Kitty Crypto Reader

Chapter 2: Trust

"WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?!"

Kurosawa's voice tore through the office like a blade, sharp and staunch, sending shockwaves down the corridor. Megumi stood frozen, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her fingers trembled—just enough for Kurosawa to notice. His gaze snapped to her hands, then back to her face, eyes narrowing with suspicion. He rounded the desk with deliberate steps, each one echoing in the silence that had fallen around them.

"You were there," he hissed, voice low and venomous. "You saw her. Don’t fucking lie to me!"

"I—I didn’t see her!" Megumi stammered, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes flickered to the side, searching for something—anything—to anchor her, before snapping back to meet his glare. "I swear, Kurosawa-san, I knocked… I waited. She didn’t answer."

Kurosawa stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his shadow swallowing hers. His breath was hot, acrid with the scent of whiskey, his eyes burning holes through her composure. "And it didn’t cross your stupid little mind to call the fire department?! An ambulance?! The fucking police?! ME FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?!"

His voice thundered off the walls, reverberating through the silence, shaking her resolve. He had never shouted like this—not in the office, not in front of her. Megumi felt her knees threaten to buckle, the floor tilting beneath her. She forced herself to stand straight, spine rigid, hands still clasped in front of her, trembling just enough for him to see.

"I… no… it… I did not think…" Megumi stammered, her voice faltering under the weight of his gaze. Her hands twisted together, she did not know what to say, she could not come up with an excuse, and alibi fast enough, eyes widening with desperation. “I swear, I’m not—”

The door creaked open behind them, cutting her off. Kurosawa’s eyes snapped up, fury flashing across his features, but the expression halted—paused mid-ignition. Saitō stepped in, his movements deliberate, unhurried, the echo of his shoes clicking softly against the polished floor.

"Am I interrupting?" His voice was cool, smooth as glass, almost casual. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to reverberate in the silence. His eyes moved between Kurosawa and Megumi, lingering just long enough to register the tension crackling in the air.

Kurosawa straightened, his gaze snapping to Saitō. “Where the hell have you been?! Why weren’t you here yesterday?!”

Saitō tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I always have Wednesdays off, Kurosawa-san. I was running errands. I didn’t realise there was a problem.” He glanced at Megumi, then back at Kurosawa. “What’s going on?”

Kurosawa's nostrils flared, his fingers drumming impatiently on the desk. “This one here”— he jabbed a finger toward Megumi— “says she didn’t see Miku yesterday. Funny thing is, I know they were supposed to be at that fucking Hello! Interview, but she didn’t show up!”

Saitō’s eyes flicked back to Megumi, and for just a second, something flashed behind his gaze—recognition, perhaps. His expression remained calm, almost surgical. “That’s not true,” he said, voice steady. “I saw you there, Nakayama-san. You and I were both at her flat, remember? I even made Miku-san some breakfast.”

Megumi’s face drained of colour. Her mouth opened, then closed again, lips trembling as if the right words were locked behind her teeth. “I—I mean, yes, but she wasn’t well,” she corrected, voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze flicked nervously between Kurosawa and Saitō, seeking refuge in neither. “I—I didn’t want to bother Kurosawa-san, she wasn’t feeling well, and…”

“And you lied to me,” Kurosawa snarled, his voice laced with venom. He took a deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowing to vicious slits burned through her soul. “You were covering for her. What the fuck did you do!?”

Megumi recoiled, her back pressing against the wall. “I didn’t do anything!” The words came out in a broken wail, her voice cracking under the weight of it. Her hands shook harder, fingers curling into fists at her sides, her whole body vibrating with fear. Tears slipped down her cheeks, unbidden and unrestrained, carving lines through her makeup. “I just… I didn’t want you to be angry, Kurosawa-san!”

Kurosawa scoffed, turning his attention back to Saitō. “And you?”

Saitō’s expression remained placid, unbothered. “Like I said, I was just getting Miku-san’s breakfast. She asked for eggs and rice, so I made it, left it on the counter, and stepped out to take a call. When I came back, Nakayama-san was already there. We told her Miku-san was not feeling well, and I even suggested she take the day off since Miku-san planned to as well.”

