The morning started not with an alarm, but with the sound of a glass shattering.
Mikoto bolted upright in his utility-room cot, his heart hammering against his ribs. Panic was his default setting, but this was different. This was the sound of a "Kodakawa Crisis."
When he reached the living room, the scene was frantic. Shino was staring at her phone as if it were a ticking bomb. Marin was frantically trying to scrub the mascara off her face with a dry towel, and Karen was pacing the length of the sofa, her tennis racket swinging dangerously close to a floor lamp.
"He’s coming," Shino whispered, her voice devoid of its usual clinical coldness. "The flight landed forty minutes ago. He’s bypassing the hospital and coming straight here."
"Who?" Mikoto asked, grabbing a broom to sweep up the shards of a green juice bottle.
"Our father," Marin gasped, her "perfect actress" persona cracked down the middle. "Dr. Kenzo Kodakawa. He doesn't just expect excellence, Mikoto. He expects a museum. If he sees a single stray sock or hears that Shino isn't at the top of her pathology rotation..."
"He’ll pull the plug," Karen finished, her jaw tight. "On the apartment. On our autonomy. He’ll move us back to the estate, and we'll be under his thumb until we're thirty."
Mikoto looked at the clock. 8:15 AM. "How long do we have?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if the traffic at the South Gate is bad," Shino said, her fingers trembling as she tried to organize a stack of medical journals.
Mikoto took a breath. This was what they hired him for. This was the "Caregiver" role in its purest, most desperate form.
"Karen, stop pacing and go put on your official University whites. Now," Mikoto commanded. His voice had a sudden, sharp authority that made all three sisters freeze. "Marin, go to the bathroom, ice your eyes to get the swelling down, and put on that silk dress I steamed this morning. Shino, clear the butter from the counter. Set up your microscope in the natural light by the window. Act like you’re mid-research."
"What about the mess?" Karen asked, gesturing to the mountain of laundry he hadn't finished.
"I’ll handle it. Go!"
As the girls scrambled to their rooms, Mikoto went into overdrive. He wasn't cleaning anymore; he was staging a set. He shoved the "unlucky" laundry into the hall closet and leaned his body against the door to force it shut. He sprayed a neutral linen scent to mask the smell of burnt toast. He arranged the girls' awards on the mantle in a perfect, symmetrical line.
At 8:42 AM, a heavy, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.
The Triplets emerged from their rooms like ghosts of their public selves. Karen stood tall, looking every bit the disciplined athlete. Shino sat at her microscope, the picture of a dedicated scholar. Marin stood by the window, looking out with a serene, practiced smile.
Mikoto smoothed his apron, wiped his damp palms on his trousers, and opened the door.
Dr. Kenzo Kodakawa was a man made of sharp angles and cold expectations. He wore a suit that cost more than Mikoto’s car and carried a silence that filled the room. He didn't look at Mikoto; he looked through him, his eyes immediately scanning the apartment for a flaw.
"Father," the girls said in unison.
"The apartment is acceptable," Kenzo said, his voice a low baritone. He walked to the center of the room, running a gloved finger along the mantle. No dust. He turned his gaze to Mikoto. "And you? You are the new 'manager' the girls insisted on?"
"Mikoto Asada, sir," Mikoto said, bowing slightly.
Kenzo’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his presence weighing down on Mikoto like a physical force. "Asada. I know that name. You were the boy who threw away a national title because you couldn't handle the heat of the final set."
The room went ice-cold. Behind the doctor, Mikoto saw Karen flinch. Marin’s smile faltered.
"I moved on to different priorities, sir," Mikoto said, his voice tight.
"Failure is a contagious disease, Mr. Asada," Kenzo said, stepping toward Shino’s desk. "Ensure my daughters do not catch it from you. I pay for results, not excuses."
For the next ten minutes, Mikoto watched as the man interrogated his daughters. It wasn't a family visit; it was an audit. He questioned Shino on obscure metabolic pathways. He demanded to see Karen's training logs. He told Marin her last performance lacked "the dignity of a Kodakawa."
Throughout it all, Mikoto stood by the door, his hand hidden in his pocket, clenching into a fist so hard his nails drew blood. He saw the way their shoulders slumped. He saw the fear behind the masks he had just helped them build.
When Kenzo finally left, he didn't say goodbye. He simply walked out, leaving a trail of cold air in his wake.
The moment the door clicked shut, the "Perfect Triplets" collapsed. Marin burst into tears. Shino slammed her laptop shut and stared at the wall. Karen kicked the sofa, a muffled sob escaping her throat.
Mikoto didn't say anything. He went to the kitchen, poured three glasses of water, and set them on the table.
"He's gone," Mikoto said softly.
Karen looked up at him, her eyes red with fury and shame. "You heard him. He called you a failure. Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because today wasn't about me," Mikoto said, picking up the broom again. "It was about making sure you didn't lose your home. Now, do you want the omelets I promised, or are we going to sit here and let him win?"
Shino looked at Mikoto, a strange, calculating look in her eyes. "You’re an efficient liar, Mikoto Asada. It’s a valuable trait."
"I'm not lying," Mikoto said, turning back to the stove. "I'm just protecting the nightmare."14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxlCgeLdNd5
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