The penthouse was still alive with noise.
Laughter. Conversations. Deals.
The world kept moving, utterly oblivious to the fact that just beyond this room, Natsuhiko Yamaoka was bleeding out in the back of a helicopter.
And standing in the dim hallway, where the walls still smelled of blood, where the air still held the ghost of a scream—
Anna Hoshikaze stood.
Her fingers were still wet.
Dark red, glistening in the low light.
A sick trophy.
A reminder of what she had done.
Hideki moved without thinking.
One moment, he had been at the bar, drinking, processing, spiraling.
The next—
He was in front of her.
Silent. Watching.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t try to hide the evidence.
Didn’t even look surprised.
If anything—
She looked amused.
The music swallowed the space between them.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then—Hideki exhaled.
“You got ahead of yourself.”
Anna smirked, lifting her bloodied fingers, rolling them lazily in the light.
“Maybe.”
“You were supposed to take your time.”
Her eyes flickered, catching the edge of a challenge in his tone.
He wasn’t angry.
Not in the way most people got angry.
He wasn’t yelling.
Wasn’t lashing out.
But there was something sharp beneath his voice.
Something calculating.
Something like a razor blade gliding just beneath silk.
She tilted her head. “You wanted me to keep playing with him?”
Hideki’s eyes darkened.
“I wanted you to follow the script.”
Anna laughed.
A soft, breathy thing, like he had just said something truly ridiculous.
She stepped closer.
The blood on her fingers brushed against the edge of his sleeve.
His stomach tightened.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Just watched her.
Anna’s breath was warm against his cheek.
“I did follow the script, Hideki.”
Her fingers traced lightly over the fabric of his jacket.
“I just made some… edits.”
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
His pulse hadn’t changed.
His expression hadn’t cracked.
But she could feel it.
That tiny shift in his energy.
He was processing. Calculating.
Trying to decide if she had just become a liability.
Anna’s lips curved.
She leaned in.
And Hideki—for once—let her.
Her mouth brushed the shell of his ear.
And then—she moved.
It happened so fast he didn’t register it at first.
The press of something cold against his wrist.
The flicker of metal just beneath his sleeve.
A needle.
A tiny prick of pain.
A whisper of something liquid slipping into his bloodstream.
His breath hitched.
He felt it almost instantly.
The creeping, insidious warmth sliding under his skin.
His body reacted before his mind did.
Fingers curling.
Vision shifting slightly at the edges.
A heaviness pressing against his skull.
His pulse stuttered.
Anna pulled back, just enough to see his face.
And—God, she was enjoying this.
“Oops.”
Hideki’s jaw clenched.
The world tilted.
Not a collapse.
Not an instant blackout.
But a slow, drowning descent.
His head felt full of cotton.
His limbs felt heavy.
Anna tilted her head, brushing a mockingly gentle hand through his hair.
“You’ll wake up soon, don’t worry.”
Her voice was honeyed, amused.
She stepped back.
Watched as his knees slightly buckled, as his fingers dug into the wall to stabilize himself.
He blinked hard, trying to fight it.
Trying to think past it.
But the edges of the world were smearing.
Anna leaned in one last time.
And whispered—
“I win.”
Then—she was gone.
Anna slipped through the crowd, weaving through the party with the same ease she always had.
Nobody stopped her.
Nobody questioned the fact that she was leaving early, slipping through the private exit toward the waiting car.
Nobody noticed the faint smudges of blood against her wrist.
By the time she reached the airport, she was already someone else.
A new outfit.
A new mask.
The blood was washed away, replaced with a fresh coat of red lipstick.
She handed her passport over with a smile.
The flight attendant nodded.
And just like that—
Anna Hoshikaze had vanished into the sky.
Hokkaido was waiting.
And this time, she wasn’t coming back.
Mamoru had finally let himself rest.
For once, he wasn’t hovering over Hideki.
For once, he wasn’t refreshing the vitals screen every five minutes.
For once, he was asleep.
Then—the alert.
A sharp vibration against his wrist.
His brain barely had time to process what woke him before another alert followed.
? Heart rate dropping fast.
? BP dangerously low.
? Motion slowed—then stopped.
Mamoru jerked awake.
His hand shot to his phone, checking the vitals screen.
What he saw made his stomach drop.
Hideki’s pulse had been steady—then plummeted out of nowhere.
For two full seconds—his heart had flatlined.
Mamoru was up in seconds.
His body moved before his mind even caught up.
The party was still going, but Mamoru wasn’t paying attention to the noise.
His feet moved automatically, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs as he scanned the room.
His brain was already calculating possibilities.
? Hideki’s vitals had dropped too fast—not a panic attack.
? No sudden spikes before the crash—not stress-induced syncope.
? Not his usual exhaustion—Hideki had been fine all day.
But his pulse was too slow.
His blood pressure was still low.
And most of all—
He wasn’t moving.
Then—he saw him.
Hideki was slumped forward at the bar, head resting against his folded arms, a glass of whiskey still half-full beside him.
At first, Mamoru almost scoffed.
Seriously?
He never let Hideki drink too much.
None of them did.
So what the hell was this?
His steps quickened, his fingers already reaching out—
“Hideki.”
No response.
His stomach twisted.
“Hideki.”
Nothing.
The glass was still cool.
But Hideki’s skin was cold, too.
Not normal.
Not right.
His brain jumped immediately to the worst-case scenario.
Alcohol poisoning?
It didn’t fit—Hideki barely drank.
But it was the only explanation that made sense.
His pulse spiked, his grip tightening.
“Hideki—” He grabbed his shoulder, shaking him hard.
For a second, nothing.
Then—Hideki groaned.
Low, heavy, almost drugged-sounding.
Not drunk.
Something else.
Something worse.
Mamoru didn’t waste time.
He pressed two fingers against Hideki’s neck, checking his pulse.
? Slow. Too slow.
? Weak, but stable enough to keep him from blacking out again.
? BP still lower than normal.
? Skin slightly cold, not feverish.
This wasn’t alcohol.
This was chemical.
Something intentional.
His jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Someone had drugged Hideki.
And that meant—
Someone had gotten close enough to touch him.
His stomach turned.
His first instinct was rage.
His second was calculation.
He forced himself to stay calm.
He needed answers first.
Because if someone had tried to hurt his brother—
The party still pulsed with life—laughing executives, clinking glasses, whispered deals.
No one knew.
No one knew that just outside this room, Nachi Yamaoka was being airlifted to the hospital.
No one knew that Anna Hoshikaze had just disappeared into the night, leaving behind only a streak of blood on the bar.
And no one—except for a few select people—knew that Hideki Yano had just been drugged unconscious by his own fiancée.
But the cracks were forming..
None of them would let him.
But his pulse was slow.
His body was cold.
And when Mamoru shook him, hard—
Hideki barely responded.
Across the room, Yuuki Carter was already moving.
His phone screen flashed in his hand.
He had been monitoring Hideki’s vitals in real-time.
Not out of curiosity.
Not out of professionalism.
But because he knew the truth.
? Any sudden drop could kill him.
? And now—this wasn’t natural.
His breath shook.
Aiko had already seen Anna.
Blood on her hands.
Her eyes had locked onto Aiko’s for half a second before she disappeared.
And now—Hideki was unconscious.
Yuuki didn’t think.
He just ran.
Aiko moved immediately to go after Yuuki.
Her instincts screamed at her.
Something was wrong.
Something wasn’t adding up.
But just as she took her first step, a hand closed around her wrist.
Firm. Steady.
She spun around.
Takeichi Ishida.
His grip wasn’t forceful.
But it was unmoving.
Aiko (angry): “Let go—!”
Takeichi’s expression didn’t change.
His voice was calm, too calm.
Takeichi: “No.”
