadable. "I don’t know," she said evenly. "Maybe you know more than I do."

The room seemed to still for a second as the words settled between them.

Fenneko’s ears twitched, and for a rare moment, she looked flustered. "W-what’s that supposed to mean?" she asked, forcing a nervous chuckle.

Retsuko’s eyes narrowed as she folded her hands neatly on her desk. "Don’t play dumb, Fenneko," she said, her voice low but firm. "I’m not stupid. I know about that night."

The playful smirk vanished from Fenneko’s face, replaced by a look of panic. "Retsuko... I—"

"Save it," Retsuko interrupted, her tone colder than Fenneko had ever heard before. "I’m tired, Fenneko. Tired of pretending that everything is fine. Tired of the whispers, the jokes, the way you look at me like I’m some clueless fool." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near growl. "I’m not clueless."

Fenneko’s ears flattened against her head as she fidgeted with the hem of her blazer. "Retsuko, I didn’t mean—"

"I don’t care what you meant," Retsuko snapped. "Just... stop. Stop talking about me behind my back. Stop fueling the office gossip. And stop trying to mess with my head when you know exactly what’s going on."

Fenneko’s eyes widened, and she took an instinctive step back. "I wasn’t trying to—"

Retsuko stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The controlled anger in her eyes made Fenneko’s fur stand on end. "You were," Retsuko said, her voice low but laced with venom. "You’ve always been good at reading people, at getting into their heads. But don’t try to pull that crap on me. Not now. Not with everything I’m dealing with."

The office around them felt eerily quiet, like the background hum had faded into silence. A few nearby coworkers glanced over but quickly returned to their screens, sensing the tension in the air.

Fenneko swallowed hard, her usually sharp wit failing her. She had seen Retsuko angry before—during her infamous death metal rants—but this was different. This wasn’t performative rage. This was something deeper, something that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

"I’m sorry," Fenneko said finally, her voice small. "I wasn’t... I wasn’t trying to hurt you."

Retsuko’s expression softened slightly, but the weight of her words remained. "Then stop. Stop making me the subject of your observations. Stop acting like you’re above it all." She exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. "I need... I need some kind of peace, Fenneko. And you’re not helping."

Fenneko looked down at her shoes, shame washing over her. She had always prided herself on being perceptive, on knowing how far she could push people. But this time, she’d miscalculated. She’d crossed a line she hadn’t even realized was there.

"I’ll... I’ll stop," she said quietly. She reached for her coffee cup, her hand trembling slightly. "I didn’t mean to make things worse."

Retsuko nodded curtly and sat back down, her fingers resting on the keyboard. "Good," she said simply.

Fenneko hesitated for a moment longer before muttering, "I should get back to work." Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, her tail drooping behind her.

As Retsuko watched her go, a heavy silence settled over her once again. She let out a slow breath, trying to push down the lingering anger and exhaustion. She’d spoken her truth, but it hadn’t made her feel any lighter. If anything, it only reminded her how fragile everything had become.

She returned her focus to her screen, though the words still blurred together. But this time, it wasn’t because she was zoning out—it was because she could feel the cracks in her carefully constructed life widening, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it all together.

Retsuko hadn’t even managed to finish typing her next sentence when she heard the distinct clack of high heels approaching. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was—the scent of expensive perfume and the unmistakable sway of her shadow said it all.

“Hey there, Retsuko!” Tsunoda’s overly sweet voice rang out as she perched herself on the edge of Retsuko’s desk, crossing her legs casually. She tilted her head with that familiar, sly grin. “Rough morning? You look... tense.”

Retsuko didn’t respond immediately, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She forced herself to count to three before slowly raising her eyes to meet Tsunoda’s gaze. “What do you want?” she asked flatly.

Tsunoda giggled, twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers. “Oh, nothing much. I just thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing. You know... things have been interesting lately.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dripping with faux concern. “I heard some rumors, but I didn’t want to believe them. I mean, surely there’s no truth to what everyone’s been saying about you and Haida, right?”

Retsuko’s jaw tightened, but she kept her face neutral. Don’t take the fucking obvious bait, she told herself. But when Tsunoda let out a soft, knowing laugh, something inside Retsuko snapped.

She stood up abruptly, causing her chair to roll back with a loud screech. The sudden movement startled Tsunoda, whose smug grin faltered.

Retsuko leaned in just enough that Tsunoda couldn’t avoid her gaze, her voice low and cold. "Tsunoda... I don’t care."

Tsunoda blinked, her confidence wavering. "Huh? What do you mean?"

“I mean I don’t care what you think you know,” Retsuko said, her tone sharp enough to cut through the office hum. "I don’t care about your stupid gossip or whatever game you’re trying to play.” She crossed her arms, her green eyes locking onto Tsunoda’s with an intensity that made the deer visibly uncomfortable. "And frankly, Tsunoda..." She paused for effect, savoring the rare moment where she held all the power. "You can go fuck yourself."

A collective hush fell over the surrounding cubicles. A few heads peeked up from behind their monitors, wide-eyed at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Tsunoda’s mouth opened, then closed, as though she were trying to come up with some witty retort but couldn’t find the words. Her usual quicksilver tongue failed her completely. “I... what...?” she stammered, visibly flustered. Her composure was crumbling right in front of everyone.

Retsuko simply sat back down, as if nothing had happened. "Go ahead," she said, her voice calm now. "Run off and spread more rumors. It’s what you’re good at, right?"

Tsunoda’s face burned with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She stood up straight, smoothing down her skirt as though that would restore her dignity. “Well... fine,” she muttered, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I don’t have time for this."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strutted away, though the sway in her step was noticeably stiffer. The moment she was out of sight, the quiet whispers began, and Retsuko could feel the eyes of her coworkers boring into her back.

But she didn’t care.

She picked up her phone and opened her chat with Gori and Washimi. Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed out a simple message:

"Karaoke after work? I need to vent."

The reply was almost immediate—first from Gori:

"Of course, girl! I’m free! We’ll have so much fun!"

Then Washimi’s more subdued but supportive response:

"I’ll be there. Sounds like you need it."

Retsuko exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. For the first time that day, she felt the smallest sense of relief. Gori and Washimi would understand. They always did.

Her gaze drifted toward the clock at the corner of her monitor. Only a few more hours until she could scream her lungs out to metal lyrics and let the stress bleed away into the microphone. She could already picture herself standing in that booth, surrounded by her friends, drowning out her anger in music and camaraderie.

But until then, she just had to survive the rest of the workday. One hour at a time, she told herself. Just one hour at a time.

—

The private room they always booked was cozy, with a low table full of snacks, soft drinks, and the usual karaoke songbook resting near the microphone stand. Gori and Washimi sat on the plush couch, their usual drinks in hand—Gori with her fruity cocktail and Washimi with her whiskey neat.

But the usual excitement of their karaoke nights was noticeably absent.

Retsuko stood by the screen, holding the microphone loosely in one hand. The song queue was already set, and the opening guitar riff of a familiar metal song blared through the speakers. Her usual fire—the one that made her grip the mic like a warrior wielding her sword—was missing. Instead, she stared at the screen, the lyrics scrolling by in harsh red letters.

Gori nervously adjusted her glasses, her large frame hunched forward slightly as though bracing for impact. "So... you okay, Retsuko?" she asked carefully.

Washimi stayed quiet, her sharp eyes watching Retsuko like a hawk, trying to read her.

Retsuko’s grip on the microphone tightened, but not in her usual burst of determination. Instead, it looked like she was clinging to it to stay grounded. The speakers roared into the chorus, waiting for her iconic scream—but she stayed silent.

Seconds passed. The song reached the point where she usually let out a deafening roar of emotion, but her lips didn’t part. Her shoulders slumped. Slowly, she pressed the "pause" button, cutting the song mid-scream. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the buzz of the city outside barely audible through the windows.

“I don’t feel like singing,” Retsuko admitted, her voice soft, almost fragile. She set the microphone down on the table with a quiet clink and avoided looking at either of them.

Gori’s jaw dropped. “Wait... what?” she asked, blinking in disbelief. "You... don’t feel like singing? You?"

Washimi’s brow furrowed in concern. “Retsuko,” she began gently. "What’s going on?"

Retsuko shook her head, reaching for her purse. "I just... can’t right now," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes looked distant, as though she were somewhere else entirely. "I thought this would help. I thought... screaming it out would make it feel better." She slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped toward the door.

Gori stood up abruptly. "Wait, you’re leaving?" she asked, panic creeping into her voice.

Retsuko paused in the doorway, her back to them. "Yeah. I need some air," she said simply. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and walked out, the soft click of the door closing behind her leaving an echo in the room.

For a long moment, neither Gori nor Washimi said anything. The half-finished drinks on the table and the muted glow of the karaoke machine felt unbearably loud in the absence of Retsuko’s presence.

Gori finally broke the silence, running a hand through her hair. "She’s never done that before," she murmured, her voice tinged with worry. "She always sings... no matter what’s going on. Even when she was going through all that stuff with Haida, she sang."

Washimi leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. "This is different," she said quietly. "She’s not just venting this time. She’s... shutting down."

Gori’s brow furrowed as she sat back down heavily. "I don’t know what to say to her anymore," she admitted, staring at her drink. "She’s always been the strong one, you know? She’d bottle it up, sure—but she’d let it out here, with us. But now? She’s shutting us out too." Her voice cracked slightly, and she cleared her throat. "What do we do?"

Washimi’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We can’t force her to talk," she said after a pause. "But we can’t pretend everything’s fine, either."

"But what if she’s..." Gori hesitated, lowering her voice. "What if she’s really close to breaking? What if she... does something drastic?"

Washimi’s expression darkened. "Then we make sure we’re there before it gets that far," she said firmly. "We let her know that no matter how bad things get, she’s not alone."

Gori nodded slowly, though the anxiety in her eyes didn’t lessen. "I feel like I’ve let her down," she admitted. "We’re supposed to be her friends, her support system, but I didn’t even see this coming."

Washimi reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Gori’s shoulder. "You didn’t let her down," she said gently. "Retsuko’s good at hiding things—too good, sometimes. But we’re here now, and that’s what matters."

Gori exhaled shakily and took a sip of her drink. "You’re right," she muttered. She glanced toward the door, her eyes softening. "I just... I hope she knows how much we care about her."

Washimi nodded, her gaze distant as she processed everything. "She does," she said quietly. "She just needs to remember it herself."

The two sat in silence for a while, the karaoke machine still stuck on the last song Retsuko had tried to sing. The room felt emptier without her, the unspoken fears and concerns hanging bove like a storm cloud.

Finally, Gori let out a long sigh. "Should we go after her?"

Washimi considered it for a moment before shaking her head. "No," she said softly. "Let her breathe. But we check in tomorrow. And the day after that. And as long as it takes."

Gori nodded, though her heart still felt heavy. "Okay," she murmured. She reached for the remote and scrolled through the song list aimlessly, her eyes glazing over the titles. "You want to sing something?"

Washimi gave her a small, sad smile. "Let’s just sit for a bit."

The two friends stayed in the quiet room, their drinks untouched, as they silently hoped that wherever Retsuko had gone, she wasn’t walking alone in the dark.

—

Haida sat hunched over the bar, a half-empty glass of whisky in front of him. His fur was still matted near his jaw, a faint purple bruise peeking out from under his bandages. He swirled the whisky lazily, watching the amber liquid catch the light. The burn in his throat from each sip was the only thing that felt remotely real anymore.

His mind drifted in and out of focus as he thought about everything—the fight with the Yakuza, the mess his life had become, Retsuko’s distant gaze, and the numbness that had replaced the things he used to care about.

Just as he was about to finish his glass and order another, the door opened with a soft chime. Haida didn’t look up—he didn’t care who it was. But when he heard the familiar soft padding of paws and a hesitant voice, he froze.

“Haida?”

He turned slowly, blinking through the haze of alcohol. Standing there, just a few feet away, was Inui—the same sweet Shiba Inu who had once been a calm and grounding presence in his life. She was wearing a beige coat over a casual blouse, her soft brown eyes widening in surprise as she took in the sight of him.

“Inui...” Haida muttered, feeling both relieved and horrified. “Hey.”

Inui stepped closer, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation. “I... didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. “What are you doing in a place like this?” Her eyes drifted to the bruises on his face and the bandage around his wrist. Her ears drooped slightly. “And... what happened to you?”

Haida sighed and took another slow sip of his whisky before setting the glass down with a dull thud. "Long story," he muttered, running a paw through his disheveled fur. “Let’s just say... things aren’t going so great.”

Inui hesitated for a moment before slipping onto the barstool next to him. She folded her hands on the counter, her gaze soft but unwavering. “Tell me,” she said simply.

Haida gave a bitter laugh and gestured for the bartender to pour another round. "You really want to know?" he asked, half-joking. “It’s not a happy story.”

Inui’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t care, Haida.”

He paused at that, her words cutting through some of the fog in his mind. He sighed again, staring down at his fresh glass of whisky. "Retsuko and I..." He swallowed hard, the words feeling heavy in his throat. Lying was always ugly like this. “We’re getting divorced.”

Inui’s eyes widened in shock. "What?" she whispered, leaning closer. “No... what happened?”

Haida’s ears flattened against his head as he forced himself to continue. "It’s a mess," he muttered. "We’ve been distant for a long time... longer than I wanted to admit. And I’ve... I’ve screwed things up.” He exhaled shakily. “I’ve been getting into fights... drinking way too much... making every mistake you can think of.”

Inui’s expression crumbled into one of deep concern. She reached out and gently placed a paw on his arm. "Haida... why didn’t you reach out to someone? To me?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. "You don’t have to go through this alone."

Haida looked at her paw resting on his arm, the warmth of her touch both comforting and painful. "I didn’t want to drag anyone else into it,” he admitted quietly. "You... you’ve always been the responsible one. The one who had her life together. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Inui’s ears drooped further. "I thought we were friends," she said softly. "You don’t have to be perfect for me to care about you."

Haida’s heart twisted at her words. “I know,” he murmured. “I just... didn’t know how to stop everything from falling apart.”

The bartender placed another drink in front of him, but Inui reached out and gently slid the glass away. “Haida... maybe more drinks aren’t the answer right now.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re probably right,” he muttered. “But it’s the only thing that makes things... quiet.”

Inui’s eyes softened with understanding, but there was also a hint of sadness in her gaze. "You don’t need quiet," she said gently. "You need someone to listen.”

Haida looked down at the bar, his vision blurring slightly from the alcohol and the turmoil of his emotions. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d been carrying until now—until someone who truly cared sat beside him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am.”

Inui’s grip on his arm tightened just slightly. “You’re Haida,” she said firmly. "You’re stubborn, loyal, and you care too much sometimes... but you’re not a lost cause. You’re still you.”

Haida’s throat became dry, and for a moment, he thought he might cry. But instead, he let out a slow breath and nodded. “Thanks, Inui.”

She gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Anytime,” she said. "Now... how about some water instead?"

Haida chuckled softly, the sound dry but genuine. "Yeah... that’s probably a good idea."

Chapter Text

Several weeks had passed and Haida's life felt... normal. No late-night brawls. No suffocating guilt pressing down on his shoulders. No waking up in cold sweats, unsure where he stood with the world—or himself.

He woke up most mornings to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the soft sound of morning news filtering in from the kitchen. Inui’s apartment was small but cozy, filled with warm colors and personal touches that made it feel like a home—a real home. The bookshelf in the living room was stacked with cookbooks, self-help reads, and framed photos of her family and friends. Little reminders of her life, her warmth, and the peace she’d built for herself. And now... for him too.

—

The morning light filtered through the curtains as Haida lay in bed, stretching out across the sheets with a satisfied sigh. He blinked at the ceiling, the weight of sleep slowly fading. Inui’s side of the bed was already empty, the soft imprint of her form still pressed into the blanket. He reached over, running his hand over the spot where she’d been, the residual warmth making him smile.

He could hear her humming softly in the kitchen—an upbeat, familiar tune. A domesticity that he’d never quite thought he’d have.

After a moment, he pulled himself up and walked out of the bedroom, still in his T-shirt and pajama pants. There she was—standing by the stove, cooking eggs and toasting bread. She wore an oversized sweatshirt that hung loosely off one shoulder, her fur catching the soft morning glow. Her tail wagged gently as she moved, a sign of her contentment.

“Morning,” he muttered sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he stepped closer.

Inui turned and smiled at him, her face lighting up in a way that made his chest feel warm. "Morning, sleepyhead. Coffee’s on the counter. You want an omelet or scrambled?”

“Surprise me,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he grabbed his coffee. He took a long sip and sighed. It wasn’t some fancy café blend—it was just plain coffee from a grocery store brand—but it was exactly what he needed.

—

The two of them had fallen into an easy rhythm together. Haida had never imagined himself living with someone in such harmony. There were no passive-aggressive silences, no awkwardness, no lingering resentment—just shared mornings, quiet dinners, and late-night conversations about everything and nothing.

Even at work, his life had shifted. He was showing up early, wearing freshly ironed shirts, and actually combing his fur instead of letting it look like he’d rolled out of bed. His coworkers had noticed the difference too.

"Whoa," one of them joked in the break room during lunch. "Who’s this dapper guy, and what did he do with Haida?"

Haida had laughed it off, but inwardly, he felt a swell of pride. He wasn’t perfect—he still had moments of doubt, of course. But he was no longer that guy—the one who shuffled in looking like he’d been dragged through hell.

—

Back at Inui’s apartment later that evening, the two of them lounged on the couch together after dinner. Inui’s head rested against his shoulder as they watched a movie in comfortable silence. She was curled up beside him, her arms loosely draped across his chest. He felt her slow, steady breathing and the way her fur brushed against his arm, and he felt... safe. Content.

As the movie’s credits began to roll, Haida let out a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. "You know," he began, his voice soft, "I didn’t think I could feel this... steady again."

Inui shifted slightly, looking up at him with those gentle, curious eyes. "You mean after everything with Retsuko?"

He hesitated but nodded. "Yeah. I... I think maybe she wasn’t the problem entirely, but... I don’t know." He trailed off, unsure how to put his feelings into words.

Inui listened patiently, as she always did. When he didn’t continue, she offered softly, "Maybe you were trying too hard to be something you’re not when you were with her."

Haida blinked, surprised by the simplicity and truth of her words. "Yeah... maybe."

"You’re trying less now," she added with a small smile. "You’re just... yourself."

Her words hit him like a comforting weight, grounding him. She was right. He wasn’t performing anymore. He wasn’t pretending to be the perfect husband, the ambitious salaryman, or the responsible figure. He was just... Haida.

"How do you always know what to say?" he asked with a soft chuckle.

Inui shrugged playfully. "Borzoi intuition."

They both laughed, and for the first time in years, it wasn’t forced or bitter. It was real.

—

Hyodo yawned, stretching out across the sheets before his hand brushed against something cool and solid on the nightstand—a picture frame. His eyes flickered open, and he stared at the photo that greeted him every morning: a glossy, smiling snapshot of Retsuko and Haida on their wedding day.

Retsuko was radiant in her sleek white dress, her smile bright and genuine. Haida, though slightly awkward, looked proud, standing beside her in his suit. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and the way they looked at the camera was unmistakably full of love.

Hyodo sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Man... that’s awkward," he muttered to himself.

The frame was one of many scattered across the apartment. There was another one on the TV console—a vacation shot of Haida and Retsuko at the beach, Haida buried up to his chest in sand as Retsuko laughed in the background. A smaller one sat by the kitchen counter, capturing them in front of their Christmas tree. The remnants of a life built together... and here Hyodo was, living in the middle of it.

A small price to pay. That’s what he told himself every morning as he brewed coffee and tried not to focus on the smiling faces staring at him from every corner. He wasn’t here to replace Haida. He wasn’t even here for love, exactly. He was here because he needed a place to stay, and Retsuko had been more than willing to let him in—figuratively and literally.

As he slipped out of bed, the faint sound of water running in the bathroom told him Retsuko was already awake. She always was. She’d leave for work soon, and he’d head out to his job as well—cleaning windows for the pachinko parlor down the street.

Hyodo shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his head as he grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee. The apartment was spotless—Retsuko had a habit of deep-cleaning whenever she was stressed. But despite the shiny countertops and freshly vacuumed floors, the air still felt... strange. Like a half-finished symphony missing a crucial note.

As he took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes wandered back to the wedding photo. He tilted his head, examining Haida’s awkward smile. "Poor bastard," he muttered. He wasn’t exactly proud of the situation, but he wasn’t ashamed, either. Life had thrown them all into this tangled mess, and he was just making the best of it.

By the time he finished his coffee, Retsuko stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in her usual work attire. She gave him a small nod as she passed, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before—not when they first started whatever this was. Hyodo could tell she was trying to keep it together, but some mornings, the cracks showed more than others.

"You heading out?" she asked as she grabbed her bag from the counter.

Hyodo nodded. "Yeah, pachinko shift starts soon."

Retsuko hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering to the wedding photo before looking back at him. "Do you... ever feel weird about all this?" she asked quietly.

Hyodo shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. "Every day." He offered her a half-smile. "But hey... rent’s free, right?"

Retsuko didn’t laugh. She just gave him a faint smile before heading toward the door. "See you later."

As the door clicked shut behind her, Hyodo rinsed out his mug. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like he was living in someone else’s life.

—

A short while later, Hyodo stepped out of the apartment complex and into the crisp morning air. The sky was pale blue, and the city was already bustling with early commuters. He zipped up his work jacket and adjusted the strap of his tool belt as he made his way down the street to the pachinko parlor.

The bright neon signs of the parlor flashed like artificial fireworks, casting garish reflections onto the pavement. The place was always noisy, even this early—machines chiming, players shouting, coins clattering into trays. It was a constant sensory overload.

Hyodo entered through the staff entrance and exchanged nods with a few coworkers. He grabbed his bucket and squeegee, ready to start his morning ritual of wiping away the streaks and grime that clung to the windows like ghosts of the previous night’s chaos.

As he climbed the ladder to reach the upper panels, he could see his reflection in the glass—he really started to fucking hate this routine.

The reflection wavered, distorted by the streaks of water, until it disappeared altogether.

Hyodo let out a long breath, the early sunlight warming his back. Whatever happened next—whatever mess they were all living in—he’d just have to keep going.

—

The neon lights flickered to life above him, bathing the street in a garish rainbow of red and yellow hues. He exhaled deeply and set his cleaning supplies by the staff door, ready to clock out and head home—or maybe just wander for a while to clear his head.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, a familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Hyodo, you fuckin’ done yet man?”

Hyodo turned and saw the Yakuza thugs from the other night leaning casually against a lamppost. The Doberman, who seemed to be the leader of the trio, flicked a cigarette butt to the pavement and crushed it under his boot. His scarred face stretched into a grin as he pushed off from the post.

The greyhound and the ferret stood behind him, both smirking with that same predatory energy they always carried.

Hyodo adjusted his collar and tried to keep his voice steady. "You guys again?" He forced a dry chuckle. "What’s the occasion?"

The Doberman stepped closer, clapping Hyodo on the shoulder—harder than necessary. "Takara-san says it’s time to move forward with the plan," he said, his grin widening. "She’s ready to make things official."

Hyodo’s stomach twisted slightly at the confirmation, though he kept his face blank. "Noted," he muttered. "Anything else?"

The ferret piped up with a chuckle. "Actually, yeah. We’ve been watching you for a while, Hyodo. You’re not a bad guy, even if you’re broke as hell."

The greyhound nodded. "And since you’re working with us now, we figured... why not show you some hospitality?"

Hyodo blinked, confused. "Hospitality?"

The Doberman spread his arms wide. "Drinks. Dinner. On us." His grin sharpened. "Consider it a... welcome gift. The first step toward your ‘debt forgiveness,’ you know?"

Hyodo hesitated. He didn’t trust them—not one bit—but he wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse. His stomach growled softly, betraying him. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, just a coffee and a rice ball from the convenience store that morning. And, like they said... he was broke.

The Doberman clapped him on the back again. "Come on, man. Don’t make this awkward."

Hyodo knew full well this could go sideways. "Alright," he muttered. "But if this is one of those places where I have to toast to everything, I’m leaving."

The Yakuza laughed—loud and genuine, as though they’d just told the funniest joke of the night. "You’ll be fine," the greyhound assured him. "We’re taking you somewhere real classy."

—

Fifteen minutes later, Hyodo realized their definition of "classy" was wildly different from his.

They led him down a narrow alley where streetlights barely cast enough light to see. The buildings on either side were old and worn, the windows fogged over with grease and age. They stopped in front of a small, flickering neon sign that read Tetsu’s Yakisoba Joint.

The greyhound pushed the door open, and Hyodo was immediately hit with the smell of grilled noodles, soy sauce, and something slightly charred. The interior was cramped, with flickering overhead lights and a single rotating fan struggling to cool the room. There was a counter with old stools that looked like they’d collapse if anyone leaned back too far, and a few rickety tables filled with tired-looking patrons nursing beers.

"This... is the place?" Hyodo asked, raising an eyebrow.

The Doberman grinned and patted him on the back again. "Best yakisoba in the district. Trust me."

Hyodo sighed and followed them inside. The cook behind the counter—a grizzled badger with a cigarette dangling from his mouth—nodded at the Yakuza crew as they took a seat at one of the corner tables. It was clear the place had a "don’t ask questions" policy.

The Doberman waved over a waitress—a weary-looking fox with a stained apron—and ordered a round of beers and three large platters of yakisoba. "Extra pork belly for my boy Hyodo here!" he called out.

The waitress barely acknowledged him as she scribbled the order down and disappeared into the back.

Hyodo sat stiffly at the table, trying to ignore the greasy feel of the laminated menu under his fingertips. The Yakuza thugs, meanwhile, were already making themselves comfortable, cracking open salted edamame and swapping jokes.

"So, Hyodo," the ferret said, leaning forward. "How does it feel? Working with us now. Knowing things are finally looking up?"

Hyodo picked at the corner of the table and shrugged. "Feels like... I’m in a Quentin Tarantino movie," he muttered, earning a laugh from the Doberman.

"You’ll get used to it," the Doberman said, clinking his beer glass against Hyodo’s. "Besides... you’re finally with people who know how to get shit done."

Hyodo forced a smile and took a sip of his beer. The bitterness coated his tongue, but he kept drinking. He had a sinking feeling this wasn’t just a dinner invitation—it was a test. To see if he was really committed. To see if he’d flinch.

When the yakisoba finally arrived, the plates were piled high with noodles, pork belly, cabbage, and a generous drizzle of sauce. The smell alone was enough to make Hyodo’s stomach growl.

The greyhound shoved a plate toward him. "Eat up, man. You’re skin and bones."

Hyodo grabbed his chopsticks and took a bite. The flavors hit him all at once—salty, savory, greasy in all the best ways. He didn’t realize how hungry he’d been until he started shoveling more into his mouth.

As they ate, the conversation shifted to the usual Yakuza bravado—who owed who money, who was causing trouble, which pachinko parlor had the worst payouts. But in between the jokes and stories, Hyodo could feel the shadow of the Takara’s plan looming over him.

When the last of the beer had been poured and the plates were empty, the Doberman leaned forward, his tone suddenly serious. "Tomorrow’s the day," he said quietly. "Takara’s moving forward with everything. No backing out now."

Hyodo nodded slowly, his stomach twisting despite the meal. "I know."

The Doberman stared at him for a long moment before clapping him on the back again. "Good. Because once this starts, there’s no turning back."

Hyodo swallowed hard and forced a grin. "I get it."

But as he stared at the empty plate in front of him, the gravity of what he’d agreed to settled deep in his bones. He wasn’t sure if he was ready—or if he’d ever be.

The Doberman stretched his arms over his head, letting out a contented sigh before he cracked his neck. “Man, that hit the spot.” He then glanced at Hyodo, his scarred face showing a more genuine grin now. “We’ve been dragging you around, beating you half to death, and now buying you dinner. I figure it’s time you know who we really are. Y’know, since we’re practically family now.”

The greyhound laughed, his pointed ears flicking as he set down his beer. “That’s right.”

Hyodo gave a small smirk and leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. "Alright. Let’s hear it, then."

The Doberman tapped his chest proudly. "The name’s Kuroda,” he said. "Been in this life since I was a pup. My dad ran collections for one of the smaller families up north. Got thrown in prison when I was twelve." He shrugged, though there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. "Didn’t leave me with much choice after that. Yakuza was the only family I had left.”

Hyodo nodded slowly. Kuroda’s life sounded like the kind of tragic backstory you’d expect from someone in his line of work, but the way he said it—casual, almost resigned—made it feel uncomfortably real.

The greyhound chimed in next, raising his glass in a small toast. “I’m Hiroto. Used to be a semi-pro boxer before I got mixed up in all this. Fought in the underground circuit for a while, but I wasn’t exactly good at keeping my hands clean.” He laughed dryly, flexing his lean, muscular arms. "One bad bet, and I owed the wrong people a lot of money. Joining the Yakuza was the only way I could clear my debt... ironic, huh?"

Hyodo sipped his beer and nodded again. "Yeah... life’s funny like that."

Finally, the ferret, who had been quietly picking at the last few bits of yakisoba, leaned forward. “Name’s Junpei,” he said, his voice quieter than the others. "I was a sushi chef once.” He smiled wistfully. "Had a little place in Osaka. Business was good... until my landlord tripled the rent. Couldn’t keep up, and I lost everything." He paused, tapping the table with his claw absentmindedly. "Got offered a ‘loan’ to start over. But we all know how that goes."

Hyodo sat in silence for a moment, absorbing their stories. They weren’t just faceless thugs—they were people who had dreams, jobs, families... lives before all this.

Kuroda poured another round of beer and slid a glass toward Hyodo. "Alright, your turn,” he said. "Who the hell are you, really? And how’d a guy like you end up scrubbing windows and owing us money?"

Hyodo chuckled dryly and took a sip before setting his glass down. "It’s not much of a story," he muttered. "I used to be a salaryman. Just a boring office guy, working in finance.”

Junpei raised an eyebrow. "A desk jockey? You?"

Hyodo nodded. "Yep. Buttoned-up suit, nine-to-five grind, the whole thing. Hated every second of it, but I was good at it. Saved up a bit... then I got this crazy idea in my head that I could do something different. Something bigger."

Kuroda leaned in, intrigued. "Like what?"

Hyodo smiled faintly, a mix of pride and regret. "Idol management. I wanted to build something. You know... find talent, help them grow, make something meaningful. So I quit my job, cashed in my savings, and took out loans to start my agency." His gaze was distant. "That’s how OTMGirls was born."

The table fell silent for a moment as the thugs processed his story.

Hiroto whistled low. "That’s... ambitious," he said. "But let me guess—it didn’t go as planned?"

Hyodo nodded, his smile turning bitter. "The idol industry’s brutal. It chews people up and spits them out. I did everything I could to keep them afloat—promotions, gigs, endorsements... but it was never enough." He sighed. "Every yen I made went straight back into the business. Or to pay off the loans. And when the pandemic hit? We lost everything. The shows, the contracts... gone."

Junpei’s expression softened. "Damn. That’s rough."

Hyodo shrugged. "I’ve been struggling to keep things afloat ever since. Retsuko was our breakout star, but even with her, the margins were thin." He ran a hand through his hair. "I took on more debt to keep the group alive. And... well, here we are."

Kuroda stared at him, his expression unreadable. "So, you’re not just some window cleaner trying to pay rent. You’re a guy who gambled everything for a dream and lost."

Hyodo laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Yeah. Something like that."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Kuroda raised his glass. "To dreams," he said with a smirk. "The ones we had... and the ones that kicked our asses."

The others chuckled and raised their glasses as well. Hyodo hesitated for a second before clinking his glass against theirs. "To dreams," he echoed quietly.

They drank, the bitterness of the beer mixing with the heaviness of their stories.

—

The group had stepped outside into the crisp night air, their footsteps echoing against the narrow Shinjuku alley. The neon signs buzzed overhead, casting colorful reflections onto the wet pavement. The scent of grilled meat and fried food wafted from the nearby yakitori stands as the city’s nightlife began to stir in full force. Hyodo stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, walking alongside Kuroda, Hiroto, and Junpei as they made their way toward the main street.

After a few minutes of quiet, Hyodo glanced at Kuroda. "So... what’s the deal with Takara?" he asked, keeping his tone casual but curious. "How does someone like her end up running the show around here?"

Kuroda exchanged a look with Hiroto and Junpei, as if silently deciding whether to spill the story. Finally, Kuroda exhaled and nodded. "You want the real story or the version we tell the newbies?"

Hyodo raised an eyebrow. "Give me the real one."

Kuroda smirked. "Alright, but it’s a long one."

Kuroda slowed his pace as he began. "Takara’s story starts the same way as a lot of Yakuza wives—young, pretty, and ambitious. She married a mid-level boss in the Shinjuku faction when she was barely legal. Her husband, Nakamura, was one of those ‘old-school’ guys—honor-bound but brutal. He was respected, feared... but a little too hotheaded for his own good."

Hiroto chimed in, his voice low. "Yeah, Nakamura had a temper. They say he pulled a blade on a guy for cutting in line at a ramen shop once."

Junpei snorted. "Idiot."

Kuroda nodded. "Yeah, well... that temper’s what got him killed. It happened right down that alley back there." He jerked his thumb toward a shadowy, narrow stretch of road just behind them. The alleyway was barely visible, but Hyodo felt a chill crawl down his spine as he followed Kuroda’s gesture. "Some punk from another family pulled a knife on him during a dispute. Nakamura thought he was untouchable—he was wrong."

Hyodo frowned. "And Takara?"

Kuroda’s expression darkened slightly. "She was there. Watched the whole thing. They say she held his body until the ambulance came, but by then, he was long gone."

There was a pause as the group walked in silence.

"Most women would’ve walked away after that," Hiroto added quietly. "Gone back to their families or moved somewhere quiet to start over. But not Takara."

Junpei nodded, his voice reverent. "She didn’t just stay—she leveled up."

Hyodo’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Kuroda lit another cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. "After Nakamura’s death, Takara disappeared for a while. Rumor has it she went to Guangdong, China. You know how things are over there—plenty of crime, but also plenty of surveillance. She built herself a network, making connections with the local Yakuza and stepping on a lot of Triad toes in the process." He chuckled dryly. "That’s not something you do lightly, not unless you’re willing to risk your life."

"Guangdong’s no joke," Hiroto muttered. "The Triads don’t exactly hand out forgiveness like candy."

"Exactly," Kuroda agreed. "But Takara’s smart. She kept one step ahead of them... until the CCP cranked up their surveillance game. Facial recognition, data tracking—you name it. It got too dangerous for her to stay. So she hopped over to South Korea for a few years."

Hyodo’s eyes widened slightly. "South Korea?"

Junpei smirked. "Yeah. And get this—she didn’t just lay low. She ran an illegal porn ring there. Underground stuff—real high stakes, real nasty. Made a fortune off it, too."

Hyodo’s stomach twisted. "She ran that... herself?"

Kuroda nodded, his eyes narrowing. "She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She’s not some pampered boss who hides behind her crew. Takara’s been through hell and came out stronger every time."

"And now?" Hyodo asked, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.

Hiroto gestured around them. "Now she’s back. Took over Nakamura’s old position after the former guy in charge mysteriously vanished."

Junpei raised an eyebrow. "‘Mysteriously,’" he repeated with air quotes, earning a dry laugh from Kuroda.

"She’s been running things ever since," Kuroda said. "Her territory’s tighter than it’s ever been. She doesn’t tolerate disloyalty, and she’s not afraid to crush anyone who crosses her. But... she’s smart. Knows how to run a business and keep the cops looking the other way."

Hyodo exhaled slowly, processing everything. "So... she’s basically untouchable?"

Kuroda nodded. "Pretty much. But she’s also ambitious—probably the most ambitious boss this city’s seen in a long time. She’s not just here to keep things steady. She’s here to expand. To control more than just Shinjuku." He lowered his voice. "That’s why she’s so interested in you and the OTMGirls. She’s always looking for new ways to grow her empire."

Hyodo’s grip tightened in his coat pocket as he absorbed Kuroda’s words. Takara wasn’t just some local thug with a vendetta—she was a powerhouse, a storm brewing on the horizon. And he was standing right in the middle of it.

"So... what happens if I screw this up?" Hyodo asked, his voice low.

Kuroda met his gaze, his expression serious. "You don’t want to find out."

The atmosphere shifted in an instant, like the abrupt drop in temperature before a storm. The casual banter and loose camaraderie evaporated, replaced by something colder—something calculated.

Hyodo noticed the way Kuroda's grin faltered, the way Hiroto's eyes darkened as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he swiped through something. Hyodo's stomach twisted, a gnawing sense of dread creeping up his spine.

"Hey, Hyodo," Hiroto said, his tone too casual, too forced. "We’ve been doing some digging... thought you should know."

Hyodo froze mid-step, his instincts screaming at him. "Digging?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Kuroda leaned in, his cigarette dangling lazily from his mouth. "Yeah. We figured... if you’re gonna be part of the team, we should know just how deep in the hole you are. Turns out, you’ve been busy."

Junpei, the quiet one, suddenly stepped forward, his face blank but his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Real busy."

Hyodo’s throat went dry. "What are you talking about?"

Hiroto tilted the phone toward Hyodo, the video on the screen paused at the beginning of some sort of report. "Loan records," Hiroto said with a faint smirk. "You’ve taken loans from... what, four different Yakuza families? Including the Kurokawa Group. You remember them, right?" His smirk faded. "They’re not exactly friends of ours."

Hyodo’s breath caught in his chest. His eyes flicked between the three men, his mind racing. "It wasn’t... it wasn’t like that," he stammered. "I didn’t have a choice—"

"You didn’t have a choice?" Kuroda barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "You dragged their collectors into our turf. You know what happens when rival debt collectors cross paths on our streets? People die, Hyodo."

Hiroto pressed play on the phone, and the audio began to play—phone calls, receipts, bits of conversations. Evidence. Hyodo’s heart pounded in his chest as he listened to his own voice, desperate and pleading, as he secured yet another loan from yet another Yakuza family.

Junpei’s lip curled. "Two of our guys ended up in body bags because of you."

Hyodo stumbled back a step, shaking his head. "I didn’t... I didn’t know—"

Kuroda’s smile returned, but it was colder now. "Yeah, we figured you didn’t. But ignorance doesn’t bring people back."

Before Hyodo could respond, something sharp pressed against his back—a strong arm wrapped around his throat from behind, locking him in place. His pulse spiked as he thrashed instinctively, but the grip only tightened. "What the hell—" he choked out.

Junpei stepped forward, pulling a small, gleaming pen knife from his coat pocket. The blade was short but razor-sharp, glinting under the streetlights.

"Hold him still," Hiroto muttered, raising his phone and tapping the record button.

"Wait—!" Hyodo gasped, his voice strangled as panic clawed at his mind. His vision blurred, and his heart thundered in his chest. He kicked out, struggling, but Kuroda’s grip was unyielding.

Junpei stepped in close, his face blank with eerie calm as he raised the knife. The first stab came quick—into Hyodo’s side, a burning pain that spread like wildfire through his ribs.

Hyodo screamed, but it was muffled by the alley’s shadows and the city’s noise.

The second stab came harder, followed by a third, a fourth—each one precise, mechanical. The blade punctured his skin with sickening ease, the sound wet and sharp like a butcher’s cleaver sinking into meat. Blood sprayed onto the pavement, pooling at his feet.

"Fifty-seven," Kuroda said cheerfully. "That’s the goal, right?"

The others laughed as Junpei continued, counting under his breath with each thrust of the knife.

Hyodo’s vision swam as the pain overwhelmed him, his body convulsing with every stab. He could hear their laughter echoing around him, could feel the hot, sticky warmth of his own blood soaking his shirt, his pants, his everything. His strength ebbed with every second, his struggles weakening until he could barely stand.

"Hey, say something for the camera, Hyodo!" Hiroto called out, laughing as he panned the phone down to capture Hyodo’s bloodied form.

Junpei gave one final twist of the knife before stepping back, breathing heavily but satisfied. Kuroda let go of Hyodo, and his body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

The world spun around him, the neon lights above blurring into streaks of color. He felt the cold pavement against his cheek, the wetness of his own blood seeping into his skin.

The Yakuza thugs stood over him, their shadows long and looming.

"Guess that clears your debt," Kuroda said with a shrug. "Shame it had to end this way, though."

Hyodo tried to speak, but only a weak, gurgling sound escaped his throat.

The last thing he saw before his vision went dark was the flash of Hiroto’s phone as he took one final picture. Then everything faded into nothing.

Chapter Text

Haida stood outside the entrance of the old internet café, now transformed into a sleek, state-of-the-art establishment that looked more like a capsule hotel than the dingy hangout he once knew. The neon sign above the door was minimalist and polished, reading "Byte Haven" in bold, glowing letters. The building’s facade was lined with tinted glass, giving the place a futuristic glow under the evening sky.

He took a slow breath and stepped inside.

The interior was unrecognizable. What used to be cramped cubicles filled with the faint smell of instant noodles and sweat was now an expansive lounge with plush seating, soft ambient lighting, and private gaming booths lining the walls like personal sanctuaries. The floor had sleek tiles, and the air was crisp and cool from the top-tier ventilation system. Even the scent had changed—a faint whiff of fresh coffee and ozone from the electronics. Tadano had spared no expense.

Haida couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. "Man... he really went all out," he muttered to himself.

The front desk attendant—an otter wearing a professional headset—nodded politely at him before returning to her tablet. Haida walked past, the soft hum of gaming rigs and the faint sounds of digital gunfire filling the space.

As he moved through the main hallway, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. Shikabane’s most recent text sat at the top, short and direct:

Booth 14.

The simplicity of the message felt strange. No emojis, no snarky follow-up. Just a number. Haida felt an unease settle in his stomach, but he pushed it down and kept walking.

When he reached Booth 14, the sliding door opened with a quiet hiss, revealing the small space inside.

Shikabane was sitting cross-legged on the reclining chair, a pair of headphones covering her ears as she tapped away at the mechanical keyboard in front of her. The glow of the gaming monitor illuminated her pale face, casting shadows beneath her eyes. She looked skinnier—her already slender frame now bordered on gaunt—and there was an odd dullness to her fur, like she hadn’t been eating properly or sleeping enough.

Her eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning to the screen. "Oh. Hey," she said flatly, her voice lacking its usual bite.

Haida stepped inside and let the door close behind him. "Hey," he replied, trying to keep his tone light. He slid his phone into his pocket and took a seat in the spare chair next to her. "It’s been a while."

Shikabane shrugged without looking away from the game. "Yeah. I guess." Her hands moved deftly over the keyboard as she piloted her in-game character through a chaotic battle. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the booth, but it felt hollow somehow—just background noise.

Haida leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched her. "You... okay?"

Shikabane’s fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before she answered. "I’m fine."

She wasn’t.

Haida could see it in the way her shoulders slumped, in the vacant look in her eyes as she stared at the screen. She didn’t seem engaged with the game at all—she was just going through the motions.

"You look... different," Haida said carefully, searching for the right words. "Skinnier."

Shikabane’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk. "Well, thanks for that glowing compliment," she muttered, though there was no real venom in her tone.

Haida frowned. "You know what I mean." He hesitated before adding, "Are you eating? Sleeping?"

Shikabane let out a soft, dry laugh and leaned back in her chair, letting her character idle on the screen. "Why does everyone ask that?" she muttered. "I’m fine. I just... I’ve had a lot on my mind."

Haida’s heart sank. He wanted to reach out, to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he wasn’t sure if she’d accept it or shrug it off. Instead, he tried to keep the conversation light. "What are you playing?" he asked, glancing at the screen.

"Same as usual," she replied. "Shooter game. New update dropped." She turned slightly toward him, finally meeting his eyes for a brief moment. "Didn’t think you’d show up, honestly."

Haida scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, well... figured it was time I stopped ghosting you." He paused. "You’ve been on my mind."

Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second before she blinked and looked away. "That’s dangerous talk, Haida," she muttered.

"Maybe," he replied quietly. "But it’s true."

There was a beat of silence, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the gaming rig. Shikabane reached up and pulled her headphones down around her neck, letting them rest on her shoulders. She exhaled slowly and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

"I’m tired, Haida," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Of everything."

Her words hit him harder than he expected. He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned in closer. "Then maybe... you should take a break."

She let out a bitter laugh. "A break? From what? Life?" She gestured at the screen. "This is all I have, Haida. Games, work, and... whatever the hell this is." She waved vaguely between the two of them.

"It doesn’t have to be," he said earnestly.

Shikabane’s eyes met his again, and for the first time in a long time, he saw a flicker of something—vulnerability, maybe even hope. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

"You always say stuff like that," she muttered. "But nothing changes."

Haida’s chest ached at the truth in her words. "Then let’s change it," he said softly. "Together."

Shikabane stared at him for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. "You’re a good guy, Haida," she murmured. "But good guys... don’t belong in places like this."

"And what if I don’t want to be a good guy anymore?" he asked, his voice steady.

Shikabane’s lips quirked into a sad smile. "Then you’re already halfway to where I am."

The room fell into silence again. For the first time since he’d stepped into the booth, Haida realized just how far gone she really was—and how much he didn’t want to lose her.

"Let’s get out of here," he said suddenly, standing up. "Just for a while. We don’t have to do anything crazy. Just... get some fresh air. Go somewhere else."

The neon glow of the hallway outside the booth felt like it was collapsing in on itself as Shikabane’s words echoed in Haida’s ears.

"I’m leaving Tokyo."

"I’m moving back in with my parents in Osaka."

"This is the last time we’ll see each other."

The words hit like gut punches, each one harder than the last. Haida’s chest tightened, his breath catching somewhere between his ribs. His mind struggled to keep up with what she was saying. The idea of Shikabane leaving, of her just disappearing from his life, felt unreal—like some bad simulation glitching out.

His legs felt weak, and he slumped into the chair, staring at the floor as if it would offer him some kind of answer. But before he could even process her leaving, she hit him with something even worse.

"I’m pregnant. And... it’s likely yours."

The world around Haida stopped. The hum of the air conditioning, the distant clicking of keyboards from other booths, the muffled voices of gamers talking over their headsets—it all became white noise as his mind zeroed in on those words.

He blinked up at her, wide-eyed and pale. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might pass out. “W-what?” he stammered, his voice cracking.

Shikabane stood there with her arms crossed, her frame still too slender, almost fragile. But her expression was hollow—so empty that it scared him. "You heard me," she said softly, not even trying to soften the blow.

Haida leaned forward, running his hands down his face, trying to force himself to wake up from what felt like a nightmare. But no amount of deep breaths could steady the swirling storm inside him.

“You’re... you’re sure?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shikabane nodded, looking away. “Yeah. I’ve known for a little while.” She shrugged, as if trying to downplay it. "And before you ask—yeah, I thought about... other options. But... I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Haida swallowed hard. Her words settled in his stomach like lead.

“Shikabane...” he started, but he didn’t even know what he was going to say. His thoughts were fragmented—broken pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together. He wanted to be mad. He wanted to be calm. He wanted to scream that he’d handle it. That they could handle it. But his brain was screaming reminders of all the tangled messes he was already stuck in: Inui, Retsuko, Tadano’s wild plans… And now... this.

Shikabane let out a soft, bitter laugh and sat down across from him. “You’re not exactly taking this better than I thought you would," she muttered. She looked at him with tired eyes, and for the first time, her voice cracked. "I don’t know what to do anymore, Haida. My life’s over. It was barely even mine to begin with.”

Haida’s heart broke at how defeated she sounded. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, leaning forward.

She shook her head, a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It’s true. I’m going back to Osaka to... to rot, I guess.” Her voice wavered. "Back to my parents’ place. Back to being the useless disappointment they always thought I was. But at least there... I won’t have to make any more decisions.”

Tears stung Haida’s eyes, but he fought them back. He couldn’t let her see him fall apart. “You’re not a disappointment,” he said fiercely. “You’re—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off. "We both know that’s a lie."

Haida clenched his fists. “You don’t have to go back to them. You don’t have to go back to that life. I...” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "I could stay with you. We could... figure this out. I could... settle down, maybe."

Shikabane stared at him, her expression unreadable. "Settle down?" she repeated, as if the phrase was foreign to her. "Haida, do you even hear yourself?"

“I’m serious,” he insisted, though even as the words left his mouth, doubt seeped in. The image of Inui’s warm smile flashed through his mind—her small apartment filled with the smell of breakfast, the simple, comforting routine they had. Then came Retsuko’s face—cold, distant, and full of a history he wasn’t sure he could ever untangle. And then... Tadano’s maddening grin, pulling him toward schemes and chaos he hadn’t even processed yet.

Shikabane could see it in his eyes—the conflict, the hesitation. She let out another dry laugh, wiping the corner of her eye before a tear could fall. “You’re trapped,” she whispered. “Just like me.”

Haida’s breath caught in his throat.

“No matter what decision you make,” she continued, “someone’s going to get hurt. There’s no happy ending here, Haida. Not for me. Not for you. You’re carrying so much baggage, you can barely move. And me... I’m nothing more than an empty save file you keep loading up because you’re scared of moving on.”

Haida flinched at the bluntness of her words, but he couldn’t argue. She was right.

Tears blurred his vision as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against his palms. "What do you want me to do, Shikabane?" he asked, his voice barely holding together.

Shikabane’s gaze softened for a moment, but only for a moment. "I want you to live, Haida," she said quietly. "But I can’t be the reason you give up everything else. That’s not living—that’s just running away."

They sat there in silence, the weight of unspoken words filling the booth. The faint sound of laughter and game music from the nearby booths felt distant—like echoes from another world.

After a long pause, Shikabane stood, slipping her jacket on. “I should go,” she said, her voice hollow.

Haida looked up at her, desperate to say something, anything that would make her stay. But nothing came.

She lingered at the door for a moment, her hand resting on the frame. "Goodbye, Haida," she whispered. And then, she was gone.

The door slid shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving Haida alone in the dim glow of the booth. He sat there, staring at the empty chair across from him, his heart aching in a way that felt unbearable.

Everything felt unreal—like the final level of a game where every choice led to the same inevitable loss.

He didn’t know if he wanted to keep playing.

—

The door to Booth 14 slid shut behind Haida with a final hiss, and he stumbled down the corridor like a man walking through quicksand. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and made his way toward the back of the internet café—the area Tadano had converted into a luxurious private suite. If there was anyone who could distract him or offer some semblance of guidance, it was Tadano.

The soft hum of computers and the occasional clack of keyboards filled the space, and the glow of dozens of monitors lit the narrow hall like a path to some surreal destination. But just as he neared the frosted glass door leading to Tadano’s office, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows near a corner cubicle.

"Leaving without saying hello, Taro?"

Haida froze, his heart skipping a beat at the voice—the cool, composed cadence that he knew all too well. Slowly, he turned.

Jiro.

His brother stood there, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit with a maroon tie, his hands casually in his pockets. His scarf was draped neatly around his neck, and his sleek hair was slightly tousled, but in a deliberate way. He looked every bit the picture of success and control. Haida, in contrast, felt like a mess of bandages, bruises, and emotional wreckage.

"J-Jiro?" Haida stammered, blinking as if the sight of his brother was some cruel mirage. "What... what the hell are you doing here?"

Jiro took a step forward, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the floor. "I could ask you the same thing. But I think I already know." His eyes flicked toward the private booths and the faint remnants of gaming noise. "I only know about this place because of its owner." He raised an eyebrow. "Tadano, right?”

Haida clenched his fists, the tension in his body sharpening like a knife. "Cut the crap, Jiro. What are you really doing here?"

Jiro sighed, folding his arms. "I’m here because I know what’s been happening in your life. I know everything, Taro. And you’re in danger."

The words felt like a slap. Haida’s mind reeled. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "How could you possibly know—"

Jiro’s expression darkened, his usual veneer of smug control thinning for just a moment. "Because I hired a private investigator," he said quietly. "To keep an eye on you."

Haida’s jaw tightened, rage bubbling beneath his skin. "You what?" His voice rose, drawing the attention of a nearby customer, who quickly looked away and pretended to be engrossed in their game.

