Content Warning: This chapter touches on themes of psychological trauma and emotional distress.
"…Um, I—I've got something to do, so I'm leaving first."
Jinguu Akira spoke dully, avoiding eye contact with Kanade. In a panic, he stripped off the yukata draped over his shoulders, scooped up the clothes he had tossed carelessly earlier in a burst of reckless impulse, and hurriedly threw them on.
Even in something as simple as casualwear, he looked strikingly handsome. These weren't just ordinary clothes either—each piece had been chosen specifically for him by fashion professionals. As the heir to a powerful zaibatsu family that not only had deep heritage but was rumored to quietly control the Japanese economy from behind the scenes, Akira never needed to concern himself with mundane things like clothing coordination. Every detail of his life was curated by specialists.
But even that impeccably polished exterior failed to stir the woman lying in bed.
The girl resting against the headboard had lost the flush in her cheeks. She now looked like a patient bedridden in a hospital ward, confined and frail, her face drained of color as she turned her head toward the vast blue sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window. For a moment, it was as though she might transform into a dove, a creature of freedom, and soar into that open sky at any second.
There was a deathly, hollow despair clinging to her—a fragile, tragic beauty. Like the chaotic final strokes of a deranged painter on his deathbed, sealing the image of this delicate girl forever in a cage of brushstrokes and madness.
Jinguu Akira stood frozen, staring at her breathtaking profile. A wave of emotion surged up from his gut, rising to his throat as if it might burst forth in a scream. But in the end, his lips merely trembled. Not even a whisper escaped. His gaze dimmed, and he turned away, a hollow shell of himself, quietly opening the door and stepping out of the room.
Outside, the sky was stunning. Say what you will about Japan—but the environment was certainly beautiful. Especially in urban areas, where maintaining such clear, smog-free skies was nothing short of a miracle.
Jinguu Kanade stared blankly out the window at the blue sky and drifting white clouds. The apartment was high up, far above the city's din—so high that even the clamor of traffic below couldn't reach her. Yet the silence wrapped around her chest like a vice. It reminded her of the Morita therapy she once read about, where psychiatric patients were isolated entirely—confined to their rooms with no stimulation except for meals and bathroom breaks, forced to lie still and stare at the darkness above.
But she wasn't insane. Maybe a little depressed now… but certainly not mad enough to be treated like that.
This massive, empty apartment only fueled her anxiety. Two hundred square meters might sound luxurious, but for a single person, it only intensified the loneliness. Still, no matter how suffocating the solitude, the idea of sharing this space with him was unbearable. His presence, even just his lingering scent, made her want to vomit. Not because it was physically unpleasant—but because of a deep, visceral revulsion, a psychosomatic sickness born from his very existence.
She threw back the velvet duvet. Her delicate feet arched onto the plush carpet as she stepped barefoot across the room. She walked slowly, gracefully, toward the dressing mirror.
The reflection that greeted her was a vision of haunting fragility—long, ink-black hair cascading down her bare back like silk, the strands by her temples and fringe a little messy, still betraying signs of what had just occurred.
Her small, heart-shaped face was free of makeup. Dimples graced her cheeks, her snow-white skin radiant and translucent. Her lips were gently pressed together, soft and moist. Her beauty was striking—an elegant, natural grace. Her arms were slender, skin smooth like jade, her build refined: narrow shoulders, slim waist—not the exaggerated curves of a Western woman, but a figure perfectly aligned with Eastern ideals.
Years of aristocratic training had instilled her with a noble, dignified air. And yet, in this moment… that once-proud elegance felt repulsive—even to herself.
She rushed to the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the warm water might wash away the filth she felt clinging to her skin.
When she first learned she had a fiancé, she did her research. She wanted to know what kind of man this rich heir was.
In today's world, barring a few nouveau riche exceptions, true legacy families groomed their children to become refined elites. The kind of arrogant, unhinged idiot who flaunted their background was, in fact, rare. That kind of behavior simply didn't survive in such circles.