Aiko’s breath caught.
Because it wasn’t just the word.
It was the way he said it.
Like he wasn’t just stopping her.
Like he wasn’t just trying to protect her.
Like he already knew.
Her stomach turned.
Aiko (low, sharp): “You—” (Her voice trembled.) “You knew.”
Takeichi’s fingers tightened, just slightly.
Not in anger.
Not in aggression.
But in warning.
Takeichi (quietly): “Aiko. Walk away.”
Aiko froze.
The noise of the party faded away.
The blood in her veins felt too hot, too cold.
Because now, she understood.
Takeichi wasn’t just some outsider.
He wasn’t just a tech CEO with a passing connection to Well of Fortune.
He had known about Hideki’s health all along.
And he had been watching.
But now—
Now, it was too late to hide it.
Because Yuuki was already inside.
Because Mamoru was already furious.
Because Hideki had just been drugged by his own fiancée.
And Aiko wasn’t walking away.
Not this time.
By the time Yuuki reached them, Mamoru was already pulling Hideki upright.
Hideki’s head lolled slightly, his breathing sluggish, uneven.
Yuuki (panting): “He—” (He swallowed hard.) “His vitals—”
Mamoru’s eyes flicked to him.
He didn’t need to hear the rest.
Because he already knew.
His jaw locked.
His pulse pounded against his skull.
Because Hideki was drugged.
Because Anna had just walked away with bloodstained hands.
Because he had let this happen.
Mimmi’s grip on her phone tightened, her knuckles turning white. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but she forced herself to stay composed. There was no time for rage. No time for hesitation. Everything was already spiraling, and she had to pull it back under control before it was too late.
She turned to Mamoru, her voice low and cutting. “No one talks about this.”
Mamoru’s head snapped toward her, his entire body rigid with barely restrained fury. “What?”
Mimmi didn’t flinch. “You don’t leave this penthouse and start tearing the city apart looking for her. You don’t go on some fucking warpath. You sit the fuck down, and you let me handle this.”
Mamoru’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to lunge. His rage was too much, barely caged beneath the surface. He wanted to find her. To drag her back. To make her pay for what she had done.
But Hideki was still barely breathing beside him, and Mimmi was right.
If this got out, if anyone found out that Hideki Yano’s fiancée had drugged him, that their drummer had been found bleeding out hours earlier, it wouldn’t just be a scandal. It would be the end.
Mimmi turned away from him, her eyes scanning the room, her mind moving faster than her fingers as she pulled up the necessary contacts. This wasn’t just about calling security. She needed the lawyers involved. Now.
Everyone in this penthouse was already under NDA, but that wouldn’t be enough this time. Not when something this big had happened. She needed absolute silence. A new contract. Something binding. Something airtight.
No one could speak about what happened here tonight.
Not the industry executives who were still obliviously drinking champagne.
Not the staff who were still working in the background.
Not Takao, who had seen Anna walk out, covered in blood, and had said nothing.
Mimmi turned toward him now, her stare sharp as a blade. “And you.”
Takao barely moved, still leaning against the bar, the weight of everything settling onto his shoulders.
Mimmi’s voice was steady but lethal. “You’re supposed to be in this fucking band now. So tell me—do you actually want to be here, or are you just going to keep standing in the corner, watching shit happen?”
Takao exhaled slowly, his jaw tight.
“I should’ve stopped her.”
Mamoru’s entire body went still.
Mimmi’s fingers twitched.
Yuuki’s head snapped up.
The words rang in the air like a loaded gun, the weight of them pressing down on everyone in the room.
Mamoru moved first, grabbing Takao by the collar and slamming him back against the bar. The impact sent Takao’s glass tumbling, shattering against the marble floor.
Mamoru’s breath was ragged, his grip tight. “You saw her.”
Takao didn’t fight him. “Yeah.”
Mamoru’s fingers curled tighter. “You saw her leave.”
Takao’s throat felt dry. “Yeah.”
Mamoru’s voice was lower now, something lethal laced between his words. “With blood on her hands.”
Takao’s breath came out slow and unsteady. “Yeah.”
Mamoru’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His pulse was hammering, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained rage.
He could kill him. Right here. Right now.
But he didn’t.
His fingers released, shoving Takao away with a sharp breath, like he was disgusted. Like he couldn’t stand to look at him.
Takao stumbled slightly but didn’t react. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to justify it.
Because there was nothing to justify.
He had seen her.
He had let her walk away.
And now, he had to live with that.
Mimmi didn’t waste another second. Her phone was already to her ear, the call connecting before she even took a breath. This was going to take more than just security. They needed full control over this. No media leaks. No loose ends.
Aiko stood frozen, her hands clenched into fists. She had seen Anna too. She had seen the blood on her hands. She had known something was wrong.
Yuuki exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, trying to process all of it. His gaze flicked to Hideki, still slumped against Mamoru, his body weak and unresponsive. He didn’t like this. Any of it.
Mimmi didn’t stop moving, her fingers tightening around her phone. The weight of everything rested on her shoulders now. If she didn’t handle this, if even one person talked—
It wouldn’t just be Anna who went down.It would be all of them.
The airplane hummed beneath Anna as she sat motionless, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her lilac eyes fixed on the endless stretch of black sky outside the window. The flight attendants moved around the cabin, taking orders, checking seat belts, but none of them mattered. Not to her.
She had won.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Her fingers still tingled from where she had touched Nachi’s skin. The warmth of his breath, the way his body had shuddered beneath her, the way—for just a moment—he had still looked at her like she was Mitsuki. Like she was someone worth loving.
And yet, it hadn’t been enough.
Because it was never going to be enough.
Anna exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against her stomach as if she could still feel the ache of loss there. She thought back to that cold, sterile doctor’s office. The clinical, detached voice of the specialist telling her what she already knew.
“I’m afraid the cancer has spread.”
Her mind whent back for a second to when she had made her move to secure the future.
The hotel room was dimly lit, the glow of Helsinki’s cityscape casting a faint shimmer across the sheets. Anna stretched her limbs slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment. The scent of sex and expensive cologne lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of nicotine from Hideki’s cigarette.
She could feel his gaze on her, lazy and amused, as she shifted closer, trailing her fingers lightly over his bare chest.
“You’re in a good mood,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something else—something knowing.
Anna smiled, pressing her lips briefly to his collarbone before sitting up, letting the sheets slip just enough to tease. “Maybe I just like it here,” she mused, tucking a golden curl behind her ear.
He chuckled, slow and indulgent. “Helsinki? Didn’t peg you as a Nordic fan.”
She hummed, rolling onto her side, watching the faint glow of his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily between them, soft and hypnotic.
She waited.
Waited until his gaze flickered—just briefly—toward the bedside table.
The wrapper was still there.
The used condom, however, wasn’t.
Her fingers twitched against the sheets.
She had been careful. So fucking careful.
A quick, practiced movement. A casual stretch. A shift of the sheets just enough to conceal the way she slipped it into the folded fabric of her discarded dress.
She had timed it perfectly—her touch distracting enough, his post-coital haze heavy enough.
But Hideki wasn’t like the others.
She knew that.
And when she dared to glance at him again, she saw it.
The slight smirk on his lips.
The flicker of amusement behind his half-lidded gaze.
He knew.
A chill ran down her spine, but she didn’t let it show.
Instead, she moved—slowly, carefully—slipping out of bed with the ease of someone completely unbothered. The silk of her dress was cool against her fingertips as she picked it up, fingers brushing against the hidden evidence tucked inside.
She could feel his eyes on her, watching. Always watching.
She turned slightly, casting him a small, knowing smile.
“I’m taking a shower,” she murmured, running a hand through her hair, letting her nails graze her scalp lightly as she walked toward the bathroom.
