Third POV
"Hah! Is there something you wanted to talk about, sister-in-law, that you're actually reaching out to me, Kyouma Hououin?"
A man in his early twenties, black hair untamed and falling over his forehead, pressed his cellphone eagerly against his ear. He was sprawled in a worn-out desk chair, a white lab coat draped over his shoulders like a ceremonial cape despite the fact that he was sitting in a cramped, messy apartment with empty instant noodle cups stacked on every available surface. His grin was wide, theatrical, the kind of smile a stage actor wears before delivering a dramatic monologue.
On the other end of the line, Rinko Koujiro pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Rintaro Okabe." Her voice was crisp, precise, the tone of a woman who had run out of patience before the conversation even began. "Your brother, Kayaba Akihiko, has worked himself to the bone for your education, your future, your goddamn rent. Is this how you repay him? By playing pretend? By dressing up in a lab coat and performing delusions of grandeur for an audience of one?"
Rintaro's grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened.
"I am not a child, sister-in-law," he declared, his voice dropping into something he clearly believed was profound and ominous. "And I am not Rintaro Okabe. That name belongs to the prison of my past. I am Kyouma Hououin, the Mad Scientist, the one who has waged secret war against SERN, the Illuminati, the remnants of the Third Reich! You think I play at delusion? I have bled for this world's future. I have fought battles you cannot conceive of. And you stand there, calling me chuunibyo?"
Rinko stared at the phone in her hand, her expression completely flat.
She tilted it slightly toward the man sitting beside her on the couch, his own dark hair neat and professional, his face an almost mirror image of the one currently monologuing through the speaker. "Are you certain you want him to play you in this film, Kayaba? He doesn't strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed."
Kayaba Akihiko didn't look up from his notes. His fingers continued to tap against the tablet balanced on his knee, scrolling through lines of code with practiced detachment. But there was something in his voice—a quiet, unshakable conviction. "He is the only one who can play the role of Kayaba Akihiko. Not an actor. Not a mimic. Him. Let him in. Tell the director that I will approve no one else."
Rinko studied his profile for a long moment—the sharp jaw, the focused eyes, the way his genius had always isolated him from nearly everyone except her. She didn't fully understand his reasoning. But she trusted him. She always had.
She brought the phone back to her ear. "You heard that, Okabe? The director wants to cast you. Gotanda himself. Do you want the role, or should I tell them you're too busy fighting interdimensional conspiracies in your bedroom?"
"Hah! What do you take me for, sister-in-law? I am Kyouma Hououin! I do not simply—"
She hung up.
The dial tone buzzed in Rintaro's ear. He blinked at his phone, mouth still open mid-sentence, his dramatic momentum crashing into silence.
Rinko set her phone down on the armrest and exhaled slowly. "Is he really your biological brother, Kayaba? He's so… childish. It's almost painful to witness."
Kayaba finally set down his tablet. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosted across his lips. "Our faces are nearly identical. Does that require further confirmation?"
Rinko rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Faces, yes. Personalities? He's a gremlin who plays mad scientist in a dirty lab coat. You're an actual genius who built a new reality with your own hands. There's a gap."
Kayaba shifted, his hand moving from the tablet to the soft waves of her green hair. He threaded his fingers through the strands slowly, deliberately, his gaze lowering to meet hers. There was something territorial in the way he looked at her—not cruel, not aggressive, but possessive. The look of a man who had claimed something rare and had no intention of ever letting it go.
"Then it's fortunate," he murmured, his thumb brushing along her temple, "that you don't find him appealing. I would hate to wonder, whenever I'm too consumed by my work to be at your side, whether his face—this face—was offering you comfort in my absence."
Rinko chuckled softly, a warm, knowing sound. She leaned into his touch, her body relaxing against his. Her arms looped around his neck, drawing herself closer until she was settled comfortably on his lap, her breath mingling with his.
"I'm never leaving you, Kayaba," she whispered. "Not for a replacement. Not for anyone." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, affectionate and certain. "But I want to understand. Why are you helping them? The film crew, the producers—you despise them. You told me yourself. They tried to commodify your work, strip it down, sell it to the highest bidder like cheap merchandise. You said you'd never forgive them."
Kayaba didn't answer immediately.
Instead, his hand drifted from her hair to the curve of her neck, his fingers resting against the warm, steady pulse beneath her skin.
He studied her face—that pretty, stern face that softened so easily when she was worried about him, when her sharp intellect was momentarily eclipsed by something far more vulnerable.
Concern. Devotion. Love
"I hated them," he finally said, his voice low, almost distant. "I still do. That's why I let my little brother go there."
Rinko's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features.
"He told the truth, you know. When he said he was involved with SERN." Kayaba's thumb traced slow circles along her jawline. "I heard the gunshot. In his apartment. Through the phone line.'
Rinko's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with genuine horror. "Oh god—Kayaba! Shouldn't we help him? Call someone, do something? And if they really have guns, if this organization is actually armed—"
Her words tumbled out faster, her composure fracturing. "Even if you despise them, involving them with terrorists, dragging your brother into it, all of this—it won't end well. This isn't a game, Kayaba. These aren't rival developers you can out-code. This is dangerous."