Jinguu Akira, as a child, had been something like the "model youth" in old propaganda posters—earning gold stars in kindergarten, a bright future socialist successor. He excelled academically, always ranking top of his grade. He started playing piano young, even winning first place at the Chopin International Youth Piano Competition. And with those flawless genes and handsome looks… even Kanade herself had once been intrigued by him.
True, in his third year of middle school, he had spiraled. Smoking. Drugs. Underage drinking. Associating with delinquents—possibly even with ties to the yakuza. But to Kanade, that just seemed like a rebellious phase brought on by his mother's death. She believed—perhaps foolishly—that with gentle guidance, with patience, he could be brought back. That he'd eventually recover.
Kanade had confidence in her own beauty, after all. She'd been a campus goddess throughout elementary and middle school, courted by classmates, upperclassmen, even underclassmen. She had it all—brains, looks, manners, and even a rare modern-day title: "princess." A dream girl. Someone you'd be proud to show off.
But that very girl, on the night they met for the first time—had been violated.
Just thinking about that night filled her with hate. Hate for him. Hate for the ugliness he'd left on her. Hatred so deep it curdled into nausea.
Jinguu Akira leaned against the corridor wall outside the apartment. Only when he heard the sound of water running in the bathroom did he let out a small sigh and quietly close the half-open door.
He hadn't actually left right away. Instead, he lingered outside, listening nervously through the slightly ajar entrance.
The look of despair in her eyes had unsettled him. Deeply. He was terrified she might do something rash—like open the window and jump.
After all, this was a penthouse. If she leapt from here, there'd be no miracle. A girl that beautiful dying like that… would be far too cruel a loss.
"All lies… Who the hell said Japanese girls were all open and easygoing?"
He could only mock himself. Like some pitiful version of Ah Q, pretending everything was fine.
Sure, even if she was his fiancée—forcing himself on her the moment they met was indefensible. Her reaction made perfect sense.
But… it wasn't his fault! At least, not entirely!
He stared blankly at the hallway ceiling above.
As a luxury apartment complex in Chiyoda, Tokyo's political heart, even the corridors were extravagantly designed. Everything here radiated wealth. The silence was absolute—almost no sign of other residents. People who could afford homes in a place like this were the elite of the elite, always busy, rarely home. In truth, these central-city luxury condos weren't even meant for actual living.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he wandered down the hall. Then suddenly, as if remembering something, he fumbled through his pocket for his phone.
He opened LINE—the Japanese equivalent of China's penguin app, used by nearly everyone in the country—and scrolled down the short list of contacts.
Just as he expected, there was a new message.
[Kasumi Shiko]
Thank you so much, Akira-kun, for your encouragement these past few days. Writing has always been my passion. I poured my heart into my very first light novel—but at the last moment, I hesitated. If it weren't for your support, I might've given up entirely. But now, I've finally overcome my doubts and submitted my novel to the Fujimi Fantasia Grand Prize. The rest of the story is already fermenting in my mind. I may be disappearing from LINE for a while as I dive fully into writing...
Reading her message, Akira couldn't help but smile. He could almost see her, on the other side of the screen—a girl once lost in confusion, now writing feverishly, pouring her soul into the story she loved.
He typed back:
[Akira]
Kasumi Shiko has always been a strong girl. Though for some reason, online, you always come across a little fragile to me. But I believe—even without me—you would've found your own path eventually. You're that kind of person. When your novel is published, I'll be the first in line to buy it. Of course, if it's bad, I'll critique it very harshly! No need to thank me—we've been encouraging each other all this time. Now that you've found what you love… it's my turn to stop being lost. I need to find my own path, too. And next time we meet, I hope I can call you… Ms. Kasumi Shiko!
That smiling emoji—one of LINE's charms—was just one of the reasons it had become so wildly popular. It let people pour their emotions into their messages with just a tap.
He hit send and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Somehow, just like that, his mood felt a little lighter.
On the other end of the internet… there had to be someone like that. A gentle, soft-spoken, traditional Japanese girl—a true Yamato Nadeshiko. Sweet. Timid. Beautiful.
Yes… she had to be.
Jinguu Akira drifted into that daydream, unable to help himself…