The morning crept into the mansion with a quiet chill. The corridors were unusually still; even the maids whispered softer than usual.
Scarlet sat on the edge of her bed, her left cheek and shoulder wrapped in clean white bandages. The burn throbbed beneath them, a dull reminder of the night before. She could still hear his voice echoing in her head — "Get out."
Nana moved carefully around her, setting down a bowl of warm water and cotton pads.
"You'll need to rest for at least two days," Nana said, her voice gentle.
"I can't," Scarlet murmured. "If I stop working, someone will replace me."
"You're not in a condition to argue."
Scarlet didn't answer. Her pride wouldn't let her admit how much it hurt — both the wound and the memory.
Later that day, she tried to act normal. She avoided the main halls, kept her head low, and worked quietly. But she felt the tension in every corner — as if the mansion itself was watching her.
When she reached the west hallway, she stopped suddenly. A familiar voice came from behind her.
"You're working?"
She turned sharply. Levi stood at the end of the corridor, hands in his pockets, gaze steady. He looked the same — calm, unreadable — as though last night hadn't happened.
Scarlet's pulse quickened. She dropped her eyes and resumed wiping the glass table.
"I'm fine, sir," she said quietly.
Levi walked closer, his footsteps measured.
"Nana told me about your burn," he said, his tone flat, businesslike. "You should've stayed in your room."
"It's nothing serious."
He stopped beside her. For a second, neither of them spoke. The faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air.
"You're left-handed," Levi said suddenly.
Scarlet hesitated. "Yes, sir."
"Then use your right hand until the burn heals. You'll only make it worse."
His tone was cold — instructive, not gentle — but something about the way he said it made her pause. She risked a glance up at him.
Levi's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked briefly to the bandage across her face. Then he turned away, as if he'd seen too much.
"Don't spill anything next time," he added. "The kitchen staff doesn't have time for mistakes."
Scarlet clenched her jaw. "Yes, sir."
He started to walk off, then stopped halfway down the hall.
Without looking back, he said quietly:
"Tell Nana to change your dressing twice a day. The doctor will be here in the evening."
Scarlet blinked. "Doctor?"
"You think I'd let a clumsy maid infect her wound and make more work for everyone?" His tone was sharp, but the edge hid something else. "Follow instructions."
She nodded, silent.
When he finally left, she exhaled slowly — her heart pounding, though she didn't know why. She wanted to hate him, but the way he spoke... it wasn't kindness, but it wasn't cruelty either. It was something in between — something strange and unreadable.
As the corridor emptied again, Scarlet touched her bandage and whispered under her breath,
"Why does he even care?"
But she didn't know Levi could still hear her.
He had paused just around the corner, eyes narrowing — not in anger, but in thought.
And for the first time, he didn't have an answer.
The afternoon had a different kind of heat — the city below limned in glass and concrete, but inside the Shikamaru lounge the air was colder by design. Low lights carved shadows into sculpted faces; smoke hung like a curtain between tables. They owned the hush of the place.
Daichi Shikamaru sat as a king at the center of the room: broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, a face mapped by years that had learned how to wait. His presence made the staff move with the kind of fear that passes for reverence.
To his left, Renji lounged like he belonged to magazines — narrow jaw, high cheekbones, eyes that never smiled but always measured. Beside him, Kaito was all lighter lines and feral energy; his grin showed teeth that might be used for more than smiling. Both sons were unmistakably handsome in a way that made power look beautiful and dangerous.
They toasted without ceremony. Glass met glass. Whiskey slid down warm throats.
"Fifty," Renji said, the number a blade between them. He let it sit in the air like a verdict. "Clean and fast."
Kaito's laugh was short, hungry. "They'll bleed. He will answer—and he'll be furious enough to make mistakes."
Daichi watched them with eyes that had killed the softness from hope. "We did not simply strike to show strength," he said, voice low and exact. "We opened pressure. We set the trap. A shark thrashes; you don't swim with it. You tighten the net."
Renji toyed with the rim of his glass. "Let him rage in public. Let him buy swords and mercenaries. Let him burn money on reprisal. When a man spends from panic, he leaves doors ajar."
Kaito's expression sharpened. "And the stories? The legends the Uzumaki clutch to like prayers—Kurogane Thread, the fortune—do we keep that whisper alive?"
Daichi's mouth flattened. "We keep it a story. Legends make men greedy and careless. If they chase ghosts, they will reveal what they fear to lose. We do not claim the map. We make them blind to everything but themselves."
They sat in the polished dark, plotting attrition in quiet words. Their talk was not of grand battles but of small cuts: a loan called in here, a shipment delayed there, allies made nervous and brittle. Steady erosion. Replace fury with fatigue.
Outside, rain began as thin fingers on the windows. Inside, Renji's smile went hard. "When Yuki Uzumaki lunges, he must find only mirrors."
Daichi raised his glass then, not in celebration so much as confirmation. "Then let him see himself." He drained the whiskey. "And when he breaks, we pick the pieces that matter."
They left the lounge together — father and two sons slipping into the city like a rumor. The lights swallowed them; the plan did not.