The paper sat like a weight in Haruki’s pocket, creased now from his hand constantly brushing over it, as though reassurance could be gained from the texture of ink on folded fibers. He hadn’t reread it since breakfast—he didn’t need to.
The name.
The address.
The time.
It was burned into his memory.
Still, every few minutes, he found his fingers sliding back to it again. The motion was unconscious, the way someone might reach for a cigarette or a worry stone—an old reflex, born of nerves and indecision.
Back in his room, Haruki stood in front of the open wardrobe.
He stared at the neat rows of suits, all dark, all sleek, all untouched.
He hated them.
Each one had been selected by the household staff on his father’s instructions. Custom-tailored, pressed weekly even though he never wore them, lined in expensive fabrics that whispered with every movement.
Uniforms. Not clothing.
He had always preferred simple things. School uniforms, plain jackets, jeans. Things that didn’t say anything about who you were. But now, for the first time, he knew exactly what his father expected him to wear.
No one had said it aloud.
But this meeting wasn’t for Haruki Nakamura, the quiet second son in a school uniform.
This was for Haruki Nakamura, the heir apparent.
He reached for the black suit on the left—a tailored charcoal jacket, slim-fit, faint pinstripe, subtle but sharp. The kind of suit that turned heads not because of flair, but because of intent.
As he began to change, each button he fastened felt heavier than the last. The material was smooth beneath his fingers, cold against his skin. By the time he was fully dressed, it was like he no longer recognized the person in the mirror.
His reflection stared back at him with a blank expression.
His tie was slightly crooked.
He adjusted it.
He hated how much better it looked when it was straightened.
By 5:25 p.m., the sky outside was a wash of pale blue and ash-gray. The sun hadn’t set yet, but its weight was already falling behind the distant rooftops.
The driver stood waiting beside a sleek black sedan parked in the circular driveway. Haruki approached slowly, his shoes clicking against the stone with every step.
He could feel the house watching him.
Windows were lit. Curtains were drawn. Someone, somewhere, was taking note.
The driver—a man Haruki didn’t recognize—bowed slightly and opened the rear door for him.
Haruki ducked inside, the interior clean and silent.
The door shut with a low thud.
He didn’t ask where they were going.
He didn’t need to.
The address was already etched into his mind, and the driver had been briefed. Haruki knew how these things worked. You weren’t expected to ask questions—you were expected to arrive.
The car slid into motion, the city slowly folding open around them.
The ride was quiet. Too quiet.
Haruki stared out the window, watching the streets pass in a blur of storefronts, traffic lights, and pedestrians bundled in their coats. The car’s cabin was perfectly insulated—he couldn’t hear the honks, the chatter, the bustle outside. Just the faint hum of the engine and the occasional soft clack of the turn signal.
He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, not fast, but heavy. Like the slow toll of a bell.
He didn’t know who he was meeting.
But that wasn’t the part that unsettled him.
What unsettled him was why.
Why now?
Why him?
What was his father trying to prove—or worse, test—by sending him into something so vague, so open-ended?
The silence pressed harder.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. No new messages.
He hovered his thumb over Aoi’s name.
He could send something.
Anything.
He could tell her where he was going. Ask her to wait up. Pretend he was bored, or scared, or just looking for a reason not to be completely alone.
Instead, he locked the screen again and slipped it back into his pocket.
At exactly 5:52 p.m., the car pulled onto a narrow side street lined with shuttered shops and low, old apartment buildings.
The driver brought the sedan to a gentle stop in front of a nondescript building with cracked tiles and a rusted gate.
Haruki stared at it for a moment.
Nothing about the location screamed danger—but that only made it worse.
Sometimes, the quiet places were the ones you should fear most.
The driver didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
Haruki opened the door and stepped out, the chilled air brushing instantly against his face and neck. The car pulled away without ceremony, the red tail lights vanishing around the corner.
He was alone now.
The building ahead of him was three stories tall, the kind of place you’d pass a thousand times and never notice. Faded signage hung above the door, the kanji long eroded beyond readability.
He climbed the narrow steps to the second floor, counting each one without meaning to.
Seven, eight, nine...
A door stood at the end of the hallway. Apartment 2C.
Haruki raised his hand and knocked twice.
Then once more.
He wasn’t sure why. It just felt like the right rhythm.
There was a pause.
Then a click.
The door opened.
And on the other side stood a woman.
She was in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black long-sleeve sweater. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun, her eyes sharp, observant.
She didn’t speak.
Just stepped aside.
Haruki entered.
The apartment was... clean. Neat. Functional. A low table in the center, cushions around it. No TV. No decoration. Nothing unnecessary.
Just a kettle on the stove, quietly beginning to boil.
The woman gestured for him to sit.
Haruki did, keeping his hands on his knees.
Still, she said nothing.
She poured two cups of tea. The scent of roasted barley filled the small space.
Only after placing the cup in front of him did she speak.
“You’re early.”
Her voice was low. Smooth. Controlled.
Haruki met her gaze. “Is that a problem?”
She sat across from him. “Not for me.”
Silence again.
Then she tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t look like a Nakamura.”
Haruki resisted the urge to frown. “I get that a lot.”
“You don’t talk like one, either.”
“Also common.”
She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “And yet, here you are.”
Haruki leaned forward slightly. “Who are you?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down gently.
“My name is not important,” she said. “But your father sent you here because he wants to see what happens when his son is placed in front of someone with power.”
Haruki stilled. “So you do work for him?”
Her lips twitched. “No. I work for myself. That’s why your father is interested.”
She let her words hang there.
Haruki tried to read her. She was calm. Almost too calm. Like someone who had seen worse than he could imagine and had already made peace with it.
“You’re not here to impress me,” she said. “You’re here to listen.”
Haruki nodded slowly. “Then I’m listening.”
“Good.”
She reached into a folder and slid something across the table.
A name. A photo. A location.
Haruki stared at it.
This was it.
Not just a meeting.
An instruction.
A mission.
His father’s test.
The woman watched him closely. “Tell me, Haruki Nakamura... do you know how to follow orders?”
Haruki looked at the photo.
Then at her.
Then back at the photo again.
And for the first time, he wasn’t sure of the answer.