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The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a slow breath.
She unwrapped the fabric, her hands steady as she pulled the small, stolen piece of latex free.
It wasn’t about the pregnancy itself.
It was about control.
About securing her future.
About taking away his.
She turned the faucet on, the rush of water filling the space as she reached for the small vial she had hidden in her makeup bag.
Inside, nestled between her lipstick and compact mirror, was the syringe.
Her stomach twisted, just slightly, but she forced the feeling down.
There was no turning back now.
She had lost too much already.
She had spent years carefully weaving her plans, playing the perfect role, smiling when she wanted to scream, laughing when she wanted to break.
And now, the final act was beginning.
She brought the condom to her lips, exhaling a quiet breath, almost reverent.
Then, with practiced precision, she extracted exactly what she needed.
The warmth of it against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.
This was it.
Her last chance.
She sealed the vial carefully, tucking it into the hidden pocket of her bag before washing her hands, making sure every trace was erased.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around her, Hideki was still exactly where she left him—leaning against the pillows, cigarette still in hand, watching her like a predator that had already decided she wasn’t worth the chase.
She met his gaze.
Held it.
Waited for him to say something.
He didn’t.
He only smirked, tapping his cigarette against the glass ashtray.
She slipped back into bed beside him, her body curling against his as if nothing had happened.
His arm draped over her, deceptively lazy.
His breath was warm against her hair.
And just before she drifted off to sleep, she heard him murmur—soft, knowing, almost amused—
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Anna.”
Her fingers curled against his chest.
She smiled.
“So are you.”
She had been prepared for that. She had felt it. The way her body had betrayed her, the exhaustion that clung to her bones no matter how much she rested.
But then—
“Even with IVF, pregnancy is no longer an option.”
That had been the real knife to the gut.
Not the pain. Not the diagnosis.
But the realization that her body had robbed her of the one thing she had been counting on to destroy Nachi’s life.
She had planned it so well.
A child— Hidekis child. A baby that would have reminded him of her every single day. A child with her old face. The one he had abandoned.
But now?
Now, there would be no child.
So she had shifted her plan.
If she couldn’t remind him of her through a child, then she would make sure he would never have one at all.
A small, satisfied hum escaped her lips.
He would wake up in agony, his body broken, his future stripped away, and the only thing he would have left was the knowledge that she had done it. That he had been too stupid to see it coming.
And Hideki?
She tilted her head slightly, considering.
He had always been a wild card. He was never meant to be the sacrifice—at least, not in the traditional sense. But maybe that’s what made it so poetic.
She had made sure she was seen by the security cameras. Every movement, every step—on record. Because this wasn’t just about hurting Nachi. This was about making sure the damage reached as far as possible.
If the industry tried to silence what had happened, then she would make sure Nachi’s career died in the shadows.
If they let it leak, then Hideki would go down with him.
Anna smiled slightly to herself.
She had spent years gathering dirt on Hideki Yano. There were things she knew—things the public could never, ever know.
If she played her cards right, she wouldn’t even have to use them.
Because Hideki was already dying.
It was just a matter of time.
And time had always been on her side.
She settled into her seat, adjusting her coat around her shoulders.
She was going home.
And she wasn’t coming back.
Takao was still standing in the penthouse, his jaw tight, his mind racing.
He had fucked up.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t fix it.
Mimmi was already moving, calling legal, locking down the situation before it spiraled. The way she was handling this was impressive—almost terrifying—but Takao had spent enough time in the industry to know that sweeping something like this under the rug wasn’t going to be enough.
Nachi was in the hospital.
Hideki had been drugged.
Anna was already gone.
And now, all eyes were on him.
Mamoru was still seething. Yuuki was watching him with wary suspicion. He where still processing what had happened.
Takao took a slow breath and turned toward Mimmi.
“Tell me what I need to do.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“Make sure the police don’t get involved. We handle this internally.”
Takao nodded once. He could do that.
But in the back of his mind, there was a voice whispering something else.
This isn’t over.
Because Anna had planned this too well.
And that meant she still had more moves left to play.
Scene: Yuuki Arrives and the Aftermath
Time: 2:35 AM
The penthouse still thrummed with low laughter, glasses clinking, hushed conversations slipping between the industry elite who had overstayed their welcome. Beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, it was as if nothing had happened. As if Natsuhiko Yamaoka hadn’t been bleeding out in a helicopter less than an hour ago. As if Hideki Yano wasn’t slumped over the bar, unconscious.
Yuuki Carter wasn’t buying the illusion.
His phone was still in his hand, Hideki’s vitals flashing against the screen. The numbers were stabilizing now, but minutes ago—when his heart rate had plunged—Yuuki had nearly lost his composure.
Forty-two beats per minute. A crash that had no logical explanation. No overexertion, no stress spike, no warning. Just a drop.
Yuuki had run.
Now, standing over Hideki’s motionless form, he felt the last vestiges of patience slipping through his fingers.
“Hideki.” His voice was low, sharp. His hand was already on Hideki’s wrist, fingers pressing against the slow, sluggish pulse. Too weak. Too slow. His skin was cold.
Yuuki’s stomach tightened.
Mamoru appeared seconds later, moving with a kind of urgency Yuuki had never seen from him before. His eyes were already locked onto Hideki, sharp, calculating, filled with something that looked a lot like barely contained panic.
“What the fuck happened?” Mamoru’s voice was quieter than expected, but there was something deadly in the way he asked.
Yuuki exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You tell me. His vitals tanked out of nowhere.”
Mamoru’s jaw tensed, and then his hand was on Hideki’s face, gripping his chin roughly, tilting it up. Hideki’s head lolled slightly, his eyelids fluttering before slipping shut again.
That wasn’t exhaustion. That wasn’t alcohol.
That was something else entirely.
Mamoru wasn’t stupid. His fingers went immediately to Hideki’s neck, his pulse still sluggish beneath his touch. The tension in Mamoru’s body turned from alarm to something sharper. His expression blanked.
Then—his hands were on Hideki’s sleeves, roughly pushing them up. He examined Hideki’s arms, looking for marks, bruises—anything. His fingers tightened over Hideki’s wrist as if pressing harder would keep him from slipping away.
Yuuki had already reached the same conclusion.
“Someone drugged him.” Yuuki’s voice was controlled, but barely.
Mamoru’s entire frame went rigid. His grip on Hideki’s wrist tightened just slightly, before he let it go with a sharp breath through his nose.
And then, just like that—Mamoru went cold.
The panic vanished, buried beneath sheer calculation. His movements became smooth, methodical. His hand moved to his watch, checking the vitals monitor again. HR: 50 BPM. BP: Low but rising.
They had a small window before things got worse.
Yuuki didn’t need to be told what to do.
Without another word, he was already reaching into his bag, fingers wrapping around the small vial of Flumazenil—the antidote to benzodiazepine overdoses.
“Help me sit him up,” Yuuki ordered.
Mamoru obeyed without hesitation. His arms looped under Hideki’s shoulders, dragging him into a semi-upright position. Hideki’s body wasn’t cooperating—his head lolled slightly to the side, his limbs limp.
Yuuki exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, before pushing the syringe into Hideki’s arm.
Seconds passed.
Then—a slow inhale.
Hideki’s fingers twitched.
Yuuki and Mamoru both froze—watching as Hideki’s lashes fluttered, his breath hitching slightly. Then, his brows furrowed, his throat working as he swallowed.
Another second—then his fingers weakly curled into Mamoru’s sleeve.
Mamoru let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Yuuki eased back slightly, but his gaze never left Hideki’s face. His vitals were still low, but climbing back into the range of not deadly.
Hideki groaned softly, barely audible. His lips parted, but the only sound that came out was a breath. His eyes opened just barely, a hazy blur of gold and dark brown.