Kurosawa’s gaze shot back to Megumi’s, his eyes searing through her composure. The lie had been exposed.

Her lips trembled, eyes shimmering with barely contained fear. “I—I’m sorry… I just thought…”

“Thought what?” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “That I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t come down on you like a hammer for trying to pull this shit?!”

Megumi’s shoulders shrank inward, her head bowed. She was crushed under the weight of his rage, head bowed beneath the crushing weight of his fury. Saitō watched in stillness, his expression unreadable. Though guilt twisted in his gut, he remained composed, hands folded neatly before him. Sacrifices had to be made, and her emotional fragility was collateral for a greater purpose.

“Get the fuck out,” Kurosawa growled, voice low and dangerous. Megumi flinched, then scurried out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence settled thickly between them. Kurosawa brought his hands to his temples, rubbing slow, deliberate circles as if trying to exorcise a growing migraine. “What the hell is happening?”

Saitō didn’t respond right away. He waited, patient, watching Kurosawa with the calm of a man who knew exactly what was coming next. He needed to show he was the methodical and calculating partner.

Kurosawa’s hands fell to his sides, eyes bloodshot and seething with rage. “I don’t give a damn what you have lined up today—accounts can wait. Find her. NOW!”

Saitō inclined his head in a subtle nod. “Of course, Kurosawa-san.” He turned to leave, hand resting on the door handle, but Kurosawa's voice cut through the silence.

“Wait.”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

Kurosawa's eyes were sharp, almost manic, but beneath the fury, there was something else—a flicker of doubt. “You’re sure you left her there? She was fine when you left?”

Saitō’s smile was soft, almost disarming. “Of course. I made sure she was fine. Even brewed her some of that detox tea she likes—you know, after all those calories from the eggs. We have to keep our girl perfect.” He bowed slightly, the gesture smooth and deliberate. “I’ll bring her back, sir.”

Kurosawa didn’t respond, merely waved him off as he strode toward the whisky trolley. Saitō stepped out, closing the door with a soft, deliberate click.

Silence reclaimed the room, thick and suffocating. Kurosawa’s hands trembled—just enough to make his jaw clench. He yanked open the drawer, pulling out a crystal glass, then reached for a decanter of Hibiki 21. The amber liquid splashed into the glass, unceremonious and unmeasured. He took a long, burning sip, feeling the heat claw its way down his throat, then poured another.

His gaze drifted to the corner of his desk, where a stack of papers lay untouched. The top sheet was immaculate, printed on heavy stock—its weight almost foreign to his hand as he picked it up.

Sabbatical Request Form - Approved

His eyes scanned the text, disbelief etching itself into his features. Her name was printed neatly at the top, followed by the dates of her intended leave, signed in delicate, familiar strokes.

Kurosawa’s grip tightened around the glass, its surface groaning under the pressure of his fist. He read the form again, the letters blurring and swimming as his mind struggled to make sense of it. This wasn’t right. He hadn’t approved this. He would never have approved this.

The paper crumpled in his grasp, crushed into a jagged ball. His vision wavered; the room seemed to tilt, spiralling around him. He set the whisky down with a trembling hand, breaths coming sharp and shallow.

“What the fuck are you…?” he whispered into the empty room, the silence suffocating, pressing in on all sides.

Kurosawa's mind raced, the whisky glass trembling slightly in his grip. Eggs. The word repeated in his mind, echoing with a dull thud. Who the fuck craves eggs? It wasn't just breakfast. It wasn't just some simple meal Saitō whipped up for her. It was a craving. A fucking pregnancy craving.

His jaw tightened, the tendons standing out sharply beneath his skin. “That little bitch…” he whispered, the words slipping out like venom. His gaze dropped to the crumpled sabbatical request still clenched in his fist. Slowly, he smoothed it out against the desk, fingers trembling with barely contained rage.