He pressed two fingers gently against her lips, silencing her mounting spiral.
"Let me handle it," he murmured.
But the reassurance didn't reach his eyes.
Those dark, focused eyes held something that made Rinko's unease deepen rather than fade.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't desperation. It was something colder—calculation.
The same look he wore when he was solving an impossible equation, dismantling a system, rewriting the rules of reality itself.
She wanted to press further. To demand answers. To shake him out of whatever abyss he was staring into.
But then his lips were on her neck, and her thoughts fractured.
A soft, startled moan escaped her as his mouth traced the sensitive line of her throat, his tongue hot against her pulse.
Her body responded before her mind could catch up—arching into him, her fingers clutching at his shoulders.
She could feel him pressing against her through their clothes, the hard, insistent length of his erection pushing against her thigh, and a familiar, desperate heat began pooling low in her belly.
"My love…?" Her voice was breathless now, the question dissolving into a whisper.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he lifted her effortlessly, settling her onto the edge of the polished wooden table.
Papers scattered.
A tablet clattered to the floor, unnoticed, unimportant.
He kissed her again—deep, claiming, stealing the air from her lungs—while his hands found the hem of her white lab coat and pushed it up, over her hips, baring the sleek blue tank top beneath.
The fabric clung to her curves, the neckline plunging just enough to expose the soft swell of her breasts, the pale, smooth skin of her torso.
She shivered under his gaze.
"You're beautiful like this, Rinko."
His voice was rough, reverent.
Before she could respond, he was already working at his own trousers, pushing them down just enough to free his erection—thick, flushed, straining toward her heat.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, dragging the damp fabric down her thighs, and then he was positioning himself at her entrance, the slick head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen folds.
She was ready. She was always ready for him.
He thrust forward in one smooth, brutal motion, burying himself completely inside her.
Rinko cried out, her back arching off the table, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He filled her perfectly—too perfectly, as though her body had been designed around the shape of him.
Her inner walls clenched, fluttered, gripped, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, refusing to let even an inch of space remain between them.
"Kayaba…" His name tore from her throat, half-moan, half-sob.
He began to move.
His rhythm was relentless, each thrust driving her harder against the scattered papers, the cold wood of the table a sharp contrast to the heat building between them.
His mouth found her neck again, her collarbone, the sensitive hollow behind her ear—claiming, marking, owning.
She held onto him like he was the only solid thing in a world collapsing into chaos, her fingers twisted in his hair, her legs locked around his waist, her body rising to meet each furious stroke.
She didn't ask again about his brother. She didn't ask about SERN, or the gunshot, or the dark calculation in his eyes. She couldn't.
Every time she tried to form the words, he drove deeper, harder, and the thoughts scattered like ash in a storm.
But even as she surrendered to the pleasure, even as her climax gathered low in her belly, threatening to consume her—some small, stubborn part of her mind remained awake.
What are you planning, Kayaba?
He didn't answer. His silence was absolute, broken only by the harsh rhythm of his breathing, the wet sounds of their bodies colliding, the desperate, broken music of her moans.
And as she surrendered to the pleasure he was wringing from her body, Kayaba Akihiko's eyes remained open.
Unblinking.
Calculating
No one knew what he was planning.
Not Rinko, lost in the heat of his embrace, too distracted by his restless, consuming love to pry further.
Not his brother, Rintaro, playing at rebellion in his cluttered apartment, unaware that his involvement with SERN was not a coincidence but a variable.
Not the film crew, the producers, the director who thought they were simply hiring an actor lookalike brother to lend authenticity to their project.
Especially not SERN.
SERN—the sprawling, shadow-choked organization that had spent decades weaving itself into the fabric of global power.
They hoarded billionaires like currency. They recruited mad scientists and discarded them when their usefulness expired.
They funded research into time manipulation while simultaneously bankrolling terrorist cells, private mercenary armies, and intelligence networks that spanned every continent.
Their goal was simple, ancient, and absolute: total domination. The complete and unquestioned control of the world and every soul within it.
They had no idea that a game developer—a man they would dismiss as a dreamer, an artist, a civilian—had already begun using them as a tool.
He played a very dangerous game.
And his fiancée, trembling beneath him, moaning his name as her climax crested, was too thoroughly consumed by his restless, relentless love to see the board he was arranging.
But that was fine.
He preferred it that way.
...
Note:
Yeah, lately I've been in a very bad mood. My laptop suddenly had a black screen out of nowhere, and I'm getting really tired of it.
Previously, the issue was the motherboard, then the SSD needed to be changed, and now it's the damn screen.
So, I'm planning to buy a new PC rather than keep investing in this black hole. But I'm still stuck using my smartphone since I'm still negotiating the price.
At least I saved my chapters before all of this shit, but yeah, writing on a phone is a fucking pain in the ass.
Yeah, as much as my laptop has gone R.I.P., it's kind of hollow and sad that the laptop that has accompanied me for three years is dead. It contained so many of my memories and nostalgia too...
Yeah, I need to take a break—my mood is all over the place right now.
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