Mamoru immediately leaned in. “Hide.”
A beat of silence.
Then—Hideki smirked.
Yuuki blinked.
Mamoru’s eye twitched.
“Fuck you,” Hideki rasped, voice like sandpaper.
Yuuki sighed. Mamoru almost threw him back onto the bar stool.
For all the stress Hideki had just caused them, he still managed to be an asshole the second he regained consciousness.
His gaze flickered lazily between them, still heavy-lidded from the lingering effects of the drug. His smirk turned faintly smug, but his body betrayed him—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his posture was still wrong, his breath still slightly too slow.
Mamoru ran a hand down his face, exhaling roughly. Mimmi arrived.
And she looked furious.
Her heels clicked against the marble floors, sharp, quick, as she stopped beside them, her eyes darting between the three of them.
Her gaze landed on Hideki. She took one look at his barely conscious but still smirking expression—then at Mamoru’s clenched jaw and Yuuki’s tense posture—and her eyes narrowed.
“Fix him,” she said, voice low, controlled, deadly.
Yuuki shot her a look. “Already did.”
Mimmi inhaled sharply through her nose. “Then keep him alive long enough for me to kill him myself.”
Hideki let out a breathy laugh. “Kinky.”
Mimmi smacked the back of his head.
Yuuki sighed again. Mamoru just rubbed his temples.
Mimmi turned away, already pulling out her phone. “No one says a fucking word about this. No one. We already have one disaster to cover up—I am not letting another one get out.”
Yuuki exchanged glances with Mamoru. Mamoru—gritting his teeth—nodded once.
Yuuki wasn’t stupid.
He knew what she meant.
The “motorcycle accident” cover-up. The silence contracts. The entire narrative they had to maintain to keep everything from exploding.
And Hideki?
Hideki was still slumped against the bar, watching the exchange with half-lidded amusement, like this was just another Thursday night.
Yuuki scowled.
He already knew what would happen next.
By morning, Hideki would act like this never happened. Mamoru would double down on his obsession. The label would keep spinning their version of events.
And the only one who would really suffer from all this?
Nachi.
Yuuki exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow was going to be hell.
Time: 10:47 AM
The penthouse was eerily quiet.
The party had ended hours ago, but the weight of the aftermath still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Most of the staff had been dismissed. The industry elites had all gone home, under the explicit warning that they had never seen anything. The remaining members of Well of Fortune were left in the wreckage of the night before.
The morning crept into the penthouse with a softness that didn’t belong. Tokyo’s skyline stretched beyond the glass walls, the sun rising slow and indifferent over the city’s sprawling expanse. Pale light slanted through sheer curtains, casting long, golden streaks across polished floors and furniture that gleamed too perfectly, too coldly.
Mamoru sat at the kitchen table, slowly stirring his herbal tea, his expression unreadable. Takao was across from him, half-dressed, hair still damp from a recent shower, arms crossed as he scrolled through his phone. He sat up, rubbed at his face, and let out a long breath. The kitchen gleamed sterile and untouched, except for the tea kettle still warm from the night before. He brewed himself another cup—hands steady out of practice, muscle memory carrying him through the motions. Steam curled into the air, filling the space with the faint scent of lemongrass and something earthier beneath.
Footsteps behind him.
“Smells like boiled grass,” Hideki’s voice, rough with sleep and sarcasm, echoed across the room.
Mamoru didn’t turn. “It’s calming.”
Hideki snorted. “You’re the last person who needs more calm.” His hair was a mess—brown spikes tousled from sleep, the faintest hint of red still clinging to the ends. Yesterday’s black shirt hung off one shoulder, wrinkled and carelessly unbuttoned. His steps were sluggish but unbothered as he wandered to the fridge, pulling out a carton of milk. He drank straight from it.
Then turning to the kitchen table mamorus tablet lit up. New notification , Hideki leaned over before Mamoru could press it to his chest.
Well of Fortune Drummer Hospitalized After Motorcycle Crash.”
“Fans Rally with #GetWellNachi and #DonateForNachi.”
“Remembering Aki Yano: The Heart of W?F’s Origins.”
Hideki’s gaze lingered on that last headline. Footage played—Aki, fifteen, delicate features half-hidden behind her hair as she spoke in an old interview.
Hideki’s gaze lingered on that last headline. Footage played—Aki, fifteen, delicate features half-hidden behind her hair as she spoke in an old interview.
“If my body can save someone… that’s enough.”
His jaw tightened—but only for a second. “She’s everywhere,” he muttered.
He groaned slightly, still hungover from the medication he had been sedated with. “The fuck happened last night?”
Takao, barely looking up, deadpanned, “You got drugged, idiot.”
Hideki blinked slowly, as if processing. His eyes flickered toward Mamoru, who was still sipping his tea with the patience of a man who had been forced to deal with this kind of bullshit for years.
Then, Hideki’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Wait—Anna drugged me, right?”
Takao scoffed. “Yeah. You just figuring that out?”
Hideki exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “And Nachi—where the hell is Nachi?”
Silence.
Mamoru didn’t even glance up from his tea. Takao, however, did glance up—his expression unreadable, his grip tightening slightly around his phone.
Hideki squinted at them. His drugged brain was working way too slow for his liking. “Guys?”
Mamoru finally set his cup down. He inhaled deeply through his nose, like he was bracing himself. Then, without looking up—
“He’s in the hospital.”
Hideki blinked again. “What? Why?”
Another beat of silence.
Takao was staring at him now, a wary, slightly horrified expression crossing his face—like he already knew how this was going to play out.
Mamoru exhaled. Then, with the same exhausted patience, he said it.
“Severe genitalia mutilation, you saw the article titles right?.”
The room went dead silent.
Hideki sat up slightly. His brain still wasn’t at full capacity, but those words alone were so absurd that his lips immediately twitched. “…What?”
Takao, with an edge of exasperation, muttered, “Somebody cut his dick off.”
There was exactly three seconds of stunned silence.
Then—
Hideki’s grin spread so wide it nearly split his face. And before anyone could stop it—
He burst into full-blown laughter.
Not a chuckle. Not a snicker.
A genuine, gut-wrenching, uncontrollable fit of laughter.
Takao looked horrified.
Mamoru, still stirring his tea, closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
Hideki, clutching his stomach, barely managed to gasp between wheezes, “You’re kidding me.”
Takao’s jaw tightened. “No, you fucking—” He gestured aggressively. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
But Hideki was gone.
He threw his head back, howling, slapping his knee, completely losing it like someone had just told him the single funniest joke in history.
“Holy shit— Anna actually—” He choked on his own laughter, wiping at his eyes. “—she really—“whew—took it with her??”
“Hideki.”
Mamoru’s voice was calm.
Hideki ignored him.
“Oh my God—he’s dickless—” He dissolved into another fit, doubling over, practically wheezing.
Takao’s expression contorted into a mix of shock and disgust. “You have a serious case of assholeness, Hideki,” he whispered.
Hideki was crying from laughter at this point.
Takao shot a look at Mamoru, expecting some kind of intervention, but Mamoru just sighed, sipping his tea. “You know this is a coping mechanism, right?”
“Coping?!” Takao looked between the two of them like they had lost their minds. “His dick is gone, Mamoru! Gone! And you’re just gonna let him sit here and laugh about it?!”
Mamoru didn’t even blink. “I learned a long time ago that stopping him only makes it worse.”
Hideki let out a breathless, “holy fuck,” still wiping tears from his eyes. “I think I actually wanna visit him now.”
Takao’s eye twitched. “Do not.”
Hideki grinned. “What? I should bring him a Get Well Soon card.”
“Hideki.”
“I should put a sausage on it.”
