The electronic chime of the front door didn't sound like a greeting; it sounded like a gavel.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Dr. Kenzo Kodakawa stepped into the dimly lit apartment. He didn't look like a man who had just flown across the country. He looked like a monolith—unmoved, unruffled, and entirely cold. He was followed by two assistants carrying tablet cases and a woman in a sharp grey suit who Mikoto recognized as the Agency’s Chief of PR.
Kenzo’s eyes didn't waste time on the decor. They swept the room, landing on the bin of old memories, the smeared makeup on Marin’s face, and finally, Mikoto’s hand still resting near Marin’s knee.
"Suboptimal," Kenzo said, the word cutting through the room like a scalpel. "I gave you this sanctuary to foster excellence. Instead, I find a theater of regression."
"Father, we were just—" Shino started, her voice regaining that defensive, clinical edge.
"Silence, Shino," Kenzo commanded. He turned to the PR woman. "The 'Rehabilitation Retreat' in Hokkaido is prepared? No signal, no press, and a full psychiatric staff specializing in 'image realignment'?"
"On standby, Doctor," she replied. "The car is downstairs."
Marin’s face went translucent. "Hokkaido? That’s not a retreat, that’s a prison. I have a movie to finish! Victor said—"
"Victor Vance is a director of 'art,'" Kenzo dismissed with a flick of his wrist. "I am a director of legacy. Your performance yesterday was a lapse in discipline. This... 'Asada'... is a catalyst for your instability. You will leave for Hokkaido tonight. Shino, you will return to the campus dorms. Karen, your tournament schedule is being suspended until you can demonstrate a return to emotional neutrality."
The room felt like the air was being sucked out of it. Mikoto felt the familiar pressure in his chest—the "Panic" was clawing at his throat. But then he looked at Marin. She wasn't the starlet now. She was the girl in the photo with the milk in her nose, and she was terrified.
Mikoto stood up. He didn't move fast, but he moved with the same predatory grace he’d shown on the tennis court. He stepped between Kenzo and Marin.
"She’s not going to Hokkaido," Mikoto said.
Kenzo paused, his gaze slowly shifting to Mikoto as if noticing a bug on his windshield. "You are a failed athlete I hired to scrub floors, Mr. Asada. Your opinion is a rounding error."
"I might be a failure in your eyes, Doctor," Mikoto said, his watch buzzing a frantic rhythm against his wrist, but his voice remained steady. "But I’m the only person in this room who actually knows what your daughters are doing. You see 'excellence.' I see three people who are so afraid of you that they’ve forgotten how to breathe."
"How dare you—"
"No, let him talk," Karen barked, stepping up beside Mikoto, her racket bag slung over her shoulder like a weapon. "Because he's right. You don't want us to be 'excellent.' You want us to be statues in your lobby."
"I have invested millions in your futures—" Kenzo started.
"You invested in a brand," Shino added, standing up from her desk, her laptop still open to the surging metrics. "And if you send Marin away now, you’ll lose that investment. Logically, Father, the public loves a 'breakdown' followed by a 'rebirth.' If you hide her in Hokkaido, you confirm the scandal. If you let her stay and finish the film—with Mikoto’s 'consultation'—the narrative becomes about her 'artistic dedication.' The Kodakawa name stays on top."
Kenzo looked at Shino, his eyes narrowing. He respected logic. He respected the bottom line.
"The risk of further 'unscripted' behavior is too high," Kenzo countered.
"Then put it on me," Mikoto said. He reached out and grabbed the old digital camera from the bin, holding it up. "If she fails, if the brand 'tarnishes,' fire me. Sue me. I have nothing to lose. But if she succeeds—if she gives the performance of a lifetime—you leave them alone. No retreats. No dorms. They keep this sanctuary."
Kenzo looked at Mikoto, then at Marin, who was now standing, her hand gripping Mikoto’s shirt for strength. For the first time, the Monolith seemed to waver. He saw the defiance in their eyes—a fire he hadn't managed to extinguish.
"You have two weeks," Kenzo said, his voice cold as ice. "Until the final screening of the raw footage. If the board is not satisfied, the retreat is no longer optional. For all of you."
He turned and walked out, his assistants trailing behind him like shadows. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was deafening.
Marin let out a sob, but this time, it wasn't a "terrible" one. It was a laugh. She threw her arms around Mikoto, pulling him close.
"Two weeks," she whispered. "We have two weeks to be real."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8B4PcFyjcM
and then Add to home screen.