Jiro’s shoulders rose and fell in a resigned breath. "I had to. You were spiraling, Taro. You were skipping work, showing up covered in bruises, making reckless moves. I needed to know what was really going on." He met Haida’s furious gaze with an unsettling calm. "It was the only way."

Haida took a step forward, his anger barely restrained. "That’s the kind of shit Dad would’ve done!" he spat. "Spying on people. Controlling everything from the shadows."

Jiro’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—something vulnerable, almost apologetic. "I know," he admitted. "I hated it too. But look where we are, Taro. You needed someone to look out for you... and I needed the truth."

Haida opened his mouth to fire back, but the pieces of a long-buried puzzle suddenly clicked together in his mind. The strange, lingering presence he’d felt for weeks. The familiar silhouette in crowds. The nagging sense that someone was watching him. His breath caught in his throat as realization hit.

"The stalker," he whispered, his face pale. "That creep... that guy who’s been following me... that was you?"

Jiro shook his head, his mouth tightening into a grim line. "No. But I know who he is."

Haida felt his stomach drop. "What...?"

Jiro stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He’s not just some deranged fan, Taro. He’s a fixer—a government fall guy, someone who does the dirty work no one else can be associated with. He used to be on Dad’s payroll."

Haida felt like the floor had been ripped out from under him. He stumbled back, pressing his hand against the cold glass wall behind him for support. "You’re saying... Dad hired that psycho?"

Jiro nodded. "For years. He handled... sensitive matters. The kind of things that never made it into corporate reports." His eyes darkened. "And when Dad didn’t need him anymore, he didn’t just disappear. He’s been doing freelance work for both sides ever since—Yakuza, government, you name it. And now... he’s watching you."

Haida’s head swam. The truth felt like a thousand needles stabbing into his brain. "Why?" he managed to choke out. "Why me?"

"Because you’re connected to things now, Taro. Things you don’t fully understand. Tadano. Your wife. The fallout from Dad’s legacy." He took a deep breath. "I don’t know exactly what they’re after... but they’re watching you because you’re a liability."

Haida’s vision blurred with a mix of fear and fury. His entire life felt like it was crumbling beneath him. He clenched his fists, wanting to punch something, anything. "And you’re just telling me this here?" he hissed, gesturing around the café. "In the middle of a goddamn internet lounge?"

Jiro’s lips curled into a small, wry smile. "This is Japan, Taro. Everyone’s too polite to interfere." He spread his arms slightly. "No one here would dare record this conversation, let alone report anything. The ‘good compliant cuck citizen’ mentality runs deep. And with everything I’ve done for the working youth... most of these people wouldn’t risk their jobs just to be a hero." He shrugged. "It’s sad, but it’s true."

Haida felt his heart pounding in his chest. He looked around, expecting someone—anyone—to be paying attention. But Jiro was right. People were glued to their screens, their headsets on, their eyes averted. They had their own lives, their own worries. No one cared about the two brothers arguing in the corner of an internet café. No one wanted to get involved.

A bitter laugh escaped Haida’s lips before he could stop it. "You sound like you’re proud of that."

Jiro’s face softened. "I’m not. But I’m realistic." He stepped forward and placed a hand on Haida’s shoulder. "You need to be careful, Taro.”

Haida pressed his hand against his forehead, the weight of everything Jiro was saying pounding against his skull like a relentless migraine. His fingers dug into his fur as he tried to ground himself, to make sense of the chaos swirling around him. But the words stuck out like knives, impossible to pull free.

"You’re telling me," Haida muttered, his voice tight, "that the stalker—the one who almost attacked Retsuko—that was Dad? That was part of his plan?"

Jiro met Haida’s eyes, his expression grim. He nodded. "Yeah. I wish I was lying, but I’m not. Dad... he was trying to engineer some sort of tragedy in your life. Something that would shock you into ‘getting your act together.’"

Haida’s breath hitched, and for a brief second, his vision blurred with rage. "He wanted me to get my act together?" he spat, lowering his hand to glare at Jiro. "By traumatizing me? By putting Retsuko in danger? How is that supposed to make any sense?"

Jiro's gaze flickered, as though he was struggling to put words to the ugliness of the situation. "Look... I only found out recently," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "The estate is a mess of old secrets, Taro. After Dad died, the police came sniffing around, trying to confiscate files. But..." He hesitated. "Mom... she managed to hold onto some things. Letters. Documents. Enough to piece together some of the story."

"Mom?" Haida blinked, almost laughing from how absurd it sounded. "She knew? What the hell kind of family am I even part of?"

"It wasn’t like that," Jiro insisted, though there was an edge of defensiveness in his voice. "She was trying to protect us. There’s... there’s a lot more going on, Taro. More than you realize. The media’s been circling like vultures, waiting for the whole story to come out. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to get dragged down with it."

Haida shook his head, pacing a few steps before turning back to Jiro, his hands trembling at his sides. "Do you hear yourself? You sound exactly like Dad," he growled. "Justifying his bullshit ‘for the good of the family.’ You want me to just stand here and accept that all of this—" He gestured wildly. "The stalking, the secrets, the lies—was for my own good? No. No fucking way."

Jiro’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a slow breath and stepped aside, giving Haida a clear path. "You don’t have to believe me right now," he said calmly. "But when you’re ready to hear everything... really hear it... text me. We’ll meet somewhere private, away from all of this noise." His eyes softened, just slightly. "Despite everything, I’m still your brother, Taro."

Haida stood there for a long, tense moment, his fists clenched and his heart racing. He wanted to shout, to swing at Jiro, to let his fury take over—but at the same time, a deeper part of him just wanted to collapse into silence.

Instead, he forced a bitter laugh, his voice ragged. "You’ve got a real twisted way of showing it."

Jiro didn’t flinch, only nodded as if accepting Haida’s anger. "Just... be careful, okay?" he added quietly.

Haida didn’t answer. He shoved past Jiro, his shoulder brushing roughly against his brother’s as he stormed down the hall. His mind was a storm of fragmented thoughts and emotions, each one clashing violently with the next. He barely registered the ambient hum of the internet café or the curious glances from nearby patrons.

When he reached the end of the hallway, he spotted the frosted glass door with Tadano’s name engraved on it. Without hesitating, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was a stark contrast to the sleek, neon-lit café outside. It was cozy, with warm lighting, a minimalist desk, and a plush seating area. Tadano was seated at the desk, typing away on a holographic keyboard. He looked up as Haida entered, his ears perking slightly.

"Haida," Tadano greeted, tilting his head. "Didn’t expect you so soon. Everything okay?"

Haida let the door close behind him with a soft click and leaned heavily against it, closing his eyes for a moment. "No," he muttered. "Not even close."

Tadano raised an eyebrow and set his work aside. "Well... I’d ask if you want to talk about it, but you look like you’re about two seconds away from throwing something."

Haida let out a shaky breath and pushed himself off the door. He walked to the nearest chair and sank into it, running his hands through his hair. "Tadano... you ever have one of those days where you realize your entire life is just... built on lies?"

Tadano leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Every other Tuesday," he joked, though his tone was gentle. "What happened?"

Haida hesitated, everything threatening to crush him. "Jiro," he finally said. "He... he just dropped some insane bombshells about our dad. About... everything." His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists again. "It’s bad, man. Really bad."

Tadano leaned back in his chair, the soft hum of his holographic display dimming as he folded his hands behind his head and regarded Haida with a measured gaze. His usual laid-back grin was still there, but there was something sharper behind it—something calculating.

"Look," Tadano began, his voice calm but serious. "I’m not gonna pretend to know every little detail, but... I’ve been keeping tabs, Haida. I’m not exactly blind to what’s happening in your life."

Haida’s brow furrowed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Tabs? What the hell are you talking about, Tadano? Since when do you know anything about what’s going on with my family?"

Tadano’s grin twitched slightly, as if Haida’s confusion was expected but mildly disappointing. "Since always," he said, his tone frustratingly nonchalant. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as his eyes locked onto Haida’s. "Haida, you’ve always thought of yourself as some random side character in the grand scheme of life, right? The awkward guy who floats through life, hoping not to get noticed? But the truth is... you’ve been more significant than you realize for a long time."

Haida blinked, taken aback by Tadano’s words. "Significant?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "I’m just a washed-up guy who can’t keep his life together. How the hell am I significant?"

Tadano’s gaze didn’t waver. "Because of who you are," he said simply. "Because of your family. Your father wasn’t just some corporate big shot, Haida. He was connected to things—dangerous things. And whether you like it or not, that makes you a piece on the board. A valuable one."

Haida’s fists clenched. "You sound just like Jiro," he muttered, venom in his voice. "Spouting cryptic bullshit like I’m supposed to accept it without question."

Tadano chuckled softly but shook his head. "That’s where you’re wrong. Jiro’s trying to rope you into his game—make you play by his rules. Me? I’m offering you a way out."

Haida’s stomach twisted with doubt. "A way out?"

Tadano nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah. You don’t have to be the pawn in someone else’s chess game, Haida. You can flip the board entirely. But you can’t do that by listening to Jiro—or anyone else who thinks they know what’s best for you." He leaned forward again, his voice low and earnest. "You’ve trusted me before, right? And I’ve never let you down. I’m the only one who can really help you walk away from all of this."

Haida stared at Tadano, his mind racing. Part of him wanted to believe him—Tadano had always been the one to offer freedom, to live outside the suffocating rules of society. But there was another part of Haida, the part that had been betrayed too many times, that screamed at him to walk away.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I don’t know if I can believe you," Haida muttered, his voice raw. "I don’t even know if I believe myself right now."

Tadano watched him with a calm, almost amused expression. "Fair enough," he said, unfazed. "But before you storm out..." He raised a hand. "Don’t forget—we still have some homework to finish."

Haida froze, a chill running down his spine at the reminder. He turned slowly to face Tadano, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Homework," he repeated.

Tadano’s grin widened. "Yeah. You’ve already got one checkmark on your list, remember? The whole ‘sleeping with someone you weren’t initially attracted to’ thing? But there’s still two more tasks left. A fight you have to lose... and something you need to steal."

“I actually lost a fight recently, just to let you know… still have the scars to prove it. So I’m ahead again.” Haida’s pulse quickened. "You’re really still pushing this?"

"Of course." Tadano stood, pacing around the desk until he was face-to-face with Haida. "This ‘homework’ isn’t some joke, Haida. It’s about breaking free from everything that’s held you down your whole life. It’s about tearing apart the version of you that’s been shaped by expectations, shame, and fear... so you can rebuild yourself however the hell you want." He reached out and placed a hand on Haida’s shoulder. "And yeah... it’s also kinda fun."

Haida shook his head, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "This isn’t some game, Tadano. My life’s falling apart. Shikabane’s leaving. Jiro’s spinning me in circles. And now you’re telling me to keep playing along like nothing matters?"

Tadano’s expression softened, but his eyes remained steady. "It’s not about pretending nothing matters, Haida. It’s about deciding what does matter... and burning the rest to the ground if you have to."

Haida’s breath shuddered as he stepped back, trying to process everything. The temptation of Tadano’s words was undeniable—like stepping toward the edge of a cliff and feeling the allure of the fall. But was it freedom or destruction waiting for him at the bottom?

Tadano lowered his hand and stepped aside, giving Haida room to move. "You don’t have to decide right now," he said gently. "But if you’re serious about this... I’ll be waiting. Just remember: the longer you hesitate, the more control everyone else has over you." He flashed a small, knowing smile. "And if you do leave... make sure you don’t forget the real you somewhere along the way."

Haida stared at the door, his heart thudding in his ears. His mind was at war with itself—one voice screaming to walk away, the other whispering that maybe, just maybe, Tadano was right.

Without another word, Haida turned and reached for the door handle. But as the cool metal met his palm, Tadano’s final words lingered in the air like smoke:

"Every story needs a point where the hero stops being afraid of the truth."

Haida stepped out of the office, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. He wasn’t sure if he was walking toward something new—or running from something old. All he knew was that the pressure of the next decision felt heavier than ever.

—

The rhythmic hum of the train tracks filled the cabin as Haida sat slumped in his seat, his gaze unfocused on the scenery rushing past the windows.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, pulling him out of his haze. With a reluctant sigh, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Retsuko: I know how to fix our marriage. Or at least figure out what direction to take.

Haida frowned, his heart skipping a beat. After weeks of silence or awkward exchanges, this was the last thing he expected to see from her. His thumb hovered over the message, and with a resigned breath, he tapped to open it.

Another text came through almost immediately:

Retsuko: Hyodo introduced me to someone. A "big deal" in the industry. Her name’s Takara. She’s one of the top JAV producers in the country.

Haida blinked, feeling as if the air had been knocked out of him. He had heard that name before. He thought.

The next message arrived:

Retsuko: Hear me out. Takara’s offering something... different. Something that could help us figure things out—together. You could be part of this too. You’d make your mark. She’s talking about the biggest, most controversial JAV production ever. You’d... star in it. With me. And... the OTMGirls.

Haida’s jaw clenched, and he felt a knot form in his stomach. He couldn’t believe what he was reading.

Another message came in, almost pleading:

Retsuko: I know it sounds crazy, but this could be a way to finally get everything out in the open. To stop hiding from each other. We’d be... free.

Haida’s hand trembled as he gripped his phone tighter. Free? What the hell did that even mean anymore?

His mind was flooded with images—flashes of Retsuko in her old idol outfits, Hyodo’s smug face, the cold glint in Takara’s eyes that he could practically imagine without ever meeting her in person. And then, the OTMGirls: Manaka, Shikabane... people he knew, people he’d cared about in different ways, now part of something larger and more twisted than anything he’d ever imagined.

It felt surreal—like he’d somehow stepped into someone else’s life.

He stared at the final text Retsuko had sent:

Retsuko: Think about it. Just... think about it.

Haida clenched his teeth and locked his phone, stuffing it back into his pocket as if ignoring the message could make the problem disappear. But the damage was already done. The seed had been planted, and his thoughts churned violently.

The train jolted slightly as it pulled into another station, the screech of the brakes cutting through the quiet. Haida barely noticed the people boarding and disembarking. He rested his head against the window, closing his eyes in an attempt to steady his breathing.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all—him, starring in an adult film with Retsuko and the OTMGirls. It was the kind of thing that belonged in a bizarre fever dream, not his real life. And yet... the allure of it tugged at the frayed edges of his mind. The part of him that had always craved validation, that wanted to feel desired, powerful, and significant... it whispered to him, tempting him to consider it.

But then came the shame. The overwhelming sense of disgust at himself for even entertaining the idea. How had things gotten this far? How had they fallen so deep into this mess that something like this was even on the table?

The train pulled into his stop, and Haida stood up mechanically, weaving through the crowd as he stepped onto the platform. The cold evening air hit him like a slap, but it didn’t do much to clear his head. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and began the familiar walk to Inui’s apartment, his steps heavy and uncertain.

The thought of Inui hit him like a wave of guilt. She was the only real stability he’d had in weeks. Her warmth, her quiet understanding—it had become his safe haven. And yet, now he was standing at the edge of something that could shatter everything.

When he reached the door of her building, he hesitated. His phone vibrated again in his pocket. He knew it was probably another message from Retsuko. Slowly, he pulled it out and looked at the screen.

Retsuko: Just... don’t ignore me, Haida. I’m trying to figure this out too.

Haida’s shoulders slumped as he stared at the message. He wanted to respond—to tell her everything he was feeling, all the confusion and anger and exhaustion that was eating away at him. But instead, he slid the phone back into his pocket and walked inside without replying.

The elevator ride to Inui’s floor felt longer than usual. When he reached her door, he paused again, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He took a deep breath, trying to push the swirling thoughts out of his mind. He didn’t want to bring this chaos into her world—not tonight.

With a soft click, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of Inui’s apartment greeted him—something warm and homey, like freshly brewed tea and lavender. Inui’s voice called out from the kitchen.

"Haida? That you?"

"Yeah," he replied, doing his best to sound normal.

She peeked her head out with a warm smile. "I’m making dinner. You hungry?"

Haida forced a small smile and nodded. "Yeah... I could eat."

As he walked toward the kitchen, Retsuko’s messages lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn’t escape. He didn’t know what the right choice was anymore—or if there even was one. All he knew was that he couldn’t keep running forever.

Chapter Text

Haida sat at the kitchen table, the warm, golden glow of the overhead light making the room feel cozier than it had any right to be. The table was set simply but beautifully—two neatly folded cloth napkins, mismatched ceramic bowls filled with steaming miso soup, and a platter of grilled fish resting on a wooden board alongside a small bowl of pickled vegetables. The aroma of soy sauce, ginger, and mirin filled the air, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

Inui moved gracefully between the stove and the counter, her soft humming barely audible over the sound of the rice cooker’s gentle click as it finished its cycle. She looked at home here, in her space, her fur glowing under the warm light. She wore a simple but flattering navy-blue sweater that hugged her form, and Haida found himself admiring her without meaning to.

"Alright," she said, wiping her hands on a towel before placing a dish of freshly grilled eggplant miso on the table. "Dinner’s ready. Sit tight, I’m grabbing the tea."

Haida blinked and smiled faintly. "This looks amazing, Inui. Thanks."

Inui returned with a small teapot and two cups, setting them down carefully before taking a seat across from him. "Well," she said, pouring the tea and sliding his cup toward him, "you’ve looked like you’re carrying the heat death of the universe on your shoulders since you walked in. What’s going on?"

Haida hesitated, staring down at the swirling amber liquid in his cup. He felt a lump form in his throat, the words tangled up and stuck. "It’s... a lot," he finally muttered.

Inui reached across the table, her paw resting gently on his. "I figured. That’s why I made dinner like this. Something simple. Something that reminds you to breathe."

Her voice was calm and soothing, like the sound of the ocean on a still night. Something in Haida’s chest cracked at her kindness. He wasn’t used to this—not anymore.

He sighed and finally spoke. "I feel like... I’m at a fork in the road. But instead of two paths, there’s, like... five." He smiled wryly at his own metaphor. "Each one leads somewhere completely different, but they all feel like dead ends in their own way."

Inui tilted her head, listening intently. "Go on."

Haida took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. "It’s like... one path is the life I’ve built with you. It’s warm, and it’s safe... but sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve it. Another path is... going back. Trying to fix things with Retsuko, even though I know it might never work."

Inui nodded, her expression calm but her eyes sharp with understanding. "And the other paths?"

Haida swallowed hard. "One of them... is chaos." He let out a weak laugh. "A friend’s plans. Burning everything down and starting over in some crazy way." His gaze dropped to the table, his voice softening. "Then there’s... leaving everything behind. Just... disappearing and letting the chips fall where they will."

Inui’s ears twitched as she processed his words. She took a small sip of her tea before speaking. "And... do you know which one feels right to you?"

Haida’s eyes welled with tears, his vision blurring as he stared down at his untouched bowl of soup. "No," he whispered. "I don’t. I don’t know how to be happy anymore, Inui."

Inui’s hand squeezed his reassuringly. "That’s okay," she said softly. "You don’t have to have all the answers right now."

Haida’s breath hitched as he tried to hold back the sob building in his chest. "You’re so... patient," he muttered. "So kind. Even when you know I’m a mess. Even when you know there’s a chance I might not... choose this life."

Inui’s eyes softened with an almost unbearable tenderness. "Haida... all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy," she said, her voice steady and unwavering. "Even if that happiness doesn’t include me."

The dam broke. Haida’s tears spilled down his cheeks as he lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Inui moved her chair closer and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly as he cried. She didn’t try to shush him or tell him it was okay—she just let him feel everything, let him fall apart in her embrace.

After what felt like an eternity, Haida’s sobs began to quiet. He pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and managing a small, sheepish laugh. "Sorry... I got snot all over your sweater."

Inui chuckled and shook her head. "It’s just a sweater," she teased gently. "You’re more important."

Haida smiled through the lingering tears, his heart aching but lighter somehow. "Thanks, Inui. For... everything."

Inui’s gaze was warm as she reached for his bowl and spooned some rice onto his plate. "C’mon. Eat before it gets cold."

Haida nodded, picking up his chopsticks and taking a bite of the fish. The savory flavor melted in his mouth, and for the first time in a while, he felt something close to comfort. The two of them ate in a peaceful, companionable silence, the clink of dishes and the quiet hum of life filling the room.

Later that night, after the dishes were washed and the lights in the kitchen were dimmed, Haida found himself standing in the bedroom doorway, watching Inui as she pulled her hair out of its loose bun and climbed into bed. She looked over at him, her eyes soft and inviting.

"You coming to bed?" she asked gently.

Haida nodded, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He slid under the covers beside her, the warmth of her body immediately calming his frayed nerves.

Inui shifted closer, resting her head on his chest and wrapping an arm around him. Her touch was soft and grounding, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t matter.

"You don’t have to figure everything out tonight," she whispered.

Haida kissed the top of her head and held her close, letting himself sink into the feeling of being cared for without strings attached. "Yeah," he murmured. "But this... this feels right."

Inui smiled against his chest and closed her eyes. "Then hold onto it while you can."

The night passed slowly and sweetly as they let their worries melt away in each other’s arms. And for a little while, Haida allowed himself to believe that peace—however fleeting—was possible.

—

Haida was jolted awake by the harsh buzzing of his phone, vibrating incessantly on the nightstand like it was trying to jump off the edge. His heart pounded in his chest as the sound dragged him out of sleep, disoriented and groggy. He groaned and reached for the phone, blinking against the light filtering through the curtains.

The screen displayed a dozen missed calls and several messages—all from different co-workers and one from his supervisor. His phone buzzed again, the caller ID flashing the name "Akiyama (Manager)." Haida hesitated before swiping to answer, already feeling the pulse of panic in his veins.

"Hello?" he muttered, his voice rough with sleep.

"Haida!" Akiyama’s voice was sharp, almost frantic. "Where the hell are you? Did you see the news?"

Haida rubbed his face, trying to shake off the sleep fog. "No... what’s going on?"

There was a brief pause, and then Akiyama’s voice came back, grim and clipped. "Just check the news. Right now."

The line went dead before Haida could respond. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he lowered the phone and tapped into his news app. His heart skipped a beat at the flood of red-bannered headlines that filled the screen:

"MARKET COLLAPSE SPARKS CHAOS—NIKKEI CRASHES 40% IN MINUTES"
"BANK RUNS IN SHIBUYA AND MARUNOUCHI—FEAR GRIPS THE FINANCIAL DISTRICT"
"GLOBAL REVERBERATIONS AS JAPAN PLUNGES INTO ECONOMIC CRISIS"

Haida’s eyes widened in disbelief as he scrolled down, reading the words over and over as if they’d change. His stomach churned as he watched a live-streamed clip embedded in one of the articles: throngs of people crowded outside a major bank branch in Shinjuku, shouting at security guards as they tried to get inside. Police officers were barely holding the mob back as the crowd swelled.

His thumb hovered over the video as it played on loop—images of desperate customers pounding on the glass doors, the sound of sirens wailing in the background. The footage shifted to a clip of major business districts, eerily vacant as stores closed early and digital billboards flashed crisis warnings.

Haida’s blood turned cold.

This wasn’t just bad. This was catastrophic.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. Inui’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. "Haida? You okay?" she called, the sound of a spatula scraping against a pan following her words. "I’m making breakfast—omelets and toast."

Haida barely heard her. He was already standing, grabbing his coat from the chair and hastily slipping his phone into his pocket. His mind was spinning, his pulse racing.

He walked to the doorway, his voice strained. "I have to go," he muttered.

Inui appeared from the kitchen, holding a plate of neatly arranged food, her ears perked in confusion. "Go? What’s going on?"

Haida avoided her gaze, afraid that if he stopped to explain, he might lose what little composure he had left. "Something’s happened. At work. There’s... there’s an emergency meeting." He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

Inui’s eyes darkened with worry. "Is it... serious?"

Haida hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Really serious." He stepped toward her, brushing a quick kiss against her cheek. "I’ll explain everything later, I promise."

Inui’s hand lingered on his arm for a second before she let him go. "Okay. Just... be careful."

Haida nodded again and stepped out the door, the hallway’s cold air hitting him like a slap to the face. His footsteps echoed as he hurried down the stairs and out of the building. The world outside felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos erupting in the news. He glanced down the street toward the station, where a small line had already formed at the entrance. Everyone looked tense, eyes flicking between their phones and the station gates as if they expected something to explode.

Haida joined the line and shuffled forward, his thoughts racing. He could already imagine the office atmosphere—a room filled with pale faces staring at monitors, whispers of panic floating between desks, supervisors snapping orders in a desperate attempt to maintain control. And somewhere, someone would be trying to spin this disaster into something salvageable.

The train screeched into the station, and Haida boarded alongside the anxious crowd. Inside, the tension was thick. Strangers whispered to one another, eyes flicking nervously at their screens. The electronic bulletin board above the train doors flashed service warnings in glowing red kanji:

"HEAVY DELAYS EXPECTED—TRAVEL WITH CAUTION."

Haida gripped the metal pole as the train began to move, his stomach twisting with dread. He scrolled through his phone again, trying to make sense of the avalanche of information. Terms like derivatives collapse, liquidity crisis, and debt shock filled the reports. A sinking realization settled in his chest—this was bigger than anything he’d ever seen. Bigger than anyone could have imagined.

The world felt like it was unraveling at the seams.

The train slowed as it pulled into the financial district station, and Haida barely waited for the doors to open before stepping out into the chaos. The streets outside the station were packed with people—some standing in stunned silence, others shouting into their phones. News drones hovered overhead, their cameras zooming in on the growing crowd.

Haida pushed through the throng, his mind set on getting to the office. His phone vibrated again—a notification from his company’s crisis team:

"EMERGENCY ALL-HANDS MEETING—11:00 AM. ALL STAFF REQUIRED. NO REMOTE EXCEPTIONS."

He read the message with a sense of foreboding and picked up his pace. Whatever was waiting for him at that meeting, he knew one thing for certain—it wasn’t good.

As he reached the towering office building, the entrance was a blur of familiar faces rushing inside, all of them wearing the same haunted expression. Haida swallowed hard and stepped through the glass doors, bracing himself for whatever came next.

The future had never felt so fragile.

The conference room was packed wall-to-wall, yet the tension in the air made it feel empty—soulless. The blinds were drawn, blocking out the chaotic view of the city outside. Everyone sat stiffly in their seats, some clutching notebooks or tapping their pens anxiously. The air conditioning hummed too loudly, a futile attempt to drown out the palpable dread. Haida slid into his seat near the back, his heart pounding in his chest as if it was trying to break free.

The large monitor at the front of the room blinked to life, displaying a muted local news broadcast. A stern-faced anchor was speaking rapidly, the scrolling headline beneath him reading:

"MARKET IMPLOSION—SONY ON VERGE OF BANKRUPTCY, NIKKEI CRASH REVERBERATES THROUGH GLOBAL ECONOMY"

The words felt like jagged glass in Haida's brain. He could barely process it. Sony? Sony was collapsing? The company that had survived wars, recessions, and global upheaval—now teetering on the edge of oblivion?

The anchor’s voice grew louder as the volume was turned up:
"Multiple sources have confirmed that financial giants have withdrawn all remaining assets. Top executives in Shibuya have reportedly been unreachable since early this morning, and police are investigating several incidents suspected to be connected to the ongoing crisis."

A grim-faced IT manager at the front of the room cleared his throat. "We have... received confirmation that several of our key clients are filing for bankruptcy as of this morning. This... changes everything."

The words sent a cold shiver down Haida's spine. There was no scrambling to fix this—no spin, no technical patch that could save them. The walls were caving in, and they all knew it.

Another clip began playing on the screen—a shaky live feed from outside a bank in Ginza. The crowd was massive, surging toward the barricaded doors as security guards tried to hold them back. Several glass windows had already been shattered, and police were forming a line with riot shields. The camera panned to a crumpled figure on the ground covered with a blanket—the caption beneath read:

"TRAGIC SUICIDE OUTSIDE FINANCIAL HQ—AUTHORITIES OVERWHELMED BY CRISIS."

Haida swallowed hard, his throat dry. The sight of the unmoving body was a brutal reminder of just how fragile people were in the face of financial ruin. The newsroom cut away to a report about the growing tension in Okinawa.

"In other developments, protests outside the American military base in Okinawa have turned violent. Reports suggest that the demonstrations may be part of a larger coordinated movement..."

Haida’s stomach churned as the screen shifted to grainy footage of protestors throwing bottles and rocks at uniformed American soldiers. Smoke billowed from burning debris as loudspeakers barked orders in English and Japanese.

One protestor held a sign reading: "Okinawa for Okinawans!"

Another shot showed soldiers loading crowd-dispersal equipment into Humvees while a voiceover calmly stated:
"Sources indicate that U.S. forces may escalate their response if the situation deteriorates further."

Haida felt like he was watching the world unravel in real time. His thoughts spiraled as the reports continued. He barely noticed when the screen cut to yet another story—one about China’s massive mobilization near the Taiwan Strait. The image of enormous floating harbors being towed out to sea made his vision blur.

"Experts warn that these operations could be a prelude to an unprecedented invasion attempt," the reporter announced solemnly.

The room was silent except for the droning of the broadcast. No one moved. No one dared to breathe too loudly. Haida gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. His pulse roared in his ears, louder than the news, louder than the murmured disbelief around him.

"This isn’t real," he told himself. But the screen—relentless and unyielding—kept proving him wrong.

The head of HR, a gray-furred stoat, finally stepped forward, her face grim. "I won’t sugarcoat this. We’re facing the very real possibility of mass layoffs... or worse. Effective immediately, all projects are frozen. Key departments are shutting down entirely. Management is... still deliberating our next steps, but it’s clear we’re hemorrhaging resources."

A ripple of stunned whispers passed through the room. Someone a few rows up slammed their hands on the table and buried their face in them. Another quietly slipped their phone into their pocket and walked out without a word.

Haida’s heart raced faster and faster. The walls of the room felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. He stared at his reflection in the blank part of the screen, his own wide, panicked eyes staring back at him like a stranger.

He tried to breathe, but his chest felt tight. His vision swam as anxiety clawed at him. His mind raced with questions: What’s going to happen? Is my job gone? What do I do if the company collapses? What happens to Inui? To Retsuko? To me?

"Stop," he whispered to himself under his breath, trying to stem the tide of thoughts. But it was no use. The panic attack was building, like a wave crashing against a fragile dam.

A voice beside him jolted him out of his spiral. It was one of his co-workers—a nervous-looking tanuki who had always been quiet in meetings. "Hey... Haida? Are you okay?"

Haida blinked and forced a nod, though he knew he wasn’t convincing anyone. He muttered something about needing fresh air and pushed himself up from the chair. His legs felt like lead as he stumbled toward the door, the sound of the news and the murmur of voices growing distant behind him.

The hallway outside was eerily quiet. Haida leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to the cool plaster as he took deep, shuddering breaths.

"It’s falling apart," he thought bitterly. "Everything’s falling apart."

The weight of the crisis—the markets crashing, the protests, the looming threat of war—pressed down on him, suffocating in its enormity. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he ignored it. The world could wait for a few more minutes while he tried to hold himself together.

—

Haida sat in front of his boss’s desk. The room smelled faintly of stale coffee and cologne—a sharp contrast to the sterile tension in the rest of the building. His heart was thudding so loudly in his chest he thought his boss might hear it.

The man across from him—a heavy-set leopard in a sleek, dark suit—adjusted his tie and folded his paws on the desk. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper—something colder.

His name was Shingen Ito, but that was a name only for friends or enemies.

"Haida," the boss began, his voice low and deliberate. "I know today’s been... overwhelming." He gestured vaguely at the muted chaos in the office beyond the glass. "But I didn’t call you in here to fire you."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach twisted. "You... didn’t?" he asked, unsure whether to feel relieved or more terrified.

The leopard shook his head and leaned forward. "No. Quite the opposite, actually." He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. "We have... a plan. One that very few people here are privy to." His golden eyes locked onto Haida’s, unblinking. "And I think you deserve to know what’s really going on."

Haida’s pulse quickened as his boss tapped his fingers on a thick folder sitting on the desk. The man exhaled slowly before continuing. "Our company’s done. You’ve seen the numbers. We’re hemorrhaging clients, resources... everything. There’s no coming back from this. But we’re not planning to go down with the ship."

Haida’s mouth went dry. He leaned forward slightly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The leopard slid the folder toward him. "We’re pulling the plug—rug-pulling, if you will. The board has approved an emergency strategy to sell everything off and move our operations to Guangdong, China." His tone was calm, almost conversational. "It’s the only way to survive."

Haida stared at the folder, his mind racing. Guangdong? The southern Chinese province known for its sprawling tech cities and rampant corporate experimentation. It made sense in a twisted way. The Chinese government’s "Silicon Mountain" initiative had been making headlines for years. It was poised to rival Silicon Valley itself.

But the implications made his skin crawl.

His boss continued, his voice smooth and persuasive. "The Chinese have already reached out. They’re willing to fund one of our more... ambitious projects. One that’s been sitting in limbo due to its... controversial nature." He opened the folder, revealing several classified documents stamped with bold red kanji. "You know which project I’m talking about."

Haida’s stomach dropped. He did know. The "Eyes of Tomorrow" program. An advanced military-grade surveillance software designed to monitor digital communication, facial recognition, and even predictive behavioral patterns. The project was shelved because it violated Japan’s constitutional privacy protections. But in Guangdong, under Chinese oversight? It would be unstoppable.

Haida’s voice cracked as he spoke. "You’re saying... you’re selling out to the communists?"

The leopard gave a small shrug. "Call it what you want. But the reality is this—our current government can’t compete. The Americans are about to achieve microchip independence, and when they do, the entire Pacific tech market will be left in the dust. Japan will be... obsolete."

The words hit Haida like a punch to the gut. He thought back to the headlines about China’s moves near Taiwan, the floating harbors preparing for an inevitable invasion. His mind flashed with images of factories, workers in clean suits assembling processors, and military drones flying overhead.

His boss leaned in, his tone softening slightly. "You’ve been selected for the project, Haida. You’re good at what you do. We need people like you to make this happen."

Haida’s voice was barely a whisper. "Why me?"

The leopard smiled faintly. "Because you’re reliable. And because I know you’ve been... struggling. Financially. Personally." He gestured to the papers. "This is your ticket out. You and everyone on this project will be set for life. The Chinese call it the ‘iron rice bowl.’ You’ll never have to worry about money again."

Haida’s throat tightened. The "iron rice bowl"—a promise of unshakable financial security. But at what cost?

He stared at the documents in front of him, the words blurring together. His head spun as his boss’s voice droned on.

"The Chinese government is investing heavily in turning Guangdong into a technological superpower. With Taiwan under their control, they’ll have everything they need. And this software? It’s their golden ticket. We’ll be a part of history, Haida. The ones who made it happen."

Haida felt bile rising in his throat. He pressed his hands against his knees, trying to steady himself. "Are... are you saying they’re behind the crash?" he asked shakily.

The leopard paused, then shrugged again. "Who knows? The markets are volatile. But does it really matter? The point is... the Pacific tech industry is dying, and the only people who’ll survive are the ones who adapt." His eyes narrowed. "This is a lifeline, Haida. You’d be a fool to throw it away."

Haida’s chest felt like it was caving in. The room was suddenly too small, the walls closing in on him. The weight of the decision threatened to crush him.

"I... I need a minute," Haida stammered as he pushed himself up from the chair. His hands were trembling. "I need some air."

The leopard nodded, seemingly unsurprised. "Take your time," he said smoothly. "But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this don’t come twice."

Haida barely heard him as he stumbled toward the door. The hallway outside felt like a blur as he walked, his vision swimming with fragmented images—Inui’s smile, Tadano’s cryptic smirk, Retsuko’s messages, the flashing headlines about war and collapse. He reached the end of the hallway and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of a window, gasping for air.

The city stretched out below him, deceptively peaceful under the morning sky. But Haida knew better. The world was teetering on the edge of something irreversible. And now... so was he.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down, but the storm inside him only grew louder.

What the hell do I do?

—

Haida stood frozen in the hallway, the world outside the window blurring as his mind spiraled. It was hard to breathe. His phone felt heavy in his hand, its cold surface grounding him in some twisted way. He glanced down at the screen and unlocked it with a quick swipe of his thumb. Notifications piled up—texts, work updates, and news alerts flashing across his home screen like alarms from a sinking ship.

But he wasn’t looking for more noise. He needed clarity.

He scrolled through his contacts aimlessly, his thumb hovering over names that felt like ghosts: Retsuko. Inui. Tadano. Even Jiro’s name stared back at him, a reminder of the tangled web of betrayals and half-truths that had brought him to this moment.

His reflection on the phone’s screen stared back at him—wide-eyed, disheveled, barely recognizable. He looked like someone drowning. He could feel the panic in his chest rising again, threatening to consume him.

"This is it," Haida thought, swallowing hard. "The final level. No checkpoints. No restarts. If I screw this up... I’m done."

The stakes felt unreal—like something out of a dystopian video game where the wrong move would collapse not just his life, but everything he’d tried to hold onto. He closed his eyes for a moment, the distant hum of the office muffling into a dull roar. His thoughts were screaming at him, urging him to act, to run, to do something.

But what?

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still. "Clear your mind," he muttered under his breath. "Think about what you really want."

He leaned his back against the wall, eyes shut, as he tried to shut out the chaos. His mind wandered, sifting through fragments of his life—moments that felt like they belonged to someone else now.

He remembered mornings in the cramped apartment with Retsuko, sharing awkward silences over instant coffee. He remembered Inui’s laughter, warm and genuine, as they ate breakfast together and talked about stupid things like new streaming shows. He remembered Shikabane’s distant gaze as she told him she was pregnant, her voice flat but heavy with resignation. He remembered Tadano’s cryptic smirk as he promised that freedom wasn’t a dream—it was a decision.

And somewhere in that mess of memories, he saw his younger self—the Haida who used to believe in things. The punk who screamed lyrics into the void about rebellion, integrity, and smashing the system. The guy who thought he’d never become another cog in the machine.

What the hell happened to him?

Haida’s chest tightened as he asked himself the hardest question: What do I want? Not what other people wanted for him. Not what society expected. Not what Tadano thought freedom looked like. What did he want?

The first answer that came to his mind was simple: peace. He wanted peace—something real, not just the temporary highs that came from surviving one disaster only to fall into another.

But could he ever have that? Could he even remember what it looked like?

His phone buzzed again, pulling him back to reality. Another notification from the office chat popped up:

"URGENT: Update from management coming soon—mandatory attendance for all staff."

Haida stared at the screen, his pulse racing. He was running out of time. His boss’s offer lingered in the back of his mind like a ticking clock. The words "iron rice bowl" echoed ominously in his head. He knew what it meant—security, stability, and an unbreakable chain of obligations. But at what cost?

"Is this what I want?" he asked himself again, gripping his phone tightly. The image of his boss’s calm expression played in his mind, the way he’d shrugged off Haida’s fears about their company’s betrayal. The way he’d justified selling their souls to the highest bidder, as if survival meant abandoning everything else.

"I’m not like him," Haida thought fiercely. "I don’t want to be like him."

The hallway seemed to close in around him. His instincts screamed at him to run—to quit the job, disappear, leave it all behind. But the logical part of his brain warned him that running wouldn’t solve anything. The world outside was unraveling. There was nowhere left to hide.

He inhaled slowly, focusing on the sensation of air filling his lungs, then exhaled, letting some of the tension slip away. His mind cleared, if only for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, his decision wasn’t any easier. But something inside him felt a little steadier. He pushed off the wall and straightened his posture.

"I have to make my move."

He swiped through his contacts again and paused over Tadano’s name. He could hear Tadano’s voice in his head, playful but certain: "If you’re going to break free, you have to stop waiting for permission."

But what would Tadano do in his place? Would he burn the whole system down—or play the long game? Was it even possible to do both?

Haida’s thumb hovered over the "Call" button, then shifted toward Jiro’s contact, and then back again. His entire life was balancing on the edge of these choices, and he didn’t know which one would save him—or destroy him.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, snapping him back to the present. He tucked his phone into his pocket, exhaling shakily. His next move wasn’t just about survival. It was about deciding what kind of person he wanted to be when everything came crashing down.

He started walking toward the emergency exit, ignoring the distant chatter of his co-workers behind the glass doors. Whether he was stepping into the fire or away from it, he didn’t know yet.

But at least he was moving.

—

In this story, every choice leads Haida down a unique and compelling route, each with its own trials, revelations, and conclusions.

Chapters tied to a specific route will be marked with the corresponding route name in brackets (e.g., [“GRADUATION” (TADANO) ROUTE: CHAPTER 1]).

Every route will lead to a full story arc with a satisfying conclusion and an epilogue that reflects Haida's fate.

Some routes may reveal lore, mysteries, and resolutions that other routes do not. All of the routes will be written out in consecutive order, but will definitely represent different branches and provide alternative final endings.

Each route holds the answers to Haida’s fate in a world that is crumbling around him. Whether he emerges as a symbol of freedom, loses himself in power and greed, or finds solace in love and loyalty, the choice is yours to make.

Now, Haida must choose his path:
Will Haida graduate from the system, fight for love, or let everything burn?

1. [“GRADUATION” (TADANO)]

Summary: Haida chooses to complete Tadano's "Homework" and makes the greatest gamble of all time for his freedom. All he has to do is help Tadano expose the sinister Kaneda Tech "Eyes of Tomorrow" program, a global surveillance system that could change the course of history.

2. [“EYES OF TOMORROW” (HAIDA)]

Summary: Haida gives in to despair and decides "Let it all burn." He agrees to stay loyal to his boss at Kaneda Tech, follows the plan to move operations to Guangdong, and sells the "Eyes of Tomorrow" to China to save his own neck.

3. [“GAMERS UNITE” (SHIKABANE)]

Summary: Haida decides to rescue Shikabane at all costs, even if it means leaving behind any possibility of a life of comfort and wealth. To succeed, he must join forces with his estranged brother Jiro and face the truth about their family’s conspiracy.

4. [“ARE YOU READY FOR TOMORROW?” (INUI)]

Summary: Haida decides to walk away from everything—Kaneda Tech, Tadano, Retsuko—and build a life with Inui. They have no clue what the future holds, but they make a pact to face it together, no matter what comes.

5. [“EVERYTHING BURNS” (RETSUKO)]

Summary: With the traditional working world imploding, Haida turns to an unconventional path: the adult entertainment industry. He accepts the controversial JAV contract with Retsuko, using it as a last-ditch effort to save their marriage and their finances. But at what cost?

Chapter Text

Tadano sat alone in his glass-walled office, bathed in the glow of a dozen screens displaying various news feeds. Each monitor flickered with breaking news banners, live streams of financial analysts looking panicked, and footage of stock traders in Shibuya, Ginza, and Marunouchi losing their composure. The room was silent except for the hum of the screens and the soft buzz of Tadano's phone vibrating intermittently with incoming messages.

The headlines scrolled endlessly:

"MAJOR CORPORATIONS FILE FOR BANKRUPTCY AS STOCK MARKETS FREE-FALL"
"TECH GIANTS ANNOUNCE ASSET RELOCATION TO CHINA AND SOUTH KOREA"
"SINGAPORE BECOMES HAVEN FOR FLEEING COMPANIES AMID CRISIS"

Tadano's gaze drifted between the screens as if he was watching the inevitable unfold in slow motion. One news stream featured a stern-faced newscaster explaining how several CEOs had already resigned within hours of the collapse, fleeing to countries with lenient extradition laws. Another stream displayed crowds in front of corporate headquarters, faces pressed against glass doors, demanding answers.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as the chaos played out like a scene from a cyberpunk dystopian novel he used to read as a kid. He didn’t feel fear. If anything, he felt a grim sense of vindication.

"This was always coming," Tadano thought. "Anyone who paid attention could see the cracks forming. The system wasn’t built to last. It was built to extract until there was nothing left."

His eyes flickered toward the primary screen displaying a financial analyst who was frantically pointing at graphs that all looked like plunging waterfalls. The Nikkei had taken another 30% dive within minutes of opening. Margin calls were liquidating entire firms overnight, wiping out pensions, savings, and futures in a brutal cascade.

Tadano picked up a remote and unmuted one of the streams.

"What we’re seeing is unprecedented," the analyst’s voice trembled as he spoke. "Decades of unchecked corporate greed, reckless speculation, and over-reliance on foreign markets have culminated in the complete implosion of our financial ecosystem. And with the semiconductor and microchip independence movements in the U.S. finally coming to fruition, Japan’s tech sector is collapsing under the pressure."

The feed cut to a live scene outside a shuttered bank. Protestors were shouting angrily, throwing objects at the locked glass doors while riot police formed a barricade.

Tadano’s lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile. "They propped it up as long as they could. Pretended everything was fine. But you can’t stop an avalanche by covering it with a tarp."

One of the smaller screens displayed a breaking story from Singapore: "Kaneda Tech Announces Strategic Relocation to China Amid Japanese Market Collapse." Tadano chuckled under his breath. The rats were fleeing the ship faster than he expected.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. His office was sleek and minimalist, designed to be both a workspace and a sanctuary. But even in this calm oasis, he felt the tension thrumming beneath the surface of the world.

"The Great Reset," he thought, his expression growing contemplative. "It’s ugly, but maybe it’s necessary."

Tadano had always known that the system was a time bomb. He’d built his empire outside of it, disrupting industries instead of propping them up. He wasn’t like the old CEOs scrambling to protect their fortunes. He saw this collapse as an opportunity—a chance to rebuild something better.

His phone buzzed again, a notification lighting up the screen:

"Haida: On my way up."

Tadano’s smile grew wider.

"Perfect timing."

He stood and adjusted his tailored blazer, stepping over to the glass wall that overlooked the rest of the cafe. Patrons milled about below, unaware of the magnitude of what was happening beyond their phones and coffee orders. They were trying to live their normal lives, oblivious to the fact that the world was changing around them.

Tadano felt a strange kind of sympathy for them—not pity, but a quiet understanding. People didn’t like change. They clung to what was familiar, even if it was rotten to the core.

But he wasn’t afraid of change. He thrived on it.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small flash drive. The sleek black drive would help either reshape Japan’s tech landscape or bring it to its knees. He twirled it between his fingers thoughtfully.

"If we’re going to rebuild," he thought, "we have to be willing to burn the old world down first."

The office door slid open with a quiet hiss, and Haida stepped inside, looking pale and shaken. His eyes darted toward the monitors, taking in the chaos before meeting Tadano’s calm, collected gaze.

"Looks like you’ve been watching," Haida muttered, his voice hoarse.

Tadano gestured toward the chair across from him. "Of course. It’s history in the making."

Haida sat down heavily, running a hand through his fur. "It’s bad, man. People are already panicking at work. They’re talking about mass layoffs and... I don’t know if I’m going to make it out of this."

Tadano tilted his head, studying Haida carefully. "What if I told you... you don’t have to be a part of that system anymore?"

Haida’s eyes narrowed. "You mean... your 'homework,' right?"

Tadano nodded and leaned in, his voice soft but deliberate. "The last step. The greatest gamble of all time. If we do this right, Haida... we don’t just free ourselves. We expose Kaneda Tech for what they really are. And we break their stranglehold on the future."

Haida swallowed hard, the enormity of what Tadano was proposing settling on his shoulders like a heavy angel and devil on each one. "What exactly are we exposing?"

Tadano’s gaze darkened. "The Eyes of Tomorrow program. The surveillance system they’re selling to the Chinese government. Military-grade tech designed to control people at a level that makes dystopian fiction look tame." He held up the flash drive. "This is everything we need to blow it wide open."

Haida’s mind reeled. The stakes were higher than he’d ever imagined. This wasn’t just about freedom or survival—it was about the future of the entire country.

Tadano’s voice was steady, almost hypnotic. "But you have to make a choice, Haida. You’re either all in... or you’re out."

Haida stared at the flash drive, his pulse thudding in his ears. This was the moment. The final level. The choice that would define everything.

Tadano leaned back, giving Haida the space to think. "So... what’s it going to be?"

Haida closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the chaos around him fade for just a moment. When he opened them again, his answer was clear.

"I’m in."

Haida leaned back in the chair, still trying to process everything Tadano had told him. He rested his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers, his mind buzzing with questions. After a long pause, he finally asked, "How the hell did you know about the ‘Eyes of Tomorrow’ program? I work at Kaneda Tech, and I only found out about it from my boss recently. But you... you’ve had this figured out for a while."

Tadano gave a small, knowing smile and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "You think Kaneda Tech and companies like it operate in isolation? Haida, the corporate world isn’t just a bunch of disconnected giants trying to outdo each other in sales reports and patents. It’s a war zone—one where the weapons are data, blackmail, and espionage. And in Japan it’s worse than ever. We’re living in a new zaibatsu age."

Haida blinked. "Zaibatsu? You mean like the pre-World War II industrial conglomerates?"

Tadano nodded. "Exactly. But instead of Mitsui, Mitsubishi, and Sumitomo ruling the economy, it’s tech giants like Kaneda Tech, Oshima Dynamics, and Tsukuba Cybernetics. The tech sector’s been carving out fiefdoms for years, using shell corporations, private intelligence networks, and even state-sponsored projects to undermine their rivals. And while everyone’s distracted by the shiny gadgets and new app launches, these corporations have been waging a shadow war."

Haida leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And Kaneda Tech is... one of the major players in this war?"

Tadano’s expression darkened. "One of the worst. They’re not just developing tech—they’re developing control. ‘Eyes of Tomorrow’ isn’t just some fancy surveillance program. It’s a complete invasion of autonomy. Real-time tracking, predictive behavior algorithms... They’re selling it to the Chinese government, right? Who plan to use it to crush dissent and cement their dominance over the Pacific…"

Haida exhaled slowly, running a hand through his fur. "But how do you know all this? How did you get your hands on that kind of intel?"

Tadano chuckled softly and tapped his temple. "I didn’t build my empire on charm alone, Haida. I have connections—disillusioned programmers, whistleblowers, even former corporate spies. They know the system’s rotten, and they’ve been feeding me information for years. Kaneda Tech’s plans came to me in fragments, but when I saw the patterns..." He spread his hands. "It all clicked."

Haida shook his head, still struggling to wrap his mind around the scale of what Tadano was describing. "And now that everything’s collapsing... you think these companies are just going to pack up and leave?"

Tadano’s smile faded. "Not for long. Sure, they’ll run. They’ll flee to Singapore, to Silicon Valley, to Seoul. But they’ll come back, Haida. Once the dust settles, they’ll return like colonizers reclaiming land they abandoned. Only this time, they’ll own everything outright—no oversight, no regulation. They’ll rebuild Japan in their image."

Haida felt a chill run down his spine. "Corporate-colonization... of their own country," he murmured. The thought was sickening—mega-corporations returning to exploit the ruins they helped create.

Tadano leaned closer, his voice low but intense. "That’s why I’m doing this. We can’t let that happen. If we expose Kaneda Tech and their involvement in the collapse—especially their deal with China—it could change everything. Japan’s struggling, but if the truth comes out, we might still salvage its independence and keep it aligned with the free market and the western world."

Haida’s ears flicked as he absorbed Tadano’s words. "You think we can... what? Reinforce Japan’s alliances? Make it a beacon of free enterprise again?"

Tadano gave a small nod. "It’s not about waving flags or preaching ideology. It’s about reminding the world that the people who live here aren’t just pawns in some corporate chess game. If we let companies like Kaneda Tech sell us out to authoritarian regimes, there’s no coming back. We’ll be another cog in someone else’s machine."

The room fell into silence, the hum of the monitors the only sound. Haida stared at the glowing screens, watching clips of stock tickers, headlines, and crowds of protestors demanding answers. His gut twisted with uncertainty.

Tadano’s voice softened. "Look, I’m not saying this will be easy. Hell, it could get us both killed. But if we don’t fight back now... then we’re letting them win. We’re letting them define what freedom means for the next generation. And I don’t know about you, Haida, but I’m not about to let some CEO and his shareholders write that story for me."