A sabbatical. When? How? He had seen her every day—controlled her schedule, her diet, her every goddamn move. When the hell did she manage this? The signature stared back at him, elegant and deliberate. Hers. It was real.

“She didn’t take the goddamn pill…” he spat, the realisation crashing over him like a tidal wave. “She didn’t fucking take it!” His fist slammed onto the desk, the wood shuddering from the impact. The whisky glass tipped over, amber liquid spilling across the polished surface, bleeding into the edges of the paper. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. If she didn’t take the pill... if she’d lied…

His eyes flared with sudden understanding. The eggs. The breakfast. She’s pregnant. Hatsune Miku, his brightest star, his most prized possession. And she’s run off with HIS child.

“No…” The word slipped out, barely a whisper, before he shot to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. “No fucking way.”

He paced the room, fingers raking through his hair, adrenaline coursing through his veins like wildfire. It wasn’t just that she was pregnant—he could have fixed that, handled it, just as he always did. No, this was something else. This was planned. A sabbatical. The timing was too precise to be coincidence.

“She’s going to blackmail me,” he whispered, the words brittle and sharp, cracking the silence. His hands gripped the back of the chair, knuckles blanching under the pressure. “She’s going to have the damn kid, and she’ll ruin me! I’m the father… and she can prove it!”

His mind spiralled, linking fabricated dots with brutal precision. The timing. The cravings. The sabbatical. She’d orchestrated this—she had to have. Slipped the pill down the drain, faked every goddamn step, and now she was gone—vanished to have his child and drag his name through the mud.

"That little bitch," he repeated snarling, voice cracking under the strain. His hand came down hard on the desk, the sharp sting radiating up his arm, grounding him in the chaos. His breathing grew ragged, shallow.

“Where the fuck is she, Saitō?!” he roared into the emptiness of his office, the walls swallowing his fury.

His eyes narrowed, the pieces falling together. Saitō had been there. Saitō had been in her flat— making her breakfast, feeding her, talking with her.

“Saitō…” he whispered, the name curling off his tongue like a sour drink. He turned back to his desk, fingers dancing across the surface until he found his phone. The screen lit up with a glow that felt almost sickly. He dialled with shaking hands, the ringing pulsing in his ear.

“Shimada?” he barked the moment the line connected. The voice on the other end—his secretary—sputtered a greeting, but Kurosawa didn’t bother waiting.

“I need you to summon Takeguchi. Find him right now. I don’t give a shit what he’s doing—I want him in my office in five minutes. And get eyes on every fucking door, every goddamn security camera. Send someone to Hatsune Miku’s apartment building and bring me the goddamn footage by the end of the day!”

He slammed the phone back into its cradle, the force rattling the desk. His hands shook as he gripped the edge, knuckles whitening as if he could hold the room still by sheer force of will. It felt too small—stifling. The walls seemed to close in, pressing against his ribs, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

His mind was a storm, thoughts colliding with vicious speed, each one screaming for dominance.

The morning unravelled like a fraying thread, each moment tugging at the seams of her composure. Kurosawa's outburst still echoed in her mind—sharp, slicing, cutting through the professional façade she clung to. Now, Nakayama Megumi sat at her desk, hands trembling, Miku's fan letters scattered before her like the remnants of a collapsed tower. Her mobile phone lay silent—no messages, no calls—just the slow, relentless tightening of anxiety coiling in her chest.

A knock at the door shattered the fog of her thoughts. She straightened instinctively, smoothing her blouse with unsteady fingers. "Come in," she called, her voice taut and brittle.

Saitō stepped inside, his movements measured and composed. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound soft and deliberate. His gaze met hers—steady, almost unsettling in its familiarity. He inclined his head, polite but distant. "Nakayama-san," he greeted, his voice smooth and precise.

Her eyes flickered around the room, scanning for cameras, microphones—anything that might be watching, listening. "Saitō-san," she replied, her tone guarded, the syllables clipped.

He advanced a step, hands resting neatly in his pockets. "I appreciate Kurosawa-san was… upset," he began, his gaze never wavering. "Understandably so. I thought I’d check on you."

