July 29th, 2026
At the Tachibana-Kawasaki Global Headquarters- 7:59 PM
The skyline of Tokyo shimmered under the blanket of night, its skyscrapers glowing like diamonds against the dark canvas of the sky. Inside the highest floor of the Tachibana-Kawasaki Global Headquarters, nestled within the CEO office, the atmosphere was polished and professional.
The glass walls showcased a view that spoke of power, of dominance, of control. In the center of it all stood Ruth Tachibana, the woman who ruled this empire with the grace of a queen and the coldness of a glacier.
Dressed in a pristine, white power suit with golden embellishments, Ruth sat at the head of a long, lacquered table, surrounded by foreign clients and high-ranking executives from both Japan and overseas. Her long, raven-black hair was tied in a regal braid, her face unreadable, perfect, a marble sculpture that concealed the soul beneath.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said with the poise of a practiced orator, "the newest prototype of the NeuroPulse interface will redefine rehabilitation medicine. Quadriplegic patients will regain movement within two years of therapy. Memory reinforcement for Alzheimer's? Child's play. With this device, we rewrite the future of humanity."
A murmur of astonished appreciation moved through the room. Applause followed. One of the European investors raised his glass of champagne, saying, "To the genius behind this marvel. To Ms. Ruth Kawasaki."
"Here here," another one chimed in. "Beautiful and brilliant. A rare combination."
Ruth simply smiled, elegant and measured. She had heard it all before—every praise, every flirtation, every attempt to crawl into her shadow for warmth or power. Her smile was a blade: polite but dangerous. She let them have their moment, let them bathe in her glow until the meeting concluded.
When the clients finally left the room, bowing and shaking hands, the last of them lingered a little longer, letting his eyes wander where they shouldn't. Ruth, still smiling, narrowed her eyes just enough to let him know he had overstepped. He blinked, chuckled nervously, and left.
As the large doors of the CEO suite closed behind them, silence settled like snow. Ruth exhaled. Her heels clicked softly on the marble floor as she walked toward the small bar cabinet in the corner. She opened it, chose a bottle of French wine that cost more than some employees' yearly salaries, and poured herself a glass. Her hand was steady. Her mind, calm.
The taste of the wine was sharp and bitter—just like her memories.
A minute passed. Then came the knock.
She placed the glass on the desk, her expression not changing. "Enter."
The door opened, and a group of men strode in. Suspicious, tattooed, wearing dark suits that did little to conceal the bulges of concealed weapons. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a snake tattoo curling around his neck, bowed. Behind them, Ruth's personal bodyguard—tall, ex-military, and deathly silent—entered to ensure the tension did not rise too high.
"Kawasaki-sama," the Yakuza leader said, bowing low, "the job is done. The old landlord is dead. The witness has been dealt with. Just as you ordered."
"No one will suspect a thing." The Yakuza leader added.
For a second, the room held its breath.
Ruth took her wine glass, turned around, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glittering city below looked so peaceful. She took a sip, savoring the silence.
"Good," she finally said, her voice cool and detached.
She turned slightly and looked at her bodyguard. "Go pay them."
The bodyguard nodded once and gestured for the Yakuza men to follow him into an adjacent room, where a briefcase of cash and untraceable accounts awaited them.
Alone again, Ruth stared out at Tokyo. The chaos, the ambition, the decadence. It all suited her.
She let the wine swirl in her glass.
Mr. Kosuke was a player and a victim in Ruth's games. She coerced Kosuke to forcefully evict Ian, so Ian could live in one of her house. Under her watch, under her carez, under her provision. More likely a jail. Ruth was sharp and hadn't hesitated. She never did. She had watched Ian on the villa's terrace—watched him tremble, resist, try to be noble. She had even been rejected. And yet she smiled.
Because power was not just about love or acceptance.
It was about control.
The rejection only made Ian more intoxicating.
And now? Now that he had nowhere to go, now that the noose of suspicion would tighten around his neck? Now that even his past apartment was stained with blood?
He would have no choice.....again.
She turned slightly and looked at the reflection of herself in the glass—impossibly beautiful, unnaturally composed, and eerily smiling. That smile stretched now, curling at the corners with satisfaction.
"You can run from the past, Ian," she whispered to her own reflection, "but you can never run from me."
The door opened again, and the bodyguard returned. "They've been paid."
Ruth nodded. "Ensure our involvement is completely erased. If anyone breathes even a hint of our name in connection to this, I want them... silenced."
"Understood."
As the door shut again, Ruth turned back to the city, her eyes locked onto the distant skyline.
"You'll be seeing me again soon, Ian," she said under her breath, then took one final sip of her wine.
The glass now empty, she placed it on the desk.
And her smile remained.
Unchanging.
Predatory.
Inevitable.