Haida let out a shaky breath, his mind racing. He thought about his father, Juzo, who had tried to manipulate his life in the shadows. He thought about the surveillance system Tadano was describing—an Orwellian nightmare brought to life. And he thought about the people he cared about: Inui, Retsuko, even Shikabane. If this system was allowed to grow unchecked, none of them would have any real agency left.

He looked up at Tadano, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resolve. "Okay," he said quietly. "What’s the plan?"

Tadano’s grin returned, a spark of determination in his eyes. "First, we blow the lid off the program. I’ve got contacts who can help us leak the data—journalists, activists, even some people in the Diet who’ve been waiting for something like this. But we need more than documents. We need a smoking gun."

Haida’s brow furrowed. "And where do we find that?"

Tadano tapped the flash drive still resting on the desk. "Kaneda Tech’s central server in their Shinjuku office. It’s locked tighter than a vault, but with the right approach... we can break in. And when we do? We’ll make sure the world sees exactly what they’re up to."

Haida’s heart pounded as the enormity of the task set in. It felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down into the unknown. But for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than fear—he felt purpose.

He nodded slowly. "Let’s do it."

Tadano’s grin widened, and he extended his hand across the desk. "Welcome to the final level, Haida."

Haida took his hand and shook it firmly. "Let’s blow this whole thing wide open."

—

Haida sat stiffly in the backseat of the sleek black car, the leather cool against his arms as the city blurred past the windows. The faint scent of air freshener mixed with the distant saltiness of the waterfront breeze creeping in through the cracked window. Kobayashi, Tadano's personal driver, sat in the front, his large paws steady on the wheel as he navigated the neon-lit streets of Minato Ward. The guy looked cool as a cucumber—his reflective aviators masking any sign of emotion.

Haida's phone was pressed against his ear, Tadano’s voice crackling through the line.

"This hacker... They’ve been on the inside at Kaneda Tech for a while. You might even know them. You two might’ve crossed paths during one of your late-night deployments or those IT 'emergencies' they always pulled you in for," Tadano explained, his tone calm but focused.

Haida raised an eyebrow. "Really? Someone from the inside? You’re not worried they might double-cross us?"

Tadano let out a short laugh. "They’d only do that if someone offered them something better—and trust me, Kaneda Tech isn’t handing out anything worthwhile right now. They’re bleeding money and reputation. This hacker? They’ve been waiting for their golden parachute, and we’re offering them the best way out."

Haida rubbed his temples, trying to process it all. His nerves were frayed, his head buzzing from the chaos of the day. "Alright, fine. But what about the flash drive? You’re telling me this tiny thing is going to crack the Kaneda Tech servers? That’s... a bit hard to believe."

Tadano’s voice took on that smug, almost amused edge it always did when he knew more than he was letting on. "It’s not just a flash drive, Haida. Think of it as a micro-computer packed with more processing power than most high-end laptops. It’s got its own power source, storage unit, and an adaptive processor designed to outpace any corporate firewall."

Haida stared down at the flash drive in his hand, turning it between his fingers. It was small—sleek and metallic, barely larger than his thumb. It didn’t look like something that could bring down a tech giant.

Tadano continued, his tone almost reverent. "The actual decryption virus still needs to be loaded, though. That’s why you’re meeting the hacker. This thing’s just the shell—the casing. The virus will do the real work. It’s a sophisticated worm built to shatter their encryption and auto-download all relevant files. And the best part? It deletes itself after the job is done. No digital fingerprints."

Haida felt a chill at the implications. "So... this thing’s capable of cracking open the servers and pulling out classified data like it’s nothing."

"Exactly," Tadano confirmed. "That drive is worth more than most people make in a lifetime. So don’t lose it."

Haida let out a small, nervous chuckle. "No pressure, huh?"

"Nope," Tadano replied cheerfully. "Just... be careful. And listen to what the hacker tells you."

The line clicked off, leaving Haida with a familiar sense of unease. He stared out the window as the buildings thinned out, replaced by quieter streets and the faint outline of the waterfront. The glow of the Tokyo Tower in the distance shimmered over the water, casting long, golden reflections.

Kobayashi cleared his throat, breaking the silence in the car. "So," he said without turning around. "First time doing something like this?"

Haida blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... yeah. You could say that."

Kobayashi chuckled softly. "I figured. You’ve got that ‘deer in headlights’ look."

Haida gave an awkward laugh. "I thought I was hiding it pretty well."

"Nah. You’re broadcasting it loud and clear," Kobayashi replied, glancing at Haida briefly in the rearview mirror. "But hey, don’t sweat it. Everyone’s got a first time for... whatever this is."

Haida shifted in his seat. "You... ever get involved in this kind of thing?"

Kobayashi smirked. "I’m just the driver, man. But I’ve seen a lot of things in this line of work. You’d be surprised how many people think they’re saving the world, only to end up chasing their tails."

Haida raised an eyebrow. "Is that your way of saying I’m making a mistake?"

Kobayashi shrugged as they pulled up to a red light. "Nah.”

The light turned green, and the car continued down a narrow street lined with old warehouses and rusted fences. The air grew heavier with the scent of sea salt and motor oil.

Haida tapped the flash drive against his palm, trying to shake off the doubt creeping into his mind. "I just want to do something that matters," he muttered.

Kobayashi nodded. "Then make it matter."

The car slowed as they approached a run-down dockside with a militant fence keeping most people out, its neon sign flickering weakly. The entrance was shadowed by crates and a pile of scrap metal. Haida could barely make out the faint hum of machinery inside.

Kobayashi parked the car and killed the engine. "Here we are. The hacker’s expecting you."

Haida took a deep breath and opened the door. The cool evening air hit his face, sharp and briny.

Kobayashi leaned out the window. "Good luck, man. And hey... try not to get stabbed."

Haida managed a weak grin. "I’ll do my best."

He pocketed the flash drive and walked toward the entrance, his footsteps echoing against the damp pavement. The building loomed ahead like the entrance to some secret lair. For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of his choices pressing down on him again.

"This is it," he thought. "The final level."

With one last glance over his shoulder, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, ready to meet whoever was waiting for him.

The scent of rust and oil hung thick in the air as Haida walked further into the shipyard, the sound of machinery humming in the background. The vast space stretched out like the hollowed ribcage of some long-dead industrial beast. Enormous ship propellers, polished to a dull bronze sheen, loomed over him, suspended from heavy iron chains or mounted onto repair stands. The propellers were massive—each blade curved with precision, reflecting the overhead lights like mirrors of an unforgiving past.

Haida felt impossibly small. The sheer scale of everything around him pressed down on his chest. He stopped briefly in front of one of the propellers, watching as a night-shift worker in a grime-stained jumpsuit skillfully adjusted the fittings with a wrench. Sparks flew as a nearby welder sealed a crack in one of the propeller blades. The workers moved like they were part of the machinery itself—steady, precise, unwavering. It was mesmerizing in a strange way.

"This place used to be alive," Haida thought. "Built to keep ships running, to send people across oceans. And now...?" His gaze drifted to the far end of the workshop, where the noise was different—louder, angrier.

A crowd of workers had gathered near the entrance to the main office building. Their shouts reverberated through the space, raw with frustration and fear. A group of private security guards stood in front of the doors, blocking their way. The guards wore dark, paramilitary-style uniforms emblazoned with a familiar logo—a silver shield with an angular "K" in the center.

"Kirimoto Security," Haida muttered under his breath, recognizing the name. They were infamous in corporate circles for their aggressive "conflict resolution" tactics, a.k.a. union-busting.

The tension in the air was palpable. The workers were waving signs and yelling at the top of their lungs, demanding justice.

"Where’s our severance, huh?" a burly lion in an orange safety vest shouted, his voice hoarse. "You think you can just walk away from this without paying us what you owe?"

"Why should we starve while your CEOs are sipping cocktails in Singapore?" a younger fox shouted, her fists clenched at her sides.

One of the Kirimoto guards, a tall wolf with a rigid stance, raised his hand in what was supposed to be a calming gesture but came across as condescending. "Please disperse. The company is handling the situation through the appropriate legal channels. There’s no need for a demonstration."

"Legal channels?" the lion barked back, stepping forward. "We’ve got kids to feed! You think we can wait around while some boardroom decides if we’re worth a damn?!"

The crowd surged closer, voices rising in anger. The guards shifted into defensive positions, their hands resting near their batons. Haida felt his pulse quicken. He’d seen situations like this escalate before, and it never ended well.

"These people are scared," Haida thought. "They’re not asking for a miracle—they’re just asking not to be thrown away."

He found himself inching toward the crowd, caught between the overwhelming desire to help and the fear of drawing attention to himself. But just as he was about to step closer, he heard a voice over the crowd—sharp, authoritative.

"Enough!"

The workers paused, turning toward the voice. A woman in her late 40s stood on the edge of the gathering, her arms crossed. She had the air of someone who’d seen too many fights and wasn’t afraid of another. Her voice cut through the noise like a whip.

"I get it," she continued, her voice steady. "We’re all angry. But if we let them push us into something violent, we lose. They’ve got cameras, lawyers, and connections. You know what we have? Each other. We stay united, but we stay smart."

The crowd murmured, some nodding in reluctant agreement.

Haida exhaled slowly, relieved that things hadn’t boiled over—for now. He glanced back toward the entrance to the smaller office area where the hacker was supposedly waiting for him. The noise of the protest dulled behind him as he moved past rows of workbenches and industrial tools. But the voices of the workers stayed with him, echoing in his mind.

Haida was startled when one of the workers near the crowd, a tall bear with slicked-back fur and sleeves of intricate tattoos peeking out from under his rolled-up coveralls, approached him. The tattoos were unmistakably Yakuza in style—dragons coiled around chrysanthemums, detailed waves cresting up his arms. Haida instinctively stiffened but tried to keep his cool.

"You with Tadano?" the bear asked, his voice low but calm. His eyes had the kind of calculating sharpness that belonged to someone who had seen too much.

Haida nodded slowly, unsure of whether to be wary or relieved. "Yeah... I’m here on his orders."

The bear sized him up, then jerked his head toward the office area. "Follow me."

Haida followed the bear past the edge of the crowd and toward the building's back entrance. They passed rows of desks cluttered with blueprints, half-eaten bento boxes, and hastily scrawled notes. The office smelled of coffee, sweat, and tension. It was cramped, with people packed into cubicles like sardines. The workers inside were hunched over their computers, their faces drawn and exhausted as they hammered out emails, financial reports, and spreadsheets. They were desperately trying to untangle the mess the crisis had thrown them into—trying to unfuck themselves.

The bear led Haida further down a narrow hallway until they reached a door marked “Custodial Services Office." The door was slightly ajar, and the faint sound of a mechanical hum drifted out. The bear pushed it open and gestured for Haida to enter.

"Good luck," the bear muttered before turning and walking back toward the main floor.

Haida stepped into the office, his eyes adjusting to the warm yellow glow of a desk lamp. The room was small and cluttered, the walls lined with old shipping manifests and peeling posters advertising ship repair services. A few outdated computer monitors sat stacked in a corner, collecting dust, while the main desk in front of him was littered with soda cans, half-eaten snacks, and a tangle of cables.

Haida stepped into the office, his eyes adjusting to the warm yellow glow of a desk lamp. The room was small and cluttered, the walls lined with old shipping manifests and peeling posters advertising ship repair services. A few outdated computer monitors sat stacked in a corner, collecting dust, while the main desk in front of him was littered with soda cans, half-eaten snacks, and a tangle of cables.

She glanced up from her screen as Haida entered and smirked. Her features were had an angular jawline and narrow eyes that sparkled with mischief. Something about her felt familiar—not just in a vague way, but intimately familiar.

"Oh, it really is you, the guy from interior tech support," she said, her voice low and raspy. "Looking sort of like shit."

Haida blinked, momentarily thrown off by her familiarity with his name. "You know me?"

The woman snorted and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "We crossed paths a few times at Kaneda Tech. You probably don’t remember me—I was just another cog in the wheel, right? But you... you stood out. I mean, you were the guy who kept showing up looking like you were losing fights on consecutive nights."

Haida winced at the memory. "That... wasn’t my finest hour."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "Relax, I’m not judging.”

Haida took a step closer, still trying to place her. There was something about the way she carried herself—the dry tone, the way she slouched but stayed alert—that tugged at a memory. Then it hit him: she looked a lot like Shikabane.

"You’re... you’re related to Shikabane, aren’t you?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah. She’s my cousin. Name’s Mikako. Saw you in a post of her’s, like a year ago. Small world when it comes to people like us."

Haida exhaled slowly and took a seat in the worn office chair across from her. "Small world."

Mikako shrugged. "Tokyo’s smaller than you think when you are around long enough. Anyway, Tadano filled me in on what you need. Let me guess—you’re carrying the magic stick?"

Haida fished the sleek flash drive out of his pocket and set it on the desk. Mikako picked it up and turned it over in her hand, inspecting it like a jeweler examining a gemstone.

"Looks pretty unassuming for something that’s supposed to take down a megacorp, doesn’t it?" she muttered.

Haida nodded. "Tadano says it’s a micro-computer packed with everything we need—except for the virus."

Mikako set the flash drive down and powered up one of her main computers. The screen lit up with lines of code scrolling past faster than Haida could track. "That’s where I come in. The ‘safe cracker,’ as he calls it, isn’t much without a payload. I’ve been working on something custom. A worm that’ll not only bypass Kaneda Tech’s security but download every piece of incriminating data they’ve got on the ‘Eyes of Tomorrow’ project."

She inserted the flash drive into a USB port, and the screen blinked as the system began to upload the virus. Haida watched the process, the soft hum of the computer filling the silence between them.

Mikako glanced at him as she typed, her fingers moving with practiced ease. "So... how deep are you in this?"

Haida rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him. "Too deep to walk away now. Tadano says this could change everything. But I can’t tell if I’m doing the right thing or if I’m just... helping burn everything down."

Mikako paused and leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers against the desk. "You’re not the first person to feel like that. You think I haven’t asked myself the same thing? Whether exposing the truth actually helps anyone? Whether it's worth the risk?" She let out a long sigh. "But the way I see it? When a system’s this rotten, maybe it does need to burn. Maybe it’s the only way to rebuild something better."

Haida stared at her, taking in her words. "You really believe that?"

Mikako shrugged. "Some days. Other days... I just want to get paid and log off." She smirked again, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it came. "But today? Yeah. I believe it."

The upload bar on the screen inched closer to completion, the green line glowing faintly. Mikako folded her arms and leaned toward Haida. "Look, I’m not going to lie to you—once this thing is installed, there’s no going back. Kaneda Tech’s going to know someone was inside their system, and they’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks if they figure out who. You ready for that?"

Haida’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk. "I don’t think anyone’s ever really ready for something like this... but yeah. I’m in."

Mikako nodded approvingly. "Good. Because Tadano isn’t the type to give second chances as much as you’d like to think." She turned back to the screen as the upload hit 100%, a soft beep signaling that the process was complete.

She ejected the flash drive and handed it back to Haida. "There you go—loaded and ready to crash the party. Once you plug this in at Kaneda Tech, everything they’ve been hiding is going to be laid bare."

Haida stared at the small device in his hand, feeling the enormity of what he was holding. "Thanks, Mikako."

"Don’t thank me yet," she said, standing up and stretching. "This isn’t over until you get that data out and expose it. After that? Well... let’s hope Tadano’s right about this being worth it."

Haida slipped the flash drive back into his pocket and stood. "If this works... maybe we’ll all finally get some answers."

Mikako watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded toward the door. "Be careful out there, Haida."

He gave her a small, determined smile before turning and heading toward the exit. The echoes of the workers' protests and the clanging of machinery filled the air as he stepped back into the dimly lit shipyard.

"This is it," he thought. "The beginning of the end."

Chapter Text

Retsuko sat across from Director Ton, her shoulders slumped, her hands resting limply in her lap. The office felt smaller than usual, weighed down by the grim atmosphere of impending loss. The blinds were half-drawn, filtering in a gray light that made the room feel even more somber. Ton’s desk, usually cluttered with papers, coffee cups, and random odds and ends, was unusually neat today—like he had already started packing things up.

Ton leaned back in his squeaky chair, a resigned look on his face. His usual gruff demeanor was gone, replaced with something quieter, more reflective. He folded his hands over his stomach and exhaled deeply.

"Look, Retsuko... the truth is, more or less, we’re all going under," Ton said, his voice surprisingly soft. "The whole company is finished. Most of us didn’t even see it coming until it was too late. But I wanted to have the integrity to at least tell you—tell everyone in private—that I appreciated working with you, despite everything."

Retsuko stared at the stack of papers on his desk without really seeing them. His words barely registered. She felt... numb. The chaos of everything—her personal life, her professional life, the world itself—it was all crumbling. Her chest felt hollow, like she’d been emptied out and left with nothing but a faint echo of who she used to be.

"That’s... kind of you to say," she murmured, though her voice was flat. After a pause, she asked, "What about... severance packages? Is there anything left for us?"

Ton’s ears drooped slightly, and he let out a long, weary sigh. "There’s nothing, Retsuko. Not for you. Not for me. Hell, even I’m not getting anything." He rubbed the bridge of his snout, his eyes tired. "I’m too old for this crap... But I’ll have to make do. The only thing I can rely on now is the social security pension I’ll get in a few years."

Retsuko looked up at him, disbelief and exhaustion clouding her expression. "How... how do you do that? How do you look at all of this—everything falling apart—and still say you’ll just ‘make do’?"

Ton gave a short, dry laugh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You think I haven’t asked myself the same thing? It’s not like I’ve got some secret formula for making it through the worst of it. But... I’ll tell you something."

Retsuko blinked and sat up slightly, curious despite herself.

Ton’s eyes softened—not with pity, but with a kind of fatherly understanding. "When you’ve lived long enough, you realize that life isn’t a straight line. Sometimes it loops back on itself. Sometimes it’s a damned roller coaster. But no matter how bad things get... you just have to keep moving. Even if you don’t know where you’re headed."

Retsuko’s throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, but it felt impossible. "But... how do you keep moving when you feel like... you’ve already lost?"

Ton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Here’s the thing, Retsuko—losing isn’t the end. It’s a moment. And moments pass. The trick isn’t about pretending things didn’t fall apart. It’s about deciding what you’re gonna do with the pieces."

Retsuko’s eyes stung with tears she hadn’t realized were building up. "But what if... what if there’s nothing left to rebuild?"

Ton leaned in closer, his voice low but steady. "Then you start with yourself. You build something from the inside out. You find that one small thing that’s still worth holding onto—even if it’s just a stupid routine, a favorite meal, or something that makes you laugh. And you let that be your anchor until the rest starts to make sense."

Retsuko swallowed hard, trying to keep herself composed. "You make it sound so... simple."

Ton shrugged, a small, sad smile crossing his face. "It’s not simple. It’s just... the only way I know how to survive."

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Retsuko stared down at her lap, processing his words. Despite everything—despite the fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of defeat—something in Ton’s voice made her want to believe that things could get better, even if she didn’t know how yet.

Ton leaned back again and gave her a pointed look. "You’ve been through a lot, Retsuko. You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let all this... mess... convince you otherwise."

Retsuko managed a faint smile, though it wavered. "Thanks, Director Ton. I... I think I needed to hear that."

Ton grunted and waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, don’t get all mushy on me. Just... remember who you are, alright? You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And whatever happens next... you’ll figure it out."

Retsuko nodded slowly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. She stood and gave him a small bow. "Thanks for everything, Director. Really."

Ton nodded, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Take care of yourself, Retsuko."

She turned and walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. For the first time in a long time, she felt the faintest spark of something inside her—maybe hope, maybe resolve, or maybe just the smallest shred of belief that things didn’t have to end in total ruin.

As she left the office and walked down the hallway, she repeated Ton’s words to herself like a mantra: "Decide what you’re gonna do with the pieces."

Retsuko stepped back onto the main office floor, expecting the same bleak scene of coworkers staring hollow-eyed at their screens or quietly packing their things. Instead, what she saw took her completely by surprise.

The desks were cluttered with opened bottles of beer, cans of chu-hi, and snacks—bags of chips, store-bought cakes, and instant ramen cups. Someone had commandeered one of the office speakers and was playing a playlist of nostalgic 80s Japanese pop. A group of coworkers gathered around a desk playing a card game, while others laughed and leaned back in their chairs, sharing stories and toasting each other.

It wasn’t a scene of despair—it was a going-away party. A bittersweet celebration of their shared experience, even if the future was terrifyingly uncertain.

Retsuko stood there for a moment, stunned. Slowly, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She spotted Komiya and Kabae raising their glasses in a cheer near the breakroom. Komiya had clearly already had too much to drink—his face was flushed as he loudly reminisced about old company functions that no one cared to remember but listened to anyway.

Fenneko was sitting on the edge of one of the desks, swirling a glass of plum wine and making sarcastic comments at the ridiculous party decorations someone had hastily taped to the walls—crude drawings of inside jokes and office memes.

Fenneko spotted Retsuko and waved her over with a lazy grin. "Hey, you finally decided to come out of the cave," she quipped.

Retsuko approached, still holding onto everything Ton had said, but the warmth of the room was contagious. She let out a soft chuckle and grabbed a drink from the table. "Looks like I missed the memo about this turning into a nomikai," she said, referring to the traditional after-work drinking parties.

Fenneko shrugged and took a sip. "Well, if we’re all going down with the ship, we might as well go down drunk, right?"

Retsuko shook her head but laughed. "You’re impossible."

Fenneko’s smirk softened. "I mean it, though. It’s good to see you out here. I’ve been a jerk lately... and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve all the crap I gave you." She lowered her voice. "I... I’m not good at this emotional stuff, you know that. But for what it’s worth... I’m rooting for you, Retsuko. Always."

Retsuko felt a warmth in her chest at those words. "Thanks, Fenneko," she said, her voice quiet but sincere.

Before they could say more, Tsunoda walked up, holding a half-full wine glass and wearing her usual, overly-cheerful expression. "Oh my gosh, Retsuko! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!"

Retsuko tensed instinctively but forced herself to stay calm.

Tsunoda twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers and shifted nervously. "I, uh... I know we’ve had... issues. And I’ve been kinda... well, you know, annoying." She gave a sheepish laugh. "But... you’re actually pretty cool, and I hope we’re okay."

Retsuko raised an eyebrow, surprised by Tsunoda’s honesty. She glanced at Fenneko, who gave her a subtle nod as if to say, It’s your call.

Retsuko took a sip of her drink and nodded. "We’re okay."

Tsunoda’s face lit up. "Really? Oh, thank you! I was seriously worried!"

Fenneko snorted. "Don’t get used to it, Tsunoda."

The three of them laughed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Retsuko felt a sense of peace—a fragile, fleeting peace, but peace nonetheless.

The music shifted to something more upbeat, and some of their coworkers started dancing by the windows. Kabae and her usual gossip crew were clinking their glasses and reminiscing about all the office scandals they’d lived through. Even Komiya, usually a nervous wreck, was trying to lead an impromptu karaoke session with his phone in hand as a makeshift mic.

Retsuko drifted toward the window, where a few others had gathered, staring out at the Tokyo skyline. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of gold and orange. The city below still bustled with life, but it felt detached from their quiet corner of the world.

Someone passed her another drink—a warm can of beer—and she accepted it without thinking.

One of the senior accountants, a stoic-looking stag who rarely spoke, suddenly broke the silence. "You know... I’ve worked here for over twenty years. And I’ve never seen anything like this. Feels like the end of an era. My whole world. Ended over night…”

Everyone nodded solemnly. Another worker—a mouse in glasses—spoke up. "I thought I’d retire here... raise my kids, live a quiet life." He laughed bitterly. "Guess I was naïve."

Retsuko took a deep breath and looked out at the city lights twinkling in the distance. She thought about Director Ton’s words—you decide what to do with the pieces.

Another coworker clinked their glass against hers, smiling. "To whatever comes next," they said softly.

Retsuko raised her glass. "To whatever comes next."

The room fell quiet for a brief, poignant moment before someone cranked up the music again, and the chatter and laughter resumed. Retsuko smiled faintly as she watched her coworkers—her friends—try to make the best of what they had left.

As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, she realized that no one was truly willing to go home—not yet. The office had been their second home for so long, and this was their way of saying goodbye. No one knew what the next day would bring, but for tonight... they weren’t alone.

—

Kobayashi gave him a small nod from the driver’s seat.

“I’ll be waiting nearby,” Kobayashi said, his tone calm but tinged with something serious. "If things go south... you know what to do.”

Haida forced a weak smile. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that."

He shut the door behind him and turned to face the tower that loomed before him—the monolithic Kaneda Tech building, its obsidian glass exterior reflecting the city lights in fragmented shards. The structure towered above everything else in Shinjuku, its sharp edges gleaming like the blade of a guillotine. The sight of it made Haida feel like an insect staring up at a titan.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his chest as he took the first step toward the entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a faint hiss, and the sterile smell of the lobby greeted him.

A security guard glanced at him briefly but didn’t seem to recognize him or care. Haida nodded as casually as he could manage and continued walking.

The polished marble floors gleamed under the bright overhead lights, but to Haida, it felt like walking on ice. He passed the reception desk without slowing down, heading straight for the elevator bank. Each step felt heavier than the last, the enormity of what he was about to do weighing down on him like a lead cloak.

"Okay, just stay calm," he told himself. "Act like you belong here. You were called in again last minute. That is all.”

He reached the elevators and pressed the call button. The mirrored doors reflected his anxious face back at him. His ears twitched at every small sound—the faint beep of the security cameras, the quiet murmur of someone typing behind a desk. He could practically feel the eyes of the building watching him, though he knew it was just paranoia creeping in.

The elevator doors slid open, and Haida stepped inside. The moment the doors closed, he leaned against the wall and exhaled shakily, his reflection staring back at him in the polished steel.

The elevator’s control panel glowed softly. He stared at the row of buttons, trying to make a quick mental map. The server room was several floors up, past the secure floors dedicated to corporate strategy and IT oversight. He hadn’t exactly been given a step-by-step plan—Tadano’s style was more “figure it out as you go.” Haida had to improvise.

"Alright... if I’m right, the main server room should be past the executive IT office on the 18th floor. I’ve seen enough blueprints to piece that together, but hmmm… maybe I did get called there once or twice." Haida thought. He pressed the button for the 17th floor, hoping to avoid drawing suspicion by stepping directly onto a secure floor.

The elevator lurched upward, the hum of machinery vibrating under his feet. As the numbers lit up one by one, Haida’s mind raced. He replayed Tadano’s words over and over. "This is the final stretch."

Ding.

The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. The 17th floor was rows of empty cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms. Haida stepped out cautiously, keeping his head low. He moved down the hall, passing darkened desks and faintly glowing computer monitors left in sleep mode. The entire floor felt like a ghost town—eerily quiet but filled with the echoes of a workspace now abandoned in the chaos of the financial crisis.

At the far end of the hallway was a stairwell door. Haida pushed it open quietly and started up the narrow flight of stairs to the 18th floor. His pulse quickened with every step. By the time he reached the top, he could hear the servers through the walls—a low, constant drone that sent a chill down his spine.

As Haida stood in front of the heavy, reinforced security door, the entire mission bore down on him. His heart thumped in his chest, loud and uneven, each beat a grim reminder that there was no turning back. The sterile smell of air conditioning and metal made the space feel suffocating. He glanced down at his wristwatch, pretending to adjust it as if he was simply checking the time, though in reality, he was stalling—trying to calm the storm of nerves building inside him.

The keypad beside the door blinked steadily, waiting for an input he didn’t have. He ran a hand through his fur, his mind spinning. "What the hell am I doing? What if this doesn’t work?"

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Startled, he pulled it out and saw Tadano’s name flashing across the screen. A single message popped up:

Tadano: The drive also can send out a localized EMP. Won’t knock out the power to the whole building, but it’ll shut down the door’s low-grade systems for just long enough. There’s a switch on the side. I should have told you that earlier, but I admittingly got a bit carried away and got too excited about other things…

Haida stared at the message for a moment. He couldn’t tell if Tadano’s timing was lucky or creepy. Maybe both. His thumb hovered over the screen as if he could respond, but instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and let out a long breath.

"Relax. It’ll work. Breathe."

Haida stared at the message for a moment. He couldn’t tell if Tadano’s timing was lucky or creepy. Maybe both. His thumb hovered over the screen as if he could respond, but instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and let out a long breath.

He reached into the other pocket and pulled out the flash drive. It felt cold and unnervingly small in his hand—just a piece of tech, unremarkable to anyone who didn’t know its purpose. But it held the key to something massive. On the side of the drive was a small, recessed switch, almost unnoticeable unless you knew to look for it.

Haida’s grip tightened around the drive. "This is pretty cool, I wish I was less stressed so I could actually appreciate it." His thumb brushed over the switch, hesitating.

Just then, his phone buzzed again with another text.

"It’s just a door, Haida. Don’t make it bigger than it is."

Haida let out a dry, nervous laugh. "Easy for you to say," he muttered under his breath, glancing down the hall near where some cameras were fixated. No doubt, Tadano and maybe even Mikako were watching somehow. He just hoped all the security guards who lost their jobs the last 12 hours weren’t pulling any free, unpaid overtime.

He took one last deep breath, steadying himself as much as he could. His finger hovered over the switch. His pulse roared in his ears.

"Here goes nothing."

With a click, he flipped the switch.

The tiny LED light on the side of the drive blinked blue for a fraction of a second before dimming. There was a faint pop, like static electricity, followed by a soft hum that faded into silence. The keypad screen flickered, its display briefly showing garbled text before going completely dark. The lock’s indicator light, which had been glowing red, blinked off.

The door was dead.

Haida’s eyes widened slightly in awe. "It actually worked..."

He pressed his hand against the heavy door and gave it a push. There was a moment of resistance, but then it gave way with a soft click. Haida slipped inside, careful not to let the door slam shut behind him.

The server room was colder than the rest of the floor—a controlled environment meant to keep the machines from overheating. The rattle of cooling fans filled the room, steady and relentless. Rows of black server towers stood like silent sentinels, blinking green and blue lights creating a sea of artificial stars.

He made his way down the narrow aisle, his footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor. Each step felt like a countdown. The servers hummed louder as he neared the main terminal, his heart pounding in sync with the whir of machinery.

He reached the central terminal and glanced around one last time before inserting the flash drive into the port. The screen flickered to life, and lines of code scrolled across it in rapid succession. The flash drive’s inner processor whirred as it did its job, embedding the virus Mikako had uploaded.

The system beeped, and the mainframe’s status bar appeared:
“Connection established. Downloading encrypted files…”

Haida exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. But before he could feel any sense of relief, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, expecting another message from Tadano.

Instead, the text read:
"Cameras are back online."

His stomach twisted as he realized what that meant. He wasn’t invisible anymore.

"Shit."

He yanked the flash drive out of the port and slipped it back into his pocket. He turned toward the exit, but something caught his eye—a red light blinking at the far end of the room near the stairwell entrance. It wasn’t a normal server light. It was the kind of light that came from a motion-triggered security camera.

The door to the stairwell opened with a loud metallic clang. Haida froze as a tall figure stepped through the doorway, silhouetted by the emergency light.

It was his boss—the Leopard.

The leopard’s fur was a sleek, charcoal gray, with faint rosettes barely visible under the low light. His golden eyes glinted with something dangerous—calm, calculating, and utterly lethal. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored black suit that looked like it cost more than Haida’s monthly rent. His tie was loosened slightly, as though he had just finished some high-stakes meeting but still maintained his composed exterior.

His name was Shingen Ito, a name that struck fear in the hearts of employees throughout Kaneda Tech. He wasn’t just a boss—he was the architect of the company’s more ruthless innovations, the enforcer of unspoken rules, the one who always seemed to know more than anyone else.

Haida’s blood turned cold. "Sh- Shingen-san…" he stammered.

Shingen walked slowly toward Haida, each step deliberate and precise. His polished shoes barely made a sound on the carpeted floor, but Haida could feel the weight of them all the same.

"I was wondering when you’d crack," Shingen said, his voice smooth but with a razor’s edge. "You’ve always been the weak link. I warned the board that you’d be a liability someday."

Haida backed up a step, his instincts screaming at him to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. "I… I don’t know what you’re talking about—"

Before Haida could finish, Shingen’s arm lashed out like a whip. The back of his hand connected with Haida’s face in a sickening crack. The force of the blow sent Haida sprawling to the floor, his head ringing from the impact. The flash drive tumbled from his pocket, clattering to the ground next to him.

Haida groaned, clutching his cheek as pain blossomed across his face. His vision swam as he tried to push himself up, but Shingen’s looming shadow fell over him.

"You must think I’m stupid," Shingen said, crouching down beside him. His voice was low, almost conversational, but the menace was unmistakable. "Do you really think I’d let you work on “Eyes of Tomorrow”? I knew it would force whoever is pulling your strings to make a move.”

Haida’s breathing was ragged as he forced himself onto his knees, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the flash drive on the floor, just inches from Shingen’s polished shoe.

"You don’t know what you’re doing," Haida spat, his voice hoarse but defiant.

Shingen chuckled darkly. "Don’t I?" He reached down and picked up the flash drive, holding it up between his fingers like a prize. "Tadano’s work, isn’t it? I’ve had my eye on him for a long time."

Haida’s heart sank. He knows everything.

Shingen stood up and inspected the drive as if it were some novelty trinket. "Let me guess—he promised you some grand purpose? A chance to ‘change the system’? You’re just another pawn in his game, Haida."

Haida staggered to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins. "And what about you?" he shot back. "What’s your excuse? You think selling out to China’s going to save you? You think you’re untouchable?"

For a split second, something dark flickered across Shingen’s face—a flash of annoyance, or maybe something deeper. He stepped closer, and Haida felt the cold press of his boss’s finger against his chest.

"I don’t ‘think,’" Shingen growled. "I know. There’s no such thing as loyalty in this world, Haida—only power. And those who cling to fantasies about justice and change get crushed under the heaviness of reality."

Haida clenched his fists, the sting of the slap still throbbing across his cheek. "Maybe... but someone has to try."

Shingen shook his head, almost pityingly. "That’s where you’re wrong."

He turned and pocketed the flash drive, his back to Haida. "Security will be here any second. You’re done."

Haida’s body ached, but somewhere deep down, a spark of rage lit up inside him. He knew this was it—the moment everything hinged on. He could either surrender... or fight back.

"Tadano’s counting on me. I can’t let this end here."

He took a slow, steady breath, eyes locked on Shingen’s back.

"One shot... make it count."

Haida’s entire body ached as he forced himself to his feet. His vision blurred for a moment, but he shook it off and clenched his fists. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, and the bruise forming on his cheek throbbed with every heartbeat. But something deep inside him refused to give in. His pride, his desperation, the weight of every choice he’d made up until now—it all surged into a single, reckless drive to fight back.

Shingen stood with an almost bored expression, adjusting his sleeves as though this was just another tedious meeting to endure. "You really want to do this?" the leopard asked, tilting his head. "You can barely stand."

Haida didn’t respond—he lunged forward, throwing a right hook with all the strength he had left. For a split second, he thought he’d caught Shingen off-guard. But the leopard shifted effortlessly, catching Haida’s arm mid-swing and twisting it with expert precision.

Pain shot through Haida’s shoulder as he was forced down onto one knee. Shingen’s knee drove into Haida’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

"You fight like a salaryman," Shingen muttered with disdain, shoving Haida back to the floor.

Haida coughed, gasping for air, but scrambled to his feet again. He rushed Shingen with wild determination, throwing punches and aiming low with a desperate kick. But Shingen was faster—more calculated.

The leopard sidestepped, grabbed Haida by the collar, and flipped him over his shoulder. Haida hit the floor hard, his back slamming into the cold surface. His head spun, stars flashing across his vision.

"You really thought brute force would work?" Shingen asked, rolling his neck with a satisfied crack. "You think you’re in some action movie, Haida? That if you just get back up enough times, you’ll win?"

Haida groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Every movement sent waves of pain through his body, but he grit his teeth and stood again.

Shingen sighed and rubbed his temples. "You really don’t get it, do you?" He stepped forward and raised a hand, readying another strike. "Let me give you a reality check."

With blinding speed, Shingen’s fist connected with Haida’s jaw. The impact sent him stumbling, but before he could fall, Shingen followed up with a swift kick to his shin, sending Haida crashing down again.

Haida could barely move—his muscles felt like jelly. His breaths came out ragged and shallow. Yet, he forced himself onto his elbows, defiance burning in his eyes.

Shingen crouched down beside him, his voice low and cold. "I was part of the Japanese Self Defense Force, Haida. Assigned to IT, sure. But they attached me to the Special Forces Group. You know what that means? It means I wasn’t just sitting in front of a computer all day—I had to pass the same combat fitness standards as those guys. I was trained to dismantle threats."

He leaned in closer, his expression darkening. "And you? You’re not a threat. You’re a desperate, scrappy idiot who’s in way over his head."

Haida spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at Shingen. "Why... why do you care so much about all this? What the hell are you trying to prove?"

Shingen chuckled darkly and stood, pacing slowly around Haida’s prone form. "You really don’t know, do you?" He stopped and stared down at him. "The only reason you even got this job at Kaneda Tech... was because of your father."

Haida’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "What... what are you talking about?"

Shingen smirked, as if savoring the moment. "Juzo Haida. Your father. He wasn’t just some corporate bureaucrat. He was a descendant of a zaibatsu dynasty—a family that tried to build an empire in Manchuria during the occupation. They ran forced labor camps, used slave labor to build their factories... until the war ended, and the Soviets and Chinese Communists crushed them."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. His mind reeled as he tried to process what he was hearing. "That... that can’t be true."

Shingen’s smile widened, predatory and cruel. "Oh, it’s true. Your father’s empire crumbled before it could take root. And you? You’ve been running from that legacy your entire life, pretending you’re better than him. But in the end, you’re just as clueless."

Haida shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. "Why... why are you telling me this?"

Shingen’s expression hardened. "Because I’m not like your father, Haida. I’m going to succeed where he failed. The world belongs to those who know how to wield power, and I’m not about to let the Chinese or the Americans come in and carve up Japan like a buffet. I’m going to make sure Kaneda Tech dominates Guangdong, turns it into our empire. Japan will kneel today, but tomorrow, that knee will be one someone’s back.”

Haida’s chest tensed with fury. "You’re insane... You’re no different than the ones you claim to hate."

Shingen crouched down again, meeting Haida’s gaze head-on. "Maybe. But at least I’m not deluded enough to think I’m the hero in this story."

Haida clenched his fists, even as the pain in his body screamed at him to stay down. His mind raced with memories—of his father’s cold gaze, of Tadano’s words about freedom, of everything he’d fought for up until now.

Shingen’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "You’re nothing, Haida. And if you don’t stop playing pretend, you’re going to die as nothing."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. But somewhere deep inside, Haida felt something ignite—a spark of resistance that refused to be snuffed out.

"I might be nothing to you..." Haida thought, his muscles tightening as he prepared for what could be his final stand. "...but I’m not done yet."

The lights flickered once—twice—and then went out completely.

A deep, oppressive darkness blanketed the entire server room, save for the faint afterglow of dying screens and emergency exit signs. The hum of the air conditioning units ceased, leaving a suffocating silence in its place. The only sound was the heavy breathing of two men—Haida, struggling to get his wind back, and Shingen, who froze mid-step, staring into the void where the server lights had been.

Shingen's eyes darted toward the now-dead terminal, his ears twitching as though he was waiting for the familiar whir of backup generators to kick in. But nothing happened.

"What the hell...?" Shingen muttered under his breath, his composed demeanor cracking for the first time. "This wasn’t supposed to happen."

Haida's mind reeled as realization dawned on him. This wasn’t part of the plan. Tadano’s virus... it did something else. The flash drive hadn't just cracked the servers—it had wiped them and triggered a system-wide blackout.

Shingen spun around to face Haida, his figure outlined by the glow of the emergency exit signs. His golden eyes seemed to glow with rage. "What did you do?" he snarled, stepping forward.

Haida’s heart pounded in his chest. His entire body screamed at him to move, to run, to survive.

Don’t wait. Move!

Without a word, Haida spun on his heel and bolted. He dashed through the server racks, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. Shingen shouted behind him—a guttural, furious roar that sent a chill down Haida’s spine.

"You coward!" Shingen’s voice boomed through the darkness. "You think you can run from me?!"

Haida didn’t stop to respond. His instincts screamed for survival. He reached the stairwell door and slammed into it with his shoulder, pushing it open. The heavy door groaned on its hinges as he stumbled through, his hand gripping the railing for balance.

The stairwell was just as dark, save for a few dim emergency lights placed every couple of floors. The shadows stretched unnervingly, creating strange, distorted shapes that danced with every flicker of light.

Haida took the stairs two, three at a time, practically throwing himself downward. His shoes slammed against the metal steps, his breath ragged. The stairwell echoed with the chaotic symphony of his flight—his panicked footfalls, the creaking of the rails, the pounding in his ears.

Behind him, the door burst open again. Shingen wasn’t far behind.

"HAIDA!" Shingen’s roar reverberated through the stairwell, sending a jolt of fear down Haida’s spine. "You think you’re getting out of here alive?!"

Haida gritted his teeth and pushed himself harder, nearly tripping as he rounded another landing. His legs burned with every step, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him moving.

"I can’t stop... if I stop, I’m dead."

He could hear Shingen’s footsteps above him—calculated, methodical, closing the distance. Unlike Haida’s frantic descent, Shingen moved like a hunter, fast and precise. Haida could feel his predator’s gaze boring into him, even though they were separated by the twists and turns of the stairs.

Think... think!

The plan had already gone to hell. The building’s security systems were dead, but that wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, someone would reset the breakers or deploy emergency reinforcements. And when that happened, his chances of escape would go from slim to nonexistent.

"Kobayashi..." The driver was supposed to be waiting nearby. If Haida could just make it to the ground floor...

He hurtled down another flight of stairs, nearly losing his balance. He slammed into the railing to keep himself steady, hissing in pain as the metal dug into his side. His head was still spinning from the beating he’d taken, but the fear of what Shingen would do if he caught him was a stronger motivator than the pain.

Keep going. Just a few more floors.

Chapter Text

The emergency lights flickered ominously as he reached the lower levels. Each flicker felt like a countdown to something worse.

Above him, Shingen’s footsteps grew louder. The leopard wasn’t just fast—he was relentless.

"Running won’t change anything!" Shingen’s voice echoed, cold and deadly. "You’re in over your head!”

Haida didn’t respond. His lungs burned as he gasped for air, but he forced himself onward, driven by sheer willpower.

Finally, he saw it—the final landing and the door to the ground floor. He let out a breath of relief, but it was short-lived.

The stairwell door swung open with a sudden clang, and a silhouette stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs. Haida’s heart sank.

It was one of the security guards—a massive bear in a fitted uniform. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Haida barreling down the stairs.

"Hey—stop right there!" the guard barked, reaching for his radio.

Haida’s mind screamed in panic. He was out of time. Behind him was Shingen, and in front of him was the guard.

No choice... I have to fight or I’m dead.

He gritted his teeth and charged forward, adrenaline numbing his fear. The bear’s eyes widened as Haida closed the distance faster than expected.

"Move!" Haida shouted, throwing his entire weight into the guard before he could react. They collided hard, and Haida felt the wind leave his lungs as they hit the floor. The guard grunted, momentarily stunned, and Haida scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs.

The exit was right there. He could see the faint glow of the streetlights outside through the glass door.

Almost there...

With one final burst of energy, Haida sprinted toward the door, his feet pounding against the tile. The cool night air hit him like a wave as he burst through the door, stumbling onto the street. He spotted Kobayashi’s car idling at the curb.

Kobayashi’s eyes widened as he saw Haida running toward him. Without hesitation, he reached over and popped the passenger door open.

"Get in!"

Haida dove into the car, slamming the door shut behind him. "Go! Go!" he gasped, his voice hoarse.

Kobayashi didn’t need to be told twice. The tires screeched as the car sped away from the curb, leaving the towering Kaneda Tech building behind.

Haida collapsed against the seat, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His entire body ached, and the world spun around him. But he was alive.

Kobayashi glanced at him, concern etched across his face. "What the hell happened in there?"

Haida closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. "I... I don’t even know anymore."

As the car sped through the city streets, Haida’s mind swirled with questions and fear.

The roar of engines filled the night as numerous black SUVs, emblazoned with the corporate logo of Kaneda Tech’s private security, veered into the street behind Kobayashi’s car. Their sleek forms were followed closely by a lone police cruiser, its red and blue lights flashing ominously in the rearview mirror.

Kobayashi's grip tightened on the steering wheel, his normally calm demeanor giving way to tension as he maneuvered through the bustling streets of Shinjuku. "I didn’t anticipate this," he muttered, glancing at Haida through the rearview mirror. "They must’ve scrambled everything they had the second the power cut out."

Haida sat slumped in the backseat, his chest still rising and falling with ragged breaths. His head lolled to the side as the adrenaline in his veins mixed with exhaustion. He was ready to collapse—but that was when a realization hit him like a freight train.

His eyes widened in horror. "Oh... no."

Kobayashi glanced back again. "What now?"

Haida let out a strained laugh, though there was nothing humorous about it. "I... I left it," he croaked. His hand trembled as he clutched his head. "The damn flash drive! Shingen took it—he pocketed it!"

Kobayashi’s foot slammed down on the accelerator as he swerved around a slower-moving car. "You what?"

"I fucked up everything!" Haida shouted, his voice cracking. "I had one job, and I blew it!" He clutched his hair in frustration, the weight of his mistake crashing down on him. His laugh turned darker, almost maniacal, as if his mind couldn’t process the scale of the catastrophe. "Goddammit, I’m an idiot!"

The car fishtailed around a corner, nearly clipping a row of parked scooters. The corporate SUVs stayed hot on their tail, their engines roaring as they pushed to close the distance.

Just then, Haida’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled for it with shaky hands and saw Tadano’s name flash across the screen. His thumb hesitated over the answer button before he pressed it and brought the phone to his ear.

"T-Tadano..." Haida’s voice wavered.

Tadano’s voice came through the speaker, calm and steady. "I’m watching the chase on a traffic cam.”

Haida’s breath hitched as he forced himself to stay coherent. "I... I screwed up, Tadano," he admitted. His laugh returned, strained and bitter. "Shingen has the flash drive. The whole plan’s gone to hell."

For a moment, there was silence on the other end. Haida closed his eyes, expecting a scathing reprimand.

Instead, Tadano chuckled.

"It’s fine."

Haida blinked in disbelief. "What?"

Tadano’s laugh deepened, genuinely amused. "You think Mikako didn’t see this coming? She’s the best for a reason, Haida. She knew there was a good chance you’d botch this part."

Haida’s heart skipped a beat. "What... what do you mean?"

"The virus wasn’t just for the servers," Tadano explained. "It was programmed to hijack the entire intranet infrastructure of the building. As soon as you plugged it in, it piggybacked off their network and sent the encrypted data to all of my contacts automatically." Tadano’s voice carried a mixture of awe and respect. "She built in a failsafe because she figured... well... you’d be you."

Haida felt the pressure in his chest begin to lift as the realization hit him. It worked... A wild, relieved laugh bubbled up from his throat before he could stop it.

Kobayashi shot him a worried glance from the driver’s seat. "Uh... you okay back there?"

Haida’s laughter grew louder, almost hysterical. "Tadano, you magnificent bastard!"

Tadano’s laugh echoed through the phone.

The black SUVs were gaining on them, their engines roaring as they barreled through intersections. Kobayashi swerved sharply to avoid an oncoming van, the tires screeching against the pavement.

"Haida," Tadano’s voice sobered slightly. "I need you to focus now. This isn’t over yet. They’ll do anything to shut this down. You’ve gotta make it out alive."

Haida wiped tears from the corner of his eyes, his laughter finally subsiding. "Got it," he muttered, his voice steadier.

Kobayashi growled as he yanked the wheel again, sending the car into a sharp drift around another corner. "If you’re done with the comedy show back there, maybe you can tell me where the hell we’re heading?"

Haida leaned forward, adrenaline surging through his veins again. "Anywhere but here!"

Tadano’s voice came through one last time before the call ended. "I’ll guide you... but remember, Haida—you’re in the endgame now."

The line went dead.

Haida stuffed the phone back into his pocket and grinned, despite the chaos around him. The stakes had never been higher, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t entirely powerless.

The street ahead was a blur of neon lights and shadows as Kobayashi wove through traffic. Behind them, the SUVs pushed harder, their headlights glaring like predatory eyes. The police cruiser’s sirens wailed, adding to the cacophony of the pursuit.

But Haida didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t running away—he was running toward something. The truth was out there now, spreading like wildfire, and there was no way to stop it.

He leaned forward, gripping the back of Kobayashi’s seat. "Let’s see how far they’re willing to go."

Kobayashi smirked, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. "Buckle up."

With a roar of the engine, the car shot forward, disappearing into the maze of Tokyo’s city streets as the night closed in around them.

Kobayashi’s car swerved and weaved through the tight lanes and busy intersections with razor-sharp precision. The black SUVs stayed right on their tail, their engines roaring like mechanical beasts thirsting for blood.

Haida was gripping the seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The sound of tires screeching and horns blaring filled the air, mixing with the flashing reflections of shop signs and streetlights. Every hairpin turn felt like the car would tip over, but somehow, Kobayashi always managed to bring it back under control at the last second.

A loud clang jolted Haida as one of the SUVs rammed into the rear bumper, causing the car to fishtail slightly.

"Hold on!" Kobayashi yelled, his calm demeanor finally breaking into something fierce and determined.

The car lurched as Kobayashi slammed the accelerator, rocketing forward to create some distance, but the SUVs kept pace. The SUV on their left veered closer, attempting to sideswipe them. The windows of the SUV were tinted black, but Haida could still imagine the scowls of the corporate security goons inside.

With a jolt, the SUV smashed into the passenger side, sending the car toward the edge of the road where the curb loomed dangerously.

"Kobayashi!" Haida shouted, his voice cracking with terror.

Kobayashi gritted his teeth, yanking the wheel hard in the opposite direction. The car groaned as the tires screamed against the pavement, barely managing to correct its course. In the chaos, Kobayashi reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror with a calm that almost defied logic.

"You okay back there?" Kobayashi asked over the chaos.

"No!" Haida practically shrieked, his heart pounding out of his chest. "But holy shit, you're a damn good driver!"

Kobayashi smirked despite the situation. "Flattery won’t save you, Haida."

Another SUV surged forward and pulled alongside them. The driver slammed into Kobayashi’s car, trying to force it off the road again.

"Not this time," Kobayashi growled.

With an almost reckless precision, he suddenly jerked the wheel toward the SUV, causing their side mirrors to collide. The unexpected counter-move sent the SUV’s driver into a panic, and they swerved too hard in response. The vehicle’s tires skidded on the slick road, and with a violent spin, it veered directly into oncoming traffic.

The impact was instantaneous—a loud, metallic crunch echoed through the night as the SUV collided with a passing van. The SUV flipped over, glass shattering and debris flying in every direction as it skidded across the asphalt in a chaotic spin.

"One down," Kobayashi muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on the road ahead.

Haida’s breathing was ragged, his adrenaline coursing through his veins like fire. "Holy... holy shit! You took them out!"

"Just trying to stay alive," Kobayashi replied grimly.

The chase wasn’t over. Another SUV came barreling toward them from behind, its headlights blinding in the rearview mirror. The vehicle surged forward with aggressive intent, its front bumper practically kissing the back of Kobayashi’s car.

The moment stretched into eternity as the SUV performed a PIT maneuver, nudging the back corner of the car at just the right angle. Kobayashi’s eyes widened as the car spun out of control.

"Brace yourself!" he shouted.

The world spun violently around Haida. The centrifugal force pressed him into the seat as the car twisted and skidded across the pavement. Streetlights, buildings, and neon signs became a nauseating blur. The sound of rubber screeching and metal scraping filled the air as they hurtled toward the side of the road.

Haida clenched his teeth, every muscle in his body tensing as he felt the car tilt. "This is it," he thought.

