Kenzo stood before the wall of glass in his office, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The city of Tokyo stretched out before him, a breathtaking tapestry of steel, light, and endless motion. From this height, he could see the tiny, ant-like flow of life on the streets below, people with their own small dramas and joys.
But up here, in his silent, sterile penthouse in the sky, he felt completely disconnected from it all. The view, once a symbol of his power and achievement, now felt like a painting he was trapped behind.
Today was the day. The final project deliverable. The end of the contract and the end of Sharon.
He had practiced this moment in his mind a hundred times. He would be calm. He would be professional. He would be the impersonal client she had demanded he be. He would give her the clean break she so clearly wanted, even if it felt like tearing out his own heart and handing it to her in a neatly labeled box.
A soft knock echoed in the large, quiet room. It was her knock. He would know it anywhere.
He took a slow, deep breath, locking every emotion away behind a mask of cool composure. "Enter," he said, his voice even and controlled.
The door opened, and Sharon Lee walked in. She was dressed in another one of her new, severe outfits, a deep grey dress that was all sharp angles and business, a far cry from the soft, flowing clothes she used to wear around the office. She held a tablet in one hand and a small data chip in the other. The final keys to his kingdom.
"Mr. Hayashi," she said, her voice as neutral as the grey walls.
"Ms. Lee," he replied with a slight nod. "Please, have a seat."
He moved to his desk, and she sat in the chair opposite him. The wide, polished surface of the desk felt like a chasm between them. He could still remember a time when she would lean over this very desk, her shoulder brushing his as they looked at a blueprint together, the air crackling with their shared focus.
"I trust everything is in order?" he asked, folding his hands on the desk.
"It is," she said, placing the data chip on the smooth surface between them and sliding it forward. "This contains the final, stabilized code for the Nakamura patent integration. All systems have been tested and are running at one hundred percent efficiency. The project is complete."
Her words sounded so final and absolute. This was the end. The last professional link between them was cut.
"Excellent," Kenzo said, his tone carefully pleasant. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, black envelope. He slid it across the desk toward her, a mirror of her own action. "And this is for you. The final payment confirmation. The full amount, as stipulated in our contract, has been transferred to your account. Thank you for your exceptional service."
He saw her fingers tremble slightly as she picked up the envelope. She didn't open it. She just held it, her knuckles white.
Look at me, he pleaded silently. Just look at me one more time, not as a client, but as the man who loves you. Give me a sign. Anything.
But her eyes remained downcast, fixed on the black envelope. The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy with everything they were not saying.
Finally, she looked up, and her gaze was as professional and distant as it had been that first day in the conference room. "You're welcome. It was a challenging project."
Is that all we were? A project? The thought was a physical ache in his chest.
He stood up, needing to end their talk before he showed his feelings. "Then I guess our business is finished. I wish you the best in your future work, Ms. Lee."
It was a professional way to tell her to leave. A polite, formal goodbye.
She stood as well, tucking the envelope into her portfolio. "Goodbye, Mr. Hayashi."
She turned and walked toward the door. Each click of her heels on the marble floor was a nail in the coffin of their story. He watched her go, memorizing the line of her back, the way a stray strand of hair curled against her neck. He wanted to call out. To run after her. To beg.
But he didn't. He had made a promise to himself. He would let her go.
The door clicked shut.
And just like that, she was gone.
As Sharon stepped out of the elevator and into the bustling lobby, the professional calm she had fought so hard to maintain began to shatter. Her heart was pounding, a frantic, wild beat against her ribs. She had done it. She had gotten everything she asked for. The money. The freedom. The end.
So why did she feel like she was going to be sick?
She walked out of the building and into the bright afternoon sun, the world moving in a blur around her. Her mind flashed back to two nights ago. She had been sitting at her kitchen table, her laptop open, the finalized, perfect code for the Hayashi system on the screen. It was flawless. It would secure the Nakamura deal and stabilize Kenzo's company for years to come.
And the thought of it, of him moving on perfectly without her, had been unbearable.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She didn't write a destructive virus, she was better than that. Instead, she quietly added a small, perfect flaw: a single line of code hidden deep in the system. It was a logic bomb set to wait for exactly two weeks. During the first major client presentation, this code would suddenly break the display screen, causing it to show embarrassing, nonsensical data. The system wouldn't fail completely, but it would be a huge, public humiliation.
It was a problem only she would know how to fix. It was her secret, desperate lifeline back to him.
A chime from her phone pulled her from the guilty memory. She pulled it out, her hands still shaking. It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Heard you're a free agent. My offer is still open. Let's talk.
She didn't need to ask who it was. It was Leo Nakamura. The rival. The shark.
She stood on the busy sidewalk, people bumping past her, the sounds of the city a dull roar in her ears. She looked back at the towering, gleaming structure of Hayashi Tech, the place that had been her second home, her battlefield, and the source of all her heartache.
Then she looked down at the message on her phone.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. This was a different path. A dangerous one. A declaration of war.
Taking a shaky breath, she typed a single, dangerous word in reply.
Sharon: When?