KENJI
The black of my suit felt like a second skin, soaked with the fine, misting rain that had fallen on my father's grave.
The scent of damp earth and funeral flowers clung to the air, but in my study, it was already being replaced by the familiar smell of old wood and ambition.
I poured a finger of whiskey, the glass cold in my hand. Renji's final words echoed, a ghost in the silence. Lead with honor. Legitimize the empire.
A dry, humorless sound escaped me. Honor. A quaint notion for a dead man. The world he knew is gone. It was eaten by wolves like the Rakurai, the ones who killed my mother and left my uncle a breathing corpse in a medical bed. Honor didn't save them.
I set the glass down, untouched. My father's wish will be secondary. A background objective. A tribute I might pay if it's convenient. But it is not my priority.
My primary objective is revenge.
The thought is a clean, sharp purpose in my mind. I turn, my movement decisive, and press a button on the console. The large screen on the wall glows to life, splitting into four quadrants before I focus on one: Nicole's room.
And there she is. A stark contrast to the grave I just left. The screen shows her sitting on the edge of her bed, a small, ironic smile on her face as Nemu buzzes around her, holding up a cupcake with a single lit candle. It's her birthday. She's twenty today.
Nemu is excited, chattering, trying to force a celebration. Nicole's smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's a mask. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hand as she accepts the cupcake. She's terrified. She knows what this birthday means. The end of the waiting period. The beginning of my claim.
A different kind of anticipation cuts through the cold fury of my grief. Seeing her like this—legal, of age, beautifully anxious—is a potent distraction. The revenge against Shuya is a war I will wage on a grand scale. But Nicole… she is a personal conquest. A campaign of one.
I watch as she blows out the candle. Nemu claps. Nicole's gaze flicks toward the camera she knows is there, an unconscious gesture, as if she can feel my stare. Her eyes are wide, a little lost.
Perfect.
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. Revenge against the Rakurai will be bloody and absolute. But first, I will claim my prize. I will teach her what it means to belong to me. She'll know the weight of my love. Her fear is the foundation. Her obedience will be the structure. And her complete surrender… that will be the victory that fuels everything else.
"Happy birthday, Nicole," I whisper to the silent screen. The words are not a祝福 (blessing). They are a sentence. The funerals are over. Now, the real work begins.
– – –
NICOLE
The tiny flame from the cupcake candle danced in my vision, but I wasn't really seeing it. My whole focus was pulled toward the dark, unblinking eye of the camera in the upper corner of the room.
It felt like he was in here with us, his presence a cold weight pressing down on the fake birthday cheer. Twenty. The number echoed in my head, a death knell for the little freedom I had left.
"Nicole!"
Nemu's voice finally cut through the fog, sharp and impatient. I flinched, tearing my gaze away from the lens. She was staring at me, hands on her hips, the cupcake forgotten.
"What? Sorry," I mumbled, my voice sounding distant.
"I said," she repeated, rolling her eyes but with a smile, "you haven't even asked about the main gift! The one from Kenji! Tokito told me all about it, he said Mr. Kenji picked it out special for your birthday."
A gift? From him? The ice in my stomach spread. I felt the blood drain from my face. "What gift?" The question came out as a whisper.
As if on cue, the bedroom door slid open and Tokito stepped in, a sleek, black box in his hands. It was long and flat, tied with a simple silk ribbon.
He held it out to me, his usual easy-going smile looking a little strained around the edges. His eyes met mine for a second, and in that glance, I saw it—a flicker of understanding, a shared knowledge of what this really was.
"Open it, open it!" Nemu squealed, completely oblivious. She bounced over to Tokito, wrapping her arms around his and planting a loud, happy kiss on his cheek. "I bet it's something amazing! He has such good taste."
My hands were trembling as I took the box. It was heavier than it looked. The ribbon came away easily, and I lifted the lid. Nestled inside on a bed of black tissue paper was a gown. A floor-length Valentino gown, the fabric a deep, endless black that seemed to swallow the light. It was stunning. Severe. Exquisitely made.