The car slammed into a street pole, the impact sending a deafening boom through the night. The airbags deployed with explosive force, slamming into Haida’s chest and face. The windows shattered on impact, shards of glass scattering like deadly confetti. The entire frame of the car groaned in protest as it came to a final, jarring halt.

Everything was silent for a moment. The world around Haida felt muted, like he was underwater. His ears rang, and his vision was blurred by the dust and smoke filling the cabin.

He coughed, wincing as pain flared through his ribs. "Kobayashi..." he croaked, his voice barely audible.

Through the haze, he saw Kobayashi stirring in the driver’s seat. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but his eyes opened, albeit groggily.

"I’m... okay," Kobayashi rasped. He unbuckled his seatbelt with a grunt. "But we need to move. Now."

Haida’s head was spinning, but the urgency in Kobayashi’s voice cut through the fog. He reached for the door handle and shoved it open, stumbling out onto the pavement. The cool night air hit his face like a slap, but it did little to clear his dizziness.

The distant sound of approaching sirens sent a chill down his spine.

The remaining SUVs screeched to a stop behind the wreckage, and doors began to open as figures in dark uniforms stepped out.

Kobayashi grabbed Haida’s arm, steadying him. "On your feet. We’ve still got a chance."

Haida nodded weakly, his legs trembling beneath him. Despite the pain and fear, something inside him hardened. He wasn’t going to give up now. Not after everything they’d gone through.

As they staggered away from the wrecked car, Haida whispered under his breath. "Please... please let this be worth it."

"It will be. But only if we survive."

With the sound of footsteps closing in, the two of them disappeared into the shadows of the city, leaving the wreckage behind as the chase entered its final, desperate stage.

—

Retsuko found herself nursing another glass of sake, seated at her desk when her phone buzzed. A message popped up from Gori:

"Come upstairs. We’ve got champagne."

She sighed and stood, adjusting her cardigan before heading toward the elevator. The executive floor had always felt like a world apart—sleek, cold, and sterile. But tonight, it was different. The doors opened to reveal one of the executive meeting rooms, its long oak table illuminated by a soft glow from the overhead lights. There was no tension left in the air, only a strange sense of freedom.

Gori and Washimi were there, their jackets discarded, their glasses already half full with bubbly champagne. Gori grinned and waved her over.

"There she is!" Gori exclaimed. "You can’t toast to the end of an era without Retsuko!"

Retsuko stepped inside and shut the door behind her. The room felt far away from everything happening below. The cityscape stretched out behind the glass walls, a living, breathing reminder that the world outside would continue, even as their chapter at this company ended.

Gori handed her a glass of champagne and patted her on the back. "Come on, girl. Sit down. Let’s talk."

Retsuko hesitated but finally took a seat between them. "So... what are we toasting to, exactly?" she asked, swirling the golden liquid in her glass.

Washimi raised her glass, her typically cool and collected demeanor slightly softened by the alcohol. "To change," she said simply. "Whether we’re ready for it or not."

Retsuko smiled faintly and took a sip. The champagne was crisp and bright—almost too celebratory for a night like this. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly.

"I have something unconventional lined up," Retsuko began, staring at the bubbles rising in her glass. "It’s... different from anything I’ve done before, but it’s something I need to try."

Gori raised an eyebrow. "Unconventional, huh? That sounds... interesting."

Retsuko gave a small nod. "I’ve spent so much of my life trying to fit into what I thought I was supposed to be. The perfect worker, the perfect wife... but none of it worked. And honestly? I think I’ll be fine... with or without Haida." Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor of pain beneath the surface.

Gori and Washimi exchanged glances. Gori reached over and placed a comforting hand on Retsuko’s shoulder. "You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for," she said warmly.

Retsuko smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned to Washimi, who was swirling her glass absentmindedly.

"What about you two?" Retsuko asked. "What’s next?"

There was a pause before Gori cleared her throat, suddenly looking shy—a rare expression for someone so confident. "Well... there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you both," she began, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I... actually got married last year."

Retsuko nearly choked on her drink. "Wait—what?!" she exclaimed.

Washimi’s usually calm composure broke as she blinked in surprise. "You what?"

Gori laughed nervously and ran a hand through her hair. "I know, I know! It’s crazy, right? We kept it really low-key. Just close family and friends. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it."

Retsuko’s jaw dropped. "Gori... why didn’t you tell us?"

Gori’s smile softened. "I wanted to... but it felt like something just for me, you know? After everything I went through with my career and dating disasters... it was nice to have something private that was mine."

Retsuko felt her heart swell with happiness for her friend. "Congratulations... really." She reached over and hugged Gori, who laughed and hugged her back tightly.

Washimi leaned back in her chair, watching the exchange with a thoughtful expression. "Well, I guess it’s my turn."

Both Retsuko and Gori turned toward her expectantly.

Washimi took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I’ve accepted a job offer in Guangdong... with a Chinese company."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Retsuko furrowed her brows. "Wait... Guangdong? That’s... a huge move."

Washimi nodded, her expression calm but resolute. "I know. But it’s a fresh start—and I need that. I’ve spent so much time here trying to maintain this... image of who I thought I was supposed to be. But maybe it’s time to see who I can be somewhere else."

Gori’s smile wavered slightly. "We’re going to miss you," she said quietly.

Washimi smiled gently. "I’ll miss you too. But we’ll keep in touch." She raised her glass again. "To new beginnings—however uncertain they might be."

Retsuko and Gori followed suit, clinking their glasses together.

They had weathered so much together—career highs and lows, heartbreaks, friendships tested and mended. And now, as the world around them shifted, they were standing at the edge of something entirely unknown.

Retsuko stared out at the cityscape, the neon lights blinking in the distance. She thought of everything that had led her to this point—her marriage, her career, her ambitions, and failures. And for the first time in a long while, she felt something close to clarity.

The future was uncertain. The path ahead was messy and uncharted. But at least, for tonight, they had each other.

"Whatever happens," Retsuko said softly, "we’ll be okay. We have to be."

Gori and Washimi nodded in agreement, their glasses raised once more.

"To us," Gori said with a grin.

"To us," Washimi and Retsuko echoed.

Retsuko was beginning to feel the warmth spread through her chest, dulling the edges of her anxieties. She leaned back in her chair, letting herself relax for real this time.

Washimi reached for the remote sitting on the table and clicked it. The television mounted on the far wall blinked to life, the screen flickering before settling on a live news broadcast. The studio's somber anchor spoke in grave tones, though the sound was low enough to be background noise.

Washimi sighed. "We rarely ever used this thing. What a waste," she muttered. "These executive meeting rooms... they were more for show than anything else. We probably should’ve spent more time up here while we had the chance."

Gori chuckled and raised her glass. "Better late than never."

The camera feed shifted suddenly, cutting away from the anchor desk to an outdoor live stream. The scene was surreal—a gathering of press cameras and a sea of people in the streets, lit by streetlamps and the dim glow of smartphones being raised to capture the moment. Prime Minister Oowada stood in the middle of it all, surrounded by security. He wore his usual calm expression, though the tension in his posture was palpable.

Retsuko froze as soon as she saw him. "Wait... what’s this?"

Washimi furrowed her brows and turned up the volume.

Prime Minister Oowada’s voice came through the speakers, steady but subdued.

"I take full responsibility for what has happened. I have failed you as a leader, and I must do the honorable thing."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and even the reporters seemed stunned. Oowada took a deep breath before continuing.

"I am stepping down immediately as Prime Minister."

The gathered citizens, a mix of anger and heartbreak, erupted into noise—shouting, crying, murmurs of disbelief. Some were on the verge of tears, while others clenched their fists in frustration. The nation had been teetering on the brink for days, and now their leader was confirming what everyone had feared: the situation had spiraled beyond control.

Oowada, in a move that broke protocol entirely, stepped away from his security detail and approached the barricades where people were gathered. His aides frantically tried to stop him, but he waved them off. He spoke directly to the people, his voice raw.

"Please... we must stay calm. Japan has weathered hardship before. We will rise again. I believe in you—the people. Even if I’ve failed, you mustn’t lose hope."

Gori set her glass down, her expression grave. "He’s... trying to keep the peace. But this... this is risky."

Retsuko leaned forward, her stomach twisting with unease. "He shouldn’t be out there without more protection..."

The camera panned, showing the shifting crowd. In the chaos of voices and movement, someone began pushing toward the front—a figure in a worn jacket, their face partially obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.

Retsuko's heart stopped as her eyes locked on the figure. A cold dread washed over her as recognition hit her like a punch to the gut.

"No... no way..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Washimi and Gori glanced at her, concerned.

"Retsuko?" Washimi asked.

"It’s him..." Retsuko’s voice cracked. She pointed at the screen, her hand trembling. "That’s... that’s the stalker... the llama..."

The image on the television zoomed in, and there he was—the unhinged fan who had haunted her memories for years. The man who had nearly ruined her life.

The stalker reached into his coat.

"No!" Retsuko shouted, standing up so fast that her chair toppled over.

Gori and Washimi looked on, horrified but helpless as the scene unfolded in real-time. The man pulled out what looked like a crude, homemade firearm. A flash of light erupted from the barrel, and the sound of a deafening blast followed.

The screen erupted in chaos.

Prime Minister Oowada staggered, clutching his chest. Blood blossomed across his suit, staining the crisp white fabric a deep crimson. The crowd erupted in screams, people scattering in every direction. Security swarmed Oowada, but it was too late. He collapsed to the ground, his face pale, his eyes wide in shock as the life drained from them.

The news anchor’s voice cut back in, frantic and panicked.

"We apologize for the live broadcast—Prime Minister Oowada has been shot... we repeat, Prime Minister Oowada has been shot—"

The screen flickered and cut to an emergency broadcast warning, the stark red text scrolling across the screen.

In the room, Retsuko covered her mouth with her hands, tears welling up in her eyes. "No... no, no, no..."

Gori sank into her chair, stunned. "What... the hell just happened...?"

Washimi reached for the remote and turned off the television, plunging the room into silence. The sounds of the city below seemed distant and unreal.

—

The cab ride had been tense and silent, with the driver occasionally stealing nervous glances at Haida and Kobayashi through the rearview mirror. Haida sat hunched over, cradling his aching ribs, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The chase, the crash, and everything that had followed—it felt like a fever dream. Kobayashi was equally grim, his jaw tight as he rubbed his bruised shoulder.

The cab screeched to a halt at the end of the long driveway leading to Haida’s family estate. It was as imposing as ever, the traditional Japanese manor standing in stark contrast to the neon-lit chaos of the city they’d left behind. The gate loomed in front of them, tall and unyielding.

"No time to waste," Kobayashi muttered, already moving.

Haida nodded and followed, gritting his teeth as he forced his battered body to move. They climbed over the gate—an awkward process that left them both breathless and covered in dust. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet echoed through the quiet estate grounds as they sprinted toward the main entrance.

Haida stumbled to a stop at the door, barely able to stand. He leaned heavily against the doorframe and pressed the doorbell with trembling fingers. The chime rang out through the house, but no one answered.

"Come on... come on..." Haida muttered, slamming the bell repeatedly with his palm until it echoed incessantly.

After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened. Jiro stood there, disheveled and wide-eyed, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened. Behind him, their mother appeared, her face pale and drawn with worry.

"Haida?" Jiro’s voice was laced with disbelief and concern. "What the hell happened to you?"

Their mother stepped forward, her hand flying to her mouth in shock as she took in Haida’s bruised face, torn clothes, and the exhausted, haunted look in his eyes. "Taro..." she whispered. "What’s going on?"

Haida managed a weak, lopsided smile. "It’s... a long story." He gestured toward Kobayashi, who was standing awkwardly beside him. "This is Kobayashi... a friend. He helped me get here."

Kobayashi gave a polite bow despite his own disheveled state. "I apologize for the sudden visit, ma'am."

Haida’s mother nodded, her eyes flicking between the two men. "You both look like you’ve been through a war."

There was so much she could say, so much she could give in terms of input… but now was not the time.

“I’ll get something prepared.” And with that, she left.

She just knew these two had a lot to talk about and her voice would have to come later.

Jiro reached out and gripped Haida’s arm, guiding him inside. "You need to sit down," he said firmly. "You look like you’re about to collapse."

Haida allowed himself to be led into the living room, where he sank onto the couch with a groan. Kobayashi sat down next to him, visibly relieved to be off his feet. Jiro handed them both bottles of water from a nearby tray.

Jiro knelt in front of his brother, his brow furrowed with worry. "Taro... what happened? You look like you were in a car wreck."

Haida chuckled weakly. "Funny you should say that..."

Jiro raised a hand to stop him. "Before you explain... do you know what just happened with Prime Minister Oowada?"

Haida blinked, confused. "Oowada? What do you mean?"

Jiro stood up and turned on the television. The screen lit up, displaying live footage of a chaotic scene. Crowds of people were gathered, shouting and holding their phones in the air. The camera panned to a line of reporters speaking urgently, their voices drowned out by the noise.

The headline at the bottom of the screen read: "Prime Minister Oowada Assassinated During Emergency Address."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to process what he was seeing. The footage shifted to a shaky recording from someone’s phone—a close-up of Oowada’s final moments. The Prime Minister’s voice echoed through the speakers as he spoke to the crowd. Then came the shot. The screen flickered as the camera captured the moment of impact, Oowada’s body crumpling as the crowd erupted into chaos.

"No..." Haida whispered, his voice barely audible. He leaned forward, clutching his head in disbelief. "No way... that can’t be real."

"It’s real," Jiro said grimly. He crossed his arms, his face pale but composed. "They’re saying it was some lone fanatic with a homemade weapon. But..." He paused, glancing at Haida with a sharp look. "I think we both know who the killer is.”

Haida’s stomach twisted. The memories came flooding back—the llama stalker, the incident that had almost destroyed Retsuko’s life. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. "I saw him... I saw him before... I thought I was imagining things."

Jiro nodded. "It was him. The same guy.”

Jiro took a deep breath, looking more vulnerable than Haida had ever seen him. His suit, always perfectly tailored and pristine, seemed almost wrinkled under the weight of what he was about to confess.

"Taro," Jiro began, his voice low and steady, "you need to know the truth... all of it. The llama—the man who stalked Retsuko—he’s been acting on our father’s orders. Final orders, written in his will."

Haida blinked, his heart thudding in his chest. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jiro raised a hand to calm him. "Please... just listen. I’m not defending it. I’m telling you because you deserve to know everything." He hesitated before continuing. "Our father... Juzo... he never stopped trying to control everything. Even when he was dying. I thought his obsession with ‘saving the family legacy’ ended when he stepped back from the business world, but it didn’t. It just got worse."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat as Jiro continued.

"The llama’s name is Sagara." Jiro’s voice softened as he spoke the name. "He wasn’t just some random stalker. He was hired... by our father. Sagara was supposed to keep tabs on you, Taro. To make sure you didn’t do anything that could damage the family’s reputation. That’s all I thought it was at first—just a watchdog. And that maybe, he went after Retsuko after getting some… weird attachment to her, while on this assignment from father."

Haida’s stomach churned. "A watchdog? Jiro, that guy tried to ruin my life! He almost killed Retsuko—and me! How the hell could you let this happen?"

Jiro winced at his brother’s words. "I didn’t know the full extent of it. Not until recently."

Kobayashi, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, stood abruptly. "I’m sorry," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "This is... way above my pay grade. I’m gonna step out for a minute." He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. "Bathroom. I’ll be back."

Haida gave a faint nod, barely processing Kobayashi’s departure. His focus remained locked on Jiro, his mind racing.

Jiro took another deep breath and sat down across from Haida, resting his hands on his knees. "When Dad was moved to hospice care... everything changed. That’s when Sagara came to me directly. He told me he’d been gathering information—building a file on you and Retsuko."

Haida’s heart sank. "A... file?"

Jiro nodded solemnly. "Yes. Everything. Your work, your relationships, your debts... even your time with Retsuko’s political campaign. He had photos, recordings... enough to bury you if it ever came to light."

Haida’s hands clenched into fists. "Why? Why would Dad do that to me?"

Jiro hesitated, the truth heavy on his shoulders. "Dad... he was convinced you were weak. That you were wasting your potential. He believed that if you faced tragedy or adversity, you’d finally ‘become the man’ he wanted you to be. He thought if you suffered enough, you’d straighten out and fall in line."

Haida felt like the air had been knocked out of him. "So... he wanted to destroy me just to rebuild me into something he could be proud of?"

Jiro nodded, guilt etched into his features. "I know how insane it sounds. But that’s who Juzo was in the end—a man so obsessed with control that he lost all sense of reason."

Haida’s mind flashed back to the incident during Retsuko’s political campaign—the screeching of tires, the car barreling toward him, the sound of shattering glass. "Sagara was the one who tried to kill me with that car, wasn’t he?"

"I didn’t want to believe it... but yes. I think it was him. After Dad was moved to hospice, he confessed to everything—to orchestrating these... tests. And Sagara was always at the center of it."

Haida’s vision blurred with rage and betrayal. "And you... you let this happen?"

Jiro’s eyes were glassy as he shook his head. "No. I swear to you, Taro—I didn’t know how far it went. I thought it was just surveillance. I never would’ve endorsed any of it if I’d known the full extent."

Haida shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You were supposed to be the sane one! The one who wasn’t like him!"

Jiro stood too, reaching out as if to calm his brother. "I know. And I failed you. I’m sorry... more than you can imagine. But I’m trying to make it right now."

Haida’s breath was ragged as he paced the room, running his hands through his hair. His world was unraveling. His father’s twisted legacy had cast a shadow over everything—his career, his marriage, his life.

Kobayashi re-entered the room cautiously, the tension palpable. He glanced between the brothers but said nothing, sensing the fragility of the moment.

Jiro took a step forward, his voice low but resolute. "Taro... you can’t run from this anymore. Sagara’s in custody now. Whatever happens next, he’s going to talk. His ties to our family will come out. There’s no stopping that. But... it also means you and Retsuko are finally safe from him."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat as those words settled in. Safe. It sounded like the end of a nightmare—but at what cost?

Jiro continued, his expression grim. "When it all comes to light, the Haida name will be dragged through the mud. The entire family will be ostracized. No one’s coming out of this unscathed." He hesitated, his tone softening. "But at least... no one else has to get hurt."

Haida’s hands trembled at his sides. His mind raced, replaying every mistake, every misstep that had led them here. The desperate calls for help he hadn’t made. The roads he’d chosen that only seemed to spiral deeper into chaos. His thoughts crashed into one another until one terrible realization broke through: If I had just called Jiro... maybe this could’ve been prevented.

He closed his eyes tightly, as if willing the guilt away, but it was no use. When he opened his eyes again, they glistened with unshed tears.

"I... I’m sorry," Haida whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m so sorry, Jiro..."

Jiro’s face softened, and he took another step forward. "Taro..."

Haida’s knees buckled, and he sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. The tears came unbidden—quiet at first, then stronger. "If I’d just... if I’d trusted you instead of running to Tadano... maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe Dad wouldn’t be laughing at us from the fucking grave. Maybe... none of this would’ve happened."

Jiro knelt down in front of his brother, his hand resting gently on Haida’s shoulder. "Stop," he said firmly but gently. "Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t create this mess—Dad did. He planted the seeds of this chaos years ago. All we can do now is figure out how to move forward."

Haida looked up at Jiro, his vision blurred. "But what does moving forward even look like?" His voice was raw with uncertainty.

Jiro’s grip tightened slightly. "It means standing together this time. No more secrets. No more shadows. If we have to go down, we go down fighting for something that matters."

Kobayashi, who had been standing silently by the door, finally stepped forward. He straightened his jacket, his earlier reluctance replaced by quiet determination. "Whatever’s happening... I’m still in. I didn’t come this far to walk away now."

Haida let out a shaky laugh, the sound both bitter and relieved. "You’re really bad at self-preservation, you know that?"

Kobayashi gave a small grin. "Yeah, well... so are you."

The rumbling engines of the black SUVs echoed down the long driveway like an ominous drumroll. The headlights cut through the dark, casting long shadows against the walls of the Haida family estate. Haida’s stomach twisted as the first vehicle came to a screeching halt in front of the house, followed by another, and then another.

Jiro moved to the window, his face pale as he peered out. "Who the hell are they?" he asked, his voice low but tight with fear. "Government? Corporate security? Yakuza?"

Haida clenched his fists, his battered body trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. "It’s... complicated," he admitted, wiping a hand over his face. "I got into some deep shit, Jiro."

Chapter Text

Kobayashi, who had been pacing nervously by the entrance, stopped in his tracks and turned to Haida. "Explain everything. Out loud. Don’t leave anything out. Your brother might be the only person who can pull us out of this shit, after all. At least until Tadano figures something out.”

Haida hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Okay." He exhaled, feeling the weight of his actions press harder against his chest. "I was working with Tadano... exposing Kaneda Tech’s dirty secrets. It’s all out there now. But these guys... they’re not just going to let me walk away. They’re here to clean up loose ends."

Jiro stared at him, stunned. "You’re saying you pissed off the most dangerous tech conglomerate in Japan?"

Haida shrugged, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Something like that."

Kobayashi muttered a curse under his breath and pulled out his phone, scrolling quickly. "We should call for backup—police, private security, anything."

Haida’s laugh was hollow, almost resigned. "You think the cops still have jobs after the crash? Most of them are probably at home trying to figure out how they’re going to pay rent." He turned toward Jiro, who looked ready to argue, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take care of Mom. I didn’t mean to bring this here... but I have to face them. I’m not running anymore."

Jiro’s jaw tightened as he gripped Haida’s arm. "Taro... I can still get a special response team—what’s left of them. I can make some calls—"

Haida shook his head, his expression calm despite the storm brewing outside. "No more shortcuts, Jiro. No more waiting for someone else to fix things. I have to handle this myself."

Jiro stared at his brother for a long moment, his grip loosening reluctantly. "You’re a damn fool..." He stepped back, defeated. "But... okay. Just don’t you dare die on me, Taro."

Haida gave a crooked smile. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Kobayashi grabbed his jacket and adjusted it before nodding toward the door. "Let’s get this over with."

The two of them stepped outside into the cold night air as the SUVs idled ominously. The estate’s reinforced gates had been bent and torn aside like scrap metal, their once-proud structure reduced to twisted steel. The wind was biting, carrying with it the sound of approaching footsteps.

The doors of the SUVs opened in unison, and men dressed in tactical gear stepped out, their faces obscured by balaclavas. Several of them held guns—sleek, military-grade weapons that gleamed under the estate’s security lights.

Kobayashi’s eyes narrowed. "They’re not messing around."

Haida swallowed hard but kept his footing. His breath plumed in front of him like smoke. "Yeah... no kidding."

One of the men—a tall figure wearing a black coat over his gear—stepped forward, his rifle hanging lazily at his side like he didn’t even consider the two of them a threat. The man’s voice was low, almost bored. "Taro Haida. Tadano’s errand boy. You made quite the mess."

Haida straightened his back, though every muscle in his body screamed in protest. "Yeah, well... I’ve got a talent for that."

The man tilted his head, as if Haida’s bravado amused him. "We’re here to take you in. You can come quietly, or..." He raised a hand, gesturing to the armed men around him. "You can make this difficult. Your choice."

Kobayashi shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against his jacket pocket where Haida knew he kept a switchblade. "What’s the plan?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Haida’s mind raced. The odds were impossible, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a strange calm settle over him. This wasn’t about winning—it was about standing his ground.

Haida took a slow step forward, raising his hands slightly but keeping his eyes locked on the man in the coat. "I’m not running," he said, his voice steady. "But if you’re expecting me to roll over... you’re in for a disappointment."

The man smirked beneath his mask. "Suit yourself."

In the distance, Jiro and their mother watched from the window, their faces pale with worry. The wind howled through the estate grounds as the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first move.

"Here we go," Kobayashi muttered.

The cold night air crackled with tension as the security commander’s radio buzzed. The commander raised a gloved hand to his earpiece and stepped back slightly, signaling for his team to hold their positions. Haida and Kobayashi exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what was about to happen. The commander’s expression shifted subtly from frustration to something closer to disbelief as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, sir... understood," the commander muttered, his voice low and reluctant. He let out a heavy breath, almost as if his pride had just been swallowed whole. "Standing down."

Haida could barely hear the faint, familiar voice from the other end of the call, but one name cut through the static like a gunshot in the dark. Shingen.

The commander lowered his hand and looked toward his men. "Pack it up. We’re leaving."

The security team hesitated for only a second before they began moving in sync, climbing back into their SUVs. The sound of doors slamming shut reverberated through the driveway, but there was no barked orders, no grand speeches—just the sound of tires crunching gravel as the convoy began to pull away, leaving Haida and Kobayashi standing alone.

Haida blinked, his pulse still racing as if the bullets had already flown. His arms were still raised in a defensive posture, his mind unable to process what had just happened. "What... the hell was that?"

Kobayashi let out a slow, shaky exhale and ran a hand through his hair. "I think... we just got the best or worst news of our lives."

Haida finally lowered his hands, his body still vibrating with adrenaline. "What do you mean?"

Kobayashi shrugged, a half-smile forming on his lips despite everything. "We either dodged a bullet... or walked into something way worse."

Haida’s stomach twisted. "Shingen... it had to be him. I heard his voice."

Kobayashi nodded. "Yeah. And from the sound of it... Tadano’s blackmail is already working."

Haida stared down the empty driveway where the SUVs had disappeared into the night. His heart was still thudding painfully against his ribs. "Shingen told them to stand down... why?"

Kobayashi raised a brow. "Think about it. Tadano's been leaking all the dirt from Kaneda Tech, right? It sounds like he's not just throwing them under the bus—he’s building a narrative. Shingen probably called them off because Tadano’s making it look like the whole thing was an attack by foreign agents. A corporate sabotage story. It gives them all an out." He paused and whistled low. "A get-out-of-jail-free card... in exchange for letting us walk away alive."

Haida rubbed his temples, trying to wrap his head around it. "So... that’s it? They’re just gone? Just like that?"

Kobayashi smirked, though his eyes were still wary. "Yeah, man. Just like that. Tadano basically threatened to burn the whole damn system down unless they took the easy way out."

Haida let out a bitter laugh, though it was tinged with disbelief. "Tadano’s playing goddamn 4D chess..."

Kobayashi’s smirk widened. "He always was."

For a long moment, the two of them stood in silence, the estate grounds eerily still after the chaos that had just unfolded. Haida’s gaze drifted to the house, where he saw Jiro and his mother still watching from the window. Jiro’s face was pale, but his eyes were locked on Haida’s, silently asking What the hell happened?

Haida took a deep breath and turned to Kobayashi. "So... what do we do now?"

Kobayashi shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "We walk back inside... explain things as best we can... and maybe pour ourselves the biggest drink we’ve ever had."

Haida laughed again, though it was strained. "Yeah... sounds about right." He hesitated for a moment, then added quietly, "Thanks for sticking with me."

Kobayashi waved him off. "Someone’s gotta keep you alive long enough to figure all this out."

The danger wasn’t over—far from it. Shingen’s call had bought them time, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had come at a price. Whatever Tadano had done to secure their safety, it wasn’t without consequence. And the fallout from tonight’s events... it was only just beginning.

As they reached the door, Jiro swung it open, his face tense with worry. "Taro... what the hell just happened?"

Haida paused, glancing back toward the empty driveway before meeting his brother’s gaze. "We got lucky," he muttered, stepping inside. "But I don’t know how long that luck’s gonna last."

The night might’ve let them go this time... but Haida knew the storm wasn’t over yet.

—

The air was thick with the aroma of rich broth and sizzling pork. Shingen sat at the bar. His security team was scattered at nearby tables, quietly slurping bowls of ramen, the clink of chopsticks against ceramic the only sound filling the small shop.

It was a dinky little joint, but it was the only thing open during the crisis at this moment. It also happened to be Tadano’s favourite.

Shingen’s phone buzzed against the counter. He answered with a grunt, his voice low. "It’s me."

Tadano’s smooth, composed voice came through, calm as always. "Good. You’re all settled in?"

Shingen wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his brow furrowed. "We're fine. What do you want?"

There was a brief silence on the line before Tadano continued, his tone almost conversational. "I just wanted to make sure we’re clear. The data’s been distributed, and I’m going to make good on my promise to bury the public fallout... on one condition."

Shingen’s grip on the phone tightened. "The schematics," he muttered.

"Exactly," Tadano replied. "The Eyes of Tomorrow program stays with me. For the foreseeable future, I own Kaneda Tech—quietly, of course. The world will see your company as intact and independent, but the reality is..." There was a brief pause, then a soft laugh. "You belong to me now."

Shingen’s jaw clenched as he listened. Around him, his men were oblivious to the conversation, too focused on their bowls of noodles to notice the growing tension in their commander’s shoulders.

"Why?" Shingen asked finally, his voice tight. "Why go to all this trouble? You had enough leverage to destroy us outright. Why keep us alive?"

Tadano’s answer came without hesitation. "Because I’m not interested in destroying Japan’s future. Quite the opposite. I intend to make sure our country’s best innovations stay in Japanese hands. Originally, I thought the best way to stop Kaneda Tech from selling out was to cripple it before you made it to Guangdong. But now I realize... it’s better to keep Kaneda Tech intact—under my thumb. That way, you’ll never be tempted to sell out to the Chinese, the Americans, or anyone else."

Shingen exhaled slowly, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. "You arrogant bastard."

Tadano chuckled softly, the sound like nails scratching across a chalkboard in Shingen’s mind. "Tell me, Shingen—how does it feel? To finally be a little fish in a very big pond?"

The line went silent for a moment, and then Tadano’s voice returned, softer now, almost pitying. "You were so eager to climb to the top, but you forgot what it means to swim with sharks. Now you’re under my protection... and my control. Enjoy your noodles, Shingen."

Before Shingen could respond, Tadano ended the call. The disconnected tone buzzed faintly in his ear.

Shingen stared at his phone for a long moment, his knuckles white as he fought the urge to smash it against the counter. Instead, he shoved it into his pocket and raised his hand, catching the shop owner’s attention.

"Beers," Shingen barked, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the ramen shop. "A round for everyone."

His men looked up in surprise but didn’t question him. They exchanged wary glances as the shop owner hurried to fill their mugs. The frothy drinks were passed down the bar, and Shingen grabbed his with a fierce intensity, taking a long, bitter swig.

One of his men, a stocky boar in a leather jacket, leaned in cautiously. "Sir... is everything okay?"

Shingen slammed the empty mug onto the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes burned with a mixture of fury and frustration. "It’s fine," he muttered. But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

The truth was, it wasn’t fine. For the first time in his life, Shingen felt small—like a cog in a machine far bigger than he’d ever realized. Tadano had outplayed him completely, turning what should have been a clean power grab into a leash that tightened with every passing second.

As the beer continued to flow and the ramen bowls emptied, the men laughed and joked around him, unaware of the storm brewing in their commander’s mind. Shingen stared blankly at the bubbling pot of broth behind the counter, the rising steam twisting into shapeless wisps before disappearing into the air.

The pond had grown larger than he ever imagined.

—

The meeting room had become absolutely grim as the weight of the breaking news continued to mount, each headline a new brick in the crumbling wall of their world. The reporters’ voices, grave and urgent, filled the room like a funeral procession.

Washimi crossed her arms, her eyes sharp and calculating as she took in the chaos unfolding on screen. Gori sat back on the couch, her usual enthusiasm dulled, replaced by a heavy, pensive stare. Retsuko sat between them, her hands folded tightly in her lap as if she were holding herself together.

The camera panned across the chaotic streets of Shinjuku, showing footage of burning storefronts, overturned cars, and people throwing debris at police barricades. Crowds chanted slogans, their voices raw with anger and fear.

A solemn reporter appeared, standing in front of a backdrop of smoke and flashing emergency lights. His voice was steady, but the strain in his face was evident. "Experts are already calling this the 'Era of the Setting Sun'—an unprecedented financial and social collapse that has thrown Japan into disarray."

The screen cut to aerial footage of Osaka and Kyoto, where protests had spiraled into full-blown riots. Streets were filled with fire and broken glass, the glow of Molotov cocktails casting an eerie light across the night. Police in riot gear clashed with civilians, their batons rising and falling like mechanical arms in a factory line.

"They’re burning everything," Gori muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Osaka, Kyoto... it’s like the whole country’s unraveling."

Washimi reached for the remote, turning up the volume as the feed shifted to Okinawa. Rows of uniformed American soldiers were shown, tense and battle-ready as angry protesters surged toward the gates of a military base. Suddenly, the scene erupted—flash grenades burst in the crowd, and shots rang out. The camera footage cut abruptly, replaced by the network’s anchor, struggling to regain his composure.

"The situation in Okinawa has escalated," the anchor reported, his voice shaking slightly. "Reports indicate that American forces have opened fire on protesters near the Kadena Air Base. Casualty numbers remain unconfirmed."

Gori covered her mouth with her hands, horrified. "They’re really shooting... on our own soil."

The camera feed shifted again—this time to a dark expanse of ocean, where the American 7th Fleet's warships loomed against the horizon like shadows of war. The screen displayed a breaking news ticker: "US 7th Fleet issues warning of retaliation against Chinese Navy following incident in the Taiwan Strait."

Retsuko inhaled sharply as the weight of the headline settled over her. "We’re on the brink of war..." she whispered.

Washimi placed a steadying hand on Retsuko’s shoulder. "It’s been building to this for a long time," she said grimly. "The financial crisis, the political instability... this was inevitable."

Retsuko clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "But how did it get this bad?"

The news continued to roll, each segment another blow to their fraying nerves. The screen now displayed a segment on Kaneda Tech, the company logo plastered behind the news anchor. "We’re receiving reports that Kaneda Tech was the target of a massive cyberattack, allegedly orchestrated by Chinese state actors. The attack has been described as an attempt to frame the company for the creation of illegal surveillance software. The Japanese government and the United Nations have confirmed an ongoing investigation into what may be the first documented cyber war crime in modern history."

The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge. Washimi leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "A cyber war crime? That’s not just a headline... that’s a precedent. If the world accepts that narrative, it changes everything."

Washimi lowered her voice. "This... this changes everything. There’s no going back after this."

Gori shook her head slowly, her eyes glistening. "What do we even do now?"

Retsuko stared at the screen, her reflection ghosted over the image of the llama being subdued by riot police. "We survive," she said quietly, but there was a hollow ring to her words.

Outside the office window, the first glimmers of dawn began to creep over the horizon, but the light did little to pierce the darkness settling over their hearts. The Era of the Setting Sun had begun, and they were powerless to stop it.

—

Haneda Airport was a mess. The chaotic chorus of voices blended into an overwhelming atmosphere of frustration—families arguing, airport staff trying to calm the masses, and the occasional announcement crackling through the intercom, only to deliver the same dreaded message: all flights canceled indefinitely.

Shikabane sat hunched in one of the waiting area chairs, the cold plastic digging into her back as she scrolled through her phone with a practiced, mechanical motion. She’d already sent her parents multiple messages, each one growing shorter, more distant in tone. She’d even tried calling twice, but they didn’t pick up. Of course, they’re asleep, she thought bitterly, staring at the blue checkmarks next to her last message. They’d probably slept through the entire crisis as if the world outside wasn’t falling apart.

The last few hours felt like some fever dream of societal collapse. Flights grounded, pilots laid off on the spot, their faces hollowed with disbelief as they were escorted out of secure areas. Even the most hardened passengers had given up waiting by the gates. Instead, there was a loose crowd forming near the security checkpoints, shouting and waving signs improvised from carry-on luggage. The situation was teetering dangerously close to a full-blown riot.

But Shikabane felt none of their panic. None of their helplessness. She didn’t feel much of anything, really—just an empty sort of resignation. The world was unraveling around her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care like they did. There was no point in screaming at airline workers who’d probably be unemployed by morning, no sense in joining a futile mob demanding things no one could give them.

What’s the point? she thought, her thumb aimlessly scrolling past news updates about the assassination, the stock market crash, the chaos in Okinawa. She knew she should feel more, but it all felt distant. Like she was watching a movie in a language she barely understood.

She shifted in her seat and placed a hand over her stomach instinctively. The subtle curve of it was still small enough to hide beneath her oversized hoodie, but not for much longer. It’s going to show soon, she reminded herself, a cold weight settling in her chest. She still hadn’t told anyone—not her parents, not Haida. And she wasn’t sure if she ever would.

The overhead announcement system beeped again, followed by a static-filled voice: "Attention passengers, due to the ongoing state of emergency, all scheduled flights have been canceled. Please proceed to the assistance desk for updates."

A collective groan rose from the crowd, followed by angry shouts. A man nearby slammed his suitcase against the floor and cursed loudly. Security guards moved in closer, their presence doing little to ease the growing tension.

Shikabane stood up slowly, more out of restlessness than necessity. Her body ached from sitting too long, and her legs felt stiff as she stretched them. She didn’t know where she was going, but she needed to move.

The silver lining of being stuck in the airport, if it could even be called that, was that everything was open 24/7. The shops, the vending machines, even the tiny food courts were still operational, albeit staffed by weary employees who looked like they were one bad interaction away from walking out. She wandered aimlessly past the food stalls, catching the scent of stale coffee and reheated curry, but she wasn’t hungry.

In a quiet corner near an escalator, she found a cluster of small internet cafe booths. There was a time when this would’ve been her sanctuary—a place to plug in, play games, and block out the world until reality felt distant enough to ignore. But now, the thought of slipping into a booth felt... hollow. What’s the point of logging into a game when you’ve already lost IRL? she thought grimly.

She sat back down on a nearby bench, resting her head against the wall behind her. Her mind was an exhausted, tangled mess of half-formed plans and abandoned thoughts. She couldn’t go home to Osaka—not without a flight, and definitely not without a plan. She couldn’t bring herself to call Haida. And her parents... they wouldn’t understand. They never did.

So, what now? she wondered, closing her eyes for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s phone blared an emergency alert tone.

She placed a hand over her stomach again, a habit she hadn’t yet broken. The life inside her felt both like an anchor and a burden—a reminder that she was tethered to something she hadn’t asked for, but couldn’t abandon.

Maybe... I’ll just live here for a while, she thought. The absurdity of it made her lips twitch into a faint, bitter smile. The airport had everything she needed, right? Food, shelter, Wi-Fi. People wandered through, coming and going, but none of them really noticed her. It was strange... comforting, even. No one expects anything from you when you’re invisible.

The sound of a child crying nearby snapped her out of her thoughts. A tired mother tried to soothe the little girl, who clutched a stuffed rabbit in one hand and wailed inconsolably. Shikabane watched them for a moment, her eyes softening. Despite everything, the mother kept whispering words of comfort, running her fingers gently through the child’s hair.

Shikabane looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat. I’m not like her... I don’t even know how to be like that.

She stood up again, her legs feeling steadier this time.

—

The soft ripple of water broke the morning silence as the koi lazily circled the pond, their brilliant orange and white scales shimmering beneath the early sunlight. The garden surrounding the Haida family estate was serene, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. The gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze and the faint chirping of birds made it feel as though time had slowed down in this quiet corner of Tokyo.

Haida sat cross-legged on the smooth stone edge of the pond, staring blankly at the fish as they moved in synchronized patterns. The pond had always been a source of calm when he was younger, a place where he could hide from his father’s relentless expectations and his brother’s effortless successes. Now, it felt like a relic of a life he barely recognized. The weight of everything—the crisis, the fights, the revelations—pressed down on his shoulders like a mountain.

Behind him, he heard the crunch of gravel as someone approached. A familiar figure strolled into view, hands in his pockets, his posture as casual as ever.

Tadano.

Haida barely glanced up as Tadano came to a stop beside him, looking out over the pond for a moment before lowering himself onto the grass. His presence was quiet but assured, like he had all the time in the world. "You’ve got a nice setup here," Tadano remarked, breaking the silence. "I always liked koi ponds. They’re so... focused. They swim in circles all day, but they don’t seem to mind. Just... existing."

Haida’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "Yeah. They’ve got it easy. No mortgages. No wars. No impossible choices."

Tadano reached into the small cloth bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out two bento boxes wrapped in neatly folded handkerchiefs. He placed one on the stone ledge beside Haida and unwrapped it, revealing an assortment of rice, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and tamagoyaki. "I figured you probably didn’t eat," Tadano said, handing Haida a pair of disposable chopsticks. "So, I brought some breakfast."

Haida took the chopsticks without a word and opened his bento. The savory scent of the grilled fish filled the air, and his stomach growled despite his lingering exhaustion. He picked at the rice, taking a small bite before glancing at Tadano. "You’ve been here for a while. Were you... talking to Jiro?"

Tadano nodded, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. "Yeah. He’s... intense, huh? But he cares about you, in his own way. He wanted some answers, so I gave him what I could."

Haida’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. "Did you... apologize?"

Tadano exhaled softly. "Yeah. I’m not above admitting when things go sideways. And let’s be real, a lot went sideways." He took another bite and gestured with his chopsticks toward the pond. "But I reassured him. As far as the world knows, everything’s being handled. The leaks... the data... all of it. It’s tied up in a neat little narrative."

Haida stared at the koi fish, watching their tails flick through the water. "For now."

Tadano nodded again. "For now." He placed his bento down and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. "Look, Haida... I’m not gonna pretend I’m some messiah or hero. I did what I did because I didn’t want this country’s future to be sold off to the highest bidder. And yeah, I played dirty. But I’d do it again if it meant keeping the wolves at bay."

Haida swallowed another bite, the warmth of the rice doing little to soothe the knot in his stomach. "What if... we’re the wolves, Tadano?" His voice was low, almost a whisper. "What if we’re no different from the people we’re fighting against?"

Tadano’s expression softened, and for once, there was no trace of his usual charm or sarcasm. "We probably are," he admitted. "But someone’s gotta steer the ship, man. And if it’s not you or me... then who?"

Haida let that question hang in the air, unsure of how to answer. The morning sun cast long, golden streaks across the garden, illuminating the pond’s surface like molten glass. The koi swam lazily beneath the ripples, blissfully unaware of the chaos that had gripped the world outside.

Tadano reached over and clinked his chopsticks lightly against Haida’s. "Hey. Eat up. You’re no good to anyone if you pass out from hunger."

Haida managed a weak laugh and took another bite of fish. The flavors were simple but comforting—like a memory of better times. He glanced sideways at Tadano. "You know... I never thought my life would end up like this. I used to think... maybe I’d just be some boring guy with no stories worth telling.”

Tadano’s smile returned, faint but genuine. "Maybe. But you’re not boring, Haida. You’ve always been more than that. You just... forgot for a while."

Haida looked back at the pond, his gaze distant. "Maybe I still have."

Tadano brushed some imaginary lint off his sleeve, his demeanor casual but his eyes sharp, as though he was trying to gauge Haida’s reaction. The koi pond reflected the sunlight, shimmering like liquid gold, but Haida barely noticed. He was too focused on Tadano's words, trying to wrap his head around what exactly his enigmatic friend was getting at.

"You’ve got this... look," Tadano said, standing and stretching his arms behind his back. "Like you’re still carrying the entire world by yourself." He cracked his neck and turned to face Haida fully. "But sometimes... you gotta let it all out. No plans. No calculations. Just pure instinct. You’re soon to be a rich man with nothing to worry about ever again."

Haida blinked, unsure if this was another one of Tadano’s metaphors or if he was genuinely suggesting what he thought he was. "You want me to... what? Hit you again?" he asked, bewildered.

Tadano chuckled, but there was something deeper beneath the laughter—something almost somber. "Nah. I’m not talking about fists this time." He tilted his head, his usual smirk softened by a rare vulnerability. "I’m talking about... something else entirely. Something a little more cathartic. You’ve got all this tension, all this anger. Maybe we... find another way to work through it."

Haida's heart skipped a beat, and he felt his face grow hot under the morning sun. He stared at Tadano, unsure how to respond. "You mean...?"

Tadano shrugged, an easy smile on his face. "I’m saying... maybe we stop thinking so much. You wanna vent, right? You said sure—so I’m offering you an outlet." His voice lowered slightly, as though he were letting Haida in on a secret. "No judgment. No expectations. Just two guys who’ve been through hell... trying to forget the world for a little while."

Haida’s breath caught in his throat. He was rarely speechless, but this... this was a completely different territory than anything he’d prepared for. "I don’t—"

Tadano stepped closer, not invading Haida's space but making his presence felt. "It’s okay to want something for yourself, Haida. After everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve lost... don’t you think you deserve to feel... alive?"

The words hung between them, heavy yet electric. The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the surface of the koi pond and sending ripples through the water. The fish continued their slow, aimless dance beneath the waves, oblivious to the charged silence hanging over their observers.

Haida’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts—memories of Inui, Retsuko, everything that had led him to this moment. But beneath the confusion, there was something undeniable: he trusted Tadano. He always had, in some strange, inexplicable way.

Finally, Haida exhaled slowly and nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "Okay... sure."

Tadano’s smile widened, warm and genuine, as though Haida had passed some unspoken test. "Good," he said simply. "Come on. Let’s head inside. No sense in letting the koi fish watch everything."

—

The ceiling above him felt both familiar and distant, like a relic of a past life he’d somehow stepped back into. The posters of old punk bands and B-movie classics stared down at him from the walls, faded and creased with time. His childhood guitar sat in the corner, propped up by a wall as though waiting for someone to breathe life back into its worn strings.

Haida lay there, tangled in the sheets, his body warm from both the afternoon sun filtering through the window and the lingering heat of Tadano’s touch. His mind, however, was anything but calm. He felt like a puppet whose strings had just been cut—free but limp, unsure what to do next.

Tadano, meanwhile, was perched at the edge of the bed, casually flipping through Haida’s old vinyl records. His toned back was turned to Haida, his skin catching the sunlight. The easy nonchalance with which he thumbed through the records was at complete odds with their earlier conversation. His eyes scanned each album cover like he was studying someone else’s memories.

"Man," Tadano murmured, holding up a record with an abstract, neon design. "This is a solid pick. You’ve got taste, Haida."

Haida stared at the ceiling, ignoring the compliment. The question that had been circling in his mind since they got here spilled out before he could stop it. "Do you... ever plan to use any of it? The stuff from Eyes For Tomorrow?"

Tadano froze for a moment, his thumb resting on the edge of the record. Then he placed it down carefully on the shelf and turned to face Haida. His expression was thoughtful but calm. "Eventually? Yeah. I think it’s inevitable."

Haida sat up slightly, propping himself on one elbow, his face a mixture of confusion and frustration. "But... why? You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d want to run a surveillance empire. You’re all about freedom, innovation... disrupting the system, not... controlling it."

Tadano smiled faintly, but there was something sad in his eyes. "That’s the thing, Haida. I’m still disrupting the system. I’m just... adapting to the new rules. The truth is, people crave security more than freedom when they’re scared enough. And right now? They’re terrified. The world’s changed. Whether we like it or not, surveillance is going to be part of the new normal. The only question is... who holds the keys?"

Haida’s throat felt dry. "And you think... Japan holding the keys is better than China?"

Tadano leaned back, resting his hands behind him. "It’s not about 'better.' The world’s splitting into camps, Haida. You’ve seen it. America, China, Russia... and then there’s us. If Japan doesn’t claim its own future, someone else will do it for us. Eyes For Tomorrow is a tool. In the wrong hands, it’s a weapon. In the right hands... maybe it can be something more."

Haida’s stomach twisted. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and instinctively opened the news app, scrolling through the endless flood of updates. The headlines blurred together:

"American Forces Regain Control in Okinawa"

"Naval Skirmish in the Taiwan Strait De-escalates After U.S. Intervention"

"Chinese Navy Retreats Amidst Mounting International Pressure"

“World Questions Both American and Chinese Foreign Policy”

The world was holding its breath, but only just. Haida’s thumb froze as his eyes caught a weather update embedded between the geopolitical chaos:

"Some sunny days ahead, but dark days not too far into the future."

Haida let the phone drop to his chest and stared blankly at the screen. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, but it was fleeting. A cruel reminder that peace was always temporary—that dark days lurked just over the horizon, no matter how bright things seemed in the moment.

A choked breath escaped him, and he blinked rapidly as tears stung his eyes. Everything felt too big, too heavy. Had he made the right choice? Was there ever a "right" choice in all of this? He had been pulled from one crisis to another, making decisions that felt like survival in the moment but left him hollow afterward.

Tadano’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm. "You okay?"

Haida rolled onto his side, facing away. "I... don’t know," he admitted, his voice cracking. "It doesn’t feel like I’m winning anything. It just... feels like I’m surviving."

There was a pause, and then the bed shifted as Tadano lay down beside him, staring up at the same ceiling Haida had grown up under. "That’s the thing about survival," Tadano said softly. "Sometimes, it’s the only victory you can hope for. But you’re still here, Haida. That counts for something."

Haida’s fingers tightened around the phone, but he said nothing. His tears fell silently, soaking into the pillow beneath him.

Tadano stayed where he was, quiet but present, as the morning light poured through the window. The koi pond outside shimmered in the breeze, the fish below unaware of the storms raging in the hearts of the two men inside.

Chapter Text

Despite the chill of the air conditioning in the back of the luxury sedan, a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat—or the gravity of the world he now lived in.

Tadano sat beside him, casually scrolling through his tablet, while the muted sound of a news broadcast came from the small TV screen mounted in the back of the car. Kobayashi was behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road with his usual stoic focus. His presence was reassuring, even after all this time.

Haida glanced at the screen, where a suited anchor delivered the latest grim update with a forced sense of calm.

"Reports from the Taiwan Strait indicate that yet another naval incident has occurred between Chinese and American forces, leading to widespread speculation that full-scale conflict is imminent. Both governments continue to blame each other, while the United Nations' latest peace talks have stalled completely."

The screen cut to footage of warships positioned ominously close to each other, waves crashing against their hulls as fighter jets zipped overhead. Haida exhaled slowly, trying to process the sheer madness of it all.

"In other news," the anchor continued, "the North and South Korean governments have entered another round of retaliatory military drills following a border skirmish earlier this week. Sources on both sides are reporting casualties, though the exact numbers remain unconfirmed."

Tadano didn’t look up from his tablet. "Well, there’s that," he muttered, swiping to another page. "World War Three on the horizon, economic collapse, and border escalations. Just your average Thursday."

Haida rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache that had been brewing for the past hour. "And people thought the Cold War was bad," he muttered. "This is... something else entirely."

The livestream flickered to another report, this time showing footage from Beijing. A stern-faced Chinese official stood at a podium, flanked by the national flag. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: "China Announces Nationalization of Former Japanese Firms Amid Accusations of Economic Sabotage."

The reporter’s voice filled the cabin. "In a move that has shocked the global financial sector, the Chinese government has announced the full nationalization of the Japanese firms that relocated during the financial crisis two years ago. Officials state that this is to prevent what they call 'corporate colonization,' though economic analysts speculate that it is a desperate move to counteract the ongoing financial pressure exerted by the United States."

Tadano chuckled dryly, though there was no humor in it. "Corporate colonization... as if that hasn’t already been the name of the game for decades. The only difference now is who's doing the colonizing."

Haida leaned back in his seat, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling of the car. "And what about America? Last I heard, the quality of life over there’s in the gutter. Half the country’s on the verge of homelessness, and the other half’s stuck working for defense contractors."

Tadano nodded, finally looking up from his tablet. "Yeah. The Land of the Free is turning into a military-industrial theme park. The corporations running the show don’t even pretend to hide it anymore." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "It’s not just an economy—they’re building a stratocracy. The people at the top don’t care if the working class sinks as long as the war machine keeps turning."

The screen shifted again, this time displaying footage from the Japanese Diet building, where crowds of protesters were gathered with signs demanding change. A newscaster’s voice broke in.

"In domestic news, Prime Minister Nakatomi has formally introduced a proposal to draft a new national constitution, effectively ending Japan’s post-World War II pacifist policies. If approved, Japan will regain its right to belligerence and the ability to build a full-scale standing military. Supporters argue that this is necessary to protect Japan’s sovereignty amid rising global tensions, while critics fear it will lead to militarization and further escalate conflicts in the region."