“Hideki, are you—”
?-nuts?? Hideki finished . Bursting out in another fit of laughter.
Mamoru rubbed his temple, finally setting the tea down with a soft thud. “Hide, that’s enough.”
Hideki exhaled dramatically, flopping back onto the couch, still grinning. “Fine, fine.”
Takao muttered something under his breath about “fucking sociopaths” before running a hand down his face.
Mamoru took another slow sip of his tea. “You’re lucky he’s still sedated. If he was awake, he’d kill you.”
Hideki smirked. “Would he, though?”
Mamoru’s eyes flickered toward him, expression unreadable.
Takao scoffed, shaking his head. “Dude, if someone cut off your dick, you wouldn’t be this calm.”
Hideki blinked at him.
Then—his grin widened.
“I’d be dead first.”
Mamoru inhaled slowly. “…And that’s my cue to leave.”
Takao groaned, standing up and rubbing his temples. “I fucking hate this band.”
Hideki stretched, sighing. “Severed genitalia. Man, that’s gonna be hard to beat.”
Takao gave him an exhausted look. “What do you mean, beat?!”
Hideki just smirked. “I mean, how the fuck do we top this?”
“Oh my God.”
Mamoru sighed. “I need another cup of tea.”
And with that, the morning continued.
Mimmi’s fingers moved fast, typing out message after message, firing off calls to PR, legal, and securit. She couldn’t let this get out. This wasn’t just about a scandal.
This was about survival.
She barked orders into her phone, her voice sharp as a blade.
“The official story is an accident. Motorcycle crash. No details. Just enough for a press release—understood?”
Silence.
Then—her PR contact hesitated over the phone . “Mimmi, if the police—”
Mimmi cut them off. “If the police get involved, they’ll have nothing to investigate. Because Nachi was in a motorcycle accident. That’s it. That’s all anyone needs to know.” Takaos phone buzzed.
“#DonateForNachi breaks 5 million tweets.”
“Fans honor Aki Yano’s legacy with organ donation pledges.”
“W?F to hold press conference tomorrow.”
?Who is Aki??
Mimmi muttered ? former bassist . Long ago? in a hushed voice , Hideki looked down and refused to look at Takao, Mamorus expression turned dark, it where a air in the room as if someone had said a cursed name.
The moment Mimmi ended one of her many calls, she turned back to Mamoru, who was sipping his tea looking dead tired.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled. Absolute.
“No one talks about this.”
Mamoru’s jaw locked. For the first time, he looked like he might actually hit her.
“You expect me to sit here and do nothing?” His voice was dangerously low.
Mimmi didn’t blink. “I expect you to not ruin the plan.”
Yuuki’s gaze flickered between them, tension tightening in his chest.
Mamoru wasn’t just angry.
He was on the edge.
He had spent years keeping Hideki alive. Monitoring every heartbeat, every symptom, every possible risk.
And tonight—someone had gotten to him first.
Mamoru took a sharp breath, shoving his phone into his pocket.
“Fine.” His voice was like ice. “Then tell me what we do next.”
Sitting across from him, her phone in one hand, her nails tapping against the glass of whiskey in the other.
She wasn’t drinking it.
Just holding it.
Watching him.
His voice was raw when he spoke. “You look like shit.”
Mimmi’s lips curved slightly. “You’ll feel like shit in about five minutes.”
Hideki groaned, pressing a hand against his forehead. His pulse was still sluggish, his body still drowning in the aftereffects of whatever the fuck Anna had pumped into him.
Mamoru was next to him, arms crossed, eyes like steel.
Too quiet.
Too controlled.
That meant he was furious.
Yuuki was standing nearby, still in doctor mode, his phone open—probably monitoring Hideki’s vitals in real-time, still tense, finally spoke. “Do you feel normal now?”
Hideki exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “Define normal.”
Mamoru didn’t wait for an answer.
He pushed away from the wall, already moving toward the exit. “We’re leaving.”
Mimmi arched a brow. “And where exactly are you going?”
Mamoru didn’t look back. “To fix this.”
Takao hadn’t moved from the bar.
His fingers were still curled around his empty glass.
His mind was still replaying the moment over and over again.
He had seen Anna leave.
He had seen the blood on her hands.
And he had done nothing.
Mamoru’s voice still echoed in his head.
You saw her.
His stomach twisted.
This wasn’t what he signed up for.
He was supposed to be in a band.
Not the fucking yakuza.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face.
And then—his phone vibrated.
A message.
From Mimmi.
He stared at it.
Unread. Unopened.
And somehow—he already knew what it would say.
Either he was in this, fully, or he was out.
And Takao—for the first time—wasn’t sure what he wanted..
But inside Toranomon Hills Medical Center, the world had narrowed to fluorescent lights and the steady hum of machines. The private suite was spacious, walls painted a soft blue meant to soothe—failing miserably. It smelled like antiseptic and sterile linens, cold air-conditioned chill seeping into the bones.
The hospital room was too white. Too clean. Too bright.
The kind of brightness that didn’t feel real—like it was trying too hard to cover up the darkness beneath.
The city moved on. Traffic crawled past skyscrapers. Office workers filed in and out of convenience stores, coffee cups in hand. Life, indifferent, continued
# The Night of the Van Houten Hot Chocolate
The orphanage was always cold in winter. The staff barely turned on the heat, and the cocoa powder they bought was cheap, watery, bitter in all the wrong ways.
But tonight, Mitsuki had saved up her pocket money.
A small tin of Van Houten cocoa sat in front of her, a treasure she had been waiting to share.
She made two cups.
One for herself.
One for Nachi.
They sat by the window, watching the snow pile up outside. The dormitory was quiet tonight—too quiet.
Mamoru had locked himself in his room, studying.
Hideki had gone off somewhere, probably up to no good.
And Aki…
Aki was missing.
Not in a literal sense—she was probably just in another part of the orphanage, maybe at the piano, maybe curled up in the library with a book.
But still. Mitsuki felt the emptiness.
Maybe that was why the warmth of the hot chocolate felt so fleeting.
Nachi (grinning, teasing): "You only sing for people you like, huh?"
Mitsuki froze mid-sip. Her cheeks flushed pink—a rare sight on her usually calm, collected face.
Nachi: "You sang for Hideki."
Mitsuki (laughing nervously): "I sing for lots of people…"
Nachi: "Not for me."
She turned her head, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. Those lilac eyes, so clear in the dim light, held something heavy.
Mitsuki (soft, steady): "Because there is no future with him."
Nachi blinked, suddenly tense. She wasn't blushing anymore.
Mitsuki (barely a whisper, but certain): "I don't want to fall in love with someone who's going to leave quickly."
The words sent a chill down Nachi's spine.
For a brief moment, his mind flashed to Hideki—his frail frame, the way he sometimes sat too still, as if conserving energy, the way Mamoru hovered like a shield.
But then, another image surfaced.
Aki.
Sitting at the piano, her long fingers moving over the keys like she was already half in another world.
Her voice—low, smoky, distant.
The way she sometimes spoke about death as if it were a friend she had already met.
Mitsuki had seen it too.
And in that moment, Nachi knew—she had never let herself fall for Hideki. Not because she didn't care. But because she was too afraid of losing him.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The space between them thicker.
Mitsuki looked so heartbreakingly young and yet, wiser than she should be.
Nachi felt his chest tighten.
Slowly, he leaned in—just enough that he could feel her breath, just enough that if she wanted to stop him, she could.
Nachi (whispering, half a promise, half a plea): "Then don't fall for him."
Nachi (softer): "Fall for me."
Her eyes widened, shocked. But she didn't pull away.
And just when their lips were close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin— she suddenly blinked, looking away.
Somewhere, down the hall, a soft piano note rang out.
