(Sharon side story)
Some girls were born to be stars. Sharon wasn't one of them.
She was the kind who hid in corners, who spoke softly when spoken to, who carried her silence like a second skin. Her shyness wasn't practiced—it was bone-deep, a part of her the way music was. Around strangers, she folded into herself like paper. Around loved ones, she bloomed in fragments—quiet smiles, soft words, melodies hummed under her breath.
But life had not been kind.
When Sharon was nine, her world shattered. A single night, a single accident, and everything she loved was ripped away—her parents, and the elder brother who used to hold her hand through thunderstorms. In one moment, she went from being a little sister and daughter to being nothing.
Her grandmother was all she had left. A woman with hair like silver and hands like prayer, who carried Sharon to Italy and raised her as best she could. Those years were gentler, though they were not without shadows. Her migraines began in childhood—throbbing pain that came without warning, blurring her vision, stealing her peace. But her grandmother's voice and presence soothed her in ways no medicine could.
Then, life stole again.
The last year of high school, when Sharon should have been worrying about exams and dresses and music recitals, her grandmother was diagnosed with stomach cancer. The fight was short. Too short. Sharon watched helplessly as the woman who had become her world faded away. When her grandmother finally left her, Sharon was eighteen, and the grief nearly consumed her.
She had no one.
No family, no anchor, nothing but a suitcase of memories. So she returned to Tokyo, to her mother's bloodline. Her uncle took her in, but his house was cold, heavy with unspoken judgments. Sharon drifted like a ghost in her own family's walls.
And then came Amy.
Amy was her first friend in years—bright, warm, persistent. Where Sharon was shy, Amy was fearless. Where Sharon was quiet, Amy was laughter itself. They became inseparable, and for the first time since childhood, Sharon had someone to lean on. Amy shielded her, guided her, reminded her that the world was not only loss.
But life never stayed still.
After three years, Amy married. Her younger brother rooted in Florence. Though Amy stayed in Tokyo to care for her family hierarchy, her life began to shift, pulling her away from Sharon.
Five years later, Sharon made a decision that would change everything. She would return to Italy—not as a broken child, but as a woman searching for purpose. She wanted to study, to work, to build something of her own. Amy, ever loyal, agreed to accompany her, promising Sharon she wouldn't be alone.
Italy. The place where her life had once ended. The place where it was about to begin again.
(Akon side story)
At the airport, Akon leaned against the rail, his eyes fixed on the sliding glass doors.
He had been waiting for his elder sister for nearly an hour, but patience came easily to him. As a mafia boss, waiting was part of the game—waiting for enemies to slip, for alliances to form, for blood to be spilled. He was a man used to control, to precision, to dominance.
But then it happened.
Through the shifting crowd, through the blur of travelers and suitcases, he saw her.
A flash of dark hair. The tilt of a chin. A presence that slammed into him like a bullet straight to the chest.
His body moved before his mind caught up. His hand lifted, ready to signal his sister—but his eyes weren't on her anymore. They were locked on someone else.
It was Her.
It had been five years since he last searched for her. Five years of silence. Five years of burying her ghost under empire and blood. And now, fate had dragged her back into his line of sight.
Sharon.
His pulse roared. For a moment, he forgot the world existed. All that mattered was reaching her.
He pushed forward, weaving through the crowd, but the sea of bodies swallowed her. A single glance—that was all fate allowed him. By the time he broke through, she was gone.
Vanished. Again.
Breath harsh, he turned—and found his sister. She had seen him, had been searching for him. Relief flickered across her face, and in that moment he remembered himself. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her tightly, but his mind wasn't on her.
It was on the girl who had disappeared into the crowd.
The ghost who had returned to haunt him.
(Sharon side story)
On the other side of the terminal, Sharon clutched Amy's hand one last time. They laughed, they hugged, they promised to meet again soon. Amy's brother would pick her up, Amy insisted, so she wouldn't be alone.
Sharon smiled, waving as Amy walked away. And then she saw him.
A tall man, dark and striking, wrapping his arms around Amy in greeting. His presence was magnetic, sharp, dangerous in a way Sharon couldn't name. She stood still for a moment, watching. The way Amy laughed, the way he hugged her—it made Sharon ache with a quiet longing.
"At least she had a brother" Sharon thought. " At least she wasn't alone".