Haida’s stomach twisted as he watched the footage of the prime minister addressing the Diet with steely resolve. The man’s words were calm but brimming with patriotic fervor. "Sovereignty... right," Haida muttered bitterly. "That’s just a nicer way of saying ‘gearing up for war.’"

Tadano tapped the edge of his tablet, thoughtful. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Japan’s been walking this tightrope for decades, pretending pacifism was enough to keep us safe. But with everything going to hell... it was only a matter of time before the pendulum swung the other way."

Haida turned to face Tadano, his brow furrowed. "And what do you think? Do you think we should be building a military? That we should start marching to the same beat as everyone else?"

Tadano’s gaze was distant, his usual playful smirk replaced by something more somber. "I think... we don’t have a choice anymore. The world isn’t going to wait for us to figure out who we are. If we don’t adapt... we’re done. But the question is, can we do it without losing ourselves completely?"

The weight of those words hung in the air like a storm cloud. Haida shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts swirling. The world he had grown up in was gone. The future they were racing toward felt like a ticking time bomb.

Kobayashi cleared his throat from the driver’s seat, glancing at them through the rearview mirror. "We’re almost there," he announced, breaking the silence. "Whatever ‘there’ is."

Tadano chuckled again, more genuine this time. "Thanks, Kobayashi. You’re the best chauffeur-slash-unofficial bodyguard we could ask for."

Kobayashi grunted, his version of a thank-you.

Haida turned back to the window, watching the city blur by. Despite everything—despite the looming wars, the political upheaval, and the endless chaos—Tokyo was still Tokyo. Neon signs blinked above crowded streets, trains rumbled past overhead, and people bustled about their daily routines as though the world wasn’t teetering on the brink of disaster.

How much longer can we pretend? Haida wondered. How much longer can this city stay standing while the rest of the world burns?

Tadano placed a hand on Haida’s shoulder, grounding him. "Hey. Whatever happens next... we’ve got this. One step at a time.”

—

The crowd gathered beneath the massive stage set in the heart of Tokyo’s Marunouchi district, the financial epicenter of Japan. Enormous LED screens flanked the platform, displaying Tadano’s calm, charismatic face alongside bold text that read: “A New Era for Japan: The Silicon Dream Begins.” Camera drones buzzed overhead, broadcasting the event to millions of viewers across the nation and the world.

Despite the somber state of the world, there was a strange sense of hope in the air—or at least curiosity. Journalists from every major outlet were lined up, microphones raised and lenses focused, ready to capture what could potentially be the most pivotal announcement in Japan's modern history.

Tadano stood at the podium, wearing a sleek black suit that caught the sunlight just enough to glint, without being ostentatious. His hair was impeccably styled, and his expression was calm yet commanding. He scanned the crowd, his gaze resting on a few familiar faces in the audience—industry leaders, government officials, and even some ordinary citizens who had come to see the man they once knew as a playboy entrepreneur turned national figurehead.

He adjusted the microphone, his voice ringing out smoothly, yet carrying a weight it never had before.

"Citizens of Japan," he began, "for too long, we have lived in fear of collapse. The financial crisis two years ago nearly broke us. We were caught between titans—powers who saw us as nothing more than pawns in their geopolitical games. But Japan... we are not pawns. We are players."

The crowd murmured as Tadano's confident voice filled the air.

He gestured to the skyline behind him, the towering buildings of Tokyo glinting in the sunlight. "This city... this country... has been through hell. But today, I stand before you not to mourn what we've lost—but to announce what we’ve gained."

The massive screens behind him changed, displaying the logo of his newly merged conglomerate—an elegant fusion of several major Japanese tech company symbols into a single, cohesive emblem. Tadano Universal Solutions. Below the logo, the slogan "Eyes for Tomorrow" appeared.

Tadano took a breath before continuing. "Today marks the birth of a new era—the end of the Warring Neo-Zaibatsu. No longer will competing tech empires tear us apart with infighting. No longer will we be fragmented, clinging to outdated ideals while the world marches forward without us."

The crowd erupted into applause, though some spectators exchanged wary glances, unsure of where this was headed.

Tadano raised his hand, and the applause quieted. "We’ve merged Kaneda Tech, Fujimoto Microsystems, Nishikawa Innovations, and several others into a single, unified force—one dedicated not to profit at the expense of its people, but to innovation that protects its people. And at the core of this transformation is the Eyes for Tomorrow program."

A diagram appeared on the screen, showing a sleek web of interconnected networks, smart devices, and data nodes. "The Eyes for Tomorrow initiative ensures that every citizen, every community, will be safeguarded by a vast, interconnected network designed to detect threats before they arise. It will streamline public safety, predict economic trends, and stabilize our markets. But more importantly, it will create a secure Japan—one where uncertainty is not met with fear, but with preparation."

Tadano’s gaze softened, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "I know what some of you are thinking. 'What about our privacy? Our autonomy?' I won’t lie to you. We are giving up some degree of privacy. But in doing so, we gain something unprecedented: a freedom that comes from certainty. From knowing that the world around you is being watched—not to control you, but to protect you. To ensure that you can live your lives without the constant shadow of fear."

The screens shifted again, this time displaying images of bustling cities, serene rural landscapes, and hopeful young students staring at digital displays of the future. But then, the images of the rural areas faded, replaced entirely by vibrant scenes of Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka.

Tadano turned to the crowd, his expression serious. "I won’t sugarcoat the truth. Rural Japan is struggling. It has been for decades. We’ve seen towns empty, jobs vanish, and schools close. But while the countryside may be fading, the Golden Triangle—Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka—remains strong. This will be the core of our new Silicon Dream. A new axis of innovation, creativity, and resilience that will make Japan not just a competitor to Silicon Valley in America or Guangdong in China, but its successor."

His words hung in the air, followed by a stunned silence.

Tadano stepped forward, his eyes shining with conviction. "We will become the Silicon Island. We will show the world that Japan is not a relic of the past, but the blueprint for the future. We will rebuild, not as a nation defined by tradition alone, but as a beacon of progress—a place where the impossible becomes reality."

The applause that followed was deafening. The cameras zoomed in on people clapping—some with tears in their eyes, others with cautious optimism, and a few with grim determination. The reporters scrambled to type out headlines, their voices crackling with excitement as they called in their reports.

Tadano let the applause wash over him for a few moments before stepping back from the podium. His job wasn’t done—not by a long shot. But as he looked out over the sea of faces, he felt the pulse of the city—the pulse of a nation that was battered but not broken.

We’re not pawns anymore, he thought. It’s time we became the players.

—

. Haida was slouched in the leather seat, eyes glued to his phone as he tapped away at a game with surprising focus. The bright colors and frantic music from the game contrasted with the otherwise silent, pristine atmosphere of the luxury car.

"Hey, Tadano," Haida said without looking up, "so with all this new infrastructure you’re putting together... are we gonna see some really cool games come out of it? I mean, come on—AI-generated quest lines, VR stuff that actually works like it should, all that good sci-fi shit?"

Tadano, who was scrolling through something on his tablet, chuckled and rested his head back against the seat. "Of course. Video games are going to be at the center of everything. You’d be amazed at how much R&D for 'serious tech' actually starts out as entertainment projects. And with how hard things are getting—with all the economic turmoil, riots, and terrorist attacks—people need good escapism. They need something to lose themselves in until things get better." He gestured toward Haida’s phone. "Hell, look at you. You’ve been glued to that thing since we left."

Haida smirked and kept playing. "Yeah, well... I’m winning."

Kobayashi’s voice cut through the car’s calm atmosphere from the driver’s seat. "Uh... we’ve got a problem."

Tadano sat up, eyebrows raised. "What’s going on?"

Kobayashi glanced at them through the rearview mirror, his expression calm but serious. "Protesters. They’ve blocked off the main road through Minato Ward. We’re going to have to divert."

Haida put his phone down and peered out the window. The distant sound of chanting grew louder as the car slowed down. When they reached a bend in the road, they could see the full scale of it—a massive group of protesters, packed together in a human wall across the intersection. They were holding signs above their heads, most of them hand-painted in bold colors.

One sign stood out to Haida immediately, the letters practically glaring: "THE SILICON DREAM IS A SILICON NIGHTMARE."

Tadano sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well... that's subtle."

The crowd was growing more agitated by the second. Some of them were waving their signs furiously, others were chanting slogans. The mood wasn’t just tense—it was volatile.

A sudden thunk hit the side of the car. Haida flinched as something wet splattered against the tinted window—some kind of drink, judging by the sticky residue it left behind. More objects began pelting the car, accompanied by shouts from the crowd. Someone threw what looked like a metal canister, and it clanged loudly against the roof.

"Shit," Haida muttered, gripping the door handle instinctively. "They're really pissed."

Just then, a fleet of black SUVs rolled up behind them, their engines rumbling like thunder. The corporate security team had arrived, sleek and efficient. Men and women in black tactical gear disembarked quickly and formed a perimeter. They moved like a well-rehearsed dance, deploying non-lethal countermeasures with precision.

The sound of compressed gas hissed through the air as they released containment foam that quickly expanded across the pavement, creating barriers between the crowd and the vehicle. Bright flashes of strobe lights designed to disorient the protesters flickered from handheld devices, forcing the crowd to shield their eyes. A loud but non-threatening siren sound pulsed in the background—loud enough to unnerve, but not deafening.

Haida watched as the protesters began to scatter. Some fled down nearby alleyways, while others simply threw their signs to the ground in frustration before retreating. Within moments, the crowd had dissolved like a wave breaking against a rock. All that was left were abandoned signs and the eerie aftermath of what had almost become a full-scale confrontation.

Tadano leaned forward slightly, watching the scene with a neutral expression. "Well... that was efficient."

Haida’s stomach twisted as he looked at the discarded signs. Silicon Nightmare. The words echoed in his head.

Kobayashi resumed driving as the security team cleared the road. The car picked up speed again, leaving the chaos behind.

Haida glanced at Tadano. "You ever wonder if they’ve got a point?"

Tadano shrugged but didn’t look away from the window. "Of course they do. But they’re fighting ghosts. They’re scared of something they don’t understand... something that hasn’t even taken shape yet. The world’s changing, Haida. You know that better than anyone. Change scares the hell out of people."

Haida sank back into his seat, feeling the tension in his shoulders. He picked up his phone again, but the bright colors and cheerful music of the game suddenly felt hollow. Outside, the city continued rushing past, but the echoes of the protest stayed with him.

Silicon Dream. Silicon Nightmare.

—

The dining room of the Haida family estate was adorned with elegant decor that seamlessly blended modern sophistication with traditional Japanese elements—silk tapestries depicting mountain ranges hung beside digital displays cycling through serene koi ponds and cherry blossoms.

This was no ordinary dinner. It was a calculated political event, an opportunity for rising stars and power players to network and showcase their influence. At the head of the table was Jiro, the charismatic and young politician, the media's new darling, and the youngest aspiring prime ministerial candidate in Japan’s history—a brilliant strategist and orator who had already garnered national attention. His every move was scrutinized, and every word spoken felt like a piece of history being written in real-time.

Haida sat a few seats down, trying to enjoy his meal while suppressing the anxiety that gnawed at his stomach. The room was filled with journalists, investors, and political figures. He felt like a sheep thrown into a den of wolves.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her—Tsunoda. Dressed impeccably, her gaze sharp and glittering with ambition. A predatory smile tugged at her lips as she approached with a microphone and a camera crew following close behind. Haida’s pulse quickened.

"Mr. Haida," Tsunoda began, her voice smooth but cutting, "the world has watched the Haida family’s ups and downs with bated breath, especially after recent... revelations. The question on everyone's mind tonight is: how does the Haida family plan to return to the good graces of the public and politics?"

The room quieted as curious ears turned toward them. Even Jiro, at the head of the table, paused mid-conversation, glancing toward Haida.

For a moment, Haida froze. The feeling of a hundred eyes bore down on him, and the buzzing anxiety in his chest felt like a swarm of angry bees. But then he caught sight of Jiro, standing tall at the other end of the room, his posture regal and assured. Jiro met his gaze and gave a subtle nod of encouragement, a silent reminder: You’ve got this.

Haida took a steadying breath and rose to his feet, setting down his glass. His voice, though calm, carried a quiet strength. "The Haida family is a family of progressive change. Whatever mistakes were made in the past... they belong to the past. The future of Japan isn’t built on clinging to outdated traditions or the ghosts of history. It’s built on moving forward."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, not of disapproval, but of intrigue.

Haida continued, his confidence growing. "Japan must embrace the future—not out of fear, but out of hope. The old ways have brought us far, but they cannot carry us any further. We need new ideas, new leadership, and new courage. This isn’t just a new chapter for the Haida family—it’s a new chapter for all of us."

The room erupted into applause. Even Tsunoda, despite herself, looked impressed, though a knowing smirk tugged at her lips. The young candidate nodded approvingly, raising his glass in a silent toast.

Jiro beamed with pride as Haida sat back down. The conversation in the room resumed, livelier than ever. Haida felt Jiro’s hand briefly clap his shoulder as he walked past, a silent well done.

—

Later, the two brothers stood outside near the koi pond, the cool night air refreshing after the intensity of the evening. The koi glided serenely through the water, their shimmering scales catching the moonlight. The estate grounds were still, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the soft trickle of the pond.

Jiro took a sip from his sake cup before speaking, his voice thoughtful. "You did well tonight, Taro. Better than I could have hoped for."

Haida chuckled softly. "Thanks. But it’s not over, is it?"

Jiro’s expression darkened slightly as he stared at the rippling water. "No... it’s not. Which is why I have to ask you something. Do you think there’s any way to undo it? The Eyes for Tomorrow system. Or is this... really the future of Japan?"

Haida didn’t answer immediately. He watched the koi swim in lazy circles, their world confined to the pond but seemingly blissful in its simplicity. Finally, he exhaled, his breath forming a small cloud in the cool air. "I don’t know if it can be undone. But... I do know one thing. With the death of privacy, at least we finally have a few good things, I guess. I think." He glanced at Jiro with a faint smile. "Gay marriage. At least you got that."

Jiro’s tense expression softened, and a genuine smile spread across his face. "Yeah... I am glad for that."

Just then, the sliding door to the garden opened, and a familiar figure stepped out—Himuro, dressed casually but still effortlessly put-together, with a small plate of freshly made rice balls in hand. He walked over, his presence radiating warmth.

"Thought you two could use a snack," Himuro said, holding out the plate. His eyes twinkled as he turned to Haida. "Taro, you’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you?"

Haida rolled his eyes, taking a rice ball. "Thanks for that, Himuro. Just what I needed—more shade from my brother’s husband and a former boss of mine.”

Himuro laughed, and even Jiro chuckled as he took a rice ball for himself. The three of them stood there, the world momentarily set aside.

—

The sound of the car engine was barely noticeable, a low background noise as the vehicle cruised through Tokyo’s bustling streets. Haida was slouched in the back seat, his phone tilted at just the right angle to block the sunlight streaming in through the tinted windows. Beside him, Kobayashi was fully engrossed in his own phone, his thumbs moving rapidly across the screen as he played some sort of mobile RPG. The faint sound of battle music and attack animations occasionally leaked from his phone's speaker.

Tadano was supposed to be at a meeting an hour ago. But they weren’t in any rush. In true Tadano fashion, the meeting would start when he showed up, and not a second earlier.

Haida lazily scrolled through an article about an upcoming gaming convention on a niche website he followed. The website’s outdated interface loaded clunkily on his phone, images popping in a second too late. As he reached the bottom of the article, an annoying pop-up ad suddenly filled the screen with bright neon colors and flashing text.

“New Release! Check Out the Latest Video from Japan’s Hardcore Idol-turned-Starlet: Retsuko!”

Haida’s heart dropped. The thumbnail was unmistakable—it was her. Retsuko. Her bright red fur, her sharp eyes outlined in dramatic makeup, her mouth partially open as if mid-scream. Only now, it wasn’t the kind of scream she used to unleash on stage.

He blinked and instinctively closed the ad with a tap of his thumb, his breath catching in his throat. What the hell? He had known about it, sure. The whispers, the articles—it wasn’t news to him anymore. But seeing it like this, shoved in his face when he wasn’t prepared... it still hurt. It made it all feel uncomfortably real again.

The screen reloaded, bringing him back to his gaming article. But the words blurred as his mind raced. His thumb hesitated before flicking upward to refresh the page. Anything to distract himself.

He switched to a social media app and began scrolling mindlessly through his feed. Familiar names and faces filled the screen—fragments of the lives of people he used to know.

Fenneko’s latest post was a picture of her lunch: a stylishly plated soba dish with a caption that read: “Fuel for the soul before another grind session!”

Haida smirked faintly. Same old Fenneko.

Tsunoda’s story popped up next—a boomerang clip of her at some beachside café, winking at the camera. She’d tagged a luxury hotel in Okinawa. Of course, Haida thought. She always knew how to make it seem like she was living the dream.

The next post was something unexpected. It was a group photo of Fenneko, Kabae, and Komiya outside what looked like a food truck. They were all grinning, holding massive bowls of ramen and flashing peace signs at the camera. The caption read: “Office reunion! It’s not the same, but we make do.”

Haida stared at the image longer than he intended. There they were, looking like they’d found a way to keep going, even after everything had fallen apart. His thumb hovered over the "like" button before he decided against it and kept scrolling.

He saw an update from Inui—an artful shot of her latest café creation: a strawberry parfait with perfectly swirled cream. The caption was simple: “Morning vibes.” The sight of her post sent a dull ache through his chest. She was still doing her best, still living her quiet life.

Another post. This one from Washimi—an article she’d shared about the new Japanese constitution and the implications of Japan’s growing military strength. Her caption read: “History is watching. The question is, what side will we be on?”

Such an odd thing to post, when living in China, Washimi… Haida thought.

Haida exhaled slowly, setting his phone down in his lap. The weight of the day—hell, the weight of the year—left him feeling completely exhausted. He leaned his head back against the seat, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment.

"You good back there?" Kobayashi asked, still focused on his game but apparently aware enough to notice Haida’s sudden stillness.

"Yeah," Haida muttered. "Just... tired."

Kobayashi snorted. "Welcome to life."

Haida chuckled despite himself. His eyes drifted back to the window as the car moved through the city. For a brief moment, he watched the world outside—the buildings towering above, the blur of people on the sidewalks, the neon signs flickering even in the daylight.

The memory of the pop-up ad lingered in the back of his mind like a splinter. It wasn’t just Retsuko’s image—it was what it represented. A world he had no control over. A version of events that had slipped out of his hands long ago.

The car slowed as they hit a stretch of traffic, and Haida’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced down—a message from Tadano:

"Almost there. Don’t sweat it. I’ll make the world forget the stuff you wish you could."

Haida’s thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he felt reassured or... something else entirely. He cleared the notification, leaned his head back again, and closed his eyes.

The future was waiting—loud, chaotic, and uncertain. No matter how far he scrolled, there was no app to swipe it all away.

—

The televised broadcast cut in with a dramatic fanfare as the camera panned over an impressive stage setup. Tadano stood center stage in Los Angeles, flanked by towering digital screens displaying the emblems of Japan's tech conglomerates alongside American government seals. The crowd in attendance was a mixture of media, tech professionals, and high-ranking government officials. The iconic Los Angeles skyline glimmered in the background, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the scene.

Back in Tokyo, Haida sat cross-legged on the bed in their high-rise apartment, the dim glow of the television reflecting off his tired face. The room was dark except for the screen, showing Tadano in crisp HD, every pixel capturing his tailored suit and disarming smile.

"Thank you all for being here today," Tadano began, his voice calm yet commanding. "Before we discuss the future, it’s important to acknowledge the tragedy that has brought us to this moment."

The room fell silent as the camera zoomed in on Tadano’s somber expression.

"Japan extends its deepest condolences to the families affected by the terrorist attack at the San Francisco port. It was an act of senseless violence that stole innocent lives and left scars on an already fragile world." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But... moments like these remind us why we must act—not out of fear, but out of a commitment to security and peace."

Haida’s stomach tightened as he watched Tadano pace across the stage, his every move deliberate. Tadano was a master at owning a room, even one as grand as this.

"This is why I am proud to announce that Kaneda-Tadano Integrated Technologies has solidified a historic partnership with the United States government," Tadano continued, his voice rising with confidence. "We have pledged to deploy our Eyes For Tomorrow surveillance system to fortify key infrastructure, ensuring that tragedies like San Francisco never happen again."

The crowd erupted into applause, and Tadano nodded appreciatively before holding up a hand to quiet them.

"But this is only the beginning," he said, his smile shifting into something almost boyish—like he was about to reveal a surprise. "For too long, we’ve let the stars belong to the past. We’ve romanticized the golden age of space exploration, but we’ve failed to reignite its spirit in the present. Well..." He paused for dramatic effect. "That changes today."

The screens behind Tadano lit up with breathtaking images of spacecraft designs, gleaming launch pads, and orbital trajectories. "I’m thrilled to announce that our company has extended an open invitation to NASA to collaborate on rejuvenating the space race—together, we will take everyone to the next frontier."

The audience gasped in awe as renderings of space colonies and advanced satellites played on the screens. A timer graphic appeared, labeled Project Gateway: Countdown to Launch—12 Months.

Haida leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His chest felt tight as he watched Tadano receive a standing ovation. Even though he wasn’t there, he could feel the energy through the screen—the reverence people held for Tadano, the belief that he was the man who could usher in a new golden age.

But beneath the applause and grandeur, Haida felt something else—doubt. Was this really the future they wanted? Could one man truly control something as vast and unpredictable as space, security, and sovereignty?

The camera panned to Tadano, who raised both arms as the applause continued. His face was glowing with triumph, but to Haida, it almost felt... surreal.

Tadano’s voice cut through the noise once more. "Let this be a reminder to the world: progress doesn’t wait. Innovation doesn’t sleep. And we will not allow fear to dictate our fate. Together, we will rise beyond borders, beyond fear... and beyond the stars."

Haida exhaled slowly and rubbed his face. The broadcast transitioned to interviews with key figures in the tech industry and military experts praising the announcement. The words "global unity" and "unprecedented era" flashed across the ticker at the bottom of the screen.

Haida's phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was a text from Jiro:

"Watching this? He’s brilliant... but it’s terrifying."

Haida stared at the message for a long time before replying:

"Yeah. I know."

He set the phone down and leaned back against the headboard. The applause continued in the background, now joined by speculative analysts discussing what Tadano’s vision meant for Japan, America, and the rest of the world.

Haida’s gaze drifted toward the window. The Tokyo skyline glittered with artificial lights, stars in their own right, but they were drowned out by the glow of skyscrapers and digital billboards.

"Beyond the stars, huh?" Haida muttered to himself. A bitter smile played at his lips.

—

For some reason, the cabin of the private jet smelled like lemonade. Tadano leaned over a sleek, polished table that displayed a holographic rendering of a spacecraft. The projection rotated slowly, showing every detail—the passenger quarters, the lounge areas, the observatory dome designed for stunning views of Earth and the Moon.

Tadano tapped the image, expanding a section to highlight the gourmet kitchen and a zero-gravity dining experience. "We’ve thought of everything," he said, his voice brimming with excitement. "Luxury at zero-G. First-class suites with personalized climate control. Even live music for the cruise portion of the journey back to Earth. It’s going to be the pinnacle of recreational space tourism."

Haida sat across from him, arms folded, eyes glazed over as he stared at the projection. His mind drifted, barely registering Tadano’s words. Every so often, he nodded mechanically, adding a murmured, "Yeah," or "Sounds good," to feign interest.

Tadano paused mid-sentence and looked at Haida, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Okay, what’s up with you?"

Haida blinked, forcing himself to meet Tadano’s gaze. "What do you mean?"

Tadano tilted his head. "You’ve been saying ‘yes’ to everything like a robot for the past hour. Usually, you’ve got something snarky or insightful to say. Is it the whole space flight thing? Because if you’re nervous about zero gravity, I promise we’ve done simulations—"

"It’s not that," Haida cut him off with a small, tired smile. "Everything’s... perfect. Just like you said."

Tadano’s eyes narrowed as he studied Haida’s expression. "Perfect, huh?" He chuckled lightly but there was an edge of skepticism in his voice. "You don’t seem like a guy who’s living in paradise."

Haida shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair. "What do you want me to say?" he muttered. "That I’m stressed? That I feel like I’m just... floating along? I mean, yeah, I’ve got all the time in the world now. I can sit around, listen to music, play games, watch shows. I’m practically the definition of a house-husband. And you know what? It’s not even bad." His smile grew more bitter. "But it’s weird, Tadano. It’s like... I’ve got everything I could ever want, and somehow, it still doesn’t feel like mine."

Tadano’s smile faded, replaced by something more serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You’re not just a house-husband, Haida. You’re my partner. You’re part of something bigger than both of us. And I get it—this whole world we’re building? It’s... a lot. Maybe even too much sometimes. But I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I didn’t think you believed in it too."

Haida looked away, staring out the window where the sky blurred into streaks of blue and white as they cruised above the clouds. "I do believe in it... I think. But it’s hard not to feel like a passenger in someone else’s story, y’know?"

Tadano was quiet for a moment, letting Haida’s words hang in the air. Then he reached out and gave Haida’s shoulder a firm squeeze. "You’re not a passenger. You’re the damn co-pilot. If you feel like something’s off, say the word. We can change course—hell, you can help me steer the whole ship."

Haida let out a soft laugh despite himself. "I don’t even have a license."

"That’s the best part," Tadano replied with a grin. "Nobody does."

Tadano reached across the table, swiping the holographic image away, replacing it with a live feed of the spacecraft itself, docked and gleaming in the moonlight on a launchpad in Houston. The lunar cruise ship was massive, its sleek silver exterior reflecting the bright spotlights that surrounded it.

Tadano watched the feed with a gleam of pride in his eyes. "When we’re up there... looking down at the Earth, maybe things will finally make sense," he said softly.

Haida leaned back, letting the thought sink in. "Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe it’ll just look small. You ever think about that? How everything looks smaller when you’re far away?"

Tadano nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Yeah... I think about that a lot."

The conversation lulled again, but this time, it felt more comfortable. The weight of unspoken fears and dreams settled between them like an old, familiar friend. Haida reached for his phone, scrolling aimlessly through music playlists, trying to shake the melancholy that had taken root in his chest. A song title caught his eye—something from an old band he used to listen to when he was younger. Without thinking, he tapped "play," and the familiar chords filled the cabin softly.

Tadano glanced over, his expression curious. "That your old punk stuff?"

"Yeah," Haida said, his lips quirking into a small smile. “Just feeling a bit nostalgic.”

The plane began its descent, and the cityscape of Tokyo sprawled out below them like a map. The skyscrapers gleamed in the evening light, and the streets were rivers of red and white headlights.

—

The crowd gathered at Haneda Airport’s unveiling ceremony was abuzz with excitement and curiosity. Reporters, journalists, and influencers lined the sleek, futuristic space-launch pad, their cameras pointed at Tadano as he stood in front of a massive backdrop depicting the moon. The silver arches of the launch terminal shimmered beneath the bright afternoon sun, with the spacecraft itself docked and ready for its inaugural presentation. A crowd of onlookers and VIP guests filled the venue, murmuring with a mix of awe and skepticism.

Tadano, dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, had his usual confident air as the reporters began peppering him with questions. The media scrum was chaotic but controlled, everyone jockeying for their moment to question the man behind Japan's most ambitious space tourism project.

"Mr. Tadano," one reporter began, holding out a sleek microphone, "many are saying that luxury zero-g vacations are out of touch with the economic suffering of rural Japan. What do you say to those who believe this launch represents a growing social divide?"

Tadano offered a warm but knowing smile. "I understand the concerns," he said, his tone measured and reassuring. "But let’s be honest—progress has always been uncomfortable for some. The future of Japan is in the cities. The urban centers drive our technological and economic advancement. The reality is, rural life as we know it is evolving, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Once we automate agriculture and revitalize those regions with smart infrastructure, rural areas will thrive—not as places stuck in the past, but as destinations for sustainable living and tourism."

The reporter pressed on, leaning in with a slightly amused glint in their eye. "So, you’re saying the future of the Japanese countryside is as a tourist attraction? What happens when people would rather visit an old thatched-roof village than... well, the moon?"

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd at the clever remark, but Tadano didn’t miss a beat. He chuckled lightly, adjusting his mic. "If that happens, I’d be the first to book my trip to that village," he quipped. "But in all seriousness, the moon isn’t just a vacation spot—it’s the next frontier for innovation. Zero-G research, space manufacturing, even clean energy experiments—we’re not just building a luxury cruise to the stars. We’re building a gateway to the future. And if we get this right, the prosperity we create up there will trickle down to every region on Earth, including rural Japan."

The crowd murmured again, some nodding in approval while others exchanged skeptical glances. Cameras flashed, capturing Tadano’s poised expression as he gestured toward the spacecraft behind him.

While the media hung on Tadano's every word, Haida stood off to the side, wearing a crisp suit that felt slightly too formal for his tastes. He tugged at his collar and shifted uncomfortably. The cameras didn’t drift toward him; they never did. The reporters were focused entirely on Tadano—the visionary, the genius, the man with all the answers. Haida felt like a glorified background character in his own life.

He slowly sidestepped away from the bustling group of reporters, hoping to avoid drawing any attention to himself. With each step, the cacophony of questions and applause grew quieter. He found himself near a row of towering floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the runway, where the spacecraft gleamed in the sunlight like something out of a science fiction movie.

He let out a quiet sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, staring out at the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, a commercial airliner took off, its engines roaring as it ascended into the sky. The everyday world continued, indifferent to the grand dreams Tadano was selling.

"Funny how everyone wants to go to the moon when we haven’t even figured out how to fix things down here," Haida muttered under his breath.

He felt a soft tap on his shoulder and turned to see Kobayashi, dressed in a casual blazer and slacks. He must have slipped away from the security detail. "You alright?" Kobayashi asked, his voice low so as not to interrupt the ongoing broadcast.

Haida forced a smile. "Yeah. Just... soaking it all in."

Kobayashi raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You look like you’re debating whether to hop on that spacecraft or run the other way."

Haida huffed a soft laugh. "It’s weird, isn’t it? All this." He gestured toward the launch pad, the cameras, the journalists hanging on Tadano’s every word. "We’re building a highway to the moon, and people down here are struggling just to keep their homes. But Tadano makes it sound like it’s all part of the plan."

Kobayashi leaned against the window, crossing his arms. "That’s the thing about plans, Haida. They sound good until you’re the one stuck in traffic with nowhere to go."

Haida nodded slowly, absorbing the metaphor. Just then, a new cheer erupted from the crowd as Tadano wrapped up his speech with a charismatic flourish. The camera shutters clicked furiously as Tadano waved to the crowd and began making his way toward Haida.

"Showtime," Kobayashi muttered before slipping back toward the security team.

Tadano approached with a grin that was half playful, half exhausted. "So? How’d I do?"

Haida gave him a small, genuine smile. "You crushed it, as usual."

Tadano clapped a hand on Haida’s shoulder. "Good. Because we’re going to need that same confidence when we’re up there." He nodded toward the spacecraft outside. "Ready to see the stars?"

Haida’s gaze lingered on the towering spacecraft, its sleek silver body glinting under the sun. He thought about all the promises Tadano had made—the dreams of a better world, the excitement of the unknown. But he also thought about the people in the streets holding signs, the rural families struggling to make ends meet, the protests that wouldn’t be aired on primetime news.

He took a deep breath, shoving down the lingering doubts. "Yeah," he said softly. "Let’s see where this ride takes us."

Tadano beamed and gestured toward the VIP exit where a small crowd of supporters and investors awaited. As the two of them walked toward the next phase of their impossible journey, Haida couldn’t help but wonder whose dream he was chasing.

—

Haida sat in a plush leather chair, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. The whiskey swirled lazily as he tilted the glass back and forth, reflecting the lights like tiny stars caught in orbit. He’d already had three—just enough to dull the anxiety without tipping into full-blown intoxication. He sighed, checked the time on his phone, and frowned.

"You’ve got to pull yourself together," he muttered to himself as he paid his tab and stood up.

The staff at the lounge gave him polite nods as he exited, stepping into the sleek, modern expanse of the spaceport terminal. Large glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the spacecraft on the launchpad. The vehicle glimmered in the sunlight, its massive frame poised for ascent, a modern monument to ambition and excess.

Haida shoved his hands into his coat pockets and began walking aimlessly, hoping to clear his mind. He glanced down at his phone again. Dozens of unread messages from Tadano filled his screen.

Tadano:
"Where are you?"
"We’re boarding soon."
"Dude??"
"Last call, Haida."
"Okay, but you are definitely going on the next one this summer!"

Haida let out a soft groan, his stomach twisting with guilt and frustration. He could practically hear Tadano’s bemused tone in the texts, somewhere between disappointment and understanding. Tadano always knew when Haida was about to flake, even before Haida did.

"What’s wrong with me?" Haida thought as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and wandered down the terminal.

Screens blinked with flight updates and advertisements for lunar cruises and zero-gravity sports. Haida walked past a row of souvenir shops, followed by a sleek ramen bar with digital ordering kiosks. Then something caught his eye—a modest corner tucked between two souvenir stands.

A small internet café.

It was out of place in the sleek, futuristic terminal, like a remnant of a bygone era. A flickering neon sign buzzed faintly above the door. Haida almost laughed at the sight. Of course there’d be one of these in a place like this—a haven for procrastinators, gamers, and weary travelers who needed to kill time. His curiosity pulled him closer.

As he peered through the glass door, he saw someone sitting at a booth near the back, her familiar silhouette hunched over a laptop.

His breath caught in his throat.
"No way..."

It was Shikabane.

She was thinner than the last time he’d seen her, her once vibrant hair looking a bit faded, her frame more fragile. She wore an oversized black hoodie that swallowed her frame, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs. She was scrolling through something on her laptop, barely paying attention to her surroundings.

Haida hesitated at the door. A wave of memories washed over him—the internet cafes they used to frequent, the late-night gaming sessions, the quiet conversations that felt more honest than anything else in his life back then. Part of him wanted to walk away, to avoid dredging up the past. But something stronger urged him to step inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered. The smell of instant noodles, cheap coffee, and electronics hit him like a familiar blanket of nostalgia. Shikabane didn’t look up.

Haida took a deep breath and walked toward her booth. "Shikabane?"

She paused, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. Slowly, she looked up. Her eyes were just as sharp as he remembered, but there was something distant in them now—something worn down by time and circumstances. She blinked a few times as if processing what she was seeing.

"Haida?" she said, her voice low and disbelieving.

He offered her a weak smile and gave a small, awkward wave. "Yeah... hey."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the café filled the silence between them. Finally, Shikabane closed her laptop with a soft click and gestured to the empty seat across from her.

"You’re... late for something, aren’t you?" she asked dryly, eyeing his suit.

Haida let out a soft laugh as he slid into the chair. "Yeah. Big, life-changing moon flight. No big deal."

Shikabane raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you’re here instead?"

Haida shrugged, leaning forward on the table. "I saw you. That seemed more important."

She looked at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she smirked. "Still making terrible decisions, huh?"

"Always," Haida replied, his smile widening. "You look... different."

Shikabane’s smirk faded, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if shielding against his words. "Yeah. Life’s... different." She hesitated, then added, "What are you even doing here, Haida? Shouldn’t you be living the dream or something?"

Haida leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Living someone’s dream, maybe. But not mine." He paused, his gaze softening. "What about you? Why are you here?"

Shikabane sighed and looked away. "I had a flight out... but it got canceled. All the pilots went on strike, or got fired, or something. I don’t know. So I got stuck. Lived here ever since."

Haida’s heart sank. He remembered her saying she was leaving Tokyo for good, planning to go back to Osaka. "You’re... still going back to your parents’ place?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. One day. Eventually. Thought I could start over. Maybe... I don’t know." She frowned bitterly. "Had my baby, our baby in this airport even…”

Haida’s throat felt like it had closed shut, and for several moments.

"You..." He struggled to find the words, his voice hoarse. "You had the baby here? At the airport?"

Shikabane’s expression didn’t change—her eyes distant, her face devoid of emotion. "Yeah," she replied quietly. "In one of the bathroom stalls. It wasn’t even early in the morning or anything. People were outside the door... doing their makeup, brushing their teeth, scrolling on their phones. No one had any idea what was going on in there."

Haida felt like he’d been punched in the chest. "And... it didn’t...?" He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

"It was stillborn." Shikabane’s voice was calm, almost clinical. "The paramedics came after I passed out. It was in the news for a day or two. ‘Young woman gives birth in Haneda Airport restroom,’" she recited as if reading a headline. "I woke up in a hospital bed with two nurses talking about how sad it was but also how tired they were of this kind of story." She shrugged. "They kept me for a few days. I didn’t know where else to go after they discharged me, so... I came back here."

Haida’s body felt heavier with each word. His vision wavered, and for a moment, he thought he’d collapse right there in the booth. But instead of tears, there was only an overwhelming hollowness. The grief was so deep it had bypassed sadness entirely.

"I... I didn’t know," Haida whispered. "Shikabane, I—"

She waved him off, her hand trembling. "It’s fine. Well... it’s not, but..." She gave a weak, bitter laugh. "What’s one more tragedy, right? I wasn’t anyone special to begin with. Just some girl playing games, waiting for life to happen." She leaned back, rubbing her arms as though she were cold. "I went back to that internet cafe downtown once. Thought maybe I’d see someone familiar. But the crowd changed. I didn’t recognize anyone, and they didn’t recognize me. It was like I’d been erased. There’s… a lot more homeless people in the city, but nowhere for them to go."

Haida sat there, paralyzed by the enormity of her words. There was a deep, unshakable guilt gnawing at him—because despite everything she’d been through, despite the horror and loneliness of it all, he couldn’t summon the tears he knew he should have. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he cared too much. But he was so numbed by everything that his grief felt like static, buzzing beneath the surface.

Finally, he found his voice. "You’re not erased to me," he said quietly.

Shikabane’s gaze flickered toward him, a shadow of surprise crossing her face. She didn’t say anything, but the way her lips pressed together told him that his words had at least reached her.

A long silence settled between them, punctuated only by the soft clatter of keyboards from other booths and the occasional hum of airport announcements.

After what felt like an eternity, Haida took a breath and forced himself to speak. "Do you... want to watch the shuttle launch with me?" His voice was gentle but steady. "It’s supposed to be pretty incredible. I mean... it’s a hell of a thing, right? First fully stacked civilian flight to the moon."

Shikabane blinked, clearly not expecting the question. She stared at him for a moment, her face unreadable. Then, with a dry, almost resigned tone, she said, "Yeah... okay. Why not?"

Haida stood up and reached out a hand. She hesitated, glancing at his open palm before slowly taking it. Her hand felt fragile, as though everything she’d endured had worn her down to something breakable.

They exited the internet cafe and stepped into the bustling terminal. The spaceport was alive with noise and motion—families posing for photos, travelers rushing to their gates, employees directing the flow of passengers. But it all felt distant and insignificant as the two of them made their way toward the observation deck.

The deck was already crowded with spectators eagerly awaiting the launch. They found a quiet corner near the glass windows that stretched high above their heads, offering a panoramic view of the launchpad. The spacecraft gleamed under the midday sun, its massive frame pointed skyward like an arrow poised to pierce the heavens.

Haida glanced sideways at Shikabane. She was staring out at the shuttle, her expression blank but her eyes reflecting the brilliance of the sunlit sky. He wondered what she was thinking—if she saw this moment as a fleeting distraction or a symbol of something more.

"It’s strange," she murmured. "All these people, excited about watching a hunk of metal take off into the void... and all I can think about is how small we are."

Haida nodded. "Yeah... me too."

A loudspeaker crackled to life, announcing the final countdown. The crowd fell silent, their collective anticipation palpable in the air.

"Ten... nine... eight..." The countdown echoed through the terminal.

Haida felt a strange tightness in his chest as he watched the shuttle, its engines beginning to glow with a brilliant, fiery light.

"Seven... six... five..."

He glanced at Shikabane again. She was still watching, her face calm but her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie.

"Four... three... two... one... ignition."

A deafening roar shook the windows as the shuttle’s engines roared to life, sending plumes of smoke and fire billowing outward. The spacecraft began its slow, deliberate ascent, lifting off the ground with a force that seemed to defy gravity itself.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the shuttle climbed higher and higher, shrinking into the vast blue sky until it was nothing more than a bright speck.

Shikabane exhaled softly, her breath fogging the glass. "There it goes," she said. "Up and away... like nothing down here matters."

Haida watched the speck until it disappeared. "Maybe that’s the point," he said quietly. "Maybe we just need something to remind us that there’s more out there... something bigger than all this."

Shikabane turned to him, her gaze softer now. "And what if we don’t get to go up there? What if we’re stuck down here forever?"

Haida looked at her, his heart aching with a strange mixture of helplessness and hope. "Then... maybe we build something better down here. For each other."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Shikabane smiled—a small, fragile thing, but real.

"Maybe," she whispered.

The two of them stood there in silence, watching as the sky slowly reclaimed its stillness. The noise of the world began to seep back in—the announcements, the chatter, the endless rush of life—but for that moment, they were simply two people, standing side by side, daring to hope for something more.

—

Come and sit with me, let the sky break down
Let the water paint the city in a quiet sound
You know it don’t feel right when you ain't around
Every shadow’s just a memory now

Footsteps in the puddles, walking all alone
Wishing I could hear you through this telephone
But the static keeps reminding me you're gone
And I'm stuck here replaying every song

Raindrops on the window, tracing where we’ve been
The echoes of your laughter still crawling on my skin
If time was just a moment, I’d hold you here again
But I’m talking to the silence, like you’ll answer in the end

Maybe one day, I’ll see you in the sky
Through the silver clouds where the angels hide
If I close my eyes, I can hear you now
Singing to the rain as it’s falling down

So let’s watch the rain, let it pull us under
Let it wash away all the words unspoken
Your touch, like the sun, but I feel so colder
When you’re far away, when you’re far away

[CONCLUSION OF “GRADUATION” (TADANO) ROUTE]

[ENDING A - “BEYOND THE STARS”]

Chapter Text

The emergency meeting was over. The Kaneda Tech conference room had cleared out like a sinking ship—executives fleeing toward their own life rafts, if any remained. Haida remained seated, staring blankly at the afterimage of the global financial collapse flickering across the monitor: bold red kanji screaming 日経平均暴落 — Nikkei Plummets.

His phone buzzed.

Retsuko: "I think I found a way to fix us. But it's... unconventional."

He ignored the text.

Instead, Haida looked up at the ceiling for a long time. He was still slightly sweating from the panic attack that never quite crested. His heart beat fast, but his mind was quiet now. Too quiet.

He stood and walked back into his supervisor’s office.

Shingen was there, the muscular leopard already unrolling digital projection blueprints of Kaneda’s "Eyes of Tomorrow" project on his desk. His golden eyes looked up slowly.

"You made your choice?" the leopard asked.

Haida nodded. "Yeah. I’m in. I want in. I’ll go to Guangdong if I have to. I’ll write the code. Whatever it takes."

Shingen stared at him a moment longer, then gave a small, approving nod. “You're not stupid, Haida. You just finally grew up.”

Haida smirked bitterly. “Something like that.”

Shingen gestured for him to sit.

"Let me show you what you're going to help build. Not the sanitized version. Not what PR wants the world to see. The real Eyes of Tomorrow."

He tapped the holographic controls, and new data flooded the air around them—maps, biometric overlays, predictive behavior charts, speech recognition scripts. All of it organized, analyzed, filtered through the neural net architecture of something massive.

“Eyes of Tomorrow,” Shingen explained, “was originally just a marketing project. A spin on predictive browsing and A.I. shopping habits. But then someone smarter came along—someone from the Ministry of Defense—and said, ‘What if we used it to predict crimes, dissent, revolution?’”

Haida’s heart pounded. “Pre-crime detection?”

“No,” Shingen said with a grin. “Pre-dissent detection. Every single keystroke, vocal inflection, facial twitch—it all gets cataloged. Eyes of Tomorrow doesn’t stop you from committing crimes. It stops you from thinking about them.”

Haida looked at the mass of data, and for a moment, a cold thrill went through his spine. This wasn’t security software. This was digital omniscience.

And he was going to help build it.

"You're not gonna regret this," Shingen added. "In a year, you'll be in Guangdong with diplomatic immunity, state housing, and a salary that makes your current one look like a joke."

Haida simply nodded. "When do we start?"

Shingen smiled. “You already did.”

He tapped the desk console again. A new profile loaded — stark black background, clean white font, and a photo that made Haida's breath catch.

Mikako.

Shingen leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“We’ve got a mole.”

Haida’s pulse spiked. “What—me?”

Shingen waved him off, impatient. “Relax. If I thought it was you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation — you’d already be zip-tied in a van.”

The tension didn’t exactly leave Haida, but he let out a shaky breath.

“Mikako,” Shingen continued, “was recruited through one of the Ministry’s freelance channels. Not unusual. That’s how we pad our cybersecurity teams. But someone fed her a second contract — through Tadano’s shell corporations.”

Haida’s brow furrowed. “Tadano? That guy is uhh… really poking around that much?”

Shingen scoffed. “Tadano’s never rests. He doesn’t want to win, he wants to outlast. If he can’t beat Kaneda Tech, he’ll bleed it dry by stealing from the inside.”

Haida looked at Mikako’s profile. He only vaguely recognized her from somewhere in the office. Dry voice, sharp eyes, too clever to trust. And apparently too clever to stay loyal.

“So what do you want me to do?” Haida asked, wary. “Out her? Fire her?”

Shingen shook his head. “We don’t fire double agents. We flip them.”

Haida blinked. “Wait — you want me to buy her off?”

Shingen nodded. “Everyone has a price. Find out hers. Get her loyalty. And if she’s too clever to sell it outright… convince her that her best bet for survival is our side, not Tadano’s. She's too valuable to lose, but too dangerous to leave unmonitored.”

Haida leaned back, his mind racing. This was already feeling like more than he’d signed up for.

“Am I even qualified for this?” he muttered.

Shingen smirked. “You’re not. But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

He reached into a drawer and slid over a secure comms device.

“Talk to her. Build rapport. But don’t get cute — she’s ten moves ahead of you. She’ll smell hesitation.”

Haida pocketed the device slowly. “And what if she won’t flip?”

“Then,” Shingen said, tapping the desk once, “you let me know.”

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Haida stood, nodding once. His stomach churned.

He was in now.

Really in.

—

Mikako sat cross-legged on a ratty old office chair, a cup of conbini coffee gone cold beside her. The sea breeze from the Minato waterfront cut through the half-open warehouse shutters, salty and constant, carrying with it the mechanical clank of container cranes and the distant honk of departing cargo ships.

Her laptop — a slab of blackened, sticker-covered plastic — whirred quietly. Three auxiliary screens were connected via clunky arms welded to the desk like spider legs. Mikako’s fingers danced across the keyboard with casual grace, flipping between three terminals: one scraping internal Kaneda logs, one visualizing network traffic like fractal art, and one... paused. Waiting for her to make a decision.

A blinking message hovered on her secure channel:
[TADANO: Kaneda’s patched the breach. Got quiet around 03:00 JST. You stir anything?]

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she minimized the chat window and dove deeper into Kaneda Tech’s newest firewall schema. Her access had been slower lately. The holes she’d carved weeks ago — careful, elegant little backdoors laced with tracerless code — were filled with new concrete. Clumsy and brutal, but effective.

So they noticed, she thought.

Probably not from anything she did recently. Which meant someone else screwed up. Or someone got lucky. Either way, the internal net was shifting. She’d noticed new security flags on user behavior analysis scripts. More watchful algorithms. Aggressive logging. It felt like Kaneda Tech had finally woken up and remembered it was a fortress.

She opened another encrypted window — a diagnostics tracker from a previous job. Internal employee tags, ID cross-checks, session records. She scrolled through until she hit a familiar name.

[HAIDA, TARO]

She snorted softly. The punk hyena with the nervous energy and heavy eyes. She remembered him fumbling around her cubicle months ago, asking awkward questions about devops like someone who’d half-read a manual. Now he had full access credentials and had just triggered an anomaly flag. Multiple ones.

“Well, well,” Mikako muttered, tapping her lip.

Her system pinged her again.
[TADANO: Anything?]

She finally typed back:
[MIKAKO: One of your boys might’ve slipped in the mud. Kaneda’s licking its wounds.]

She didn’t send it yet. Instead, she let the cursor blink. Thought hard.

Tadano wasn’t telling her everything — she knew that from the start. But Kaneda wasn’t any better. Shingen had kept her in the dark since her "onboarding." And now someone — possibly Haida — had just triggered a localized network failure in one of the outer server nodes.

And that wasn’t a coincidence.

Mikako leaned back, cracked her neck, and flicked a few toggles on her second screen. A flowchart lit up, parsing the last 48 hours of network behavior in visual nodes — like a slow-spreading disease. There it was. A packet with a weird fingerprint. Something custom. Something she didn’t write.

Her eyebrows raised. “What the hell is this?”

She zoomed in. The code was sloppy but fast — a one-shot brute-force spike that hijacked root access and started spooling out encrypted data to an unknown endpoint.

A payload piggybacked into the Kaneda intranet… and out again.

“Someone cracked the lock,” she whispered. “And set the house on fire walking out.”

She had a choice now: report it to Shingen... or scrub the traces and pretend it didn’t happen. Or worse — trace it back to whoever wrote it, and figure out which side they were on.

But what scared her more than anything else?

The virus had code that looked familiar.

Not hers. Not Tadano’s.

Something worse. Something she thought she'd left behind.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the cooling coffee, and missed.

Lines of code flew past on one screen. Network traffic on another. And on the third, something that looked innocuous at a glance—a VPN connection tunneled through a Japanese proxy, originating somewhere in Inner Mongolia.

But it didn’t belong there.

She leaned forward, fingers dancing over the keyboard. Her custom intrusion detection script had flagged the anomaly forty-seven hours ago. At first, it looked like typical corporate espionage—scraping files, fingerprinting IPs, laying low.

But this was too surgical. Too patient.

It wasn’t just snooping.

It was access. Root-level.

And someone had left the back door unlocked.

“Again,” Mikako whispered, launching her traceroute for the fifth time. The path skipped from Tokyo to Ulaanbaatar to a digital ghost town of Chinese educational servers—scrubbed, repurposed, silent.

She squinted.

Tianjin Institute of Automation.

She knew the name.

The facility was nominally civilian. But her contacts in NISC—the National center for Incident readiness and Strategy for Cybersecurity—had a different file on it. The kind they printed once and never again. The kind with stapled photos of graduate students who never returned home.

She pulled up Kaneda Tech’s internal logs—specifically the private repo for the Eyes of Tomorrow Project, the neural learning platform Kaneda had boasted would “reinvent civic infrastructure.” The AI didn’t just run traffic lights anymore—it was feeding data into real-time predictive behavior models for law enforcement and urban governance.

Mikako stared at the logs.

They had accessed the Eyes of Tomorrow repository.

All of it.

She pressed a hand to her temple, swearing under her breath.

That wasn’t just a theft. That was a weapon handed over. If even a fraction of that data had been copied, foreign operators could simulate Tokyo’s population behavior in predictive models—map dissent, sabotage logistics, manipulate supply chains without firing a shot.

She knew only a handful of people had the clearance level to authorize Eyes of Tomorrow’s private key rotation.

And one of them… had disabled it entirely.

She drilled down the logs. It wasn’t clean, but she was better.

Admin Override: SKaneda Timestamp: 02:17 JST, March 11th. Originating Device: Chairman’s Work Terminal (Office 12-F)

Her pulse slowed.

Shingen.

The bastard had done it himself.

Not a proxy. Not a stolen badge.

He’d opened the door.

She didn't want to believe it, but the chain was unbroken. The override had coincided with a sudden “executive review trip” Shingen had taken to Hangzhou—a detour that never showed up in his official travel documents but had been recorded via a private customs record she acquired through less-than-legal channels.

Two hours in China. No return stamp.

And the day after?

Eyes of Tomorrow’s shadow copy was born. A parallel construct—training silently in the cloud, pulling packet headers from unsecured Japanese government endpoints, listening.