Her laugh was sharp and mirthless. "Check on me? Why would you care?". Saitō arched an eyebrow. "Because you seem rattled, and that’s not like you," he replied plainly. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You’re smarter than that."

Megumi’s gaze flickered with uncertainty. "What do you mean?"

He sighed, a slow exhale that seemed to drain the weight from his shoulders. "I’m not here to point fingers," he said softly. "I’m here to help you survive this."

Her eyes widened, panic flaring behind them. "Survive what!? I didn’t bloody do anything…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I just… I left her with you. She wasn’t feeling well. I thought she’d be fine…" The last word fractured, brittle and fragile.

"And she will be," Saitō assured her, his tone steady and measured. He leaned forward, resting his hands on her desk with deliberate calm. "But Kurosawa-san won’t see it that way. He’s not… understanding. You know that." His gaze sharpened, eyes piercing hers with quiet intensity. "If he believes she’s taken some time off… a sabbatical— it’s easier for everyone, don’t you think?"

Megumi blinked, confusion etched in her features. "Sabbatical? She didn’t say anything about…"

Saitō nodded, his expression calm and resolute. "There’s a letter. Already filed and processed by HR this very morning," he explained smoothly. "Kurosawa saw the confirmation himself. It was handled by the morning staff. All… legitimate. All in order."

Her hands flew to her mouth. "But… I didn’t… she didn’t…"

"No," Saitō agreed, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "But perhaps she felt she couldn’t. Perhaps she felt… stifled." He leaned back, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Think about it. The workload, the appearances, the expectations. She was always perfect, wasn’t she?"

His eyes locked onto hers, unflinching, searching. "When was the last time you saw her truly happy?"

Megumi opened her mouth to answer, but the words died on her tongue. She couldn’t remember.

Saitō continued, his voice gentle yet grounded. "If she took a sabbatical, I think it’s in your best interest to say you knew about it. That you recognised she was overworked." His gaze was steady, calculated. "And I imagine the Performers’ Union would tear us apart if they found out how she’s been… managed."

He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, almost reassuring. "The best thing for everyone—for you, for Kurosawa—is to let her take a breath. He won’t come after you if you admit you were aware. I’m sure she’ll come back, don’t you think? She loves her fans."

Saitō’s eyes flicked to the scattered fan letters on her desk. "She loves singing. She’ll be back. You know that. Just… let her take a breath."

Megumi blinked, her eyes glassy but resolute. "You think she’ll come back?"

Saitō’s smile was thin, almost paternal. "Of course," he replied smoothly. "This is her life—her fans, her music. She’s not running away; she’s just… stepping back from the stage for a moment. Even the brightest lights need a pause between acts."

Megumi’s brow furrowed, her fingers nervously twisting together. "But why would I admit to something that isn’t true? How does that help me?"

Saitō took a measured step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, soft and conspiratorial. "Because, Nakayama-san, if you don’t, Kurosawa will need someone to blame. You know how he is—when things go wrong, someone always takes the fall." His gaze fixed on hers, unblinking. "And right now, his eyes are on you."

Her breath hitched, the words sinking in.

"But if you knew," he continued, voice silky and persuasive, "if you simply say that you saw the pressure, that you recognised she needed a reprieve… you become part of the solution, not the problem." He leaned back slightly, letting the idea settle. "Kurosawa’s anger isn’t really at you; it’s at the unknown. If you make it known, if you control the narrative, you’re not negligent—you’re considerate."

He paused, allowing the silence to thicken. "And when she returns, you’ll be the one who understood. The one who protected her. Isn’t that better than being the one who missed all the signs?"

Megumi swallowed hard, her hands still shaking, but her expression softened—less guarded. Saitō’s smile didn’t waver. "Just think about it," he said quietly. "It’s not a lie… it’s good sense."

Megumi repeated his words under her breath, as if the realisation had just settled in. "It is good sense…"

Saitō nodded, his expression softening with something almost like approval. "Exactly," he replied smoothly. "But for that to work, we need to let her step back. If Kurosawa-san starts barking up the wrong tree… making noise, it could become… problematic." His voice dipped, barely above a whisper. "For all of us."

