KENJI
The screen glowed in the dark of my study, a live feed of her room. I'd been watching her. Alone, she was a skittish, wounded thing. But now... now there were two others in the frame. Nemu, chattering away like a sparrow, and Tokito, playing the charming fool. And she was... talking. Not much. A word here, a nod there. She even managed a clumsy grip on those chopsticks.
A foreign feeling, sharp and hot, coiled in my gut. It wasn't anger. It was... irritation. An interruption. That fragile, broken silence was mine to shatter, not theirs to fill with their meaningless noise.
I watched her take a bite of food, a flicker of something—relief? comfort?—crossing her features before it was quickly buried under caution.
That flicker was fascinating. It was a spark. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I wanted to be the one to control when it ignited and when it was extinguished.
I picked up my phone, my eyes still locked on the screen. Toru Kitagawa answered on the second ring.
"Kenji-san."
"Make sure the girl is treated," I said, my voice flat. "I want her injuries healed. All of them. The bruises, the malnourishment. Everything. I want her in perfect physical condition."
There was a slight pause on the other end. Toru was too professional to question me directly. "Understood. I will oversee her recovery personally."
"Good," I continued, watching as Nemu laughed at something Tokito said. Nicole almost smiled. Almost. "Contact the Kaguya family. Have them send a tutor. Daily lessons. History, language, mathematics. During her convalescence."
This time, the pause was longer. "An education?"
"A restoration," I corrected her, my lips curling into a cold smile she couldn't see. "When she is healed and minimally educated, she will be enrolled in Keio Senior High School. With Nemu."
I hung up before she could respond. I didn't need her understanding; I needed her compliance.
My gaze returned to the screen.
They were clearing the tray now, the friendly little interlude coming to an end. My mind, however, was already months ahead. I imagined her not in this sterile room, but walking the halls of Keio, one of Japan's most prestigious schools.
I pictured the uniform, the books in her arms. She would be clean, educated, perhaps even beginning to believe in a semblance of a normal life. She would have friends, like Nemu. She would have a routine. She would start to feel safe. She would start to hope.
The anticipation was a physical thrill.
Let her heal. Let her learn. Let her build a new world for herself, brick by fragile brick.
It will make it so much more satisfying when I finally decide to knock it all down. Dominating a broken thing is simple.
But staining something that has just learned to shine? Ruining a soul that has just started to believe it could be whole?
That is true power. And I will be the only god in her new-found world.
– – –
AUTHOR
It's been two long years of rehabilitation and homeschooling.
The change in Nicole was not a dramatic transformation, but a slow, delicate thawing. The hollow-eyed girl from the warehouse was gone, replaced by a young woman who carried herself with a tentative stillness.
She spoke now, her voice soft but clear, and on rare occasions, in the safety of the Kitagawa clinic or the private gardens of the estate, a genuine, fleeting smile would touch her lips.
It was a sight that made Toru's heart feel lighter and Nemu beam with pride.
On this particular afternoon, she sat with Tokito in a sun-dappled corner of the garden. Nemu was nearby, sketching absentmindedly, providing a quiet, comfortable presence.
The air was warm, filled with the scent of blooming azaleas. It was in this peace, perhaps fueled by a fragile sense of security built over twenty-four months, that the words finally came out.
"His name was Shuya."
Nicole's voice was so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze. She wasn't looking at Tokito; her gaze was fixed on the koi pond, watching the orange and white fish dart beneath the water lilies.
Tokito, who had been lazily tossing pebbles into the pond, froze. The casual, easy-going mask he always wore slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the sharp, dangerous man beneath.
His body went very still. He knew that name. Everyone in their world knew that name. Shuya Midoria. The heir to the Rakurai. The smiling prince of a rival clan. But hearing it from her lips, in this context, sent a cold jolt through him.
He recovered quickly, not wanting to shatter the moment. He kept his voice low and even. "Shuya?" he repeated, as if confirming he'd heard correctly.
Nicole nodded, a slight, jerky movement. Her fingers plucked at the grass beside her. "He was young. Maybe seventeen. He had a… a nice smile." She said the words with a hollow irony that was more painful than any sob. "The men… they held me down. They gave him the iron. It was hot. He… he didn't even look at me. He just did it. Like he was writing on a piece of paper." Her voice trembled, but she didn't cry. The tears for that memory had been burned away long ago.
Tokito's mind was racing, connecting the dots. The brand, the number 86—it was a Rakurai trademark for their high-value "merchandise." Shuya's personal touch.
The sadistic little bastard. Rage, cold and precise, simmered in his gut, but he showed none of it to Nicole. He saw the way she was shutting down, retreating back into herself after the confession.
"Hey," he said softly, shifting to face her more fully. "Look at me."
It took a moment, but her eyes, wide and haunted, slowly met his.
"Thank you for telling me," he said, his tone utterly serious, devoid of its usual playful edge. "That was brave. You don't ever have to think about him again, you understand? That's over."
He saw the doubt in her eyes, the fear that it could never truly be over. He offered her a reassuring smile, one that felt strained on his own face. "I mean it. You're safe here."
He stood up, his movements deliberately calm. "I have to go take care of something. Nemu will stay with you." He caught Nemu's eye across the garden, giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Nemu, sensing the shift in atmosphere, put her sketchpad down and came over, sitting beside Nicole and placing a comforting hand on her arm.
"Everything okay?" Nemu asked, her voice bright with forced cheer.
Tokito didn't answer directly. He gave Nicole one last, long look. "Remember what I said." Then he turned and walked away, his easy-going saunter replaced by a purposeful stride.
The friendly facade was gone, replaced by the cold reality of his world. Nicole had just given him a vital piece of intelligence, and he needed to report it. The war with the Rakurai had just become deeply, terrifyingly personal.
– – –
KENJI
The only sound in the room was a wet, ragged gasp, followed by the soft drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the concrete floor.
The man chained to the steel chair was a ruin. His left kneecap was a mess of shattered bone and pulp, and his right hand was missing two fingers.
The stumps were crude, messy. I'd used nippers for the last one. Slow. Precise. The scream had been particularly satisfying.
I held the cold, blood-slicked tool, considering where to go next. The tip of his pinky finger, perhaps. A small, delicate amuse-bouche before the main course.
The heavy door creaked open. I didn't need to look. The shift in the air, the interruption of my focus—it was Tokito. And he wasn't smiling. I could feel the absence of his usual casual energy like a sudden drop in pressure.
The fun was over.
Without a word, I tossed the nippers to one of my lieutenants standing in the shadowy corner. "Take over," I said, my voice flat. "Don't let him pass out."
I walked toward Tokito, my boots sticking slightly to the tacky, blood-soaked floor. I held up my hands, palms out. They were drenched, crimson–blood dripping from my fingers. "Well?" I asked, my tone dry and sarcastic. "What's the earth-shattering news that couldn't wait?"
Tokito's face was grim, his brown eyes hard. He met my gaze without flinching. "It's about Nicole."
I raised an eyebrow, waiting. My mind flickered to the screen in my study, to the image of her eating, talking. A minor distraction.
Tokito took a breath. "She talked. About the brand."
The air in the room went cold. The dripping blood, the prisoner's whimpers—it all faded into a dull hum. My entire focus narrowed to Tokito's mouth.
"And?" The word was a low growl.
"The man who held the iron," Tokito said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if saying the name too loud would make it real. "It was Shuya."
The world didn't just flip upside down.
It shattered.
The name hung in the bloody air, and for the first time in years, I felt something other than cold calculation. It was a black, consuming rage, so absolute it was silent. Shuya. The Rakurai heir. He hadn't just trafficked her. He had touched. He had branded her.