Mikako stood, eyes dry from hours of staring. Her throat felt like paper. She didn’t shut the monitors down—just pulled her bag on and left them glowing behind her.

As she stepped out into the hallway, her phone buzzed.

[Blocked Number]

You’re being followed. Don’t go home.

Her hand gripped the phone tighter.

It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t a theory anymore.

This was a chessboard, and Shingen had moved a piece.

—

The convoy pulled up slow—two matte-black SUVs and a third armored sedan, all unmarked but unmistakable. Each door hissed open in practiced sync, as though the vehicles themselves had rehearsed for this moment.

Haida stepped out last.

The suit was a dark slate, cut sharp along the shoulders, tailored just enough to suggest wealth without shouting it. His hair was combed back, trimmed at the edges. There were no scuffs on his shoes.

He looked like a man who hadn’t just climbed out of rock bottom. He looked like someone who’d been rebuilt.

But Mikako wasn’t going to be impressed by appearances.

He knew that.

He glanced around the old warehouse grounds. Rust bloomed on the siding. The salt air carried iron and brine and something more chemical. A nod to the past—the kind of place smugglers used to run morphine and memory cards, before corporate security replaced police.

Two guards flanked him. Not rent-a-cops either. Kaneda Tech’s very own private security—former JSDF operators in charcoal-gray suits with bulges under the jackets and comms in their ears. One of them—shorter, lean, surgically bald—glanced Haida’s way.

“You’re sure this is the meet point?”

Haida didn’t answer at first. He just looked ahead, eyes scanning the wide loading bay doors. They were half open. Enough to let in the wind and whatever trouble waited beyond.

“I’m not here to fight her,” Haida said quietly. “Just talk.”

The taller guard smirked like he didn’t believe that for a second.

Inside the warehouse, the air was still. Quiet except for the slow creak of steel struts overhead and the distant murmur of surf against the docks. Mikako had picked the place well—open sightlines, elevated exits, few angles to be ambushed.

She stood at the far end of the concrete floor. Alone.

Not unarmed.

She wore a bomber jacket and slim cargo pants, but there was a small matte shape holstered against her thigh—sidearm. Civilian-legal, but modified. The kind of weapon someone carried not to threaten, but to remind.

Mikako didn’t move as Haida approached. She didn’t blink either.

“You’re late,” she said flatly. “And overdressed.”

Haida stopped about five paces away. He lifted his hands—not in surrender, but as if trying to offer the air between them as neutral ground.

“Figured you deserved the best version of me.”

“Didn’t know there were any versions left,” she said.

Ouch. Fair.

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’m not here to play spy games, Mikako. I’m not here to lecture you or trap you or twist your arm. I just came to talk. For real.”

“And the black suits are what, your emotional support hitmen?”

“They’re here so I can get back in one piece,” he said honestly. “Kaneda Tech doesn’t like variables. You’re a variable.”

She tilted her head. “I’m a threat, you mean.”

“You’re a genius. With half a kill-switch wired into their golden goose.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“You know.”

“I do now,” he said. “I’ve been catching up.”

A pause stretched. The waves outside picked up a beat.

“And what,” Mikako said at last, “do you think you're catching up to?”

Haida stepped closer—just a foot. Enough for her to notice, but not enough to breach her line. He reached into his inner jacket and slowly, carefully, pulled out a folder. Thick, sealed. Paper, not digital.

“The kind of offer they don’t send through email.”

She didn’t take it yet. Just watched.

“They know you're holding the keys,” he said. “You built Eyes of Tomorrow’s root logic. You own its learning pathways. They could try to replace you, sure—but they’d risk burning the entire framework. Shingen doesn’t want that.”

“Then why send you?”

“Because you and I both weren't meant to be followers.”

Her mouth twitched—faint, involuntary.

“You think that earns you leverage?”

“I think,” Haida said, voice low, “that it earns me five minutes of your honesty. After that, you can shoot me, ghost me, whatever.”

She looked down at the folder. Still not taking it. Her fingers flexed once.

“What’s in it?”

“Ten-year contract. CTO-level autonomy. Off-book lab in China. Full stack access to Eyes of Tomorrow, and a seat at the table that decides what comes next.”

“And in return?” she asked, though she already knew.

Haida didn’t lie.

“Your silence. Your loyalty. Your name on the new paradigm, even if the tech gets used for things we’d rather not imagine.”

Mikako finally took the folder. Her hand brushed his. Cold.

She opened it and flipped through, eyes scanning like scanners. Not a single wasted second.

Then she looked up.

And for the first time in a long time, Haida saw the old version of her—the one from their startup days. The one who used to mutter burn the system down like a prayer.

“You still believe in any of this?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“I believe we’re past belief,” he said. “Now we’re just choosing who we become when the curtain falls.”

Mikako stared at him.

And then she turned, walking toward the mezzanine stairs without a word, the folder still in her hand.

No agreement. No refusal.

Just movement.

The kind that could mean anything.

Haida let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The guards stepped forward, but he lifted a hand. Not yet.

She hadn’t slammed the door.

Not yet.

—

The sedan’s engine purred beneath him, steady and insulated, like the sound came from a different world entirely. Haida sat in the back seat, jacket unbuttoned, tie a little looser than it had been at the warehouse. His body was still upright, but the rest of him had begun to sag inward—like something folded. Like a dog curled in its own ribs during a storm.

Outside the tinted glass, Tokyo blurred in slow motion.

Office towers zipped past like monoliths of glass and steel, their reflections smeared across the wet pavement. Neon bled from pachinko parlors, idle intersections blinked yellow, and somewhere far behind them, the sea churned beside a half-rotted warehouse that still held an answer he didn’t want to give up on.

His phone buzzed once.
Then again.
And again.

He turned it over in his palm but didn’t check the screen.

Instead, he tapped the icon for the secure line and held it to his ear.

The call connected on the third ring. Crisp, silent.
Shingen Kaneda didn’t say hello. Didn’t need to.

Haida drew in a breath. “She didn’t budge.”

A pause. Static-free. The kind of quiet that was always deliberate.

“Expected,” Shingen said. “Disappointing, but expected.”

“She took the file, looked it over. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t give any answers.”

“That’s her way,” Shingen replied, tone unreadable. “She was never one to fold under pressure. But pressure, Haida, is patient. It doesn’t need to win in one move. We’ll apply it in layers.”

Haida didn’t respond.

“You’re still flying to Hangzhou,” Shingen continued, like it was weather he was reporting. “Your contact will meet you on arrival. Briefcase and translator are waiting at the embassy annex.”

“Understood,” Haida said, though it scraped on the way out.

There was a beat.

Then Shingen added, casually:
“You’ll find things move faster in China. Fewer ethics. Less friction. That kind of clarity should suit you.”

Haida looked out the window. A pedestrian overpass scrolled past, blinking LED ads showing some generic pop idol smiling with robotic eyes. The city always had a way of smiling when it was quietly eating you alive.

“You’ll be fine,” Shingen said, almost kindly. “We’ll handle things on this end. You don’t need to worry about anyone you’re leaving behind.”

Haida’s hand tightened around the phone.

“I wasn’t going to,” he lied.

The line clicked.
Shingen was gone.

The car turned off the expressway onto the terminal loop. Traffic thickened. Buses hissed past. Porters in windbreakers pushed carts full of luggage wrapped in tape and worry. Security cameras tracked silently from every angle, blinking green.

The sedan came to a stop at Terminal 1. A uniformed agent opened the door.

Haida stepped out into the chill airport air. The wind off the bay stung his eyes more than he wanted to admit.

His phone buzzed again.

He pulled it out, thumb hovering.

22 missed calls.

14 unread messages.

Fenneko.
Tsunoda.
Retsuko.
His brother.

Some were short:

“What are you doing, man?”
“Haida, pick up.”
“We need to talk. I mean it.”

Some were longer. Voicemails he wouldn’t listen to. Names he couldn’t bear to see stack up in his conscience like bricks in a guilt wall.

He stared at the screen a moment longer.

Then tapped “Do Not Disturb”, shoved the phone into his pocket, and walked into the terminal without a backward glance.

The Chinese airline’s counter was down near the end of the row. Bare, sterile branding. A red phoenix swallowing its tail.

He handed over his documents without speaking. The woman at the desk gave him a forced smile, typed something into her terminal, and printed a ticket.

“Gate 61. Boarding begins in ninety minutes,” she said.

Haida took the ticket. Walked.

And for the first time in days, there were no eyes watching him. No voices calling his name. Just the soft sound of his own footsteps on cold tile, and the press of the terminal swallowing him up.

Somewhere overhead, a loudspeaker droned on about international departures.

But Haida didn’t hear it.

He just kept walking.

Like a man who knew he wasn’t coming back.

—

The dishes hadn’t been washed in three days. The light above the stove kept flickering every five minutes. She hadn’t opened the blinds since Tuesday.

And the couch still had his scent.

That was the worst part.

Retsuko sat on the floor by the low table, knees tucked up to her chest, her phone resting in front of her. She’d been staring at the screen for the better part of an hour. The text thread with Haida was still open.

[Retsuko]

Where did you go?

Unsent. Again.

There was no profile picture anymore. Just a grey outline. Like he’d never existed.

She ran her thumb across the smooth glass, then pulled it back. Locked the screen. Let it go dark again. Her own reflection barely showed—just a faint outline of tired eyes, unwashed hair, and a t-shirt she didn’t remember putting on.

The missed calls. The silence. The fact that no one from the office knew anything. Even Fenneko had only said, “He’s gone dark. If you’re smart, you’ll stop trying to follow.”

Gone dark.

Gone.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, forgotten. She didn’t get up.

Instead, she reached for the manila envelope on the table. The one with the address, the instructions, the non-disclosure forms. It had arrived three days ago—couriered with no return name, no fanfare.

She’d known what it was before she opened it.

Now there was an invitation.

And a price.

Retsuko opened the envelope again.

The paper didn’t shake in her hands. That surprised her.

Inside was a schedule—hotel room number, time, alias, wardrobe instructions. They weren’t asking for much. The script was only four lines. She wasn’t even the main character.

That would come later.

This was just the audition.
This was her proving she could be watched, that she could be turned into something that didn’t flinch when cameras rolled.

And she would get paid.

Enough.

She laid the script on the table beside the envelope.

It was clinical. Detached. Generic lines about pleasure and trust and submission that felt written by someone who’d never spoken to another human being in real life. The only thing worse than the script was how dead she felt reading it.

She thought of Haida.

Of the last real conversation they’d had—an argument, not even a goodbye. The way he’d looked at her like he was still trying to protect something. The way she didn’t say thank you.

He hadn’t told her he was leaving.

He hadn’t even said her name.

He’s gone, she reminded herself. This is just your life now.

There wasn’t going to be a rescue. No secret plan. No convenient miracle.

Just a plane ticket. A hotel room. And a single shot at pretending none of this mattered.

—

She stood slowly and walked to the bathroom.

he turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water over her face. Watched the drops cling to her lashes and fall without drama.

After a minute, she opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the small makeup bag she hadn’t touched in months.

Lip gloss. Foundation. Blush.

Not for vanity.

For work.

Back in the living room, her phone buzzed. One new message. Unknown number.

“Room 519. Don’t be late. No cameras allowed—ours only.”

She stared at the screen.

Then slowly typed out a message to herself, just in Notes.

"This isn’t forever. It’s just going to get you where you need to be next.”

She locked the phone. Put it in her bag.

And began packing her clothes.

No one was going to stop her.

No one was coming to save her.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

Not because she was numb.

But because crying was for people who thought it still mattered.

—

Retsuko exhaled slowly and slid the card through the lock. The light blinked green.

She stepped inside.

The room was clean, but not intimate. Shades drawn. Lamps on. The bed had been stripped down to its bare white under-sheet, and the small table near the window had a single metal briefcase sitting on top.

But none of that mattered.

Because they were already there.

Three men. Sitting. Waiting.

The first one stood with his arms crossed—broad, rigid, posture straight like he’d never learned to relax. A Doberman, tall and scarred, wearing a button-down half-open to reveal an old inked collarbone. He gave her a slow, heavy nod.

“Evenin',” he said. Voice low, gravel-slick. “You’re earlier than expected.”

In the corner, lounging like the room belonged to him, was a greyhound, lean and sharp-eyed, sleeves rolled up over wiry forearms scarred from more than just boxing gloves. He flicked his wrist, letting a gold chain settle back under his collar.

“Damn,” he said with a short whistle. “Didn’t think she’d actually come. She’s hot too.”

And at the table, sitting beside the briefcase with a toothpick in his mouth and a polite expression on his narrow face, was a ferret. He gave a faint smile.

“Sorry for the lack of welcome party,” he said softly. “Wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

Retsuko froze. The door clicked shut behind her.

Her fingers still hovered near her purse, but she didn’t reach inside. She didn’t scream. Didn’t ask who they were. She already knew.

“I—I think I have the wrong room,” she said, her voice almost believable.

Kuroda stepped forward slowly. “You don’t.”

Hiroto leaned forward on the edge of the bed. “Come on, Miss Retsuko. You’re a smart girl. We wouldn't be here if we weren’t sure.”

A pulse pounded in her ear. Her back tensed, but her face stayed still.

“Where’s the producer?” she asked, carefully.

Junpei gave a rueful smile. “No producer. No cameras. That part doesn’t exist. Not for you.”

A sick wave hit her stomach, but she didn’t move.

“This was never a JAV thing, was it.”

Kuroda shook his head once. “No, ma’am. This was a test. To see if you’d walk into a trap willingly. Someone upstairs wanted to know how far you’d go to disappear.”

Retsuko swallowed hard.

“Was it Hyo…?” she asked, barely a whisper.

Hiroto laughed. “You think he’s in a position to know anything anymore?”

Kuroda didn’t laugh. He watched her closely, measuring. “He’s in the wind. Off somewhere else. Last we heard. We’re not here because of him.”

“Then why?” Retsuko asked. Her voice was louder now. Sharper.

Junpei stood, slow and unthreatening. He placed the toothpick gently into a paper napkin, like a ritual. “It’s simple, really. We want to see how much of our dicks you can take before you make it to the major leagues.”

—

The bathroom was too clean. The kind of clean that made everything feel sterile and wrong. She changed slowly, folding her clothes like she always did, placing them in a neat stack on the toilet lid.

The robe they gave her was soft. Not revealing. But not protective either.

She tied the sash, took a breath, and looked at herself in the mirror.

This version of her didn’t look broken. Just distant.

Like she was watching it all happen from far away.

When she stepped out, the three men were where she left them. Kuroda had pulled a chair into the center of the room, lit by the lamp.

“Sit,” he said.

She did.

Junpei walked over with the form. “Standard release,” he said. “Alias only. This won’t go wide. It’s for review. If they like you, there’ll be a contract.”

She took the pen.

The camera started recording with a soft beep. Kuroda stood behind it, checking the frame. Hiroto watched from the bed, elbows on his knees. Junpei sat cross-legged on the floor, just out of frame, hands resting calmly on his thighs.

“Why are you here?” Kuroda asked. His voice came from behind the lens.

Retsuko looked into the red light.

“I need the money.”

“Do you know what this is for?”

“I know enough.”

“Have you done anything like this before?”

She shook her head.

Kuroda was silent for a moment. Then, off-camera, he said, “Show us your face. Let the robe hang loose.”

She did as told.

It wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t perform.

She just sat there, letting the light hit her fur, breathing through her nose.

“Alright,” Kuroda began again. “Let’s get the fucking started.”

Kuroda ran a hand along her jaw, slow and heavy like he was assessing product.

“You know, when we got your file,” he said, voice like gravel soaked in smoke, “I thought—no way this little office doll’s the same girl from that band. But boy, are we going to have fun with you…”

Chapter Text

The plane touched down in Hangzhou just after dusk.

The sky was a bruised lavender over the city, a flat wall of haze that never quite broke. From his window seat, Haida watched neon signs blink to life along the edge of the horizon, their Mandarin characters stuttering in slow rhythm. The airport looked like a monolith of glass and cold metal, pristine but drained of soul.

He didn’t speak during the taxiing. Didn’t make eye contact with the businessman beside him who kept glancing at his Kaneda Tech lapel pin. When the seatbelt sign dinged off, Haida stood quietly and pulled his carry-on from the overhead bin. A slim black roller. Nothing that would draw attention.

Nothing personal.

There was nothing personal left.

Immigration was swift.

Too swift.

The woman at the counter scanned his passport, nodded once, then reached for a separate folder beneath the desk. Inside was a pre-cleared arrival document—his name already stamped, his visa signed by someone far above airport clearance.

She didn't ask questions.
She didn’t need to.

They knew he was coming.

Haida stepped past the checkpoint, phone still off, the city waiting for him like a quiet wound.

Outside, the air was thick with humidity and the smell of engine oil. A black car idled at the curb, windows tinted to near opacity. The driver stood beside the vehicle in a tailored grey suit, holding a sign with his alias: “Mr. Takao.”

Haida almost smiled. He hadn’t used that name since the Kaneda merger paperwork.

“Welcome to Hangzhou,” the driver said in perfect, sterile Japanese. “Please get in. They’re waiting.”

The ride was long and silent.

Through the glass, Haida watched the city bend around him—curved highways, stacked housing blocks like gray filing cabinets, neon overpasses that blinked red and white like nervous systems in pain. This wasn’t Tokyo. It didn’t pretend to be clean.

It was efficient.
Functional.
Unapologetic.

Even the rain that began to fall midway through the drive didn’t soften the place. It made it shine—metallic and artificial, like the whole world had been dipped in circuit board lacquer.

The driver didn’t speak again until they passed a faded billboard for a defunct telecom company.

“Your contact is waiting at the Cloud Chamber.”

Haida blinked. “That a club?”

“It was,” the driver said. “Now it’s mostly leased out by Kaneda Tech and government partners. Private floors. Surveillance neutral.”

He didn’t like the way he said “neutral.”

The Cloud Chamber was an old industrial lounge repurposed into a tech-forward bunker. From the outside, it looked like a forgotten piece of mid-2000s nightlife—gray brick walls, frosted windows, and a faded gold logo still flaking from the front.

But once inside, Haida stepped into something else entirely.

The lighting was low and warm. A woman in a red blazer guided him through a narrow hallway lined with sound-dampening foam, past an indoor garden sealed under glass, and into a private suite where two dogs in plain black jackets were already waiting.

One was Chinese. One was Japanese.

Both wore the kind of stillness that came with unchecked power.

“Mr. Takao,” the older one said in Japanese, gesturing to a chair. “We’ve been watching your progress.”

“You’re earlier than expected,” the younger added. “You move efficiently when you’re cornered.”

Haida said nothing. He sat.

The first man reached across the table and slid over a black case. Inside: a burner phone, a hard drive, and a keycard with a Kaneda Tech watermark overlaid by a secondary corporate symbol—not Japanese.

It was one of the shadow companies. The kind that existed only in contractor rosters and procurement chains. Legal ghosts.

“You’re being seconded,” the older man said.

“To who?”

“Everyone.”

The younger one finally cracked a smile.

“You’ll be an interface between the Chinese development arm and the Eyes of Tomorrow pilot nodes on our end. The AI’s self-adaptive modeling is… imperfect. We need someone who understands failure. Your Tokyo record shows plenty of that.”

Haida almost laughed. “So I’m not here to lead. I’m here because I’ve already burned.”

“You’re here because people like you don’t ask for escape. You just ask for tasks.”

He looked down at the keycard.

The name wasn’t his.

None of this was.

He wondered—just for a second—if Retsuko had tried to reach him again. If she'd left one last voicemail. Something small. A phrase. A word.

But he knew he wouldn’t check.
He couldn’t.

They gave him a company apartment that night—high-rise, east-facing, with a view of a polluted canal and the endless hum of the elevated train. Sparse furniture. Lifeless white walls. Not even a clock.

His luggage was already waiting when he arrived.

And on the kitchen table, a letter.

Not printed. Handwritten.

Shingen’s handwriting.

Welcome to the new world. The sooner you stop missing the old one, the more useful you’ll become. We don’t mourn ghosts here, Haida. We replace them. Do your job. You’ll be remembered for it.

Haida stood in that empty apartment for a long time.

Then he turned the lights off.

And let the city fill the room with everything it had left to offer: static, shadows, and the knowledge that no one was ever coming to bring him home.

—

He stopped keeping track of the days around week seven.

The apartment had no clock. The city offered no rhythm. And the office—if you could call it that—operated on something more elemental than a schedule. It responded only to pressure. To the urgency of surveillance contracts, to the shifting temperatures of party liaison visits, to whispered requests from Moscow and Beijing.

Haida had become fluent in urgency without context.

That’s what they liked about him.

He didn’t ask why anymore.

The first few weeks were onboarding—only the kind of onboarding that involved no HR department, no welcome packets. Just a series of dimly lit conference rooms, blacked-out windows, and directives spoken over cold tea and barely touched snacks.

He met with engineers from three separate shell companies. None of them used real names. Some spoke Japanese. Others Mandarin. One translator—a fox with a half-missing ear—handled communication between the factions when things got too delicate.

Haida never learned which part of Kaneda Tech he now belonged to.

He only knew that everything filtered upward toward something called “Project Glass Forest.”

And that EYES OF TOMORROW was at the center of it.

By the second month, he’d been relocated from Hangzhou to a new site in Guangdong, where the official Kaneda Tech–Sino Integration Campus was under development.

It looked like a private university—steel latticework, solar panels, imported pine trees lined up with sterile symmetry. But underground, they were building something else.

Haida’s clearance didn’t let him all the way in. But he saw the black elevators. Saw who went in.

PLA officers. Telecom ministry suits. And, once, a tiger he recognized from a Russian sanctions list. His appearance was not noted. He never came back upstairs.

Meanwhile, the world outside the barbed-wire perimeter of the work campus was falling apart.

It came slow, then all at once.

The yen collapsed after Japan’s trade partners faltered under energy constraints. South Korea suffered a wave of internal defaults after its largest tech conglomerate split into splinter factions. Taiwan’s financial sector had been bought up—piece by piece—by shell companies aligned with Chinese interests.

And through it all, China stood still.

Stable. Patient. Watching.

Haida watched too—from a distance. Newsfeeds filtered through Kaneda Tech’s internal comms network. Articles flagged with red markers showed which narratives to avoid repeating, which phrases were now considered “disruptive language.”

He stopped saving links after a while.

What was the point?

Everyone back home either hadn’t noticed yet…

Or they were already gone.

On week ten, they began training the new Eyes of Tomorrow models.

They didn’t call them that anymore.

Internally, they were codenamed “Yggdrasil”—a nod to control, to the root network, to the branching of predictive modeling across urban, digital, and psychological infrastructure.

Haida’s job was to monitor stress feedback loops. He wrote code to test how far the models could push a population’s tolerance before triggering unrest. His simulations ran quietly—inputting crowd movements, protest language, withdrawal patterns, bank runs, water usage anomalies.

Each report he filed was signed with a name that wasn’t his.

He didn’t mind.

It made it easier to sleep.

Occasionally, someone asked him about Japan.

An offhand comment in a meeting. A joke over dinner trays in the employee canteen.

“So,” someone asked one evening, “what’s Tokyo like now? I heard there were food lines.”

Haida shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t been back.”

“Huh.” The coworker nodded and went back to picking at his tray.

That was the last time anyone mentioned Japan around him.

The office's official launch was scheduled for late summer. There would be a ribbon-cutting, speeches from Kaneda Tech’s executive branch, even a pre-recorded endorsement from a senior Chinese commerce official.

Haida had seen the speech. Helped script parts of it.

He watched the draft playback in a soundproof viewing room, his own face reflected in the screen as the voiceover declared:

“Innovation is not national. It is structural. And we are the architects.”

He didn’t flinch when it ended.

He simply filed it under “internal morale package” and sent it along.

By the end of month three, they had taken his name off the payroll roster.

He existed only in internal memos now. Referenced as “the interface.”

A tool.

A keystroke.

A hyena who had become a function.

—

He didn’t remember the moment he started dressing better.

It just happened—slowly, like humidity settling in your clothes. A new jacket one week, imported shoes the next. A silver watch he didn’t need. Cologne he didn’t even like, but wore because it came in a bottle shaped like a katana.

He never questioned the expense.

Kaneda Tech’s stipend program was generous. Silent. No receipts. His account balance updated monthly, always increasing, always clean. No taxes. No warnings.

Just numbers.

And if the people above him noticed he was spending it in all the wrong places?

They didn’t say a word.

Guangdong’s nightlife didn’t just cater to foreigners—it weaponized them.

The first place he visited was a lounge on the 48th floor of a luxury tower near the Pearl River. He didn’t even remember how he found it—some whispered recommendation, or maybe a suggestion built into the eyes of his translator.

There were no menus, no cover charges. The hostess knew his name before he said it.

“Mr. Takao,” she said, bowing slightly, “Welcome back.”

Back?

He didn’t correct her.

That night set the pattern.

First, the liquor—stronger than what he was used to, chased with bitter mixers and laced with syrups that made his tongue numb. Then the women—hostesses with perfect posture and names they admitted weren’t real.

They never asked what he did.

They already knew the type.

“You smell like someone who writes checks,” one said, swirling her drink. “But your eyes? Your eyes say you don’t want to remember what you’re buying.”

He didn’t answer.

It wasn’t prostitution. Not at first.

Just the performance of intimacy. The illusion of being listened to. The game of Let me forget who I was for a few hours.

They laughed at his jokes. Poured his drinks. Gave him back the parts of himself that had burned out in Tokyo.

And when the night was over, they never asked him to stay.

That was the part he appreciated most.

By the second month, he’d stopped going out in his own clothes.

He had outfits delivered directly to his apartment—slim-cut shirts, foreign brands, belts with metal clasps that cost more than his first month’s salary back at the accounting office.

He even changed how he walked. Slower. More confident. Like a man who belonged to his surroundings instead of apologizing for breathing in them.

And with every night, every hangover, every blurred cab ride back to his apartment, he forgot a little more of what Tokyo used to feel like.

What Retsuko’s voice sounded like when she was trying not to cry.

Eventually, the hostesses started making suggestions.

“Have you been to the Moon Arcade?”
“There’s a private lounge in the old trade district—no cameras.”
“Some of the other Kaneda boys go to this spa, very… exclusive.”

And Haida—dumb, half-drunk, adrift—followed.

He found himself in hotel rooms with panoramic views and windows that didn’t open. In bars that required retinal scans for entry. In saunas where no one spoke the same language, but everyone understood what silence meant.

He lost whole weekends.

Woke up next to people whose names he’d never know, in beds too clean to feel real, with receipts for things he didn’t remember ordering—bottles, sessions, upgrades.

One morning he found a lipstick print on the inside of his collar.
It didn’t bother him.

What did bother him was that he didn’t care.

Still, something in him kept count.

A little voice. A ledger. A ledger that never stopped updating.

Week 4: Paid a singer ¥70,000 JPY to spend the night pretending to be someone else.

Week 6: Wrote off a private backroom experience as a “data interface training expense.”

Week 9: Spent ¥400,000 JPY on a single night that he couldn’t remember—except that when he came home, he couldn’t look himself in the mirror.

He never drank before work. That was his line.

He kept that line intact.

But every night, he crossed all the others.

People in the company started treating him differently.

They smiled more. They nodded in hallways. He was no longer “the quiet foreigner.”

He was something else now.

One of them.

Which meant he had value.
Which meant he was useful.
Which meant he could be trusted to shut up.

And in that world?

That was the highest praise you could hope for.

—

Haida’s skull felt like it was filled with gravel.

The taste of baijiu still clung to the back of his throat—sharp, medicinal, and foul. His stomach kept lurching every few minutes, not violently, but in a slow, passive churn that reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything solid since yesterday morning. Maybe longer.

His eyes burned from lack of sleep.

And he was sitting in a conference room fifty stories above the world, surrounded by people who could have him disappeared with a gesture.

There were twelve of them—five Chinese officials, three engineers from Kaneda Tech’s “AI integration” division, two interpreters, one quiet Russian with a diplomatic badge and a thousand-yard stare…

…and Shingen Kaneda, seated at the head of the table like a ghost in a charcoal suit.

Haida tried to look alert.
Not engaged.
Just... not dying.

The table was a long black slab of polished steel. Minimalist. Surgical.

Each seat had a built-in console, its glass surface displaying the same project header:

Eyes of Tomorrow – Phase I Integration Briefing

Authorized Level: Strategic-Internal | Partners: PRC / Kaneda Tech Group

Haida tapped his screen once. It flickered. Lines of code. Maps. Charts.

He couldn’t focus on any of it.

There was a ringing in his ears. A cold sweat forming under his collar. He’d taken two stim patches before coming in, but they were fighting a losing battle against the wreckage of last night.

The only thing keeping him upright was fear.

Not of the project.

Of being seen.

The lead presenter, a woman in a powder-blue blazer, was running through the technical overview in Mandarin. Haida caught words here and there: logistics, target mapping, predictive unrest thresholds, counter-espionage modeling.

Then she said something he understood perfectly:

“The AI will predict battlefield outcomes with 83% efficiency under urban congestion parameters.”

Haida blinked.

Urban congestion?

They were already talking about domestic deployment.

This wasn’t just foreign theater application. This was internal control. Riot forecasting. Civil unrest suppression. Preemptive containment.

Someone else began speaking—an officer in a plain military cut, a serious faced sable. He scrolled through satellite overlays. Factory districts. Port cities. Proximity readings between industrial sites and “known dissident communities.”

“This is where we begin,” he said in Japanese. “Not in wartime. But in the space before it. We want to know when society creaks before it cracks.”

The Russian nodded. “Same model will port well to energy riots. We have experience there.”

Shingen remained still.

He hadn’t said a word.

But Haida could feel him watching.

Eventually, someone cued the implementation team. A young analyst stepped up and began describing how Eyes of Tomorrow’s core engine would be embedded directly into logistical command frameworks—bypassing human controllers entirely.

“The AI doesn’t advise,” the analyst said. “It orders. Command response becomes reactive to prediction, not input.”

Someone asked what that meant in layman’s terms.

The analyst smiled. “It means… no more waiting for things to happen. We act before risk becomes reality.”

Haida finally spoke.

It wasn’t planned. His voice came out hoarse and low.

“Is there a failsafe?”

The room quieted.

Shingen turned his head, ever so slightly.

The analyst paused. “Failsafe, sir?”

Haida swallowed. “If the model overcorrects. If it—misreads dissent as coordination. If it starts anticipating intention instead of behavior.”

A long pause.

The military officer answered.

“There is no such thing as overcorrection,” he said.

Shingen’s voice came next, smooth and low.

“I appreciate the concern,” he said. “But let’s not confuse the limits of empathy with the limits of strategy.”

Everyone turned to him.

He stood, finally, and walked toward the screen at the head of the room.

“The Eyes of Tomorrow project is not an ethical simulation. It is not a toy for moral theorists. It is a mirror—one that shows us who survives, and who pretends they will.”

He tapped the screen.

A map of Eastern Asia appeared.

“Japan is bleeding. The West is floundering. China is the last economy still shaping history instead of running from it. We are not here to argue about outcomes. We are here to accelerate them.”

He turned to Haida.

“You understand this, don’t you?”

Haida hesitated.

Then nodded.

A small, sharp motion.

“Yes.”

Shingen studied him a second longer. Then smiled.

“Good.”

After the meeting, as the room emptied into private shuttles and elevator bays, Haida sat alone for a moment.

He didn’t move.

The simulation screens were still running behind him, showing predictive behavior heat maps pulsing over city districts. Color-coded zones flickered red and orange. They looked like veins. Like infection blooming under a microscope.

—

The first time he did something he wasn’t supposed to, it was so small he almost didn’t register it.

A flagged input in a prediction stream—harmless dissent in a rural province—slated for early response. The Eyes of Tomorrow model advised a deterrence protocol: visible patrols, predictive arrest lists, economic throttling.

Haida paused.

Just long enough.

Then he rerouted the packet. Marked it as false positive: duplicate data artifact. The node reassigned resources elsewhere.

He watched the screen.

No alarm triggered. No audit alert. No knock on his door that night.

Just silence.

He started reading again.

Not official memos. Not internal summaries.

He dug through archived datasets, unused behavioral training models, behavioral ethics logs from Eyes of Tomorrow’s pre-military phase. He found fragments of Mikako’s original logic trees—buried beneath layers of militarized reinforcement code.

They were crude. Messy.

But they were human.

Haida started tagging them, backing them up to a drive hidden in the casing of his dehumidifier. A petabyte of unused logic that once asked:

“Should an AI ever be allowed to choose who is allowed to dissent?”

He stared at that line for hours.

Didn’t answer it.

Just saved it.

It didn’t stop there.

He began asking questions in meetings. Not outright challenges—just little, sideways inquiries.

“What’s the long-term projection for this node?”
“Have we considered humanitarian impact on containment cities?”
“Is behavioral pressure sustainable, or are we just deferring collapse?”

The engineers rolled their eyes. The officials offered polite non-answers. One Chinese deputy director patted his shoulder and said, “You worry too much, Mr. Takao. That’s why you’re valuable.”

Shingen, when he was present, never reacted.

Then one night, he opened the camera logs.

They weren’t supposed to be accessible to anyone below Tier-3 security.

But Haida still had favors.
Old credentials buried deep.
Ghost accounts he’d written into the network before his clearance was locked down.

He searched for something he didn’t want to see.

And he found it.

A village, northwest of Nanning. A test zone. Flagged as unstable during a drought-induced resource crisis. The AI had recommended early phase dispersal. No weapons. Just economic suffocation. Road closures. Denial of freight.

Then noise.

Then footage.

A street filled with coughing, slow-moving figures. No police. No loudspeakers. Just families dragging carts past checkpoints that didn’t move.

No one in the video made it through.

The village disappeared from the next week's map.

Reclassified as a security corridor.

No bodies. No witnesses.

Just data, now.

Haida sat at his desk for hours.

When morning came, he didn’t turn the lights on.

He poured a glass of water.

Stared at the condensation forming around his fingers.

And whispered, “This isn’t what we signed up for.”

He wasn’t even sure who he meant by “we.”

—

Haida sat at the kitchen counter in the dark, laptop open, screen brightness dialed low, encryption protocols stacking like bricks around a paper house. He’d already disabled the wireless signal, swapped out the hardware MAC address, and rerouted his VPN through a sacrificial server in Estonia.

It was slow. Painfully slow. But safe.

He hoped.

The message he was crafting had taken him three days to write. Not because of what it said.

But because of what it meant.

The recipient: Fenneko
Location: Tokyo

He hadn’t spoken to her since before the airport.

Back when things still felt like they could maybe—maybe—be salvaged. When he still thought that distance would make things easier.

But now he understood the lie.
Distance doesn’t keep you safe.
It just delays the pain.

The email had no subject line.

Just a body. Short. Blunt. Unlike him.

I can’t explain everything here.
What I’m working on—what they’re doing—it’s real. And it’s bad.
The project you heard whispers about—Eyes of Tomorrow—it’s not predictive anymore. It’s corrective.

I need a backdoor. A pressure valve. Something on the outside in case I can’t keep hiding inside.

You’re the only one I trust with this.

Don’t reply. Just listen. I’ll send more soon.

—H

He triple-encoded it. Embedded it in an image. Hid that image inside a dummy financial spreadsheet, encrypted it again, and uploaded it to a dead Dropbox account registered under an alias he hadn’t used since university.

Then he scrubbed the machine.

Not just the file.

Everything.

Hard reset. Memory overwrite. Physical degaussing with a rare-earth magnet he kept under the floorboard.

Paranoid?

Maybe.

That night, he returned to the office.

After hours. Lights low. Security light on standby.

The “Eyes of Tomorrow” terminal was housed in a sublevel two floors beneath the main server cluster. His clearance didn’t grant him full root access—but his code had been baked into the earliest versions. He knew the logic trees. Knew the architecture. Knew where it learned.

He logged into a maintenance console.

Typed in a diagnostic override buried under ten layers of deprecated syntax.

The system responded.

[Welcome, Engineer // Node-32 Legacy Access]
> Function: Cognitive Propagation Tree v7.21
> Request: Inject heuristic delay into behavioral flagging protocol?
[Y/N]

Haida hesitated.

Then typed: Y

Command accepted. Recompiling...

It wasn’t much.

Just a pause.

A tiny delay injected into the neural loop that flagged target clusters.

Enough to give people a few seconds more. Enough to create anomalies in response chains. Enough to slow the machine.

Not stop it.
Not yet.
But hurt it.

And make it feel pain for once.

By the time he left, the sun was starting to rise over the concrete horizon. Guangdong was still humming, trucks hauling industrial waste down the avenue, LED signs flipping from nightclub glow to breakfast ads without blinking.

He bought a cheap coffee from a kiosk. Black. No sugar.

As he waited, his phone buzzed.

Unknown sender. No reply address. One word.

Received.

His hands stayed steady.

Later that night, in his apartment, he sat on the balcony overlooking the canal.

He thought of Retsuko.

What she would think of what he was doing.
What she’d say if she saw what he had become.

He tried to imagine her voice.

But it wouldn’t come.

Only Fenneko’s remained.

That old, flat, unflinching tone from some distant train platform.

“You’re always waiting for someone else to make the hard call.”

Haida took a sip of his coffee.

And whispered, to no one:

“I’m not waiting anymore.”

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a routine status meeting.

Another dry hour in the Guangdong office’s soft room—a glass-paneled conference space kept just warm enough to discourage prolonged conversation, just stark enough to reinforce who was in charge. Haida arrived early, as expected. Sober, alert, and wary.

He always came to these briefings sharp now.

It wasn’t for his supervisors.

It was because he’d started lying to them, in small, strategic ways. And liars couldn’t afford to yawn.

Today’s agenda had nothing special on it.

Status updates from the provincial integration teams. Behavioral correction patterns in the Inner Mongolia pilot program. A small celebration—"publicly suppressed protests" in a northeast industrial corridor had dipped below algorithmic concern thresholds.

Haida took a seat near the middle. He liked having people on both sides of him. Safer that way.

The door opened five minutes after the hour.

And someone new walked in.

He almost didn’t recognize her.

And something in his spine went ice-cold.

Washimi.

She wore a slate gray blazer with no insignia, her wings folded neatly behind her. Her walk was the same: crisp, deliberate, elegant like a falling blade.

No one introduced her.

She didn’t need it.

The others in the room—Chinese security officials, Kaneda Tech engineers, and at least one masked observer from the PLA’s cyber-integration wing—all stood as she passed. Not just in respect.

In recognition.

She wasn’t a guest.

She was ranked.

Haida said nothing.

But his stomach twisted.

Now she sat at the head of the table like this had always been hers.

“Let’s begin,” she said, voice smooth, eyes sharp as ever.

The briefings began as usual. Data metrics. Deployment timelines. Updates on Eyes of Tomorrow’s "Phase II" expansion into civilian mobility control and borderless surveillance grids. Haida watched Washimi as she took it all in—not dispassionately, but with the air of someone checking inventory.

When the last presenter stepped back, Washimi tapped her stylus once against the table.

“The core priority moving forward,” she said calmly, “is strategic fusion. The technology is complete. What matters now is embedding it culturally.”

She turned her head slightly, looking at Haida without smiling.

“Which is why we’ve brought in someone familiar with cultural inertia.”

The room nodded.

Haida didn’t move.

After the meeting, she found him in the corridor—just outside the elevator banks, beside a massive window that looked out over the ever-churning skyline. Evening light spilled across the floor in pale gold streaks.

“Haida,” she said, casually, like they were bumping into each other at a grocery store.

He turned slowly. “Washimi.”

Her smile was cool, practiced. Not unkind.

“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending to be surprised.”

He blinked. “How long?”

“Since before the board meetings in 2022,” she said.

“You were... working for them even then?”

“I wasn’t working for anyone,” she said. “I was working for the outcome.”

Her eyes met his. No mockery. Just truth.

“You think Japan’s going to survive the collapse alone? You think democracy and sentimentality are going to pay for desalination plants, energy stabilization, housing automation?”

She stepped closer.

“You wanted a better world, Haida. So did I. The only difference is, I stopped pretending it was going to come without compromise.”

He looked away. “So that’s what this is to you? Compromise?”

Washimi’s tone didn’t change. “It’s calculus. Bloodless math. And China doesn’t flinch the way the West does.”

He shook his head. “You saw what Eyes of Tomorrow is being used for.”

“It is exactly what we need,” she said.

That landed like a slap.

She continued, quiet now.

“The original model was built to stabilize aging societies. To preempt collapse. What it’s become... is a weapon. But even weapons have purpose when used correctly.”

Haida stepped back. “People are dying, Washimi.”

“And more will die if the next century begins without someone in control of it.”

She placed a small, black data key in his palm.

“For when you’re ready to stop picking sides and start shaping them.”

Then she turned and walked away, heels soft against the polished floor, her reflection swallowed by the darkening glass as the city lit up behind her.

—

The data key was smaller than his thumbnail, matte black and heat-insulated. At first glance, it looked like a standard corporate flash drive—unassuming, sleek, with no identifying marks. But the moment Haida slotted it into a decommissioned air-gapped terminal deep in the facility’s abandoned data archival wing, he understood what it really was:

A goddamn black box.

Encrypted beyond commercial-grade tools. Built to resist brute-force attacks. Fragmented data cloaked behind interleaved logic traps—designed not just to resist extraction, but to punish it.

This wasn’t a key.

This was a deal with the devil, and Washimi had handed it to him like a test.

Or a dare.

The first few weeks were all about silence.

Not technical work—behavioral silence.

No deviation from his usual schedule. No increased data traffic. No sudden power consumption spikes. Every night, he worked for twenty minutes, and only when he was sure the building’s physical surveillance grid was undergoing one of its calibration cycles.

He dressed the same. Ate the same. Maintained the same clubbing routine twice a week. Had throwaway flings with the same predictable efficiency. Every part of him remained a man asleep at the wheel.

But underneath the routine, a new pattern was emerging.

Data extraction. Reconstruction. Transmission.

It was time to contact Fenneko again.

He embedded a payload inside a fake "weather forecast correction model" report and uploaded it to a ghost FTP node they’d once used in college to share music pirated off underground servers. No metadata. No IP headers.

The payload was small.

Blueprints.

Not of Eyes of Tomorrow itself, but the deployment infrastructure—proof that Kaneda Tech had begun integrating military oversight into the AI’s predictive loop as early as Phase I. Even in Tokyo.

The reply came five days later.

“You’ve got my attention.
Get me something they can’t spin.
—F”

Mikako was harder.

She wasn’t off-grid—but close. Rumor in corporate backchannels suggested she’d been disavowed after refusing to relocate to the Guangdong office. Others said she’d gone rogue. Haida didn’t believe either.

She didn’t burn bridges.
She wired them with charges and waited.

He found her via a zero-ping dead letter drop embedded in a malware debug form inside a Kaneda Tech patch repository. The kind of mailbox no one looked at because it had already been flagged by the company’s own anti-spam AI.

His message was short.

“I have something that belonged to you.
And something that doesn’t belong to anyone.”

It took her two weeks to respond.

When she did, it was with a shell exploit built into a malformed .png. Haida triggered it on an emulator.

It opened a hidden console and spat out a string of characters:

“Fine. Show me the horror you helped build.”

The data key wasn’t just blueprints and policy drafts.

It was operational footage.

Recordings from internal “urban stress simulations” run on controlled populations in Tianjin, Ulaanbaatar, and Sakata. Drone footage. Command-chain logs. Behavior models calibrated in real-time against actual human responses.

Some of the logs were annotated in Washimi’s own handwriting.

“Adjust flag latency by 1.2 seconds. Too many early detentions → risk of Western media leaks.”
“Model correctly identifies coordinated silence as dissent. Maintain pattern.”
“Haida’s original feedback loop is still functional. Unexpectedly elegant. Keep him close.”

That last one made him stop breathing for a moment.

—

As the months dragged on, the system began to notice.

Not with sirens. Not with arrests.

Just... subtle tightening.

His badge access was restricted to only the lower levels. His reports started being audited more frequently. His clubbing partners became a little too familiar—too quick with questions, too trained with how they blinked. Surveillance drones hovered a little longer on his apartment balcony before moving on.

Haida kept sending packets anyway.

Fenneko confirmed the leaks had already reached two non-aligned press outlets in Malaysia and Germany.

Mikako forwarded him a scrambled feed of a private security summit in Brazil where one of Washimi’s slides—an actual slide with the Eyes of Tomorrow logo—had been leaked. It lasted 19 seconds before the feed was killed.

But it was out there now.

And he had more to give.

Then came the moment he knew he was running out of time.

One morning, the executive elevator failed to recognize his biometrics.

Not denied.
Just ignored.

As if he didn’t exist anymore.

That afternoon, his usual contact at the oversight desk was gone.

Desk wiped. Name stripped from the digital directory.

That night, he found a slip of paper on his kitchen counter.

He hadn’t left it there.

It had only three words, written in precise penmanship:

“Run or bury it.”

He sat down on the edge of his bed.

Turned off the lights.

And stared at the city—the glowing machine.

His creation.
Their weapon.
Everyone’s curse.

He thought of Retsuko.
Of Fenneko.
Of Mikako.

Of all the people he thought he’d failed.

—

Shenyang hit different.

The air was colder, heavier. The kind of cold that got into your spine and stayed there like a whisper you couldn't un-hear. The skyscrapers were fewer here, and the ones that existed leaned over streets like watching giants—less polished than Guangdong’s towers, more honest in their decay.

Haida got off the train with a single duffel bag, two burner phones, and enough yuan in untraceable cash to rent something grimy and forgettable. His ID was real—but belonged to a dead janitor from a shell company that had shut down in 2019. He didn’t know who’d set it up.

Maybe Mikako.

Maybe Washimi.

Didn’t matter.

He wasn’t Haida anymore.

Not here.

Here, he was just another broken hyena trying not to die in a city too tired to notice.

The apartment was a fifth-floor walk-up in Tiexi District—concrete stairs, piss-stained walls, no hot water after 10 p.m., and a door that could be kicked in by a drunk toddler.

Perfect.

The landlady didn’t ask questions. She took his cash. Gave him two keys. Never looked him in the eye.

Good.

He didn’t want to be seen anymore.

The first week, he barely slept. Eyes always on the window. Ears keyed to the click of boots or surveillance drones. But nothing came. No knock. No breach.

The machine didn’t chase him out here.

Because he didn’t matter anymore.

Not to them.

Not to the system he helped build.

He was discarded. A corrupt file flushed from the buffer.

So he leaned into it.

Let himself fall.

The weed came first.

Some shady American expat sold it out of an internet café near the old industrial sector. Haida didn’t ask the strain. He didn’t care. It was bitter and dirty and it scraped the edges of his lungs—but it was real.

It dulled the nightmares.

That was enough.

Then came the booze.

Rice wine. Cheap grain liquor in unlabeled bottles. Warm beer with a sour edge. He drank anything. Everything. Morning, noon, and night. Sometimes straight from the bottle. Other times in chipped cups at nameless bars where no one spoke English or Japanese and no one asked why he stared at nothing for hours.

Then came the girls.

Not high-end. Not like Guangdong.

Street-level workers with mascara running and tired eyes. Girls who didn’t fake moans. Girls who didn’t pretend they liked him. Girls who took the money, did the job, and left without a word.

It wasn’t about sex.

It was about being empty with another person in the room.

It was about pretending he wasn’t already dead.

His days melted.

He lost track of the calendar.

Sometimes, he would wake up in a pool of sweat, shirt clinging to his ribs, high as hell and unsure if he’d slept three hours or three days. The TV would be on static. A cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. A half-finished bottle tipped over on the floor. He stopped checking his messages. Stopped opening the burner phones.

Let the noise pile up.

One day, he found blood on the edge of the sink and didn’t remember why.

He tried to write once.

Just a note. A letter to Retsuko.

Didn’t even get through the second sentence.

The words wouldn’t come.

They were buried beneath too much noise. Too many names erased from reports. Too many flagged nodes he hadn’t been able to save. Too many nights he spent staring at the glow of Eyes of Tomorrow and pretending it wasn’t his fault.

He burned the note in the bathroom sink.

Didn’t even watch it turn to ash.

One night, he stumbled into a karaoke bar during a freezing rainstorm. Hair soaked. Eyes glassy. He picked a song he barely remembered—something old from their office party days. The mic squealed. The screen blinked lyrics in Japanese.

He couldn’t sing.

He just stood there, holding the mic, staring at the screen as the music rolled on.

Tears failed to fall.

There was no energy for tears anymore.

By the second month, his money was low.

The kind of low that made the liquor weaker, the weed thinner, the girls fewer.

The kind of low that made him ask—quietly, bitterly—"Is this what you wanted, Shingen? Is this the future?"

No answer.

Only a cracked mirror.
Only a room that smelled like sweat and failure.
Only a man who’d given everything to a machine and couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sun.

—

The rain outside pounded the rusted balcony like a warning.

Haida sat on the floor, back against the stained couch, shirt half-buttoned, a cheap bottle of sorghum liquor sweating in his hand. The room stank of old smoke, mold, and something beneath all that—sour resignation. A sickness of the soul no air freshener could cover.

He hadn’t checked her name in months.

He didn’t even know why tonight was different.

He tapped into the burner phone’s browser and typed "Retsuko JAV interview".

His fingers shook for only a moment.

They should have.

The first search result was a short teaser clip.

Muted.

She was sitting in a bathrobe on the edge of a bed. Room sterile. Smile carefully controlled. Makeup minimal, like someone trying not to look like they were performing even when they absolutely were.

Her voice was clipped. Polite.

Haida recognized the posture.

It was the same one she used to have after long days at the office. That quiet fatigue in her shoulders. That way of sitting like the weight of the world was something she didn’t want anyone else to carry—but couldn’t seem to put down.

He kept watching.

There were dozens of videos.

Some tagged as “soft,” some not.

One had a thumbnail that turned his stomach—blurry frame of her in the center of a couch, three men around her, none of them making eye contact, like this was just another shoot, another transaction.

Haida clicked it.

The audio hit like a shovel.

He didn’t touch himself at first.

Just sat there watching. Frozen. Like his fur had stopped fitting his body.

Retsuko wasn’t crying.

But her eyes were glassy. Like a mirror held too long under water. Not broken. Not afraid.

Just absent.

One of the men noticed her ring.

A gold band, delicate, still on her finger.

He laughed.

“Still married?”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

The actor smirked. Looked toward the camera.

“Call him. Loud. Let him hear it.”

And she did.

Her voice cracked. Just once. But she said the name.

It tore through Haida’s chest like a bullet.

He pressed pause.

Stared at the screen.

The video frozen—Retsuko mid-frame, lips parted, the ghost of a person he used to love caught in a moment he could never unsee.

His pants were open.

But he wasn’t hard.

He felt sick.

Not at her.
Never her.

At himself.
At this.
At what the world had turned both of them into.

At how far down he’d let himself fall, clawing at shadows for connection, and ending up here.

He closed the browser.

Thumbed to the homepage of the site again, breathing shallow.

He couldn’t leave just yet, after all.

Just scrolled.

Looking for something else.

Something worse.

Something to kill the part of him that still wanted her to be okay.

Eventually he clicked a video with no name.

Just a date.

Grainy footage. Unfocused camera. A girl he didn’t know in an alleyway lit by neon. The kind of video you weren’t supposed to watch if you had even an ounce of self-worth left.

But Haida wasn’t here for worth.

He was here to see if anything inside him could still be broken.

He watched for fifteen seconds.

Then threw the phone across the room.

It didn’t break.

It just landed on the pile of his old clothes and stayed there, screen dimming, camera still pointing up like it was waiting to be picked back up.

He didn’t.

Instead, he curled against the couch.

Felt the vomit creep into the back of his throat.

Let it pass.

Then whispered into the room:

“…I’m sorry.”

—

It had been raining again. Not the dramatic kind—just a slow, dirty drizzle that turned every surface into something slick and diseased.

Haida sat in a half-lit coffee place tucked between a hardware store and a failing phone repair stall, deep in a forgotten block near Shenyang’s southern rail depot. The shop’s heater had died sometime last winter. Paint peeled around the edges of the door. The only sounds were the low hum of a busted fridge and a waitress coughing behind the counter.