To Nemu, it would look like a beautiful, expensive dress for a party.
But to me, and to Tokito, whose gaze I could feel heavy on me, it was something else entirely. The color wasn't elegant; it was funereal. It wasn't an invitation to a celebration; it was a uniform for my surrender.
This was the gown he expected me to wear for him. The first night. It was a message, delivered in the most brutal, elegant way possible. The gift wasn't the dress. The gift was the countdown. And it had just reached zero.
Tokito finally turned his head towards Nemu, who was still clinging to his arm like an excited koala. He gave her a soft, genuine smile—a look I rarely saw on him—and leaned down, kissing her properly. It was a quick, sweet kiss that made Nemu's whole face light up with a blush.
"Okay, okay, calm down," he said to her, his voice warm with affection. Then he turned back to me, his expression shifting back to that careful, neutral mask. "Also, Nicole, the paperwork for your internship at Apex has been finalized. It's all signed. You start Monday after next."
The news hit me like a physical blow, right on the heels of the dress. The internship. My supposed step into a professional future. Now it just felt like another leash, tying me even tighter to his world. I forced a nod, my throat too tight to speak.
My fingers, still trembling, fumbled along the bottom edge of the black box, seeking some kind of anchor in the surreal moment. And that's when I felt it. A slight, almost imperceptible ridge.
A hidden compartment. My heart hammered against my ribs. With a subtle movement, I pressed the corner, and a small, flat envelope, no bigger than a matchbook, slid out from a slit in the cardboard base.
I didn't dare look at it. I could feel Tokito's eyes on me, and Nemu's cheerful obliviousness was a spotlight. This note wasn't for them. This was from him. To me alone.
Keeping my face as blank as possible, I pretended to be adjusting the dress inside the box. In one fluid, desperate motion, I slipped the tiny envelope into the palm of my hand and then quickly tucked it deep into the pocket of my jeans.
"It's… a beautiful dress," I managed to say, my voice sounding strangled. "Thank you."
I didn't know who I was thanking. Tokito? Kenji? The universe for not letting them see? All I knew was that the weight of the hidden note in my pocket felt heavier than the entire black gown put together. The real message was still to come.
Nemu was still glued to Tokito's side, but now she was pulling on his hand, trying to lead him toward the door. A playful, insistent look was on her face. "Come on," she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper I wasn't supposed to hear. "I want to show you my new… art project."
Tokito resisted for a second, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her. He shook his head, but there was no real refusal in his eyes. "You're too eager, babe," he said, his voice low and fond.
I looked away, my cheeks heating up. I knew they'd been dating for a while, and moments like this were becoming more common. It was a glimpse of a normal relationship, something that felt a million miles away from my own life.
With a final, laughing tug from Nemu, he gave in. "Alright, alright. Lead the way, you menace." He glanced back at me. "See you later, Nicole."
I just nodded, not trusting my voice. The door slid shut behind them, and the room was suddenly, profoundly silent.
Alone.
My heart started thumping again, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The black dress lay in its box like a sleeping serpent. I reached into my jeans pocket, my fingers closing around the small, stiff card.
I pulled it out. It was a simple, thick piece of cream-colored cardstock. No envelope anymore. Just three words, typed in a sleek, modern font:
Happy Birthday, Plaything.
The air left my lungs. My face burned, a hot, sudden flush that spread from my cheeks down my neck. It wasn't a blush of shyness or flattery.
It was a wave of pure, hot irritation mixed with a deep, humiliated shame. Plaything.
The word was a slap. It stripped away any pretense, any fragile hope that I was anything more than what he had always said I was: a possession. An object for his amusement.
The beautiful dress, the internship—it was all just wrapping paper on the same ugly truth. I crumpled the note in my fist, the sharp edges of the cardstock digging into my palm.