Megumi straightened, the tremor in her hands gone, replaced by a newfound resolve. "I understand," she said quietly, her tone steadier than before. "I’ll say I approved it… I’ll… I’ll let her step back."

Saitō's smile was thin, but there was a flicker of genuine satisfaction beneath it. "I knew you would understand," he said smoothly. He straightened, brushing the wrinkles from his sleeves with deliberate care. "If Kurosawa-san asks, you were simply giving her space. She wasn’t feeling well, and you respected her privacy. You did nothing wrong, Nakayama-san. You were just… considerate. Nothing more."

His gaze lingered on her, steady and unyielding, as if willing the narrative into existence with every word.

Megumi nodded, relief softening the tension in her features. "Thank you, Takeguchi-san," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Saitō took a step back, his expression settling into its familiar mask of composure. "Of course. We look after our own," he replied, his tone smooth and assured. He turned and exited her office, footsteps measured and deliberate, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality.

For the first time that day, Megumi exhaled—a long, unsteady breath that seemed to drain the weight from her shoulders.

As Saitō stepped out of Megumi's office, he was met by Kurosawa's enforcers—a gang of four hulking brutes whose sole purpose was to ensure his word remained unchallenged. They moved as one, closing in around him like a tightening noose.

"The Boss wants to talk to you," one of them growled, voice dripping with intimidation.

Saitō didn’t flinch. His smile remained steady, almost disarming. "Of course," he replied smoothly. "I’ll go see him right away." His calmness was unshaken, his gaze steady, as if the walls of muscle meant nothing at all.

They marched him down the corridor, flanking him on all sides, their footsteps heavy and stubborn. Upon reaching the office, they all but shoved him into the chair opposite Shimada-san's desk, the leather creaking under his weight. One of the enforcers entered into Hideyoshi’s office.

Saitō maintained his composure, smoothing the front of his jacket with the casual grace of someone entirely unbothered by the rough handling. His expression remained pristine, untouched by the forceful escort.

He sat calmly, hands clasped neatly in his lap, posture impeccable. Harsh afternoon light slashed through the blinds, carving jagged stripes across the carpet like bars of a gilded cage.

A sharp buzz broke the silence, the signal unmistakable—Kurosawa was ready.

Kurosawa's face was flushed, eyes blazing with raw frustration. "That lying bitch!" he snarled, pacing behind his desk like a caged animal, each step heavy with barely contained rage. "You’re telling me she KNEW ALL ALONG AND DIDN’T TELL ME?!"

Saitō had just finished explaining the carefully constructed white lie, watching the furious storm unfold before him with measured calmness. His hands remained folded neatly in his lap, expression unreadable, while Kurosawa’s fury crashed against the walls like waves against rock.

"She knows nothing more. I made sure of it," Saitō replied smoothly. "All she understands is that Miku-san needed rest, and she was too weak to refuse her."

Kurosawa halted mid-pace, his gaze snapping to Saitō's with unbridled suspicion. "And you believe her? That snake lied to me twice already!"

Saitō inclined his head, his expression serene. "She’s afraid," he conceded, his voice calm and measured. "But she’s not stupid. I can assure you she won’t lie again. If you’d like, you can speak to her yourself. I imagine she’s still too shaken to hide anything. She was nearly in tears when I spoke to her."

“And why in all hells were you at her flat giving her breakfast?! Why did she call you, of all people?! Doesn’t she have friends?!” Kurosawa spat, his pacing more erratic, fists clenched at his sides. “The other useless ‘idols’…”—he made quotation marks with his fingers, dripping with contempt—"…in this fucking agency. Why didn’t she call me?! I spent two goddamn years making that fucking bitch trust me. She even let me f—"

He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut, nostrils flaring with the effort to rein himself in. His eyes burned with rage, flickering dangerously before landing back on Saitō. “Why you?!”