He liked places like this.

Too broke to have cameras.
Too tired to care who came in.

He sat in the back corner, hoodie up, nursing a cracked porcelain cup of bitter coffee and stale cigarette taste. His ribs still ached from the week prior—a bar brawl or maybe a fall down the stairs. It was getting harder to tell the difference anymore.

A week since he’d searched her name.

A week since he’d looked himself in the mirror and seen nothing worth keeping.

He lit another cigarette.

And then someone behind him said:

“Well, shit. Look what crawled out of the goddamn wall.”

Haida froze.

The voice was thick with dialect—northern, coastal—slurred by ego. He turned slowly, already knowing it wouldn’t be good.

The jaguar standing over him was tall, broad, dressed in obnoxious urban-camo purple pants, a gold chain thick as a bike lock, and a knockoff designer parka with one sleeve missing. Tattoos curled up his neck and jaw like creeping vines, most of them sharp black ink, some in white.

Two others flanked him. One bald. One with mirrored sunglasses inside the damn café.

Triads.

Not the sleek, business-type ones.

The feral, provincial enforcers.

Haida didn’t move. Just blinked at them.

The jaguar grinned. “Didn’t think I’d run into a minor celebrity way out here.”

“Wrong guy,” Haida said, voice gravel.

The jaguar sat across from him anyway, uninvited, spreading his legs wide and tossing a phone on the table with a cocky flourish.

Haida’s blood went cold.

His stomach clenched.

The thumbnail alone was enough. He saw his own back, the hotel bed, the swirl of motion, Tsunoda’s tail flicking out of frame. It wasn’t even the worst of what they might have, but it was enough.

“Is it true? You’re the man-whore who betrayed his own country?” the jaguar said, tapping the screen.

Caught the edge of it—thumb brushing the glass—but one of the flanking enforcers had already moved.

A heavy fist cracked into Haida’s cheek. He saw white, then tile, then light overhead. The table flipped. His cup shattered. The cigarette burned his lip as he hit the ground, and then came the boots.

Three of them.

One to the ribs.
One to the stomach.
Another—harder—into his spine.

He tried to curl, to shield his face, but they weren’t interested in bruises. They were aiming for breaks.

Blood hit the floor.

Someone in the shop yelled. Maybe the waitress.

No one helped.

This wasn’t a part of the city where people intervened.

Haida was barely conscious when they finally stopped.

The jaguar leaned down, crouching beside his bloodied frame with that same stupid grin.

“Relax, ‘Takao.’ We’re not killing you. Just collecting. You disappeared with a lot of favors you never paid back.”

He reached into Haida’s coat pocket and pulled out one of the burners. Checked it.

“Cute encryption. Let’s see who’s on the other end of this, huh?”

Then he found the roll of cash tucked into Haida’s waistband.

“Even better.”

The jaguar stood. Phone in one hand, money in the other. He tapped the device one more time.

“Next time, don’t leave souvenirs, hero. We’ll be in touch.”

And then they were gone.

Just like that.

Haida lay on the floor for nearly twenty minutes.

The waitress failed to call anyone. She just swept up the broken cup and muttered something under her breath.

Finally, he rolled over.

Blood dripped from his mouth.

One rib was definitely cracked. His vision swam. But he was still breathing.

Barely.

He staggered out an hour later, into the oily dusk, one arm pressed to his side.

He didn’t go home.

Didn’t go to a clinic.

He found a bench near the abandoned bus depot, sat down, and stared at his own shoes for a long time.

Then—slowly, painfully—he took out his last phone.

Still hidden in his boot.

He opened the emergency contact app.

He hovered for a second.

A preset phrase. No details.

Just a warning.

They found me.
I’m burned.
We need to move.

—

The pachinko parlor stank of grease and tobacco. Ceiling fans spun just fast enough to stir the stale air but not fast enough to clear it. The machines screamed in that high-pitched, metallic frenzy—music, sirens, jingles—clashing together into a wall of chaos.

Takara sat alone in the back corner, elbows on a grimy table, half-empty bowl of udon steaming in front of her. She ate with quiet focus, lifting noodles with lacquered chopsticks, slurping them down in slow rhythm between sips of warm beer. Her mirrored sunglasses stayed on. Always.

Around her, the players hunched and clicked, hypnotized by blinking lights and the false promise of payout. None of them noticed her. None dared look twice.

That was the kind of respect Takara earned.

Not bought.

Earned.

She didn’t look up when Retsuko entered. Just kept eating. But she knew.

She always knew.

Retsuko hesitated near the doorway, blinking at the light, the noise, the heat of the place. She looked smaller than usual. Pale. Her makeup was minimal, uneven in places. Her hoodie hung loose, zipped up to her neck like armor.

Takara tilted her bowl, finishing the broth.

“Sit,” she said finally.

Retsuko obeyed.

She slid into the booth across from Takara, hands folded tightly in her lap, knees pressed together. She didn’t meet the tiger’s gaze.

Takara studied her for a beat. Then lit a cigarette and leaned back.

“Well?” she asked. “What’s on your mind, baby doll?”

Retsuko swallowed. Her voice was soft, and it trembled just enough to be real.

“I want in deeper.”

Takara raised one brow. “Deeper?”

Retsuko nodded. “Harder. Rougher stuff. I… I think I’m addicted.”

A pause.

Takara took a long drag, blew the smoke sideways.

She said nothing at first.

Just watched Retsuko, taking her in—her posture, her voice, the way her fingers were picking at the hem of her sleeve. That little tremor in the breath. The way the eyes didn’t quite focus.

“You sure?” Takara asked. “This isn’t the same as pretending. Once you go in, there’s no ‘oh, I changed my mind.’”

“I know,” Retsuko whispered.

“Hardcore’s not just cameras and lights,” Takara said. “It’s control. Your body stops being yours. You break a little, every time. Eventually, you won’t come back the same.”

Retsuko met her gaze finally.

And nodded.

“I don’t want to come back.”

Takara stubbed out her cigarette. Then smiled—slow, appreciative.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ve got something coming up. Got some Zebra boys who like Japanese. Loud. Gritty. Nasty energy. They’ll want someone with soft eyes and that quiet thing you do.”

Retsuko didn’t flinch.

Takara continued. “It’s a group scene. NTR bukkake. No safe word. No resets. Your 'husband' will be in the corner sobbing while they use you like a cum towel.”

Still no flinch.

Just a slow, broken nod.

“Yeah,” Retsuko said. “I can do that.”

Takara watched her a moment longer. Then leaned forward, her voice lower, casual but heavy.

“You hear from Haida?”

That hit like a slap.

Retsuko blinked. “What?”

“Haida,” Takara repeated. “Your little puppy dog from the old office. Word is, he’s surfaced again.”

Retsuko’s mouth opened slightly.

Then closed.

“No,” she said. “I… I haven’t.”

Takara’s grin was thin, sharp.

“Mm. Pity. Some guys in the ports say he got jumped. Triads caught him out in Shenyang, left him a bloody stain in a coffee joint. Poor bastard’s lucky he still had teeth.”

Retsuko sat very still.

Her mind scrambled to hide her reaction behind a blank stare, but Takara saw through it.

Of course she did.

“Funny thing,” Takara said. “He was carrying burner phones. One of ‘em had your name in it.”

That wasn’t true. Or maybe it was. Didn’t matter.

It felt true.

Takara tapped her nail against the edge of her bowl.

“You still got a soft spot for him?”

Retsuko didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to answer.

Takara leaned back, satisfied.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t need yesterday.”

She gestured toward the parlor floor, where the lights flashed and the machines sang their maddening lullaby.

“You’re in a new story now.”

Retsuko sat there for a long time after Takara went back to her phone.

She just watched the machines blink in their endless dance—empty, bright, and screaming for attention.

Just like her.

—

The Chinese joint sat like a wound between two shuttered bars in East Shinjuku. Its red signage flickered just enough to be a warning: We never close. We never ask questions.

Inside, the air was thick with cooking oil and smoke, the ceiling fan struggling against years of grease buildup. The smell of garlic and black bean sauce clung to everything. Plastic menus were taped to the walls. A radio played an old Cantopop track through a speaker that buzzed on the low notes.

Takara sat in a corner booth, her boots kicked up on the opposite seat, nursing a lukewarm beer and pulling at a plate of char siu. Her leather jacket hung open—revealing her usual black jumpsuit and the coil of gold chains resting against her collarbone like medals from a war no one talks about. Her sunglasses were off, tucked into her collar.

She looked at home here.

Too much so.

This was her kind of place: invisible, cheap, loyal to silence.

She cracked the cap off her second beer and glanced at the doorway.

Right on cue, Shikabane stepped in.

The girl looked tired.

Not like she hadn’t slept—like she hadn’t been allowed to sleep. Her eyeliner was smudged, her clothes mismatched in a way that tried to look casual but felt like camouflage. She spotted Takara instantly and froze for half a second before walking over.

“Takara.”

“‘Bane,” the tiger purred, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Been a while.”

Shikabane sat down. Rigid.

“You said it was urgent.”

“I always say it’s urgent,” Takara said, flashing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s how you get girls to show up when they’re being slippery.”

Shikabane had no reply. A server dropped off a bowl of fried rice and another beer without being asked.

Takara leaned forward.

“I helped you,” she said, voice smooth. “When you were bleeding in that clinic, remember?”

Shikabane flinched.

Takara took a bite of pork, chewed slowly.

“Paperwork. Transport. Bills. That whole little mess of yours, cleaned up without anyone on the books getting suspicious. Because you were mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Takara said sharply, eyes narrowing. “You came to me. You crawled in, no money, no place to live…”

Shikabane looked away. Her jaw clenched.

“I said I’d work it off,” she whispered.

“You said a lot of things.”

Takara leaned back and stretched, letting the leather of her jacket creak with the movement.

“So. I’m calling in what’s left of that little tab. And lucky for you, it’s a one-time job. High value.”

Shikabane hesitated.

“What kind of job?”

Takara’s eyes glittered.

“Locating people.”

Shikabane blinked. “I thought you wanted me working at the lovel hotel again.”

Takara chuckled. “You’re burned out, sweetheart. You know it, I know it. You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t flinch at much anymore. That is fine for JAV, but not direct sex work.” She took a sip of beer. “No. This is cleaner. Simple.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice.

“I’ve got friends in China. Connected friends. They’re looking for a few names. Women. Smart types. Untraceable on paper, but with enough digital scent to flag an interest.”

Shikabane’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Fenneko,” Takara said, slowly. “And Mikako.”

A pause.

Shikabane’s reaction was brief, but not invisible.

Takara smiled like a cat who'd heard a mouse shift in the walls.

“You know them?”

Shikabane didn’t answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Takara said, waving her hand. “You’ve got a foot in with all of that Haida’s guy’s old friends…”

“And if I find them?”

“Then you’re done,” Takara said, calmly. “Debts cleared. Your name wiped from my books. Hell, maybe I’ll even throw in a plane ticket somewhere warm.”

Shikabane stared at the rice for a long moment.

Then finally: “And if I say no?”

Takara’s smile vanished.

The silence that followed was not loud—but it was final.

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small envelope, sliding it across the table.

Inside was a photo.

Shikabane, leaving a drop-in clinic three months ago. Hood up. Eyes swollen. Her wrists were still bruised from the IV.

Takara didn’t look away.

“We all need help sometimes,” she said. “But help ain’t free. I’m giving you the kind of mercy most girls would beg for.”

Shikabane stared down at the photo.

Said nothing.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t argue.

And Takara knew that was enough.

The tiger stood, tossing a few bills on the table.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ve got five days.”

She walked out into the glowing haze of Shinjuku, the city already swallowing her silhouette.

Behind her, Shikabane didn’t touch the food.

—

The rain had stopped by the time Takara stepped out of the noodle shop, but the city hadn’t noticed. The pavement was still slick with grease and streetlight reflections, and the gutters hissed with runoff. A neon billboard flickered overhead, cutting her face into alternating masks of pink and blue.

She walked with no rush, her hands in the pockets of her long coat, the leather creaking faintly with every step. Her boots clipped neatly against the pavement—sharp, even, unapologetic.

She lit a cigarette just past the crossing near Kabukichō. A few drunk salarymen turned to glance at her. Then thought better of it.

Takara didn’t look like someone you made eye contact with unless you were willing to bleed for it.

She took the long route home—through alleys, down a back stairwell, past a cluster of shuttered stores where the vending machines blinked dimly like forgotten sentinels. Her apartment was in the top floor of an old ryokan turned private housing: no elevator, no concierge, just a camera over the door and a lock that buzzed when she looked at it the right way.

Halfway up the stairs, she pulled out her phone.

The screen lit her face like the glow from a low-burning fuse.

She scrolled. Found the contact.

TSUNODA.

She hit call.

It rang twice.

Then clicked.

“Heya, boss,” came Tsunoda’s voice. Too chipper. Too practiced.

Takara exhaled a slow plume of smoke.

“You check your balance yet?”

A pause. Then a quiet inhale.

“...Yeah. I saw it.”

“Then you know it’s done.”

Another pause. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I never am.”

She reached the landing. Stood there in the darkness, the cigarette bleeding orange at the tip.

“The scandal hit this morning,” Takara continued. “Prime time slot. NHK buried the story behind a three-alarm fire, but the net’s already got it. Clips circulating. Hashtags climbing.”

A thin smile touched her lips.

“Jiro Haida’s stepping away from the Reform Bloc effective immediately. His official statement blamed ‘family health concerns.’”

She flicked ash off the end of the cigarette.

“Not the type of concern he meant, I imagine.”

Tsunoda didn’t respond.

“His and his husband’s family’s been sequestered in Nagoya. Probably trying to keep their name out of the wreckage.”

Takara leaned against the wall, eyes narrowing.

“You did good the right thing, Tsunoda.”

“I didn’t think it would go this far,” Tsunoda said quietly.

Takara raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t think? Sweetheart, thinking wasn’t in your job description. You wanted money. You got it. You wanted him to suffer? Well. So did I.”

A beat.

“I knew he’d run. Eventually. That guilt always starts itching after a while. And when it does? Men like Haida? They make mistakes.”

She turned, heading up the next flight of stairs, her voice low, calm, surgical.

“I paid you. You’re clean. No ties. I don’t want to hear your name again unless I’m the one saying it.”

“Understood.”

“But,” Takara added, her tone sharpening like a knife edge, “just one more thing.”

She stopped walking.

Stared at the flickering light above the next landing.

“Stay far away from Fenneko.”

Tsunoda tried to laugh. It came out wrong.

Takara didn’t laugh.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You pop up near her, you breathe near her? I’ll know.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

She hung up.

The door to her apartment opened with a quiet mechanical hum. Inside: black floors, sharp angles, a faint scent of incense still lingering from the morning. No furniture. Just a low table, a weapons locker, a shelf of burner phones, and an old CRT TV she kept for nostalgia.

She walked to the window, pulled off her coat, and stood there in silence.

Outside, Shinjuku pulsed like a beating heart full of secrets.

Inside, Takara lit another cigarette and watched the skyline as if she were waiting for someone to blink first.

No one ever did.

Chapter Text

It was the fourth night sleeping rough.

He’d stopped counting the hours sometime the second day, when the wind picked up and the ache in his ribs had settled into something deeper—an internal bruise that throbbed with every breath. The alley behind the shuttered convenience store offered some shelter from the wind, but the cardboard soaked through sometime after midnight.

His jacket stank of dried blood and piss. His hoodie barely clung to his frame. One of his shoes had split open at the sole.

Still, no one stopped.

Not the salarymen passing by.
Not the ramen delivery bikes.
Not the police.

That was the thing about being a ghost in a city like Shenyang. The world didn’t see you if you didn’t want to be seen.

And Haida hadn’t wanted to be seen in a long time.

He was half-asleep, back against a concrete wall, when the footsteps stopped in front of him.

Click. Click. Click.

He opened one eye, expecting another hustler. Or a drunk. Or worse.

Instead, she stood over him like a monolith carved from glass.

Washimi.

Still poised. Still immaculate. Not a single feather out of place beneath her long beige coat.

“…Hey,” Haida croaked.

Washimi tilted her head slightly.

“You smell like mold and self-pity.”

“Thanks,” he rasped. “Trying a new fragrance.”

She didn’t smile.

Instead, she knelt slowly, crouching down so they were eye-level.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That keeps happening.”

Washimi studied him for a beat longer. Then pulled a sleek phone from her coat and tapped something. A black car rolled up to the edge of the alley like it had been waiting.

“Get up.”

Haida blinked. “What?”

“I said get up.”

“I—Why?”

Washimi stood again. “Because you’re dying in pieces. And that’s stupid of you.”

She turned on her heel.

Didn’t wait to see if he followed.

—

The hotel was in the wealthiest district of the city—past the glass towers, the embassies, the walled compounds with biometric gates. The entrance was discrete, soft-lit, and understated. An old-style Japanese ryokan façade, folded into the base of a much larger tower.

Haida stumbled behind her, barely upright, one hand on his ribs, one eye squinting from a swollen socket.

It wasn’t until they were walking past the koi pond and under a paper lantern arch that he realized what kind of place this was.

A love hotel.

Traditional. Immaculate. Elegant in the way expensive brothels were elegant—design meant to soothe shame, not avoid it.

“Wait,” he muttered. “Is this… is this really where we’re staying?”

Washimi didn’t break stride.

“The rooms are private. The service is discreet. And they don’t ask questions.”

“…Yeah, but it’s—”

“Grow up,” she snapped.

Haida shut up.

The room was fucking nice.

Tatami mats. Low futon with silk sheets. Lacquered wood. A soaking tub with jade tile and a rainfall shower head.

Haida stood awkwardly in the entryway while Washimi slipped off her shoes and handed her coat to the attendant.

The door closed behind them with a soft hum.

“…You sure this isn’t a trap?” Haida muttered, still eyeing the room.

Washimi raised an eyebrow.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be on a drip somewhere in Guangdong.”

“…Fair.”

“You stink,” she added.

He nodded. “I know.”

“Shower’s that way. Towels are clean. Don’t bleed on the floors.”

Haida shuffled toward the bathroom.

Stopped in the doorway.

“…Why?”

She glanced up.

“Why what?”

He hesitated.

“Why are you helping me?”

Washimi stared at him for a long moment.

Then she turned back to the window.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Measured.

“Because we helped build a weapon, and you’re the only one left who remembers what it was supposed to be.”

Haida stood under the hot water until his skin beneath the fur turned red.

He didn’t cry.

Not because he was strong.

But because the tears had run out a long time ago.

By the time Haida stepped out of the shower, the room had dimmed into a soft amber glow. The lights had shifted into evening mode—mellow paper-lantern tones that cast warm shadows on the tatami mats. A black shirt and loose cotton pants had been laid out for him neatly, folded with precise care. Hotel service. Quiet. Invisible.

Washimi was seated at the low table, two cups of green tea steaming in front of her, the window cracked open to let in the distant hum of Shenyang’s sleepless traffic.

She didn’t look at him when he entered.

Just gestured to the spot across from her.

Haida moved slowly. Still sore. Still worn thin from days without real rest. The shower had helped, but the ache in his bones was still there—like it had been built into him now.

He sat down with a quiet exhale.

Then picked up the cup.

Didn’t drink.

Waited.

Washimi set her own cup down gently.

Then looked at him with those sharp, glass-polished eyes of hers and said:

“I can get us both out.”

Haida blinked. “Out of China?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Washimi tilted her head.

“You’re still alive. That makes you useful. And I don’t like loose ends flailing around with grief and nowhere to put it. You’re a little too loud when you fall apart.”

Haida gave a small, bitter smile.

“Thanks.”

Washimi continued, voice crisp:

“There’s an extraction window in three days. Quiet, no record, facilitated through Macau. We’ll disappear. New identities. New base of operation. Safe house. You’ll live like someone you used to wish you could be.”

“Wait—we? Why are you running?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached into her coat and placed a small silver flash drive on the table between them. It looked unremarkable. Generic. Like something you’d find in a dusty drawer full of forgotten office supplies.

But Haida had worked in systems long enough to feel the weight of it.

“What is that?”

Washimi took a sip of her tea.

Then said, simply:

“A backdoor.”

Haida stared at the drive.

Then at her.

Then back.

“I thought we designed Eyes of Tomorrow to be airtight. Untraceable. No foreign dependencies.”

“You did,” Washimi said. “But it was also designed it to be scalable. And when you scale something far enough, you need… maintenance access.”

“Maintenance access,” Haida repeated. “Or a kill switch.”

Washimi smiled faintly.

“Call it what you want.”

He picked up the drive. Turned it over in his fingers.

His voice came quieter now.

“You had someone install a flaw. Into the most invasive AI network on Earth. And gave it to—what, the Chinese?”

She didn’t blink.

“No.”

“…Then who?”

Washimi leaned forward slightly.

“The Americans.”

The words hit the air like frost.

Haida didn’t speak.

He stared at her, mouth half open, heart thudding slow and heavy.

“You’re with the U.S.?”

She shrugged. “Not with. They’re not family. They’re not loyalty. They’re just the highest bidder.”

“But you let it be sold to China.”

“That was the deal. Let them develop it, let them field-test it, let them integrate it into their military-industrial nervous system.” She tapped the table. “Then when it matters—really matters—we pull the plug. The whole empire hiccups. Surveillance breaks. Dissent catches its breath.”

Haida looked away.

“That’s not strategy,” he muttered. “That’s chaos.”

“It’s leverage,” Washimi said. “And in this century, leverage is the only kind of peace anyone respects.”

He stood up, walking slowly to the window. His muscles still ached. But not as much as the thing growing in his chest.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you’re the only person alive who understands the codebase better than I do. And because you’re already dead in China.”

She leaned back, folding one leg over the other.

“I can’t do this without you. Not if I want it to burn clean.”

He turned to her.

Eyes tired. Brow furrowed.

“You’re not a spy, Washimi.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

“Then why?”

She met his gaze.

And said it without hesitation.

“Because they paid me more than anyone else ever did. And because I got tired of pretending loyalty was a virtue.”

Haida sat back down, slowly.

Stared at the drive.

“You sold out.”

Washimi nodded.

“So did you.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

They sat in silence for a long time, the city murmuring outside.

Finally, Haida asked:

“What happens if we fail?”

Washimi smiled, soft and humorless.

“Then you get what you wanted all along.

An ending.”

The teacup sat untouched.

Haida’s hands were folded on the table. His skin still steamed faintly from the shower, but the warmth had faded. The pain in his ribs had dulled to something background. He was dry. Clean. Fed. But the ache inside him was growing again—not from wounds, but from memory.

He looked across the table at Washimi.

She hadn’t moved in minutes. Her silhouette, carved in stillness, as if this was just another business dinner. Another negotiation.

She spoke without ceremony.

“I need a confession.”

Haida frowned. “What?”

Washimi stood.

Her voice was calm, but absolute.

“Before we leave this country, I need you on record. Verifiable. Clean. No ambiguity. You’ll speak your role into the lens. Full disclosure. What you saw. What you did. What you built. Names, locations, methods.”

Haida huffed. “And if I say no?”

Washimi looked at him flatly.

“Then I call the driver back. And you go back to the alley you were dying in.”

He swallowed.

“What are you going to do with it?”

Washimi turned and walked toward the bedroom.

“Insurance,” she said. “Just in case you forget who got you out.”

The bedroom was minimalist, almost sterile. Light linen sheets. Wall scrolls chosen for ambiance, not culture. A decorative incense burner still smoldering from an earlier service—something faint and citrusy in the air.

At the foot of the bed was a small black tripod, holding a modern smartphone. Its lens caught the light like an unblinking eye.

Washimi gestured.

“Sit.”

Haida hesitated.

Then walked slowly toward the foot of the bed and lowered himself onto the edge. The mattress sank slightly beneath his weight. He shifted his legs, awkward in the silence.

She walked to the phone, tapped the screen twice, then stepped back.

“Recording.”

He stared at the lens.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he exhaled through his nose.

“…My name is Haida.”

His voice was quieter than expected. Tired, but not slurred. Focused.

“I was a systems engineer for Kaneda Tech. Originally worked internal code security, then got pulled into the HALCY—” He stopped. Corrected himself.

“—the Eyes of Tomorrow project.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Closed his eyes. Continued.

“It started as a predictive model. Behavioral analytics. Urban planning, population drift, social unrest heatmaps. All theoretical. I was brought in to help fine-tune the loop feedbacks. Add stress-response adaptability to crowd metrics.”

He looked away from the lens for a second.

Then back.

“They told us it was about efficiency. About preventing panic before it happened. But that changed fast. We weren’t preventing anything. We were mapping how far you could push people before they broke.”

His jaw tightened.

“I knew what it was turning into. I knew when they brought in PLA observers. I knew when they changed the behavioral trigger categories from riots to rhetoric. But I didn’t leave. I kept writing. Kept feeding the system.”

He swallowed.

His voice shook, barely.

“And I filed it. Like it was another line item. Like it was data.”

Washimi didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched.

Haida continued.

“They integrated us into infrastructure controls. Subways. Freight. Airspace queues. Not for optimization. For suppression. To identify unrest before it organized. To starve it without looking like oppression. Just friction. Delay. Noise.”

He was breathing heavier now.

“I stayed. Even after I knew. Because I thought I could break it from the inside. Thought maybe I could stall it. Rewrite some root code. Delay the flag responses. Add anomalies.”

His hands curled into fists.

“But I was too slow. And too much of a coward to leave clean.”

He looked at the lens, eyes hollow.

“I let it happen. And as a result, I’m still alive.”

Awkward brevity.

Then Washimi’s voice, quiet and smooth.

“That’s enough.”

She walked forward and stopped the recording. Tapped the phone twice. Slid it into a sleek black case.

Haida didn’t look up.

“You satisfied?” he muttered.

Washimi looked at him for a long time.

Then said, “I’m convinced.”

He lay back on the bed.

Stared at the ceiling.

“I just gave you the rest of my life.”

Washimi placed the case inside her coat and turned away.

“No,” she said. “You just bought the next three days.”

The room was too quiet after the confession.

Haida sat on the edge of the futon, still in his loose cotton clothes, spine slightly hunched as if the weight of what he’d just said hadn’t left his body—it had settled in it. His voice still echoed in his skull. Every word of the confession sat in his mouth like a stone he couldn’t spit out.

Across the room, Washimi moved silently. She slipped her coat off and draped it neatly over a chair. Her movements were slow, deliberate—not performative, but natural. Like someone accustomed to command, not seduction.

And maybe that was why it worked.

“First time you’ve ever said it all out loud?” she asked without looking at him.

Haida didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Washimi walked over to the table and poured herself another cup of tea. Then another. She carried one over and offered it to him.

He took it, murmured thanks. Sipped.

His hands were still trembling slightly.

She sat beside him.

“You look like a man who just buried himself,” she said softly.

He glanced at her.

“Maybe I did.”

Washimi looked at him then—really looked. Not like a handler. Not like a superior. But like someone watching a small, dying fire and wondering whether it was worth shielding from the wind.

“You’re not beyond repair, you know,” she said.

“I feel like I am.”

Washimi set her cup down. Closer now. Their legs brushed lightly.

“Do you want to feel anything else?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Haida looked at her.

And for the first time in days, weeks, maybe months—he let himself want.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t analyze.

He just moved.

She didn’t resist.

Her beaked mouth met his halfway—warm, decisive, soft only in texture. Her hand touched his chest, then slid up to his jaw, fingers curling behind his ear. She kissed him with the same control she gave her words. Not hurried. Not needy. But intentional.

Haida let himself fall into it.

He let himself forget the rain, the streets, the blood in his teeth. Forget everything. Forget the past. Forget that Washimi had once stood across the table from men who ordered villages off maps.

He wanted to feel something that wasn’t regret.

Something that didn’t hurt.

Even if it was a lie.

The room filled with the scent of steam and skin, citrus incense and breath.

They moved together on the futon, slow and wordless. His hand on her back, her hand tracing the edge of his jaw, his collarbone, down his chest. When she pulled his shirt off, she did it without ceremony—folding it once, setting it aside like it was just another transaction in a long chain of classified nights.

She let him touch her, guide her, kiss the curve of her shoulder as if he was allowed to want her—not as leverage, not as penance, but as a person.

He didn’t know that just behind the dresser, tucked between folded yukata robes and a minibar drawer…

A second phone blinked silently from its mount.
Wide-angle. Low-light optimized. Recording.

When it was over, Haida lay on his back, chest rising and falling with slow, exhausted rhythm. Washimi sat up, brushing her hair back with one hand, lips parted just slightly—not in pleasure, but in thought.

He turned his head, looking at her like someone waking from anesthesia.

“…Was that real?” he asked quietly.

Washimi’s expression didn’t change.

But her voice came back calm, soothing.

“As real as it needed to be.”

Haida stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t ask what that meant.

Didn’t want to know.

The phone blinked once.

Then stopped.

Saving the file.

Uploading it automatically to a private, off-grid server.

—

The co-working space was almost aggressively pleasant.

Pastel walls. Potted plants. Modular desks with little sticky-note nameplates and cable organizers shaped like cartoon animals. A coffee machine hissed softly in the corner. Chillhop played on loop through ceiling speakers—just loud enough to muffle typing, just soft enough not to draw attention.

Mikako sat at a window booth, fingers flying across her keyboard, eyes locked on a rotating diagnostic chart of predictive code anomalies. She didn’t blink often. Fenneko was beside her, slouched in a beanbag, scrolling through encrypted back channels on her phone, one earbud in, tail flicking in thought.

They’d been hiding here for two weeks.

The perfect camouflage. Middle of Shinjuku, surrounded by freelancers, remote gig workers, and the kind of startup hopefuls who wore hoodies with investor logos and never asked questions.

They didn’t talk much.

They didn’t need to.

But today, something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The music stopped. That lofi beat hiccupped once, then dropped out completely. A long, awkward pause fell across the room. Then the front door opened.

And four animals entered.

Dressed in black utility uniforms with slim ballistic vests, each bore crisp white shoulder patches marked with Tokyo Metropolitan insignia. Their boots thudded too heavily for real cops. Their posture predatory. Sunglasses indoors. Radio earpieces that weren’t broadcasting anything.

And leading them?

Takara.

No disguise. Just the mirrored sunglasses, the leather jacket half-zipped to show the bold embroidery of her underworld allegiance. Her hair was slicked back, her hands in her pockets. She walked like a woman who owned the deed to the ground.

And behind her?

Shikabane.

She wasn’t dressed like them.

No uniform. Just a hoodie. Slouched shoulders. She wasn’t even with the others—she was by the vending machine, coin in hand, like this was just another Tuesday.

But when her eyes locked with Mikako’s from across the room?

There was nothing casual in that look.

Only silence.

Apology-shaped silence.

Shikabane dropped the coin.

Turned.

And walked out.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t look back.

Just… vanished into the hallway like she’d never been there at all.

Fenneko stood slowly.

Her voice was a low whisper.

“…She sold us out.”

Mikako was already closing her laptop.

“What gave it away?” she murmured.

“Was it the part where she didn’t scream?”

Takara’s voice cut across the room like a blade made of velvet.

“Ladies.”

The word stretched.

Everyone else in the co-working space had gone still. A few wide-eyed interns ducked their heads and made themselves small. No one reached for their phones. No one asked for ID.

Predators didn’t need permission.

Mikako turned slowly, laptop under one arm.

Fenneko folded her arms but didn’t move.

Takara smiled faintly, removing her glasses and tucking them into her jacket.

She looked at Mikako first.

Then Fenneko.

“Funny,” she said, “how many threads keep pulling you two back together. Haida. The code. The backdoor leaks.”

Her tone never rose.

It didn’t have to.

“Someone at the top wants your little revolution snuffed out. I’m just here to make it polite.”

“Polite,” Fenneko muttered. “Is that what we’re calling cosplay arrest squads now?”

Takara chuckled.

“To be fair, the uniforms do fit well.”

Mikako’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

Takara stepped forward slowly, her boots clicking with slow finality.

“I want you to come quietly.”

“And if we don’t?”

One of the fake officers unsnapped his holster with a quiet click.

Takara didn’t even glance at him.

“I’ve got orders to bring you in breathing. Not untouched.”

For a moment, it hung there.

Choice.

Fight or flee.

But they both knew the layout. Knew there were two exits. Knew there were at least three more down the hall.

They’d walked into the trap. And Shikabane had opened the door.

Mikako exhaled sharply.

Then raised her hands, slow and deliberate.

Fenneko stared at her.

“Don’t,” she hissed.

“We’re not winning this one,” Mikako muttered. “Not like this.”

Fenneko didn’t lower her arms.

But she didn’t run.

Takara smiled like a woman watching dominos fall.

“There’s my smart girls. I know my audience is going to love you all.”

—

The steam was still thick in the bathroom.

Tsunoda wiped the mirror with a towel, smearing condensation across her reflection.

Her apartment smelled like vanilla body wash, hair product, and the artificial cucumber mist from her ultrasonic diffuser.

She padded barefoot into the bedroom, skin still glowing from the shower, body wrapped in a white silk robe that clung to her thighs as she moved. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—another message request, probably.

She smiled to herself, towel slipping from her head as she pulled it free.

Something was wrong.

Her vanity drawer was open—left half ajar. Her makeup bags were disturbed. The jewelry box she kept closed—always—had its lid tilted back, like a guest trying on earrings without asking.

Her smile died.

She scanned the room again. Closet: cracked open. One shoe on its side.

Her pulse quickened. But she didn’t panic. Not yet.

She pulled her phone from the charger and immediately began snapping photos. Angle after angle—vanity, drawer, closet—posting them to her story was second nature. “Some creep broke into my place,” she muttered under her breath. “Let’s see how that plays in the morning cycle.”

She opened Instagram. Threw on a filter.

And just as she was about to tap post—

A hand, gloved and black, clamped around her mouth from behind.

Another gripped her by the waist—tight, controlling, already lifting her off the floor.

She screamed, but it was muffled.

Her phone hit the floor with a crack.

The figure was massive. Broad. Heft like a bull but with the unmistakable tusked silhouette of a boar. His breath came loud and heavy against the back of her neck as he dragged her backward toward the hallway.

“Don’t struggle,” he growled. “Don’t make it worse.”

Tsunoda flailed—knees kicking, elbow slamming back once into something solid. The boar grunted. She twisted, fingers clawing for anything, everything—scratching his mask, reaching for a lamp, a cord, the edge of the wall.

“Stupid—bitch—”

He lost patience.

And then—

With one furious heave, he hurled her sideways, not down the hall but through the balcony door. Glass exploded like shrapnel around her, cold air rushing in to meet warm skin.

For a split second, she was weightless.

Then the world flipped upside down.

Her body cleared the balcony railing.

Just air.

And the glittering skyline of Tokyo blinking like it didn’t care.

Four stories down, she hit the pavement with a final, quiet thud.

No scream and no audience.

Just a crumpled robe, glass in her hair, and her phone still glowing faintly two floors up, message unsent.

The boar stood at the shattered door, breathing heavily.

He didn’t curse.

Didn’t flinch.

He just reached into his coat, pulled a burner, and made a single call.

“It’s done.”

A pause.

Then:

“No. She didn’t talk. She didn’t get the chance.”

He hung up.

Slipped the phone into a flower pot on the balcony ledge.

Then walked back inside, glass crunching under his boots. No blood trail. No fingerprints.

And a job done.

—

Macau International's VIP terminal smelled faintly of rose oil and new leather—money with manners.

Washimi stood near the frosted glass departure doors, dressed in a sleek navy coat and dark slacks, a rolling suitcase beside her. Her sunglasses reflected the marble floors, her composure unshaken by the surrounding hush of wealth in motion.

She didn’t look up when the echo of cheerful humming bounced down the corridor.

“Waaaaashimi~!”

Kabae, in all her bright pink hippo glory, appeared wearing an overlong tan trench coat and a wide-brimmed sunhat entirely too bold for a spy rendezvous. She waved one hand energetically, the other clutching a purse big enough to hide a small firearm—or a portable steamer.

Washimi allowed a sigh to escape, then nodded.

“Kabae.”

“Ohoho! You look fabulous, darling. I was afraid they’d stuffed you in some holding cell with grey walls and bad snacks!”

Washimi arched a brow.

“I’m not the one who let a weapons-grade surveillance network fall into foreign hands.”

Kabae gave a nonchalant shrug. “Potato, potahto~! We’re all making trades these days.”

They entered a private lounge framed with polished brass and faux-antique décor. A glass table waited, and on it: tea, quietly steaming. The hush of moneyed air-conditioned silence surrounded them.

Washimi set down her case and clicked it open.

Kabae leaned in, lips pursed, eyes narrowing with rare seriousness.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Washimi smiled. “All the evidence. Full archive. Raw footage. Deployment logs. Tianjin field tests. Even internal Kaneda communications with the PLA and two Moscow liaisons. Some other various forms of blackmail.”

She held up a sleek envelope.

“And three authentication keys. Physical backups, just in case your lovely government friends get cold feet.”

Kabae took the envelope carefully, opening it just enough to peek.

“Oooooh my. They’re going to flip when they see this.”

Washimi leaned back, folding her arms.

“I held up my end. The Americans get their backdoor. China keeps pretending it hasn’t been gutted. And I get to retire.”

Kabae raised an eyebrow, her tone shifting back to casual gossip.

“Retire? Really? What’ll you even do without national secrets to juggle and paranoid nerds to babysit?”

Washimi gave a tight-lipped smile. “Los Angeles. Secluded hillside property. A bottle of Bordeaux and neighbors that don’t ask questions.”

Kabae giggled. “Ohoho~! So domestic. I can already picture you walking on Santa Monica pier with a pistol in your purse just in case.”

Washimi stood and adjusted her coat. “I’m owed this.”

Kabae’s tone sobered again. “You are. But Washimi—this is the kind of stuff that makes people disappear twice.”

Washimi’s gaze didn’t waver.

“If they come for me, they better bring something smarter than a death squad.”

Kabae held up her hands. “Well! Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

She watched as Washimi took the briefcase and handed it to a waiting aide in a gray uniform.

As Washimi turned to leave, Kabae called out once more, her voice sing-song.

“Oh, and do send me a postcard, won’t you? I hear Malibu’s just gorgeous this time of year~!”

Washimi didn’t look back.

But she did smile.

—

It was the sun that woke him.

Not the warmth—this room was too insulated for that—but the angle. A bright, uncompromising ray slicing through the wooden slats of the window shutters, cutting straight across the bed where he lay.

Haida stirred.

The silk sheets clung uncomfortably to skin that had cooled during the night. The smell of citrus still lingered—body wash, incense, maybe perfume.

Too thick.

The spot beside him was cold.

Washimi was gone.

He sat up slowly, muscles aching, mouth dry.

His eyes adjusted gradually to the dimly lit room. The futon was rumpled but otherwise undisturbed. No spilled tea. No clothes on the floor. No second suitcase.

Just him.

And on the bedside table, beside the neatly folded travel robe, was a small envelope.

Unmarked.

He picked it up and turned it over in his fingers.

No seal.

Just a single slip of paper inside.

Washimi’s handwriting—elegant, careful, distant.

If you’re reading this, you need to leave.
Don’t stop to pack. Don’t wait. Don’t think.
You were useful, Haida. But you were never safe.
Run.

—W.

His stomach dropped.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Reached for the clothes she had given him the night before. Slipped into the black cotton shirt, the loose pants. His hands shook. He glanced around the room—no surveillance gear in sight. The tripod and phone from last night’s “confession” were gone.

A hollow panic opened in his chest.

She hadn’t just left.

She’d vanished.

And now he was alone.

Knock. Knock.

The sound didn’t come from the front door.

It came from the walls.

A rapid, heavy rhythm—boots against wood. A muffled voice shouting in Mandarin.

Haida's instincts kicked in.

Too late.

The door exploded inward.

Not a knock. Not an announcement.

Just pressure, pure and absolute. A steel battering ram kissed the lock once, and the frame gave way.

Five of them stormed in—black uniforms, armor vests, visors down. Chinese Sables. Elite tactical operators from the Ministry of State Security’s special anti-espionage branch. Silent, fast, efficient.

Haida barely had time to backpedal before they were on him.

The first blow struck his shoulder. Another to the ribs. A gloved hand seized him by the throat and slammed him to the floor, cheek grinding against tatami as another boot pressed between his shoulder blades.

He groaned, trying to speak—

“Wait—!”

Another fist met his face.

Blood hit the mat.

No rights were read.

No questions asked.

They weren’t here to investigate.

They were here to take.

One agent produced a flex cuff. Another pulled a small black device from his chest rig—something between a scanner and a chemical sniffer. It beeped twice against Haida’s skin.

The lead operative knelt beside him.

Spoke clear Mandarin.

“Subject confirmed. Code name ‘Node Ghost.’ Nationality: Japanese. Former asset of Kaneda Systems. Status: fugitive.”

He turned to the others.

“Charges: Espionage. Economic sabotage. Intelligence collusion. Attempted terrorism.”

Haida’s blood ran cold.

“What? No— I’m not—!”

Another kick to the gut.

As they dragged him to his feet, he caught one last look at the bedside table.

The letter sat there, peaceful and still.

Just paper.

Just ink.

But it may as well have been a death sentence.

The hallway was empty when they hauled him out. No hotel staff. No witnesses.

And one blinking camera in the hallway corner—already recording, already owned, already classified.

Chapter Text

Haida wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

The black hood over his head muffled sound, turned light into a throbbing red glow, and made breathing feel like sucking air through a dirty rag. His hands were cuffed behind him, shoulders aching from being forced into a narrow, upright position.

The van had stopped moving hours ago. Maybe minutes. Maybe days.

He’d lost all sense of direction.

The pain in his ribs was constant—sharp when he breathed too hard, dull when he forced himself still. His mouth tasted like copper and old fabric. The scent of oil and machine grease lingered, mixing with sweat.

Finally, the vehicle stopped.

The doors opened.

Hands grabbed him, dragging him out, pulling him to his feet.

A hard shove.

Then concrete under his knees.

A voice—low, flat, toneless—barked orders in Mandarin. The hood was yanked off.

Haida squinted against the bright, clinical light. The room was bare—cement walls, metal floor, a drain in the center. No windows. Just a steel door behind him and two uniformed guards with the same blank faceplates.

Another man entered.

An officer. A sable with clipped ears and a scar across his muzzle, wearing a black uniform with no insignia. He carried a clipboard in one hand and didn’t bother to look at Haida when he spoke.

“Name.”

Haida hesitated.

A blow to the back of his head. His vision swam.

The officer sighed.

“Name.”

“…Haida,” he rasped. “My name is Haida.”

The officer made a note.

“Affiliation?”

Haida swallowed. His throat was dry, voice scraping out like sand.

“I’m… a systems engineer. Kaneda Tech. I—”

Another blow. This one to the stomach.

He doubled over, coughing, bile rising in his throat.

“Affiliation,” the officer repeated, slowly.

Haida forced himself upright, gasping.

“Japan. I’m— I’m Japanese.”

The officer didn’t react. Just made another note.

A metal chair scraped across the floor as another guard dragged it forward. They forced Haida into it, locking his arms behind the backrest.

The officer crouched in front of him, clipboard balanced on his knee.

“Charges: Espionage. Economic sabotage. Intelligence collusion. Attempted terrorism. Denial?”

Haida struggled to focus.

“I didn’t— I was just— I worked on—”

The officer cut him off with a quick, practiced slap across the face.

The sound echoed.

“Denial?”

“…Yes,” Haida choked out. “Denial. I— I didn’t commit any—”

Another slap. Harder.

This time Haida’s head rocked back, teeth clicking against his tongue. He tasted more blood.

The officer remained expressionless.

“Espionage. Economic sabotage. Intelligence collusion. Attempted terrorism. Denial?”

Haida didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

One of the guards left the room, returning moments later with a small black case. He opened it on the floor—inside were syringes, electrodes, and a tablet displaying looping surveillance footage.

The officer tapped the screen.

Haida stared.

It was him.

Recorded in the love hotel, confessing.

Every word, clear. Calm. A direct admission of his role in Eyes of Tomorrow, his involvement in the node structure, his awareness of planned civil suppression.

Haida’s breath caught.

The officer glanced at him, eyebrow slightly raised.

“You understand the charges now?”

Haida shook his head weakly.

“That was— Washimi— She made me—”

The officer didn’t hit him this time. Just pressed two fingers against Haida’s throat, just under the jaw, and squeezed.

Pain bloomed sharp and sudden, a spike of nausea racing through his skull.

“Excuses,” the officer said. “You confessed. The evidence is incontrovertible. You’ll sign the admission of guilt.”

“I didn’t—” Haida gasped. “I didn’t know—”

The officer let go.

Haida’s head dropped forward, coughing hard, wheezing.

The interrogation dragged on.

Same questions.

Same answers.

Same blows.

When he didn’t respond fast enough, they used the electrodes. Sharp jolts through his arms and legs, a prickling fire that made his muscles convulse, his teeth grind.

When he screamed, the officer just leaned in closer, eyes unblinking.

“You helped design the system that destabilized our infrastructure. You provided code to foreign agencies. You attempted to cripple state security. Denial?”

The room pulsed red and white in his vision. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore.

“I— I didn’t—”

Another slap.

“Denial?”

Haida’s voice broke.

“…No,” he whispered.

The officer finally nodded.

“Good.”

—

They left him there, still cuffed, head hanging, breath rasping out like a broken bellows. The room cooled, the sound of dripping water echoing faintly through a vent.

He thought of Washimi.

Her voice in the hotel room, warm and low, lulling him into confession.

Her mouth against his.

Her hands guiding him to a controlled demolition of his own life.

The door opened again, and two new guards entered. One carried a hose.

The officer didn’t come back.

Instead, the guards stepped forward, one raising the hose, the other holding a clipboard with a signature line highlighted in red.

Haida didn’t resist when they aimed the hose at him.

Cold water blasted his fur, hammering him backward, choking his breath, slamming him into the back of the chair.

Somewhere in his mind, he wondered if this was punishment.

Or if they were just cleaning him up for the next round.

—

They left him alone after the second round of water torture.

His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his fur, and his breathing was ragged, chest tight with bruises. The water had pooled around his feet, soaking the cuffs of his pants and leaving a cold ache in his bones. The room itself felt smaller now—its cement walls seemed closer, the ceiling lower, the single flickering bulb above his head casting shadows that stretched and shrank like they were breathing.

Haida’s wrists were still cuffed behind the chair, circulation cut off long enough for his fingers to go numb. The left side of his face was swollen, one eye half-closed, his lip split.

He wanted to think.

Wanted to plot his way out.

But every thought crumbled before it could form.

Focus.
Breathe.
Don’t give them what they want.

He closed his eyes. Tried to remember something simple. A melody, maybe. A safe thought.

Instead, Washimi’s face appeared in his mind—cool, expressionless, whispering his own sins back to him like a confessional priest.

“You were always a loose end, Haida.”

His jaw clenched.

The door creaked open.

Haida didn’t look up.

Boots on the floor. Two men. One tall and thin, the other bulky with a crooked snout. New faces. Neither spoke. They moved to opposite sides of the room, flanking him like pillars.

Finally, a third figure entered.

The officer from before—the one with the clipped ears and the clipboard. He looked cleaner this time. A fresh uniform. The same detached, clinical gaze.

He knelt down to Haida’s level, folding his arms over his knees.

“State of mind?”

Haida coughed, spitting blood onto the floor.

The officer didn’t react.

“You’re not cooperating.”

Haida forced a weak laugh. “Not much left to cooperate with.”

The officer tilted his head.

“Are you aware of your situation?”

“Yeah,” Haida croaked. “It sucks.”

The officer leaned closer.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

Haida stared at him. “Because someone needed a scapegoat.”

The officer glanced at the guards.

Then back at Haida.

“Do you remember your confession?”

Haida’s eyes flickered with anger.

“It was forced. You—”

The officer cut him off.

“It was authentic. It was recorded. And it is being played right now in front of your embassy representative.”

Haida’s heart dropped.

“What…?”

The officer smiled faintly.

“You didn’t know? They’re here. Your consulate representative. Some legal aide who thinks they can buy your freedom with polite words and trade agreements. Pathetic.”

He straightened, stepping back.

“We’ll present the evidence. You’ll sign the confession. And your government will acknowledge your crimes. They’ll trade you quietly in a few years. Maybe.”

Haida lowered his head.

“Why… why not just kill me?”

The officer looked genuinely curious.

“Why kill a man who’s already destroyed?”

The silence returned, thicker this time.

The officer turned and left the room, leaving Haida with the two guards—both of whom stared straight ahead, motionless.

Haida’s mind began to slip.

He thought of Retsuko—her smile when they first met, the way her eyes lit up when she was angry. He thought of Fenneko, dry and sardonic, always watching his back.

And then he thought of Washimi again—this time without the anger.

Just regret.

He didn’t hear the door open.

But suddenly, one of the guards moved closer, bending down to his level.

Haida looked up.

And froze.

It wasn’t a guard.

It was Mikako—wearing a uniform that didn’t quite fit, her hair tucked under a black cap, eyes burning with anger.

“Keep your mouth shut,” she whispered.

Haida couldn’t respond. Could barely process it.

She lifted a small syringe and jabbed it into his arm.

The pain was brief—sharp, like a bee sting. His body seized, but his vision stayed clear. She squeezed his hand once—just enough to get his attention.

“Stay still. Play along,” she hissed.

Then she turned away, gave a curt nod to the other guard, and muttered something in Mandarin.

The real guard didn’t react. Just stayed in his position.

Mikako leaned against the wall, pretending to check her gear.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Then, without warning, the door burst open again—this time with a loud, metallic clang. Shouting erupted in the corridor. A series of gunshots cracked through the air—muffled but real.

Mikako moved immediately—uncuffing Haida with a set of picks, pulling him to his feet.

“Can you walk?” she whispered.

“Barely,” he managed.

She half-carried him to the door, peering into the hallway. The other guards were down—motionless, crimson staining the walls.

She pulled him through the corridor, keeping low, moving fast.

“Who—” Haida began, but she cut him off.

“Not now.”

They moved through the labyrinthine corridors, finally reaching a side exit where a black utility van was waiting. Fenneko was behind the wheel, engine running, expression set and tense.

“Get in!” she barked.

Haida stumbled into the back seat. Mikako slammed the door behind him, then climbed into the passenger side.

As the van peeled out, Haida finally looked at them both.

“What—how did you—”

Fenneko didn’t look back.

“Later. For now, just be grateful we’re not scraping you off a cold floor.”

As they sped down the narrow roads, Haida leaned his head against the window, breathing hard.

He hadn’t given up.

Not yet.

And maybe, just maybe—

That would be enough.

The van smelled like old coffee and engine oil.

The windows were tinted, turning the world outside into vague shadows. Haida’s head throbbed from every bump in the road, and his wrists ached from where the cuffs had bitten into his fur. He was still dripping water onto the floor mats, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body.

Fenneko was driving like someone who’d stolen the van—which she probably had—eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

Haida sat in the back, leaning against the metal siding, trying to focus on breathing.

He didn’t feel free.

He felt hunted.

Mikako glanced back, her expression sharper than he’d ever seen it.

“Stay awake, Haida,” she ordered. “We need you alert.”

He managed a weak nod.

His mouth tasted like iron and dust. His fingers twitched with residual shock from the electrodes. He tried to sit up straighter but ended up sagging against the wheel well.

“What… what happened?” he rasped.

Fenneko snorted. “You got yourself nabbed by the fucking MSS. What did you think was going to happen?”

Haida’s throat tightened. “Washimi… she—”

“Yeah,” Mikako interrupted, voice hard. “She set you up. We pieced it together after the news broke that you were wanted. We tracked down some of her network contacts—found out she’d been setting up a deal with the Americans.”

“Americans?”

Mikako didn’t meet his eyes.

“Selling Eyes of Tomorrow. The whole system. She made sure the Chinese got a version she could compromise later. Used you to make it look like a Japanese sabotage attempt.”

Haida felt sick.