Aki.
She was playing again. Something slow, delicate, and achingly sad.
Mitsuki pulled back, her hands tightening around the mug.
And just like that, the moment was over.
That night, as she lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling—she realized.
She had already fallen for him.
And years later, when Anna Hoshikaze looked into Nachi's eyes, she wasn't seeing the boy from the orphanage anymore.
She was seeing the boy who had left.
And the girl who had been too afraid to love a dying boy had instead fallen for one who would abandon her anyway.
Nachi stirred then his eyelids fluttered.
Everything felt… heavy.
Like he was floating and sinking at the same time.
The monitor beside him kept a steady rhythm—a cruel mockery of the chaos inside his head.
And then—pain.
A slow burn, then sharp, slicing through the fog, making him gasp. His breath hitched, fingers clawing at the sheets. His body felt wrong. Broken.
His gaze drifted down.
He froze.
Bandages.
Tubes.
IV lines pumping him with something to dull the pain that was already clawing up his spine.
And then—
It hit him.
The memory.
Anna’s smile.
The glint of metal.
The searing, unbearable pain.
His stomach churned.
His throat tightened.
God.
What the hell had she done?
Bandages. So many fucking bandages.
His gaze dragged downward—and stopped.
His stomach twisted. Breath hitched. No. No no no—
Memories clawed back: Anna’s face—smiling. The glint of the blade. Heat and cold and agony all at once.
Panic surged—sharp and suffocating.
The door creaked open.
Mimmi stood there. No clipboard. No fake smile. Just her—tired. Worn. Older than she looked yesterday.
Their eyes met.
“Welcome back,” she said softly. “Don’t talk. Just… breathe.”
Nachi’s lips parted—he wanted to curse. Scream. Demand answers.
But the weight of it all pinned him down.
He swallowed.
His voice was a rasp, barely audible.
“Why…?”
Mimmi’s jaw clenched. Her gaze drifted to the window, where Tokyo’s skyline glared back.
“It’s handled,” she said. “The press thinks it was a motorcycle accident.”
A hollow laugh escaped him—a sharp, painful sound.
“Motorcycle… accident?” His voice cracked, disbelief thick.
“That’s the story,” she replied. “And it’s going to stay that way.”
Her phone buzzed.
?Miss.Hona we have a problem, it’s the fan club president…? Pr had typed worried. Mimmis eyes widened. She hankes up the phone calling PR without caring if she where in Nachis room. Collecting herself before she said with a calm but firm voice.
?Fix it. I don’t care how I have no clue of what it is with it but fix it? before hanging up stress levels making her nauseous .
Silence stretched between them.
He should be angrier. Should be throwing things, demanding retribution.
But all he felt was tired.
And worse—empty.
In a quiet corner of Hokkaido, Anna sipped lukewarm tea from a chipped mug.
The cabin was small. Remote. Hidden.
Outside, snow drifted lazily to the ground, muffling the world beyond.
Her phone buzzed—news alerts flooding in.
“W?F Drummer Involved in Motorcycle Crash.”
“Public Calls for Organ Donation Awareness Amid Nachi Yamaoka’s Recovery.”
“Remembering Aki Yano: The Heart of W?F’s Tragic Origins.”
Anna smirked.
How neat. How perfectly the label spun it.
They always knew how to turn tragedy into profit.
She scrolled further, her gaze catching on a photo—Mamoru and Hideki at a press conference, faces composed, voices rehearsed.
“We appreciate the support. Please respect our privacy.”
Liars.
All of them.
But that wasn’t her concern now.
No—her plan was done.
Nachi had been her final piece.
And yet—
Why did it feel so empty?
Her fingers traced the rim of the mug, eyes distant.
Maybe it was the snow.
Maybe it was the silence.
Or maybe—revenge just wasn’t enough.
Not anymore.
Tokyo buzzed with headlines.
News vans lined streets. Social media exploded with hashtags:
#DonateForNachi
#RememberAki
#W?FStrong
Old interviews resurfaced—clips of a 15-year-old Aki Yano, soft-spoken, camera-shy, talking about wanting to “make a difference.”
“If my body can save someone, then… that’s enough.”
The world ate it up.
Tragedy sold.
Legacy sold more.
Hideki watched one of the broadcasts from the couch, coffee mug in hand—black, no sugar, his expression unreadable.
Mamoru stood behind him, arms crossed.
“They’re milking her story again,” Mamoru muttered.
Hideki shrugged. “She’s useful dead.”
His voice was flat, but Mamoru caught the flicker of something beneath it. Guilt? Regret? Resentment?
Who knew with Hideki anymore.
The news droned on—Aki’s face everywhere.
A girl frozen in time, forever young, forever tragic.
And neither of them could stop it.
Mimmi hadn’t slept in 36 hours.
Her coffee was cold. Her phone battery hovered at 4%.
“Lock down the security footage,” she snapped into the phone. “And if anyone so much as whispers Anna’s name—bury it. Hard.”
Another call. Another crisis.
Lawyers were already circling. Rumors starting to spark.
She glanced at her laptop—Takao’s face on a paused video feed.
“He saw her,” a voice in her head reminded.
He hadn’t spoken publicly—yet.
Mimmi rubbed her temples.
The whole house of cards was trembling.
And if it collapsed—
They were all going down.
Mamoru sat at the edge of Hideki’s bed, scrolling through medical reports.
He shouldn’t be reading them.
But he had to.
Because no one else would.
Hideki stirred beside him, mumbling something incoherent.
Mamoru glanced down—his brother’s face was pale, drawn, shadows etched deep beneath his eyes.
Mamoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
There was too much at stake.
And no safety net left.
His phone buzzed—another alert.
“Nachi Yamaoka stable but declining reconstructive surgery.”
Mamoru’s jaw tightened.
Stubborn idiot.
But there was nothing he could do about that now.
No—the real threat wasn’t the headlines.
Wasn’t even Anna.
It was what came next.
Because this?
This was just the calm before the next storm
The city transformed as night fell—streets glowing under neon signs and the soft haze of streetlamps. Crowds swelled in Shibuya, laughter and chatter echoing off glass storefronts. The air smelled of grilled skewers from nearby stalls, mixed with car exhaust and distant rain.
Aiko adjusted her silk scarf, heels clicking against the pavement as she navigated through the crowd. Her phone was pressed to her ear.
“Come on,” she coaxed. “You owe me dinner.”
Yuuki’s voice crackled back, tired. “I just finished a ten-hour shift, Aiko.”
“You’re a doctor,” she teased. “Aren’t you supposed to survive on coffee and stress?”
“My bed sounds better.”
“Your stomach says otherwise.” Her grin widened as she heard the faint rumble over the line.
Yuuki sighed in defeat. “Fine. Where?”
“Meet me at Ebisu Garden Place. Top floor bistro. I’m starving.”
Fifteen minutes later, she arrived at the open plaza—fairy lights twinkling overhead, casting warm glows across cobblestone paths. The Baccarat chandelier installation sparkled under glass, drawing couples taking photos and tourists marveling at the grandeur.
Yuuki was already seated at an outdoor terrace table, sleeves rolled up, his coat draped over the chair. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, hair slightly mussed—but his expression softened when he saw her.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered.
Aiko slid into the seat across from him. “You’re early.”
He shrugged. “Figured I’d beat you here. Regretting it now.”
Their server approached—orders placed, menus set aside. Warm lighting overhead cast soft shadows, making the cityscape below look like a painted backdrop. Beyond the railing, Tokyo Tower glowed orange against the dark sky.
Aiko’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at it—and froze.
Yuuki noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”
She slipped it into her pocket. “Nothing.”
“Aiko.”
Silence stretched.
Finally, she sighed, pulling the phone out again—screen tilted toward him.