Sharon turned away, clutching her bag, beginning the long journey to her aunt's house.
Three hours later, exhausted, she stood at the doorstep of her mother's best friend. When her aunt opened the door, tears filled her eyes. Sharon had grown so much—so much like her mother at that age—that the resemblance broke her. They cried together, grief and love mingling like old wine.
That night, Sharon settled into a room heavy with her mother's belongings—photographs, journals, little pieces of a life Sharon barely remembered. She cried quietly into the night, clutching her guitar, forcing herself to be stronger.
Days turned to weeks. She enrolled for her university entrance exam, hunted for part-time jobs, clung to the small fragments of normalcy her aunt offered her. Her aunt's words, soft yet fierce, anchored her:
"I cannot have children, but since the day your mother died, you've been my daughter. Stop apologizing for being here. You are home."
Sharon cried then, held tight by a woman who became her second mother.
Music returned to her life slowly. When her aunt encouraged her to join a guitar competition held by her workplace, Sharon hesitated. But memories of her father's hands guiding hers on the strings, her mother's voice lifting in song, made her decide. She entered.
On the night of the finals, under the salt-scented air of the beach, Sharon prepared to sing her mother's favorite song. But before her voice could rise, rough hands seized her, dragging her back. Fear spiked, breath stolen. She struggled, desperate.
And then—through the blur of panic—she saw someone. A man.
Her body acted on instinct. She stumbled toward him, gasping, whispering three trembling words before collapsing into darkness:
"Please help me."
When she woke, she was in a hospital. Flowers—her favorite—rested beside her bed. Her aunt slept, exhaustion etched into her features.
Sharon survived. But the shadows inside her grew deeper. Migraines worsened, collapsing her to the floor days later. Doctors warned of danger, of how fragile her condition could become without care.
The house was quiet that evening, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Sharon sat curled on the couch, her hands pressed to her temples. The dim light of the lamp painted her face pale, fragile.
Her aunt walked in carrying a tray of tea, but the moment she saw Sharon, her heart clenched.
"Another one?" she asked softly, setting the tray down.
Sharon nodded, forcing a faint smile.
"It's not too bad. I'll be fine in a while."
Her aunt sat beside her, brushing the hair gently from Sharon's face.
"Don't lie to me, Sharon. You were trembling in your sleep last night. You think I don't notice, but I do."
Sharon's throat tightened. She wanted to be strong, but the words slipped out anyway.
"I don't want to be a burden."
Her aunt's eyes softened, filled with both grief and fierce love. She cupped Sharon's cheeks, making the girl look at her.
"Listen to me, Sharon. I couldn't have children of my own. God didn't give me that gift. But the day your mother left this world, you became my daughter. My heart doesn't know any difference. You are not a burden—you are my blessing. And yes do not use this word again otherwise never talk to me" — she narrowed her eyes with a soft smile.
"you've already lost so much, you are like my own daughter it's time to grab things ,grab achievements , fulfilling your wishes" her aunt said with a warm hug.
She hugged her tightly hearing this soothing and caring words, holding her tight against her chest.
"I will never lose you. Not as long as I breathe. These migraines—yes, they scare me, but they don't scare me away from you. You hear me?"
Sharon nodded, her tears dampening her aunt's shoulder.
"Promise me one thing," her aunt whispered.
"Promise me you'll fight. You'll take your medicine, you'll rest when you must, and you won't ever think of yourself as a weight on my shoulders. I carried your mother through her hardest days, and now I will carry you. That is love, Sharon—not duty. Love."
Sharon's voice broke as she whispered,
"I promise."
Her aunt kissed her forehead, smoothing her hair.
"Good. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. Tomorrow, we'll go back to the doctor. Together."
For the first time in days, Sharon allowed herself to breathe, her chest loosening as she leaned into her aunt's embrace. For a moment, she felt like a child again—safe, loved, unbroken.
(Akon side story)
Across the city, Akon poured himself into work. His empire never slept. His enemies never rested. His phone rang—his sister's voice pulling him back, reminding him of home, of Tokyo, of roots long buried.
But his thoughts lingered elsewhere. On the girl he had glimpsed in the airport. On the ghost who would not leave him.
His obsession had been reignited. And this time, he would not let her vanish.