In a high-rise office building in Puxi, Kawashima Fukuichiro's fingers flew over the keyboard, his face illuminated by the cold blue glow of the screen.
"Ding—" An encrypted email popped up. The attachment contained screenshots of Sherry's online shopping history—an array of orders for a Japanese skincare brand, from collagen powder to face masks.
"The bait has taken it," he sneered, forwarding the link to a fake "Sakura Story" lottery page to his tech team. "Three hours. I want this popup showing up on every app on her phone."
The next afternoon, the office erupted in a scream.
"I won! I won!" Sherry jumped up, her twin ponytails bouncing, waving her phone in excitement. "Annual lucky draw! VIP tickets to the XX concert!"
The sight made everyone pause: the pink cherry blossom animation on her phone displayed a holographic projection of the performer, the VIP stamp glittering. My brother's eyes went wide—the date matched the debut performance of his long-awaited favorite idol.
Sherry tugged at him: "Brother! Come with me tomorrow night? They say there's a chance to meet the performer!" Her playful grin made him blush instantly.
The next day, near the end of work, my brother suddenly slammed his hand on the desk. "Let's go, Sherry! Now!" He grabbed his jacket as if preparing for battle, giving me a subtle hand signal—the one we use for sneaky office breaks.
Soon after, Kawashima Yuko (a.k.a. Wang Zifang) messaged me: "Free tonight? Coffee? I need to talk." My heart skipped a beat. I knew her intentions weren't innocent, but following Fang Zhiguo's orders, I replied: "Sure."
At the café, she was already seated. Today, she wore a sleek black dress, her hair loosely pinned back with a few strands framing her face. She looked stunning. When I arrived, she stood, smiling, though a flicker of sadness passed through her eyes.
"You're here. Sit," she said softly, her voice almost like a feather brushing against my ear.
We chatted casually—movies, the weather, little else. She didn't mention Japan at all. Her calm demeanor, oddly natural, made me feel even more uneasy. I sipped my coffee cautiously, sensing no obvious danger.
After parting ways with her, my brother's social feed popped up: a photo of him and Sherry at the concert, wearing fan headbands, laser lights in the background. I walked home under the night wind, alert yet distracted, thinking about her behavior. I didn't notice the subtle changes in my own body.
Upon opening the door, I tossed my keys on the table and headed for the bedroom, intending to collapse on the bed. But just as I reached it, a wave of dizziness struck me, as if an invisible hand had grabbed my skull. My limbs felt heavy; the room spun and blurred, the lights flickering. My voice came out faint, barely audible, as I tried to call for help.
Sleepiness washed over me, irresistible. I tried to stay awake, but my eyelids weighed a ton. My body temperature fluctuated—hot, then cold—sweat dripping from my forehead. The world around me began to distort; I couldn't tell reality from hallucination.
In that half-conscious state, the room seemed to shimmer with a soft, misty pink glow. I became aware of a presence approaching—she was there, her form ethereal in the fog. Kawashima Yuko moved gracefully, her movements deliberate and mesmerizing. Her eyes held an intensity, her gaze pulling me into an unspoken tension.
I felt my heart race, my thoughts clouded with confusion and anticipation. She approached, speaking softly, each word deliberate, filled with layers of meaning I couldn't fully grasp. The room felt suspended in time, my senses heightened. Every subtle movement she made—the tilt of her head, the shift of her weight—felt amplified, charged with unspoken urgency.
The night pressed in around us. Outside, clouds veiled the moon, casting the room in darkness. My mind teetered between dream and reality, sensing the dangerous intrigue at play. I knew the stakes were higher than ever—every moment a delicate balance between caution and instinct, survival and deception.
In that charged, twilight state, I realized that the night was far from over. The game had begun, and every step would be critical.