A photo.
Her father. Sitting at a Parisian café. Smiling. Coffee in hand.
No caption.
Yuuki’s face darkened. “They sent you that?”
Her voice was quiet. “Guess they’re done being subtle.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I told them—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “They said they’d protect you.”
“Well,” she said wryly, “turns out they lie. His gaze flicked to hers, cautious. “Yeah?”
“Takeichi, He told me to walk away.” Aiko smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know me better than that.”
Aiko—”
“I know you can’t talk,” she cut in gently. “Contract and all.” Her fingers drummed against the table, nails painted a pale lavender. “I just… I don’t like being in the dark.”
Yuuki’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the window, watching the city below. “Sometimes being in the dark is safer.”
Aiko huffed a laugh. “If I wanted safe, I wouldn’t be here.”
He looked back at her, something softening in his gaze. “You should’ve gone home.”
“You owe me dinner,” she shot back.“And you’re not getting out of it.”
Yuuki’s fists clenched against the table, knuckles white. “This isn’t—” He shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to involve you.”
Aiko offered a thin smile. “Too late.”
Above them, the city lights twinkled. And somewhere far below—wheels were already turning.
The incense curled through the air—thick, suffocating, wrong.
Mamoru adjusted his collar for what felt like the hundredth time. The suit pinched at his shoulders, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His posture was perfect. His tie was straight. His hands rested neatly in his lap. Stay composed. That’s what everyone expected. What Aki would’ve wanted—
Would she have wanted this?
His gaze drifted to the small wooden altar.
His twin stood there, jacket unbuttoned, shirt untucked. His hair was a mess—brown locks sticking out at odd angles like he hadn’t bothered brushing it. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, eyes darting everywhere but the hearse.
He was humming. Humming.
Mamoru clenched his jaw. “Stop that.”
Hideki shot him a look. “What?”
“That song.”
Hideki shrugged. “It’s in my head.”
“It’s a funeral.”
Hideki’s lips twitched upward. Mocking. “Oh no. I’m disrespecting the dead.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Except—
Hideki didn’t move.
Mamoru’s stomach dropped. “Hideki.”
Silence.
His twin’s gaze was locked on the hearse. Unblinking.
And—his breathing changed.
Shallow. Fast. Too fast.
Panic twisted through Mamoru. “Hide—”
Mamoru froze. His heart pounded.
This wasn’t the first time.
Not the first meltdown.
But this—
This was worse.
Hideki’s breath hitched. Tears welled—but he refused to let them fall. “She—she called me a parasite. Said I was just—just wasting space—” His voice cracked again. “And she died anyway. So what’s that make me, huh? What’s that make me—”
The wake was a blur of incense and apologies.
Mamoru sat beside Hideki, shoulders brushing.
His twin had stopped crying.
Now—
He just stared.
Blank.
Then—
Hideki stood.
No warning. No cue.
He just—walked up to the altar.
Murmurs sparked.
Mamoru’s pulse spiked. “Hideki—”
His brother ignored him.
Stared at the urn.
Hands in his pockets.
Head tilted.
Silence stretched.
And then—
Hideki laughed.
Sharp. Too loud. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
Mamoru’s heart plummeted.
Hideki shrugged. “It’s funny, right? She used to call me a cockroach.” His grin twisted. “Guess I outlived her. Who’s the parasite now?”
Gasps. Whispers.
“Mamoru—” someone hissed. “Get him down—”
Hideki’s voice cracked. “She said I’d die first.”
His grin shattered.
Eyes wide—panicked—lost.
“I—I didn’t wanna win.”
Mamoru moved—fast—
Grabbed him—
Pulled him down—
But Hideki fought.
“Let go—!”
“Enough!” Mamoru snapped.
His brother’s weight collapsed against him—
Shaking.
Breathing too fast.
Mamoru held him tight.
Didn’t care about the stares.
Didn’t care about the shame.
This wasn’t for them.
This was theirs.
And nothing—no funeral, no priest, no perfect fucking condolences—
Could make it okay.
Not now.
Not ever.
Mamoru’s chest constricted.
Tighter.
Tighter.
The funeral hall walls seemed to close in, pressing him between past and present.
Hideki’s laughter still rang—too loud, too wrong—
And the whispers—
“Such a shame…”
“Look at them…”
“Those poor boys…”
Shut up.
“They should’ve done more.”
Shut up—
“They let her—”
SHUT UP—
Mamoru’s breath hitched—
The world tilted—
His eyes snapped open.
Darkness.
Silence.
Only the hum of the air conditioner.
Mamoru lay flat on his back, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him. His skin was clammy, damp with sweat. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it rattled his ribs. His breaths came sharp, quick—his body still tangled in the aftershock of the dream.
A dream.
No. A memory.
One that never stopped replaying.
He sat up, elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like copper and regret.
It had been years.
But it was still there.
The weight.
The guilt.
The fucking silence.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
The dim glow read:
Tuesday, 5:42 AM
He let out a slow breath.
Sleep wasn’t happening again. Not after that.
With a grunt, Mamoru swung his legs off the bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet. His body ached—too many nights spent hunched over contracts, medical records, tour schedules. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers snagging in the strands.
Why now?
Why that memory?
Maybe it was Nachi’s “accident.”
Or the way Hideki had laughed about it—just like he had at the funeral.
God.
That laugh.
He stood, rubbing his neck as he crossed to the window.
Outside, Tokyo’s skyline stretched out—neon fading into the soft grays of pre-dawn. Cars crawled along the expressway below. The city never really slept.
Unlike him.
Mamoru exhaled, his breath fogging the glass.
His reflection stared back—tired eyes behind Tom Ford frames, hair tousled, jaw tight.
“You look like shit,” he muttered to himself.
His wrist buzzed.
Heart monitor app flashing.
? Hideki Yano – HR: 72 BPM. Stable.
He stared at the numbers.
His pulse settled slightly.
At least one thing was holding steady. For now.
His phone buzzed again.
This time—
?? Mimmi: Meeting at 10. Don’t be late.
?? Mimmi: And keep Hideki out of trouble until then.
Mamoru snorted. Easier said than done.
He texted back a half-hearted “了解” before tossing the phone onto the bed.
Running a hand down his face, Mamoru turned toward the bathroom.
He needed tea.
And maybe—
Maybe something stronger. Like black coffee.
But first—
A cold shower.
Something to wash away the dream.
Or at least dull the edges.
Because the past?
It wasn’t done with him yet.
The Tokyo heatwave pressed relentlessly against the penthouse windows, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains in muted gold. Even with the top-of-the-line air conditioning system humming steadily, the warmth of early morning still seeped into the walls. Outside, the skyline shimmered under the summer haze—buildings wavering like mirages against the blue sky.
Mamoru stood in the hallway, coffee mug warming his palm. He paused outside Hideki’s door, taking a slow sip, the bitter taste of the coffee doing little to ease his exhaustion. His wristwatch beeped softly with a reminder: Meeting in 30 minutes. He exhaled, bracing himself, then turned the handle.
The door opened to a pristine sanctuary of order.
Hideki’s room—unlike the rest of the penthouse’s lived-in luxury—was immaculate. The white walls gleamed, surfaces scrubbed spotless. His desk held only neatly stacked medical documents and a single closed laptop. Shelves lined with labeled medication bottles were arranged alphabetically. The bedspread was wrinkle-free, the floor polished to a shine without a speck of dust. The faint scent of alcohol wipes and lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air.
Hideki lay on the perfectly made bed—on top of the covers, of course—arms stretched out, one leg bent. His red-tipped hair was tousled, but even that seemed intentional. He wore a loose black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, clean and wrinkle-free. A small humidifier puffed out cool mist beside him, and an air purifier hummed quietly near the window.