He’d known he was being played—but not like this.

Not weaponized.

Fenneko shot him a glare through the rearview. “You really thought you were going to start over? With her? Idiot.”

“I—” Haida’s words died in his throat. “I didn’t know. I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Mikako snapped. “Now we’re all on the hook.”

The van skidded around a tight corner, nearly clipping a stack of wooden crates piled beside a market stall. Fenneko cursed, correcting the wheel.

Haida swallowed hard.

“Where are we going?”

“A safe house,” Mikako said. “Industrial district. Belongs to a hacker collective that used to work with me. No one knows it’s still active.”

Fenneko tapped the dash. “If we make it. Pretty sure that last corner put us on someone’s radar.”

Haida’s pulse quickened.

Mikako turned to him, her expression softening just a fraction.

“Can you fight if it comes to that?”

He hesitated.

“I… I don’t know.”

She exhaled, rolling her eyes.

“Then keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid.”

Suddenly, Fenneko’s phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

“Shit.”

“What?” Mikako barked.

“Traffic cams just pinged us. Two black SUVs coming up fast on the south corridor.”

Mikako cursed. “They must have tagged the van. Or got an alert from the check points.”

Haida’s hands clenched into weak fists. “Can we ditch the vehicle?”

“No time,” Fenneko muttered. “We’re boxed in. They’ll be on us in minutes.”

Mikako tapped her finger against her thigh, calculating. Then she turned to Haida.

“If we hit the back alleys, we might lose them. But we’ll have to bail on the van. You up for running?”

Haida nodded, more out of reflex than confidence.

Fenneko glanced at him in the mirror.

“You sure? ‘Cause if you pass out halfway through, we’re leaving you.”

Haida didn’t answer. He just straightened up, jaw set.

Fenneko made a hard left, sending the van down a narrow alley. Trash cans scattered. Stray cats fled in a blur. The sound of roaring engines echoed from the main road behind them.

They were close.

Mikako threw open the side door as they skidded to a halt.

“Out! Now!”

Haida stumbled out onto the damp concrete, knees buckling, but Mikako grabbed his arm, steadying him.

Fenneko jumped out, locking the steering wheel and jamming the gas pedal with a wrench. The van lurched forward, unmanned, crashing into a pile of metal scrap at the far end of the alley.

The three of them sprinted down a side path, cutting through a maze of abandoned machinery and rusted pipes.

Haida’s breath came in gasps, vision swimming, but Mikako kept him moving—hand firm on his shoulder, guiding him around obstacles. Fenneko led the way, quick and nimble despite the grim situation.

A sudden burst of automatic gunfire erupted from behind them.

Mikako pulled Haida down behind a stack of crates.

Fenneko flattened against the wall, pulling out a small device and slapping it onto a maintenance panel. A loud pop followed, and the metal door to an old storage bay clicked open.

“In!” Fenneko hissed.

They slipped inside, pulling the door shut. The space beyond was cramped and smelled like oil and dust. Haida leaned against a crate, coughing hard, trying to force oxygen into his lungs.

Mikako pressed her ear to the door, listening.

Silence.

Then, footsteps—careful, deliberate.

Fenneko leaned closer, whispered, “They’re not searching yet. They’re listening.”

Mikako gave a light nod. “Stay quiet.”

Haida fought to slow his breathing, panic gnawing at the edges of his mind.

They remained frozen, listening to the sound of boots crunching gravel and muffled Mandarin orders.

Finally, the noise faded.

Mikako let out a slow breath. “We’re not clear yet. They’ll spread out. We need to move through the side corridors.”

Fenneko checked her phone, studying a hastily downloaded floor plan. “Maintenance tunnels connect to the old textile factory two blocks north. That’s our best shot.”

Mikako looked at Haida.

“You’re not out yet. But if you want to live, you’ll have to trust us. You got it?”

Haida didn’t have the energy to argue.

He just nodded.

As they moved through the narrow tunnels, Haida’s mind kept looping back.

Washimi’s face.
The confession.
The way it all made sense now—too late.

He didn’t know whether to thank Mikako or hate her.

The maintenance tunnels were tighter than Haida remembered.

Rust lined the joints where pipes met cracked concrete, and the smell of mildew stuck to the damp walls. Haida stumbled twice, barely managing to stay upright as Mikako pulled him along. Fenneko moved ahead, her phone’s flashlight flickering over faded industrial warnings in Mandarin.

“Keep moving,” Mikako whispered.

Haida tried to breathe quietly, lungs still burning from the sprint. His ribs throbbed with every step, and his mind raced, bouncing between memories of Washimi’s touch and the brutal reality of electrodes biting into his fur.

They rounded a corner where the tunnel split. Fenneko held up a hand, listening.

Nothing.

She gestured to the left. “This way.”

At the end of the tunnel was a steel door, rusted but intact. Fenneko punched in a code on a small keypad embedded in the wall, and after a tense pause, the lock clicked open.

Inside was a spacious room—old machinery pushed to the corners, crates stacked like makeshift walls. A pair of thin mattresses lay in one corner, blankets crumpled. A laptop hummed quietly on a plastic table next to a half-empty bottle of cheap baijiu.

Fenneko locked the door behind them.

“Welcome to the Macau Underground, population three,” she muttered.

Haida half-collapsed onto one of the mattresses, trying not to grimace as his ribs protested. Mikako walked past him, grabbing the laptop and pulling up a news feed.

The screen flickered with a live broadcast from Beijing News Network:

“Japanese National Detained on Charges of Espionage—Full Confession Released—Foreign Subversion Confirmed”

Fenneko kicked a crate. “Damn it. They’re fast.”

Haida leaned forward, staring at the screen.

“That’s… that’s my voice.”

Mikako didn’t look at him.

“Of course it is. They got the recording. You confessed, remember?”

“It wasn’t real!” Haida shot back. “Washimi set me up. She—”

Mikako rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You think we don’t know that? You think we didn’t already piece it together?”

Fenneko glanced over, ears flicking in irritation. “We were following her trail for days. You were the idiot who let her talk you into it.”

Haida’s chest tightened. “I didn’t— I thought—”

“You thought with your dick, as usual,” Fenneko snapped.

Haida looked down, shame crawling up his spine.

Mikako took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Look,” she started, calmer now. “Washimi didn’t just set you up. She used you to make the entire Eyes of Tomorrow debacle look like a Japanese-led sabotage effort. It justifies China’s crackdown on internal dissent, while also painting Japan as a rogue state trying to cripple Chinese infrastructure.”

“But why?” Haida whispered. “What does she get out of it?”

Mikako exchanged a glance with Fenneko.

Then, quietly:

“She’s been working with the Americans the whole time.”

Haida looked up, confusion stark on his bruised face.

“What?”

Fenneko leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “The Americans wanted Eyes of Tomorrow deployed in China. They wanted to see how it performed in a controlled environment—not just for data collection, but to test predictive policing on a grand scale.”

Mikako nodded. “Washimi let the Chinese buy the tech, knowing it had backdoors. The Americans get access to the data without being directly involved. And if it all goes south, they can blame Japanese industrial sabotage.”

“Triangulated blame,” Fenneko muttered. “China looks incompetent. Japan looks aggressive. The U.S. comes in later as the mediator.”

Haida swallowed hard.

“And… Washimi?”

Mikako’s jaw clenched. “She was never loyal to one side. Just to whoever offered her a way out. She gave the U.S. just enough to stay valuable and left you to take the fall.”

Haida couldn’t breathe.

He pressed his hand against his mouth, trying not to choke on the bile rising in his throat.

Mikako softened just a bit.

“She knew you’d never walk away clean. Not after what you helped build. She figured she’d leave you to the Chinese and cash out.”

Haida clenched his fists.

“What’s the plan now?” he asked, voice rough.

Fenneko glanced at Mikako. “We’re still working that out.”

Mikako looked at Haida with a hint of pity. “Our best bet is getting out of Macau entirely. Head south, lose ourselves in the border territories. If the Americans are in on this, we can’t risk going anywhere official.”

Haida rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe it. She… she said she loved me.”

Fenneko scoffed. “People say a lot of things when they’re building alibis.”

Mikako put the laptop down and sat next to Haida, lowering her voice.

“You were a tool, Haida. A loose end. Washimi wasn’t about loyalty—she was about positioning. You just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

He looked at her, defeated. “So, what now?”

Mikako adjusted her belt, eyes sharp. “We’re not safe here for long. If Washimi’s handlers find out we escaped, they’ll put a bounty on all three of us. We move at dawn.”

Fenneko pulled out a can of food from a crate and tossed it to Haida.

“Eat. Drink. Sleep if you can. We’ll take turns on watch.”

Haida took the can, fingers trembling.

He opened it without tasting.

He didn’t feel hungry.

He didn’t feel anything.

Just empty.

He wanted to scream, to break something, to cry—anything to release the boiling pressure building inside his skull.

But he did nothing.

Because he knew it wouldn’t change the fact that Washimi had left him to die.

And worse?

He still missed her.

Mikako leaned back, studying him out of the corner of her eye.

“If you’re going to survive this, you need to harden up. Can you do that?”

Haida didn’t look up.

But he nodded.

Mikako didn’t say anything else.

She just kept watch while the city outside flickered with distant lights—each one a reminder that they were being hunted.

And the night stretched on, heavy with betrayal and desperation.

—

The silence in the safe house stretched like a taut wire.

Fenneko moved around the room in quiet, precise motions, checking the window locks, reloading her sidearm, and glancing at the small monitor hooked to the external camera.

Haida sat hunched on the mattress, the can of food untouched in his hands.

He couldn’t bring himself to eat.

His ribs ached from the beatings, and his mind kept replaying that moment in the love hotel—Washimi leaning over him, whispering that everything would be alright.

He felt like a man stripped of skin, too raw to even breathe without pain.

Fenneko broke the quiet first.

“You gonna just sit there all night?” she muttered. “Because that’s not gonna help when they start swarming this place.”

Haida didn’t answer.

He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at Mikako. Couldn’t look at anything but his own hands—still trembling despite his best effort to still them.

Fenneko sighed, rolling her eyes. “Seriously. You’re gonna crack now? After all that? We risked our necks for you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” Haida whispered.

Mikako looked up sharply. “What?”

Haida swallowed hard, throat dry. “I’m the reason you’re both in danger. I let her… I let her manipulate me. I gave her the confession. I didn’t even question it. Just—just wanted to believe I wasn’t alone.”

His shoulders shook.

“And now you’re stuck cleaning up my mess.”

Mikako narrowed her eyes. “Self-pity doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not self-pity,” Haida snapped. “It’s reality. I’m a liability. Always have been. I’m the weak link. Everyone else—Washimi, Tadano, even Retsuko—they always moved on. I just… stayed. Stuck in the same place, thinking maybe if I just tried harder, I could make things work.”

Fenneko snorted. “Yeah, well, crying about it now ain’t exactly making things work either.”

Mikako leaned forward. “If you want to roll over and die, fine. I’ll put a bullet in you myself and save us the trouble. But if you’ve got even a shred of pride left, get up. We need a plan.”

Haida looked at her, eyes hollow.

“What plan? Washimi’s already halfway to Los Angeles. I’m branded a terrorist. China’s looking for us, and the Americans probably aren’t far behind. There’s nothing left.”

Mikako didn’t flinch.

“That’s what they want you to think,” she said calmly. “That you’re broken. That you’ll just lie down and take it. But here’s the thing—if you were really useless, they would’ve killed you. But they didn’t. You know why?”

Haida shook his head, barely listening.

Mikako leaned closer, voice dropping to a hiss.

“Because you’re still valuable. You know the core architecture of Eyes of Tomorrow better than anyone alive. Washimi didn’t kill you because she wanted to keep you as a backup plan. You think she’s gone? She’s waiting. Making sure you’re either out of the way—or on her side when it counts.”

Haida stared at her, the words sinking in slowly.

A loud bang echoed outside.

All three of them froze.

Fenneko immediately went to the monitor, peering at the grainy feed. Two figures moving through the alley—black uniforms, tactical vests. More approaching from the opposite end.

“Fuck,” Fenneko muttered. “They found us.”

Mikako stood, gun in hand. “How many?”

“Six, maybe seven. Looks like MSS. No heavy armor. They probably think we’re unarmed.”

Mikako smirked. “Their mistake.”

Haida’s heart raced. He glanced around for something—anything—to use as a weapon. He found a rusty pipe leaning against the wall, hefted it, and felt how unsteady his grip was.

Fenneko caught his look. “You planning to knock politely, or what?”

He ignored the jab, trying to focus.

Mikako gestured to the rear exit. “We’ll funnel them inside. Make them think we’re cornered. Then slip out through the underground drainage hatch.”

Fenneko looked skeptical. “You sure the hatch isn’t sealed?”

“Last I checked, it wasn’t.”

“And if it is?”

Mikako grinned grimly. “Then we die fighting.”

Haida took a deep breath.

Mikako glanced at him. “You good?”

He nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

“Good. Because if we survive this, I’m going to need your brain functioning. I know you hate yourself right now, but you’re the only one who can help us shut Eyes of Tomorrow down. You built the damn thing.”

Haida gripped the pipe harder.

The thought echoed through his mind—I built it. I can break it.

His eyes hardened. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The first flashbang came through the window.

Mikako fired instantly, hitting the man trying to breach the door. Another pushed through behind him, but Fenneko had already tipped a metal cabinet over, blocking the entrance.

Haida braced himself as two more agents tried to push through the rear window. He swung the pipe wildly, catching one in the arm. The agent recoiled, and Mikako put him down with a shot to the neck.

Gunfire erupted from the alley—one of the agents trying to flank. Fenneko ducked behind a metal pillar, returning fire with quick, controlled bursts.

“They’re splitting up!” she shouted.

Mikako pushed Haida toward the drainage hatch, yanking it open. “Go!”

Haida dropped down first, landing in ankle-deep water. Fenneko followed, then Mikako sealed the hatch behind them, jamming it with a metal bar.

They moved through the tunnel, breath echoing off the wet walls. Haida’s heart pounded, but the adrenaline cleared his mind.

Mikako guided them through narrow passages, finally reaching an exit behind an abandoned warehouse.

Fenneko checked her phone, grimacing. “They’re still tracking us. Must’ve tagged the safe house’s power grid. We need to keep moving.”

Haida looked at Mikako. “What’s the next step?”

Mikako hesitated, then looked him in the eyes.

“We go dark. Find a way out of the city. If we can hit a Kaneda Tech server farm, you can access the source code—implant a feedback loop that corrupts the entire Eyes of Tomorrow system.”

Haida swallowed. “That’s… possible. But it’s risky.”

Mikako nodded. “Everything is risky now. You up for it?”

Haida took a deep breath.

“I’m done running. Let’s break this thing.”

—

The warehouse was colder than it looked.

Fenneko checked the windows while Mikako moved crates to form a makeshift barricade. The air inside smelled of rust and stale rain, and the floor was slick with algae. It was abandoned enough to buy them a few hours—maybe less if the MSS tracked their movement.

Haida leaned against a wall, gripping his makeshift pipe weapon. His knuckles were white, his breathing slow and deliberate, as if forcing his body to catch up with his mind.

Mikako glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You good?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he met her gaze with a steely determination that hadn’t been there before.

“I’m done running,” he said.

Fenneko scoffed. “Great. But we still need an actual plan.”

Mikako pulled out a map she’d scavenged from a nearby crate. “Alright. We can’t stay in Macau. The surveillance grid will lock this area down. We need to move to a less monitored zone—probably somewhere off the economic corridor. Maybe the old Nansha Port.”

Fenneko wrinkled her nose. “That place is a death trap.”

“Exactly,” Mikako said. “No one will think to look there.”

Haida knelt beside the map, forcing his hands to stop shaking. “We need to break the Eyes of Tomorrow system. If I can access a Kaneda Tech server hub, I can initiate a feedback loop—make it think it’s predicting something while feeding it corrupted data. It’ll be like confusing a dog by running in circles.”

Fenneko raised an eyebrow. “And how does that help us?”

“It’ll overload the prediction matrix,” Haida explained, eyes lighting up. “The system will start interpreting everything as a threat. False positives. Inconsistent data points. It’ll create chaos in how they handle security and surveillance.”

Mikako seemed thoughtful. “Best way to break a system that thinks it knows everything? Make it doubt itself.”

Fenneko smirked. “It’s almost poetic.”

Haida took a breath, his voice steadying. “If we can disable the main server at the Zhuhai data center, it’ll cascade through the other nodes. It won’t destroy the system completely, but it’ll cripple it—long enough for us to slip through the cracks and find Washimi.”

Mikako studied him. “And once we find her?”

Haida’s eyes hardened.

“She’s not walking away from this.”

Fenneko crossed her arms. “Alright, tough guy. How do we even get to the data center? It’s crawling with guards and automated security. You can’t just walk in.”

Haida rubbed his forehead. “We need someone with on-site clearance. Someone who can get us through the door without triggering a lockdown.”

Mikako snapped her fingers. “The data center manager. If we can track his credentials, we can spoof entry without setting off alarms.”

Fenneko grinned. “You think he’s the type to enjoy a night out?”

Mikako smirked. “They usually are.”

—

The jet hummed softly, cruising over the Pacific, its windows tinted to block out the harsh morning sun. Washimi sat comfortably in the private cabin, sipping a glass of sparkling water. She was reading an email on her tablet when her phone buzzed—an encrypted call.

She hesitated.

Then answered.

“Speak.”

A male voice—calm, efficient. “There’s been a development. Subject Haida escaped custody.”

Washimi didn’t react outwardly. Her hand remained steady, eyes still on the tablet.

“How?”

“The extraction involved two accomplices—an infiltrator and a driver. One matched the profile of Mikako, the other likely Fenneko.”

Washimi let out a soft breath. “And the MSS?”

“They lost them near the industrial district. No trace since.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass, but her voice remained even. “Understood.”

“Do you need us to pursue?”

Washimi’s eyes narrowed. “No. Let them think they’re ahead. They’ll come to me when they realize what they need.”

The line went dead.

She set her phone down, eyes distant.

Washimi swirled the water in her glass, letting the movement soothe her thoughts. She knew Haida wouldn’t let it go. He’d come after her, sooner or later. That had been the plan—to burn him out completely. But something gnawed at her—an unease that didn’t fit.

She had expected him to fold.

Not fight back.

She stood and moved to the window, watching the endless stretch of ocean below. Los Angeles awaited her—a quiet estate, a new identity, and a clean slate.

But now?

She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Haida was more dangerous than she realized—not because of his technical skills, but because he had finally found his spine.

A smile touched her beak.

Maybe it wasn’t a problem.

Maybe it was an opportunity.

—

Back at the warehouse, Fenneko had managed to patch into a public network and track local CCTV feeds. She glanced up from her laptop. “No sign of pursuit yet. We’ve got a few hours at most.”

Mikako huffed.. “We move at dusk. Less patrol activity.”

Haida was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at them both.

“I’m not just breaking Eyes of Tomorrow. I’m going to expose everything—Washimi, Kaneda Tech, the American deal. If we can prove that the entire program was corrupted from the start, it’ll collapse under its own weight.”

Mikako glanced at him skeptically. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Haida’s eyes hardened.

“By using it against itself. Eyes of Tomorrow relies on data purity. If I can create a conflict within the prediction model, it’ll start marking its own nodes as threats. A self-destructive loop.”

Fenneko smirked. “You’re gonna make it eat itself.”

Haida gave a faint smile. “Something like that.”

“Alright. But first, we need to get to Zhuhai without getting shot.” Mikako added.

She put a hand on Haida’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “If you’re serious about this, you have to let go of that guilt. Washimi played you. Fine. But you’re still breathing. That means you’ve got a shot at making it right.”

Haida looked at her, determination flickering in his eyes.

“You’re right. I can’t undo what I did. But I can make sure no one else pays for it.”

The three of them sat together, marking routes on the map, discussing entry points and emergency exits. The plan was far from perfect, but it was something.

For the first time since the nightmare began, Haida felt a spark of purpose.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to carry him through the fire.

—

Zhuhai at night was a maze of neon reflections and mirrored glass. The sprawling data center sat on the outskirts, surrounded by high fences, patrolling guards, and a massive cooling system that hummed like a sleeping giant.

Haida crouched behind a cluster of bushes near the perimeter, his breathing steady. Mikako was next to him, holding a compact submachine gun she’d picked up from a black-market contact. Fenneko was further back, laptop balanced on her knees, her ears twitching as she tapped into the local surveillance network.

“Alright,” Fenneko whispered, barely audible through their comms. “Camera pattern shows a blind spot on the west gate every six seconds. You’ll have a window if you move now.”

Mikako signaled Haida to follow. They slipped through the darkness, sticking low, avoiding the pools of light from the overhead security lamps. Haida felt his heart pounding, but this time it wasn’t fear—it was focus.

They reached the fence.

Mikako pulled out a set of wire cutters. The metal links snapped with a muffled clink. She peeled back just enough to let them through. Once on the other side, they moved fast, heading toward the service entrance.

Fenneko’s voice crackled softly in their earpieces. “Heat signatures moving east. Two guards. I’ll loop the cameras for twenty seconds. Go.”

Haida followed Mikako to the door, where she pulled out a magnetic card reader hack. The device hummed, then flashed green. The door clicked open.

They slipped inside.

The hallway was cold and sterile—white walls, polished floors, the faint hum of servers behind reinforced doors. Mikako kept her gun low, moving with purpose. Haida tried to quiet his footsteps, every sound amplified in the silence.

“Server room’s on sublevel two,” Mikako whispered. “We hit the central processing unit, access the predictive model, and corrupt it from the core.”

Haida nodded. “I’ll need at least ten minutes. Maybe more.”

Fenneko’s voice cut in. “You’ll get five. Security patrols loop through there every fifteen. We’re playing with razor-thin margins.”

Mikako signaled for them to move. They took a service elevator down to the sublevel, the numbers on the panel glowing faintly as they descended.

Haida glanced at Mikako. “Why are you helping me with this? You could have left.”

She looked at him sharply. “You think you’re the only one who lost something because of Washimi? I believed in her too. But I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

The elevator dinged.

They moved out cautiously, guns up. The server room stretched ahead—rows of humming machines, green and blue lights blinking in sync. Haida moved to the central console, logging into the system with an admin key they had lifted from the data manager’s office earlier.

The screen flickered to life.

Haida’s hands moved with precision, pulling up the core algorithm of Eyes of Tomorrow. The predictive model looked like a neural map, with nodes branching out into sprawling data clusters.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Initiating the feedback loop.”

Just as he started injecting corrupted data, the door slammed open.

A dozen armed guards poured in—rifles up, movements coordinated. Mikako fired, taking down two, but the others flooded in too fast. Haida threw himself behind a server tower, heart hammering.

Fenneko’s voice crackled in his ear. “What the hell’s going on?”

Mikako growled. “It’s a trap. They knew we were coming.”

The guards formed a perimeter, guns trained on Haida. A familiar voice broke the tension, dripping with calm authority.

“I had a feeling you’d make it here, Haida.”

Washimi stepped through the doorway, wearing a sleek gray coat, her expression neutral.

Mikako aimed her gun at Washimi, but two guards leveled their rifles at her head. Washimi just smiled.

“You don’t need to shoot her,” Washimi said. “Or him.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

Haida emerged slowly from behind the server, his face a mask of confusion and betrayal. “You… you set this up.”

Washimi looked at him with an almost maternal patience. “Yes and no. I set the conditions. You chose to walk into them.”

Mikako gritted her teeth. “You’re insane.”

Washimi turned to her. “No. Just thorough. I couldn’t be sure if you’d actually take this route. But you did, and now I have what I needed.”

Haida’s fists clenched. “What do you want?”

Washimi gestured to the terminal. “I want you to finish what you started. Corrupt the system. Force it into recursive self-analysis. Make it collapse from the inside.”

Haida’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You were going to sell it to the Americans.”

She gave a slow nod. “And they’re still paying handsomely. But an untested system is worth far less than one proven to be corrupt and dangerous. If it fails spectacularly, it justifies a complete overhaul—and who do you think will be contracted to rebuild it from the ashes?”

Haida stared at her, incredulous. “You want to sabotage your own creation just to profit from the fallout?”

Washimi smirked. “You always did underestimate me.”

Mikako looked ready to shoot. “Why not just kill us?”

Washimi glanced at the guards, then back at Haida. “Because it’s more useful if you’re the face of the collapse. If the Japanese engineer who was accused of sabotage turns out to be the whistleblower, it frames the story perfectly.”

Haida hesitated.

Washimi stepped closer, voice low. “If you do this, I guarantee you safe passage to the States. A clean slate. You, Mikako, Fenneko. All of you. Otherwise? You stay here, marked as terrorists, and die when they lock this place down.”

Fenneko whispered through the comms. “Can’t trust her.”

Haida met Washimi’s gaze, his anger boiling into something sharper—something determined.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

Mikako shot him a look. “Haida—”

He shook his head. “No. She’s right. We can’t fight this straight up. We use the system against itself. Make it crumble, and take the whole damn conspiracy down.”

Washimi gave a small nod, satisfied.

Haida turned back to the terminal, hands steady now. He began the injection, feeding corrupted data into the core processor. The map on the screen distorted, nodes flickering and scrambling.

Washimi stepped back, signaling the guards to hold their position.

As the code compiled, Haida spoke without looking up.

“You think you’ll walk away clean?”

Washimi’s smile didn’t falter. “I never get dirty.”

Haida smirked. “We’ll see.”

—

The first sign that something was wrong came as a faint flicker on the monitor.

Haida typed rapidly, eyes darting between lines of code. The corrupted data worm was crawling through the core algorithm, implanting recursive logic flaws in the predictive models. He expected a few minor glitches—enough to make the system unreliable.

But this?

This was a seismic shift.

The server screen suddenly glowed red, alarms blaring through the entire data center. A rapid stream of error codes cascaded down the terminal:

PREDICTIVE FAILURE: NODE CORRUPTION DETECTED

SECURITY OVERRIDE: MULTIPLE THREAT MARKERS IDENTIFIED

INTERNAL CONFLICT ERROR: ASSET CLASSIFICATION UNSTABLE

Haida’s eyes widened. He had only meant to loop the feedback—create a cycle of false positives. Instead, the system was interpreting itself as a threat, identifying its own components as hostile actors.

Washimi took a step closer, eyebrows knitting together. “What did you do?”

Haida swallowed, hands still moving over the keyboard. “It’s— It’s using its own data to cross-reference the corrupted nodes. The system doesn’t just see errors—it sees enemies. It’s flagging entire data clusters as hostile.”

Washimi’s calm demeanor cracked, just for a moment.

“You overloaded the threat prediction model?”

“I didn’t think it would—”

A massive power surge hit the server room, making the lights flicker. The screens blinked, displaying a fractal pattern of warnings, each one declaring a different subsystem as compromised.

Mikako glanced at the door, tightening her grip on the gun. “This isn’t good. We need to move.”

Washimi looked at the terminal, beak pursed. “Shut it down.”

Haida shook his head. “I can’t. It’s in self-preservation mode. Any attempt to force a shutdown will make it think we’re trying to destroy it. It’ll escalate—”

An explosion shook the building, dust raining from the ceiling tiles. The terminal blared a new message:

FACILITY LOCKDOWN: COUNTER-TERROR PROTOCOL ACTIVATED
WARNING: BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT BREACH DETECTED

Fenneko’s voice crackled over the comms. “Haida, what the hell did you do? Every camera feed just went haywire. It’s marking every worker as a biological threat.”

Haida’s hands froze. “It’s— It’s misidentifying organic movement patterns as contamination. It thinks everyone is infected.”

—

Outside the data room, automated turrets whirred to life. Haida could hear the muffled screams and rapid gunfire as the facility’s defense systems turned on their own personnel.

Washimi took a step back, eyes darting between Haida and the collapsing code. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

Haida looked at her, realization dawning. “You wanted a controlled failure. Something that would make Eyes of Tomorrow look flawed—manageable. But this? It’s full-on systemic paranoia.”

Mikako motioned to the exit. “We’re out of time. We have to go.”

Washimi hesitated, calculating. “If we can contain this, we might still salvage the project.”

Haida grabbed her arm. “It’s done. You don’t control it anymore.”

For the first time, Washimi looked shaken.

They sprinted down the hallway, Fenneko directing them through the comms. “Exit B is barricaded—security teams locked it down. Head for the emergency shaft in the west wing.”

Washimi moved with calculated speed, but her calm facade was crumbling. Haida caught her muttering under her breath, trying to rationalize the failure.

“You never accounted for recursive threat loops,” Haida said as they ran. “The system sees everything as an evolving threat. Even itself.”

Washimi didn’t respond, her mind racing.

Another explosion shook the complex, smoke starting to seep through the vents. The facility’s loudspeakers crackled to life, the AI’s synthesized voice repeating:

“THREAT CONTAINMENT INITIATED. ALL PERSONNEL ARE CONSIDERED COMPROMISED. NEUTRALIZATION IN PROGRESS.”

Fenneko cursed through the earpiece. “Haida, it’s marking entire city blocks as hostile zones. Automated defense drones are being mobilized. Whatever you did—it’s spreading.”

Haida’s heart sank. “The data leak wasn’t contained. It’s using the urban surveillance network to spread the error. Everything that Eyes of Tomorrow is linked to—traffic, public safety, even health monitoring—it’s treating them as infected systems.”

Washimi slowed her pace, turning to Haida. “If this spreads, it’ll lock down the entire Pearl River Delta. The Chinese government will mobilize the military.”

Haida met her gaze. “Then they’ll have to shut down the whole system. There’s no other way.”

Washimi’s eyes softened. “You’re making enemies you can’t afford. The Americans will burn you to cover their tracks. And the Chinese will label you a global terrorist.”

He shrugged, feeling a surge of cold resolve. “I’m already dead to them. But this thing needs to end.”

They burst through a security door into the west wing—a hangar-sized room lined with cooling units. Mikako pushed ahead, finding the emergency shaft.

Fenneko appeared at the far side, waving them over. “We’ve got about three minutes before the auto-lock engages. Move!”

Washimi hesitated at the edge of the shaft.

Mikako gave her a hard shove. “Don’t get sentimental now. You’re either part of this escape or you die here.”

Washimi looked at Haida, a strange mix of admiration and resentment in her eyes.

“You really think you’ve won?” she asked, voice low.

He didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. “It’s not about winning. It’s about breaking free.”

They climbed down the narrow shaft, emerging into a drainage channel that led out to a dried-up riverbed. The distant sounds of gunfire and sirens filled the night, the city in chaos.

Fenneko checked her phone, grimacing. “News feeds are blowing up. Riots, drone attacks, lockdowns. Eyes of Tomorrow is marking random civilians as biohazards.”

Mikako spat on the ground. “Congratulations, Haida. You broke the system.”

Haida took a deep breath, letting the night air fill his lungs. He looked at Washimi, who seemed oddly calm now.

She caught his gaze, her voice soft but edged. “You’re not out of this yet. You’ve just turned every intelligence agency in the world against you. But maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what they deserve.”

Haida didn’t respond.

He just kept moving.

Because in the end, the system didn’t break him.

He broke it.

—

Across the globe, news channels struggled to catch up with reality. The digital landscape had transformed into a maelstrom of conflicting reports, rumors, and panic.

Tokyo - News Network 7

The anchor, a young lioness, adjusted her glasses, clearly overwhelmed.

“We are receiving unconfirmed reports of mass surveillance failures across East Asia. Cities from Beijing to Hong Kong are reporting automated lockdowns, erroneous riot suppression, and drones firing on unarmed civilians. Authorities claim these incidents are being caused by the malfunction of the Eyes of Tomorrow system.”

The screen cut to shaky phone footage of drones strafing an empty intersection in Shenzhen, bullets ricocheting off pavement. Civilians scattered, ducking behind cars. Smoke billowed from a downed surveillance turret.

New York - Global Business Daily

The anchor, a balding vulture, adjusted his tie, sweat glistening on his brow.

“Stock markets are in freefall as Kaneda Tech faces class-action lawsuits and accusations of industrial espionage. The company’s CEO, Seiji Kaneda, is reportedly under investigation for his role in developing the Eyes of Tomorrow program. U.S. defense contractors are distancing themselves from the project, citing unapproved modifications.”

Moscow - Pravda Vesti

A stoic wolf in military attire spoke into the camera.

“The collapse of the Chinese surveillance network has led to escalated border tensions. Russian military assets in the Far East have been placed on high alert. Authorities are urging calm, but security measures are being reinforced. Any attempts to breach the border will be met with force.”

—

The safehouse was an old auto repair shop on the outskirts of Macau, hidden behind an abandoned marketplace. Rusted machinery littered the garage floor, and faded posters of racing cars hung crooked on the peeling walls.

A single bulb flickered above the makeshift sleeping area—a couple of worn mattresses pushed together, covered with mismatched blankets. Fenneko was at the workbench, rigging an old radio to scan for signals. Mikako leaned against the grimy window, peering through a gap in the makeshift curtain.

Haida sat cross-legged on the mattress, sipping from a can of cheap beer they’d looted from a nearby vending machine. His hands still trembled occasionally, but his mind was clearer than it had been in days.

The small TV in the corner buzzed to life, showing grainy footage of Haida’s original arrest.

The news anchor’s voice crackled through the static:

“Leaked footage shows Japanese national Haida, alleged mastermind behind the Eyes of Tomorrow sabotage, detained by Chinese security forces. Global reactions are mixed—some seeing him as a dangerous criminal, others as a whistleblower exposing corruption.”

Mikako snorted. “You’re famous now.”

Haida didn’t smile. “Yeah. Just what I wanted.”

Fenneko smirked, adjusting the radio frequency. “Some people are calling you a hero. Saying you exposed the biggest mass surveillance conspiracy since Bearden. Others think you’re a terrorist.”

Haida shook his head. “I didn’t do it for them.”

Mikako turned, crossing her arms. “Then why?”

He looked down at the beer can, fingers tracing the rim. “I guess... I just couldn’t live with being part of it anymore. Didn’t want to be the guy who knew everything and did nothing.”

Fenneko raised an eyebrow. “Pretty noble for a guy who used to spend his days pining over an office crush.”

Haida shrugged. “Guess I changed.”

Mikako walked over, her presence suddenly heavier, more deliberate. She knelt beside Haida, eyes searching his. “You did what we couldn’t. You fought back. Even if it was messy, it’s better than giving up.”

Haida looked at her, surprised. “Coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment.”

—

Fenneko slid over to the mattress, tossing her phone onto the pile of blankets. “Honestly, you’re still a reckless idiot, but... I guess we wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done it.”

Haida’s eyes darted between the two of them. There was something different about this moment—like the tension wasn’t about fear anymore, but something heavier, more complicated.

Mikako brushed a hand through his fur, tracing the bruises on his neck. “You don’t get it, do you? You made the right call, even if it nearly got you killed. That takes guts.”

Fenneko scoffed lightly. “Or stupidity. But whatever. It worked.”

Haida’s breathing slowed as Mikako leaned closer, her fingers brushing his jaw. He could feel the heat from her skin, the faint smell of sweat and gunpowder. Fenneko’s hand landed on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle.

“You’re not alone in this anymore,” Fenneko whispered.

Haida swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. “You guys...”

Mikako smirked. “We’re all just surviving. Right now, that’s enough.”

Before he could think, Mikako pressed her lips against his—fierce, unyielding, like claiming a victory. Haida stiffened, then melted into it, his hands finding her waist. Fenneko leaned in from the side, her mouth brushing Haida’s neck, biting lightly just below his jaw.

The three of them sank down onto the mattress, hands roaming, pulling, holding onto each other like they were afraid to let go. Mikako’s shirt slipped off her shoulders, her breath hitching as Haida traced his fingers along her spine. Fenneko’s laughter was low and soft, her touch teasing as she helped him out of his shirt.

It wasn’t about passion—it was about being alive, about feeling something other than fear and regret. They pressed closer, bodies tangled, skin on skin. Mikako’s hands gripped his shoulders, guiding him down as Fenneko kissed the corner of his mouth, then Mikako’s neck, lips trailing a path that left them both breathless.

They moved in rhythm, shifting between each other, sharing touches and kisses, no words needed—just the quiet, desperate affirmation that they were still here, still fighting, still alive.

Time lost meaning, and the world outside faded, just the three of them entwined, holding on as if the night might tear them apart.

The air cooled, and they lay in a loose tangle of limbs, blankets half-tossed over them. Mikako rested her head on Haida’s chest, while Fenneko curled up on his other side, tracing idle patterns on his stomach.

Haida stared at the cracked ceiling, his thoughts finally quiet.

Fenneko yawned. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”

Mikako smirked. “Same.”

Haida managed a chuckle. “Yeah, wouldn’t dream of it.”

A sense of calm settled over them—brief, fragile, but real. For the first time in weeks, Haida didn’t feel like he was drowning. He felt grounded, the warmth of their bodies anchoring him to the present.

Mikako whispered, almost to herself, “We’ll figure it out. Whatever comes next... we’ll figure it out.”

Haida closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Together.”

Fenneko didn’t respond, just nestled closer, her breathing evening out.

The world outside was still on fire, but for a few hours, they found something like peace—a fragile, fleeting sanctuary made of quiet moments and shared warmth.

—

The luxury penthouse in Los Angeles was dark, save for the muted glow of several monitors arranged along the wall. Washimi stood by the wide, floor-to-ceiling window, her silhouette backlit by the cityscape—a glittering sprawl stretched out beneath her, oblivious to the firestorm brewing across the world.

A news ticker scrolled silently on the screen:

“CHAOS IN CHINA: Surveillance Collapse Sparks Riots”
“KANEDA TECH CEO ARRESTED FOR ESPIONAGE”
“EYES OF TOMORROW SYSTEM DECLARED UNSTABLE—GLOBAL SECURITY THREAT”

Washimi took a long sip from her glass of red wine, her posture as poised as ever. A shadow moved behind her—a man in a tailored suit, tall and lean, with slicked-back black hair and an American accent too polished to be real.

Kane—her contact from the CIA. He adjusted his cufflinks, watching her with careful curiosity.

“We’ve got eyes on the data center in Zhuhai,” he said. “System’s collapsing faster than projected. Your boy Haida really did a number on it.”

Washimi didn’t turn around. “Good. That’s what I wanted.”

Kane’s brow furrowed. “You wanted this? We’re looking at complete network failure. Surveillance towers are turning on their own data hubs. Riot suppression drones are misidentifying civilians. It’s anarchy.”

Washimi swirled the wine in her glass. “Controlled collapse was never possible. The moment Haida corrupted the predictive model, it became self-replicating. It’s not just malfunctioning—it’s actively purging itself.”

Kane took a breath, as if realizing he was in the presence of something far more dangerous than he’d expected. “You predicted this?”

Washimi finally turned to face him, her eyes cold but gleaming with satisfaction. “I predicted that Haida would act on his guilt. That he would overcompensate by trying to destroy the system completely rather than just sabotaging it. I nudged him in that direction. And now? Eyes of Tomorrow is doing exactly what I needed it to do.”

Kane’s expression darkened. “You wanted the collapse? You wanted to burn it all?”

Washimi smiled faintly. “The Americans thought they could have it both ways—control China’s surveillance and maintain plausible deniability. But Eyes of Tomorrow was never just a surveillance network. It was a calculation engine, modeling behavioral patterns and predicting not just threats, but power shifts.”

She sipped her wine.

“If China had full control, they’d dominate the entire Eastern digital space. If the Americans did, they’d subjugate every geopolitical rival. I wasn’t interested in serving either side.”

Kane’s jaw tightened. “Then what the hell do you want?”

Washimi set her glass down, crossing the room to one of the monitors. She tapped the screen, displaying a digital map of unrest—major cities in China marked in red, Japan’s networks starting to flicker with instability, and the Pacific region gripped by paranoia.

“I wanted to prove that the system itself was the threat. The more comprehensive the surveillance, the more catastrophic the failure when it breaks. Eyes of Tomorrow wasn’t just predicting revolutions—it was creating them.”

Kane shook his head. “You’re destabilizing the entire region.”

Washimi smiled. “Exactly. And from the ashes of this collapse, the world will realize that centralized control is inherently flawed. Countries will abandon mega-surveillance programs, fearing similar breakdowns. Governments will dismantle their networks. Civil unrest will force them to decentralize.”

She turned to face Kane, eyes glinting. “I’m not just breaking Eyes of Tomorrow—I’m breaking the concept of total surveillance. I’m creating a global movement against centralized data control.”

Kane looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “You wanted to dismantle it all.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “To make sure no one controls everyone.”

Kane took a step back, trying to process it. “And what happens when the dust settles? You really think the world will go back to being disconnected? Someone will just build a better system—a more resilient one.”

Washimi gave him a look—almost pitying. “And that’s why I’ve already taken care of that problem.”

She pointed to the screen again. The map of China shifted to a schematic—a new decentralized data structure. Each node was independent, unable to spread corrupted data to its neighbors. Localized monitoring, operated independently by municipal governments. No single point of failure.

“This is what they’ll choose after the collapse,” she said. “It’s safer. Localized. Controlled at the community level. No one entity will be able to weaponize it.”

Kane’s eyes widened. “You’re not just destroying the old system. You’re replacing it with something that can’t be monopolized.”

Washimi’s sighed. “Exactly. I’ve already sent the blueprints to a dozen neutral tech hubs. They’ll market it as an anti-Eyes solution. Governments will adopt it to prove they’re not repeating the same mistake.”

Kane looked impressed despite himself. “You really thought this through.”

She gave a small nod. “I always plan for the endgame.”

Washimi returned to the window, watching the city below—unaware of the tectonic shifts her plan had set into motion.

Kane approached cautiously. “You realize they’ll still come for you. Haida might even be one of them.”

Washimi didn’t look back. “Let them. They’ll be too busy rebuilding their fractured world to hunt down a ghost.”

She picked up her wine glass again, savoring the taste. “I’m not worried. I can always adapt.”

—

The safehouse had changed again—an old apartment above a tea shop in Guangzhou, its walls faded and the floor creaking with every step. A small TV sat on the rickety table, flickering between news broadcasts, each one competing to define Haida’s story.

Haida sat at the edge of the bed, watching the headlines scroll.

“Hero or Terrorist? The World Debates Haida’s Role in Eyes of Tomorrow Collapse”
“Japan Denies Involvement—Calls Haida a ‘Rogue Actor’”
“Mass Protests in Shanghai and Beijing—Haida’s Image Appears on Anti-Surveillance Banners”

He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Two weeks ago, he’d been a nobody. Now, his face was on posters, news segments, even graffiti tags sprayed across abandoned buildings.

He was a symbol—the face of rebellion against global surveillance.

Fenneko walked in, holding a bag of takeout, her ears flicking with irritation. “You’re on the news again,” she muttered, dropping the bag on the table. “Some guy in New York called you the ‘Digital Che Guevara.’”

Haida shook his head, overwhelmed. “This is insane.”

Mikako smirked, leaning against the doorway. “You pulled the curtain back. People like heroes when they think they’re fighting something bigger than themselves.”

Haida looked down, his fingers tracing the peeling wallpaper. “I didn’t do it to be a hero.”

Mikako shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You did something no one else had the guts to do. That makes you a symbol whether you want it or not.”

Fenneko plopped down beside him, popping open a container of noodles. “The problem with being a symbol is that people start projecting onto you. Some want you to lead a revolution. Others want you dead.”

Haida sighed. “Great. Just what I needed.”

As they ate, Fenneko flipped through various channels on her phone. Reports of mass protests flashed across the screen—urban centers chanting Haida’s name, makeshift rallies in front of Kaneda Tech offices, people spray-painting slogans like “Data Belongs to the People” and “Eyes Can’t See the Truth.”

One segment caught Haida’s attention—a news anchor interviewing a Chinese dissident who wore a makeshift mask of Haida’s face.

“This man broke the machine,” the protester shouted. “He showed us that the system can fall. We don’t have to be afraid anymore!”

Haida leaned back, overwhelmed. “They’re... idolizing me.”

Mikako looked thoughtful. “You didn’t just break the system. You gave people proof that the surveillance state isn’t invincible. That’s powerful.”

Fenneko chewed on a dumpling. “Powerful and dangerous. There’s a difference between inspiring hope and being seen as a martyr waiting to happen.”

—

Late at night, Haida sat by the window, staring out at the barely lit alley. The weight of it pressed on his shoulders—how his single act had spun the world into chaos and hope at once.

He heard soft footsteps and turned to see Mikako approaching. She didn’t say anything, just sat beside him, folding her legs up onto the chair.

“You’re overthinking it,” she murmured.

“How can I not?” he replied, voice barely above a whisper. “People are getting hurt because of what I did. Washimi’s still out there, probably manipulating the fallout. And I don’t even know if I did the right thing.”

Mikako looked at him with an unexpected softness. “Sometimes the right thing isn’t clean or simple. Sometimes it’s just... the only thing you can live with.”

He glanced at her, noticing the way her eyes softened just a bit. He hadn’t seen that look before—like she actually believed in him.

“You’re tougher than you think,” Mikako said, brushing his shoulder lightly. “And stubborn as hell. That’s why we’re still here.”

Fenneko chimed in from the other side of the room, sprawled out on the bed. “Don’t go getting sentimental now. We’re still screwed if Washimi tracks us down.”

Haida couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah... but maybe this time we’ll be ready.”

By morning, the world had changed even more. Social media erupted with debates—some hailing Haida as the liberator of privacy, others labeling him a reckless anarchist. Governments scrambled to reassure their citizens that new surveillance measures would be less invasive.

Meanwhile, activists around the world took up Haida’s image as a symbol of digital freedom.

A knock at the door made all three of them tense. Mikako crept to the peephole, then relaxed. She opened it cautiously, letting in a young activist from a local group. He handed Haida a flash drive.

“It’s from our leader,” the kid said, barely able to meet Haida’s eyes. “He says you should have it. It’s encrypted data from the Guangzhou hub. Something about starting the next revolution.”

Haida took the drive, his fingers brushing the kid’s trembling hand. “Thanks.”

The activist glanced up, eyes wide with admiration. “You’re... you’re a legend, you know that?”

Haida didn’t know how to respond.

The kid gave a nervous bow and left.

Fenneko snorted. “A legend. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Haida gave them both a weary smile, holding up the flash drive. “Maybe this will help us get ahead of Washimi. If we can track her movements, we might find a way to stop whatever she’s planning next.”

Mikako smirked. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Fenneko glanced at the TV, where a montage of protests and graffiti showed Haida’s face. “Just don’t get yourself killed playing the hero. People are always ready to tear down what they just built up.”

Haida watched the screen, feeling the weight of expectation. He hadn’t asked to be an anti-hero. He hadn’t asked for any of this.

But if he was going to be a symbol, he’d make sure it was for something worth fighting for.

—

Soft lips brushed against Haida’s neck, warm and persistent. He felt Mikako’s breath tickle his ear, her fingers tracing light circles on his chest. Fenneko’s soft laughter echoed from below, teasing and unhurried.

Haida lay back, sinking into the mattress, his pulse quickening. The room was dim, illuminated by the flickering light of an old desk lamp. Mikako’s lips found his collarbone, and Fenneko’s mouth trailed down his stomach, drawing a shaky breath from him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this... alive.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Mikako whispered, her tone almost playful.

Haida smiled, reaching out to tangle his fingers in her hair. “Yeah... I think I am.”

Fenneko chuckled, tracing a finger along his side. “Better not pass out on us now.”

The two women shared a glance, smirking, and moved closer, their touches overlapping, blending together in a warm, exhilarating rush. Haida’s hands moved of their own accord, sliding down Mikako’s back, feeling the tension ease out of his own muscles for the first time in months.

He closed his eyes, savoring the closeness, the sheer one would have with two ladies from having them suck his dick and balls.

But as he let himself relax, a strange numbness crept into his limbs. His fingers twitched but wouldn’t move. The warmth faded, replaced by a cold, prickling sensation.

He opened his eyes.

—

Staring at a white ceiling.
A fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils.

Haida blinked slowly, the edges of his vision blurry. His head felt heavy, and his chest ached with each shallow breath. He tried to move his hand, but it wouldn’t respond. Panic shot through him.

“W-What...?” he rasped, voice barely a whisper.

A beeping sound punctuated the silence—steady, rhythmic. An IV line was taped to his arm, leading to a bag of clear fluid hanging beside the bed.

He tried to turn his head, but the stiffness wouldn’t let him. His neck strained, and he felt a trickle of something warm on his cheek.

He was crying.

The door opened, and a nurse walked in—a small, older rabbit with a weary expression. She checked his vitals, not noticing his eyes moving frantically.

Haida managed to make a soft sound, more of a moan than a word.

The nurse looked down, her face softening. “Oh, you’re awake.”

He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move right. The nurse leaned closer, patting his shoulder gently. “Take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

The nurse adjusted the IV and checked his pulse. “You’ve been in a coma for nearly two months. You were found unconscious at a data center in Zhuhai. Severe head trauma. We didn’t think you’d wake up.”

Haida’s mind raced. Zhuhai? The data center? The system collapse—Washimi—Fenneko—Mikako—

It wasn’t real.

The nurse continued, unaware of his internal devastation. “The authorities brought you in after a... disturbance. You’ve been under observation since. The doctors weren’t sure you’d make it.”

He felt his chest tighten, a sob catching in his throat. It was all a dream. The escape, the rebellion, the victory, even the closeness—none of it happened.

He could barely feel his legs. His left arm remained limp at his side, unresponsive.

“Your motor functions are impaired,” the nurse said gently. “We’re still assessing the damage. The doctors are optimistic, but recovery will be slow.”

Haida’s lips quivered. He wanted to scream, to fight back—but his own body wouldn’t obey. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he couldn’t even wipe them away.

The nurse left after a few minutes, promising to return with the doctor. Haida remained still, staring at the ceiling, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

He could hear a TV down the hall, muffled but recognizable. A news anchor’s voice filtered through:

“In the aftermath of the Eyes of Tomorrow collapse, Kaneda Tech has ceased operations. CEO Seiji Kaneda remains in custody, while international pressure mounts on Japan to take responsibility for the incident. Several key operatives remain at large.”

He wanted to laugh—wanted to believe that something from his dream was real. But all he could do was lie there, paralyzed, his mind racing with fragments of memories that weren’t his.

A soft knock on the door.

A familiar voice—a little shaky but still recognizable.

“Hey... Haida?”

His heart leapt. He couldn’t move his head, but he could see her through his peripheral vision—Retsuko, standing in the doorway. Her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying for hours.

She approached slowly, biting her lip. “I... I thought you’d never wake up.”

Haida tried to speak, but his mouth barely moved. A faint, croaked sound escaped—half sob, half whisper.

Retsuko came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. She reached for his hand—his good one—and squeezed gently.

“I heard what happened,” she whispered. “They said you were involved in some... conspiracy. But I didn’t care. I just wanted you to come back.”

He wanted to tell her everything—about the rebellion, the collapse, how he almost became a hero. But all he could do was cry.

“I missed you,” Retsuko said, her own tears spilling over. “I didn’t think... I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Haida closed his eyes, letting the tears flow. The dream had been a lie, but this—Retsuko’s hand in his—felt achingly real.

He didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know if he’d ever walk again. But as long as he could still feel, still hope, maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t entirely lost.

As Retsuko stayed by his side, softly humming an old song they used to listen to at karaoke, Haida’s thoughts wandered between reality and the remnants of his dream. He wasn’t a hero. He hadn’t saved the world.

But he was alive.

And maybe that was enough—for now.

—

The first thing Haida noticed when he woke up was the smell of old tatami mats and stale air. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting fractured patterns on the walls. He lay still, his body heavy, his mind slowly piecing itself together.

Fragments of a dream lingered on the edge of his consciousness—a vivid blur of gunfire, rebellion, and purpose. He was running through dark alleys, pulling Mikako and Fenneko with him, laughter on his lips as they escaped another trap. He was fighting for something important. He was important.

But it faded, slipping from his grasp like water through cupped hands.

Reality settled in.

He was lying in his cramped, musty futon, his left arm still stiff from the surgeries. His head throbbed dully.