Saitō remained unflinching, his expression calm and resolute. "Because," he replied evenly, his voice smooth, "she trusts me, Kurosawa-san. Ask anyone—she sees me like a father. I’ve been kind to her. And I was off that day. She was afraid of upsetting you, of how you might react." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I mean, look at yourself—you can barely keep it together, sir. Can you blame her?"

His tone was calm, almost clinical, each word calculated to land just right. "It’s as simple as that."

"And you know nothing…" Kurosawa pressed, his eyes narrowing to vicious slits. "She didn’t tell you a word?"

"Not a word, Kurosawa-san," Saitō replied smoothly. "I made her breakfast, brewed her tea… she said it was menstrual cramps. I made sure she was alright and left. As I mentioned, I had errands to run. We are busy men."

His tone dipped slightly on the last phrase, the weight on ‘we’ deliberate, coaxing Kurosawa to recognise him as an equal—someone with power, someone with understanding.

Kurosawa's eyes narrowed further, suspicion simmering just beneath the surface. Yet, despite the lingering doubt, the explanation seemed to satiate his fury— at least for the moment. His breathing steadied, though his fists remained clenched, knuckles white with restrained rage. "Then who the fuck helped her escape?!"

Saitō paused, his gaze drifting for a moment as if combing through possibilities. When he looked back at Kurosawa, his eyes were steady and deliberate. "I believe we should shift our focus," he said calmly. "We need to find Miku-san, not a scapegoat. Chasing after Nakayama-san or anyone else in this agency is a dead end. No one knows anything. I believe Miku-san acted alone."

Kurosawa's fist crashed down onto the desk, the impact rattling the surface and sending a tremor through the room. "Then where is she, Saitō?! Tell me! Where do we even begin?" – The echoes of trust were already threading through the monster's mind, fragile yet growing, curling like smoke in the stagnant air. Saitō watched the shift, subtle but unmistakable— the slightest softening in Kurosawa's gaze, the faintest edge of desperation lurking behind the fury.

Saitō tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Where was she from? Sapporo, wasn’t it? People go back to what they know… when they need comfort. Familiarity." His words hung in the air, deliberate and weighted. He paused, letting the suggestion settle, watching as Kurosawa’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing with sudden clarity, the idea taking root just as intended.

It was a false lead, a trail carefully laid out for him to follow—away from his prey. Saitō needed him to latch onto it, to be consumed by it. His gaze remained steady, calm, as if nothing more than a simple observation had slipped from his lips. But beneath the surface, he was setting the stage, pulling the strings.

"If I may suggest," Saitō continued, his tone smooth and measured, "instead of scattering our resources to find a culprit, we focus on Miku-san directly. If she returned home, we could find her. It would be cleaner… quieter. Less… exposure."

Kurosawa stared at him, the gears visibly turning behind his eyes, grinding with purpose. Saitō stepped forward, just enough to draw his focus entirely. "I’ll reach out to our contacts in Hokkaido," he said smoothly. "A simple check— nothing dramatic. If she’s there, we’ll know. If not, I’ll expand the search. Quietly."

Kurosawa’s jaw tightened, muscles flexing beneath his skin, then gradually eased, the tension in his shoulders loosening—if only slightly. "Fine," he spat, though the venom had dulled. "Find her."

He had taken the bait.

"And Takeguchi…" he added, voice low and deliberate.

"Yes, Kurosawa-san?"

Kurosawa’s eyes sharpened, glinting with something cold and predatory. "If she thinks she can run from me… she’s sorely mistaken."

Saitō bowed deeply, the image of deference perfected. "Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally." His tone was steady, unwavering, designed to reinforce the illusion—an accomplice, an equal. Someone Kurosawa could rely on. Someone dependable. This was the moment. That simple response was calculated to root the idea firmly in Kurosawa's mind. Trust. Loyalty. Control. The seed had been planted, and now it only needed time to take root.

"I’ll have the first reports on your desk by tomorrow morning," Saitō added, bowing slightly—not too deep, just enough to convey respect without submission. His posture remained firm, controlled, a gesture of professionalism rather than deference.