Mamoru took in the sight. His twin brother, perfectly centered on a bed that looked like it belonged in a hospital suite, room as sterile as an operating theater—and yet, Hideki’s expression was pure drama.
“You’re not dead,” Mamoru said dryly.
Hideki cracked an eye open. “Debatable.”
Mamoru took another sip of coffee. “Get. Up.” . Hideki’s gaze locked on it like a cat spotting prey. Without warning, he lunged.
“Hey—!” Mamoru jerked back, but not fast enough. Hideki’s fingers closed around the mug, bringing it to his lips for a generous gulp.
He paused mid-sip, grimacing. “Did you burn the beans?”
Mamoru snatched it back. “I like it strong.”
Hideki scowled. “Tastes like burnt disappointment.”
“Drink water, and take your pills, not my coffee.”
“Those things make me feel like a zombie.” Hideki sighed dramatically, letting his head thump back against the pillow. “Do you have any idea how boring it is to be me on full medication? My brain runs at two frames per second.”
“Better than flatlining,” Mamoru shot back.
Hideki stretched lazily, his joints cracking. “God, it’s like a sauna outside. Can’t we cancel the meeting and invest in an ice bath instead?”
Hideki flopped back onto the bed, groaning. “Why can’t the meeting be in a pool? Or the Arctic?”
Mamoru checked his watch. “ 27 minutes
“Five minutes,” Hideki countered. “Of me lying here and contemplating death.”
Mamoru didn’t argue. Just sighed turned toward the door, taking another sip of coffee.
Behind him, Hideki groaned. “Fine, but if I melt on the way there, I’m haunting you.”
“Already haunting me,” Mamoru muttered under his breath.
The conference room sat on the top floor separated from their condominium but still in the building , its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Tokyo’s sprawling skyline. Or at least, it would have—if the heatwave hadn’t turned the entire city into a shimmering haze. The buildings seemed to waver in the distance, their outlines blurred by the radiating heat.
Despite the central air, the room felt stifling. The leather chairs were warm to the touch. Bottled waters—sweating with condensation—sat on the polished black table. Mimmi was already there when they arrived, seated at the head of the table, scrolling through her tablet. Her hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, face devoid of makeup except for a touch of red lipstick—more out of habit than vanity. A glass of iced coffee sat untouched beside her.
Hideki slouched into a chair, draping himself over the table like a melting cat. “Kill me,” he muttered. “Or turn the AC up. Whichever’s faster.”
Mimmi didn’t look up. “Dying would be less paperwork, but unfortunately you’re scheduled for the next three months.”
Mamoru pulled out a chair and sat, noticeably more composed. “What’s the agenda?”
Mimmi’s fingers tapped against the tablet, flipping to the next screen. “We’re pulling you out of Japan.”
Hideki’s head lifted slightly. “What, you finally realized I’ll spontaneously combust if I stay in this hellhole?”
“The heat isn’t good for your vitals,” Mimmi shot back. “And we can’t afford you collapsing mid-performance again.”
Mamoru’s gaze sharpened. “Where?”
“A three-month tour in Australia,” Mimmi said. “Starting in Sydney, then Melbourne, Brisbane, Perth. You’ll spend august through October there—colder climate, enthusiastic fanbase, and less risk of you frying in Tokyo’s heat.”
Hideki blinked. “Wait… so you’re sending us to the Southern Hemisphere because I can’t handle summer?”
“Because your body can’t handle the heat,” Mimmi corrected. “And because Australian promoters offered a deal too good to pass up.”
Mamoru processed the information, tapping his fingers against the table. “What’s the schedule like?”
“Four shows per city, spaced out to avoid overexertion.” Mimmi swiped to another screen. “Plenty of rest days. You’ll have a base in Melbourne between legs.”
Hideki stretched his arms, the thought of cooler weather clearly appealing. “Do they have good coffee in Australia?”
Mamoru rolled his eyes. “Priorities.”
“I almost died for decaf,” Hideki shot back. “Let me dream.”
Mimmi’s gaze flicked toward Mamoru. “We start media prep this week. Flights are booked for next Friday. No excuses, no delays.”
Mamoru nodded but then hesitated. His voice dropped just slightly. “And Anna?”
Silence.
The air in the room seemed to thicken—heat forgotten, tension taking its place.
Mimmi’s jaw tightened. “Not your concern.”
Mamoru’s eyes narrowed. “If she’s still a threat—”
“I said,” Mimmi’s tone was ice, “focus on the tour. Let me handle her.”
Hideki watched the exchange, amused. “Y’all need couples therapy.”
“Shut up, Hide,” Mamoru snapped.
Mimmi stood, gathering her things. “Be ready. No screw-ups.”
Mamoru remained seated as she left, staring at the closed door long after she was gone.
Hideki, meanwhile, grinned. “So… Australia? Koalas and kangaroos? Might be fun.”
Mamoru sighed. “It’s a job. Not a vacation.”
Hideki smirked. “Speak for yourself.”
Back in the lounge, Mamoru poured himself another cup of coffee, staring out at the heat-hazed city. Below, Tokyo continued to shimmer, roads gleaming with trapped sunlight.
He glanced at his phone—a notification from the health app tracking Hideki’s vitals. Stable… for now.
But “for now” wasn’t good enough.
Not with Anna still out there. Not with everything spiraling just beneath the surface.
And not with a three-month tour looming.
Takao sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound filling the room. His laptop, open but dimmed, displayed half-written emails and contracts he hadn’t finished reviewing. His phone buzzed every few minutes—PR teams, legal advisors, management—all demanding follow-ups on the fallout from Nachi’s “motorcycle accident.” He had spent the past 48 hours deflecting press inquiries, rerouting police questions, and helping Mimmi iron out airtight cover stories.
He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the tension knotted there. I didn’t sign up for this shit. Being in a band was supposed to be about music, not crisis management. Not lying through his teeth to keep the public out of their mess. And certainly not cleaning up after something that should never have happened.
The faint glow of the morning sun filtered through half-closed blinds, casting soft lines across the minimalist room. Clean, functional, nothing fancy—just how he liked it. His duffel bag sat half-packed in the corner, ready for the upcoming tour in Australia that Mimmi had announced that morning. Australia, huh? It made sense. Japan’s heat was brutal this summer, and taking the band abroad kept them away from nosy reporters and prying fans.
He exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling. His mind, despite his best efforts, started to wander. Ryuichiro. His brother’s name echoed in his head like an old, unwelcome song. He hadn’t thought about him this much in years, but the chaos around the band—the cover-ups, the manipulations, the lies—dragged up memories he’d buried deep.
His fingers curled into the sheets as an image flashed through his mind: his brother standing in their father’s office, the weight of their family’s expectations on his shoulders. Perfect Ryuichiro. The golden son. Always doing what was expected. Always carrying the name with pride. And Takao… Takao was the disappointment. The one who ran away, turned his back on everything.
His stomach twisted. Where’s Tamako now? His little sister had sent him a text weeks ago, something about visiting Tokyo—but he hadn’t replied. Coward, he thought bitterly. Reaching out meant facing things he wasn’t ready for. Things he might never be ready for.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. God, I need a drink. But it was too early for that. Or is it? His phone buzzed again—Mimmi’s name flashing on the screen. Not now. He let it go to voicemail, lying back against the mattress.
The room felt too quiet. Too still. He glanced at the packed bag again, the reality of the upcoming tour settling heavy in his chest. Another round of running. Another month of pretending everything was fine. At least Australia’s got beaches, he thought wryly. Maybe I’ll drown in the ocean and save everyone the trouble.
Closing his eyes, he let the noise in his head swirl—a mix of regret, exhaustion, and the suffocating weight of choices he couldn’t take back.
