Seiji Fujiwara was already sitting at the dining table, casually reading the newspaper. When breakfast was served, he pulled out a spare bank card and slid it across the table.
"There's thirty million on it. The password's your birthday."
"Yes."
Utaha's gaze lingered briefly on the card. She calmly slipped it into her pocket.
…
…
After breakfast, Utaha went straight to the bank.
Expressionless, she took a number, waited in line, and handed the card along with her mother's account details to the teller.
"Transfer. Thirty million."
The transfer was quickly completed.
Walking out of the bank, she dialed her mother's number.
"Mom, the money's in your account."
"Utaha… I—"
"Don't, Mom." Utaha cut her off, her tone quiet but firm. "Life has to move forward. Pay back the relatives and focus on your recovery."
She hung up before her mother could say anything else.
Talking more would do no good. It would only stir up pointless emotions.
But she hadn't expected—
An hour later, her phone exploded with calls from relatives.
"Hello? Utaha, it's your aunt! Ah, your mother returned the money—what a silly girl, we're family, no need for such formality! Come have dinner at Auntie's this weekend!"
"Utaha, it's your uncle! Got the money. You really turned out well, didn't you? If you ever need anything, just tell your uncle!"
Listening to those fawning, syrupy voices, Utaha's lips slowly curved into a cold, bitter smile.
She shook her head. So this was reality.
Compared to the hypocrisy of her relatives, Seiji Fujiwara's blunt, transactional cruelty almost seemed… honest.
At least he never pretended.
Utaha dismissed the calls with empty pleasantries, then set up a whitelist to block unknown numbers. She was already planning to switch to a new phone number soon.
…
…
Back at the apartment, Seiji lounged comfortably in the study chair, checking his system log.
[Ding! Utaha Kasumigaoka · Second Stage Capture Complete!]
[Reward Issued: Full manuscript of the classic mystery novel After School. Simultaneously acquire the creative experience and techniques of its original author (Keigo Higashino)!]
[Accept reward?]
"Accept."
Closing his eyes, Seiji spoke the command.
In the next instant, a tidal wave of information poured into his mind.
The outline of After School, character profiles, drafts, revisions, the final text… Keigo Higashino's creative process, his inspirations, his narrative techniques… the logic behind his character work, his mastery of pacing, the way he blended social critique with classic mystery elements.
Everything sank seamlessly into Seiji's mind, becoming as natural as instinct.
He let his eyes drift shut, savoring the rush. At this moment, he felt like he could pick up a pen and spin out a first-rate mystery with ease.
"Keigo Higashino… After School, huh?"
Opening his eyes, Seiji's gaze gleamed with delight.
In his past life, this work was legendary.
It hadn't just won the prestigious Edogawa Ranpo Prize, one of Japan's top three mystery awards—it had even been adapted into a hit TV drama and film.
"I've already got the full set of Index. The light novel field's taken care of."
"I can release those volumes one after another, no problem."
"But now… it's time to move up. To step into the world of serious literature."
Seiji murmured to himself.
Light novels might be profitable, but they carried little prestige.
In Japan, they were looked down upon—barely even considered literature.
Despised, ridiculed.
Not that Seiji cared.
As far as he was concerned, any industry that made money was a good one. It wasn't like he was murdering anyone. Why should he care about snobs?
But prestige—prestige was something else.
Prestige was power.
Especially in a society like Japan's, a feudal-capitalist hybrid, prestige could move mountains.
It could bend the law. Turn heavy crimes into light ones, prison time into probation. Minor offenses wouldn't even make it to court. Even a death sentence could be "miraculously" commuted with enough pull.
The more he thought about it, the more excited Seiji became.
Not that he planned on breaking the law—it was just an example.
Writing serious novels was, without question, the fastest way to gain prestige.
"A light novelist switching to mystery fiction? Perfectly reasonable."
He nodded to himself, fully convinced.
Japanese literature was often split into two camps: popular literature—like mysteries—and pure literature.
The highest honor for the former was the Naoki Prize. For the latter, the Akutagawa Prize.
Mysteries had their own awards, but the best of them could still compete for the Naoki. It was just harder to win.
"The Naoki and Akutagawa can wait. For now, I'll focus on the mystery prizes."
Rising from his chair, Seiji strode to the study desk, powered up his computer, and began typing out the outline of After School.
Not a word-for-word copy, though.
Instead, he refined it based on what he remembered of readers' reactions and critical reviews from his past life.
That character's motivation—too thin in the later chapters.
That clue—given a little too bluntly.
The ending—impactful, sure, but the emotional groundwork could have been richer.
Line by line, scene by scene, he polished.
…
…
By evening, Utaha returned to the apartment.
The living room was empty. From the master bedroom's bathroom, the sound of running water echoed.
She paused, eyes drifting to the frosted glass door. Through the misted blur, the tall silhouette inside was obvious.
Seiji was bathing.
His words from the night before echoed in her mind—"What I want is your initiative."
Utaha bit her lip. Quietly, she fetched a bath cushion she had bought long ago but never used, her resistance having always stopped her before.
But she had already taken Seiji's thirty million. Solved her family's problem. Crossed boundaries she never thought she would.
One chip after another had piled onto the scale in her heart, weighing it down completely.
There was still resentment, yes. Anger too.
But she couldn't deny it anymore—she had accepted being his canary.
So she pushed the bathroom door open and stepped inside.
Steam swirled in the air. Seiji was soaking in the tub. He opened his eyes at the sound of the door, surprised to see her walk in.
"…So bold, all of a sudden?"
Utaha didn't answer.
She simply approached the tub, knelt quietly at his side, and squeezed body wash onto the cushion.
Her slender fingers kneaded it gently until thick, foamy bubbles rose. Then, leaning forward, she began washing his back.
Her touch was soft yet firm, rubbing slow circles across the broad planes of his shoulders, massaging every taut muscle beneath the lather.
Seiji tilted his head, watching her.
The once-proud girl, now calmly serving him on her knees.
"I thought you'd struggle with this for days. That it would take more… training." His voice carried a teasing lilt.
He had assumed it would take longer for her to truly act of her own accord.
But Utaha had adjusted faster than he expected.
At his words, her hands never stopped moving. She only lifted her eyes, meeting his calmly.
"Didn't you say I should learn to take initiative? To serve with intent?"
Her voice was quiet. In her wine-red eyes, not a ripple stirred.
"I promised. So from today, I'll do what I never did before."
Her hands slid gently across his shoulders.
"Including the bubble bath you always wanted."