Kurosawa gave a curt nod and turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He stared out over the sprawling cityscape, the weight of power and fury draping his shoulders like a mantle, his reflection barely visible against the glass, overshadowed by the empire he ruled.

Saitō stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut with a soft finality. He adjusted his collar, straightened his sleeves, and strode down the corridor with the same measured grace he always carried. His mind was already moving—calculating, weaving whispers into false trails, buying Miku time with every delicate lie.

Kurosawa's secretary and the brutes stationed nearby stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. It was as if a ghost had walked past them—an old, unassuming man emerging from the beast's lair completely unharmed.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated—a single message. He didn’t check it. Not yet. First, he had a call to make. Hokkaido.

It wouldn’t lead anywhere, of course. But it would lead just far enough away, for just long enough.

Kurosawa leaned back in his chair, swirling the whisky in his glass with slow, deliberate movements. The amber liquid caught the fractured light, casting shards of gold across the polished surface of his desk. His fingers moved deftly over his mobile, dialling a number from memory—a number not saved in his contacts.

The line clicked, connecting instantly. He didn’t bother with greetings. "There’s going to be a re-shifting," he said, his voice razor-sharp and devoid of warmth. "Megumi is finished. I want her gone by morning. Termination letter on her desk before she even steps foot inside."

He paused, swirling the whisky again, watching the ripples spread out from the centre—controlled, deliberate. "Takeguchi is going to be my eyes and ears now," he continued, his tone smooth and surgical. "Miku’s gone, she escaped. She got herself knocked up and wants to hide it from us. The press will be circling like vultures. I want control. Absolute control. We need to keep her disappearance under wraps for as long as we can—at least until we find her, or she misses so many events that we can’t cover it up anymore. And even then, no one can know she’s with child. I want Takeguchi to clamp down on the girls, the press, everything.

He took a long, unhurried sip of whisky, savouring the burn. "Send Saitō Megumi’s itinerary, her notes… everything. I want him fully integrated by morning. He’s taking her place. If he fails, he’s next."

Kurosawa leaned back, his eyes narrowing to sharp slits. "And Nakayama…" he added, voice dropping to a glacial whisper. "She knows too much. I want her silenced."

A pause. Muffled words on the other end— hesitation.

Kurosawa's jaw clenched, the tendons straining beneath his skin, his grip on the glass so tight it seemed ready to shatter. "No, you idiot!" he snarled, his voice slicing through the line with venomous precision. "I’m not wasting money on forensics right now. We have an idol missing. I’m not paying to sweep up that kind of mess. Use your goddamn brain cells for once, will you?!"

He paused, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, his posture straightening as he calmed himself. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and measured, dripping with calculated malice. "Hand her a stack of cash and a one-way ticket to nowhere. Samoa, Tuvalu, Vanuatu—I don’t give a damn where. Make sure she understands she’s not coming back and that she’s trading silence for her life."

Another pause, more murmuring. His eyes flared with contempt. "If she’s stupid enough to refuse, then we do it the hard way. And when I say hard, I mean she’s never found. Am I clear?"

He listened for a moment, his expression unmoving. "Good. And make it clean. I want this mess erased by morning."

Kurosawa took another sip of whisky, leaning back with the smug satisfaction of a king observing his pawns on a chessboard. "And one more thing," he added, voice dripping with ice. "If I find out anyone so much as whispers about this… you’re next."

He ended the call with a tap of his finger, setting the glass down with a deliberate click. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface, eyes sharp and unyielding. For Kurosawa, pawns existed to be moved—or removed.

Saitō finished his shift with the same deliberate grace he always carried, his footsteps measured and silent against the polished floors. The building had long since emptied of its usual noise—the chatter of interns, the clipped heels of executives, the hushed whispers of idols passing through. Now, only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of the janitorial staff remained.

He straightened his desk, adjusted the pens to perfect alignment, and shut down his computer, watching the screen fade to black with a soft, satisfying click. He picked up his coat, draping it neatly over his arm, and reached for his mobile. As he did, the screen illuminated with a soft glow—a string of notifications cascading one after the other.

From: sysadmin@yamakamusic.jp