A few days had passed since that night. Tōma's words were still lodged in her chest. "Be careful of Kirishima Renji." That was all he'd said before leaving the dining room. No explanation. No reason given. Yukari couldn't chase after him. Couldn't ask him to clarify. Since that evening, the Shimoka mansion's dining table had returned to its usual silence. Tōma still turned through his morning documents as always. Yukari still cradled her coffee cup in both hands. On the surface, nothing had changed. But something had shifted inside her chest. She'd been rereading the message that had arrived days ago—countless times now. *"Would you have time for dinner? I'd like to discuss some business matters. —Kirishima Renji"* The phrasing was polite. No pressure. Just a single sentence, yet it left room for choice. She couldn't find grounds to refuse. Kirishima Renji was a management consultant who worked with the Ichijō Group. Refusing to meet with someone who had legitimate business connections—that would be overstepping her position as a contract secretary. There had to be some reason behind Tōma's warning that she didn't know about. But he hadn't told her. Without that information, her hands were empty. This was just an extension of work. She kept telling herself that as she sent her reply. In the black sedan heading toward Ebisu, Tokyo's nighttime cityscape flowed past the window. Illuminations lit the street trees in front of Ebisu Station, and the crowds were thick. Yukari leaned back against the seat, gripping her smartphone without looking at the screen, her eyes fixed on the world outside. *(Just work. That's all it is.)* Each time she repeated it, she knew the excuse was just that—an excuse. She was using a lie while fully aware it was a lie, caught in an unsettled state. The taxi arrived at its destination. ─────────── The restaurant was small. A modest French establishment tucked into an alley slightly off from Ebisu Garden Place. About twelve tables. White tablecloths, candlelight, soft background music. A quiet, composed space. Kirishima Renji had arrived before her. His deep navy hair caught the soft light with a faint blue tint. His right eye gold, his left eye silver—those heterochromatic eyes narrowed gently the moment they found Yukari. The modest beauty mark at the corner of his mouth moved with the shape of his smile. "I'm glad you came," Kirishima Renji said. His voice was smooth. It had warmth. No pressure—just a calm, gentle tone. "Thank you for waiting," Yukari replied. As she pulled out her chair and sat, she unconsciously straightened her spine. *I'm not nervous,* she told herself, even as her eyes followed the motion of water being poured into her glass. The meal began. The appetizer was foie gras terrine, its deep aroma rising from the plate. Renji was a skilled conversationalist. He brought up light topics about projects within the Ichijō Group—carefully avoiding names—and asked about her work. When he said, "I've heard the planning department's document organization is quite meticulous," Yukari tilted her head slightly. "How would you know that?" she asked. "People notice things. Meticulousness stands out more in an organization than you'd think," Kirishima Renji replied. There was no malice in the way he said it. It was as if he were simply voicing a pure observation in a quiet tone. Yukari wasn't used to being praised. In her twenty-eight years working as a temporary employee, people rarely noticed when she did things earnestly. So—her cheeks warmed, just slightly. *(This is a normal reaction,)* she told herself inside. But her gaze flickered toward her glass for a moment. She was still holding the wine, hadn't drunk it. She didn't know where to set it down, so she just kept holding it. Renji's questions continued. About the fulfillment she found in her work. What kind of career she envisioned for herself. It felt like an interview, and yet there was no pressure. His eyes remained gentle, never rushing for answers. *(I'm finding this pleasant,)* she realized, aware of herself thinking it. But—beneath that pleasantness, another sensation lingered. A lightness to it all. The warmth felt genuine. Yet compared to Tōma's "not unnecessary"—those four characters—something was different. She had no words for what that difference was. She lowered her amber eyes and quietly set her wine glass on the table. ─────────── It was halfway through the meal. The restaurant's entrance door opened quietly. Yukari glanced in that direction mid-conversation—and froze. A man in a black coat stood in the doorway. It was Ichijō Tōma. His silver-white hair, nearly platinum, gleamed faintly in the restaurant's light. His gray-blue eyes swept across the interior in an instant—and found the table where Yukari sat. It was an expression she'd never seen before. Not his usual perfect blankness. Not the mask of a businessman with emotions stripped away. Something—as if one layer of his carefully honed self-control was peeling back. Something almost raw dwelt in the depths of those gray-blue eyes. Tōma approached without a word. Yukari stood reflexively. She didn't understand why. Her body moved first. Tōma's hand touched her wrist. Not grasping—more like enfolding. Slowly, but with certainty. His fingers closed around the delicate bone, adjusting to its thinness. The pressure wasn't strong. But there was no sign of letting go. "We're leaving," Ichijō Tōma said. His voice was low. It took the form of a command. But—beneath that voice, it trembled faintly. Yukari didn't move. Couldn't move—or rather, she was looking. Looking directly up into Tōma's eyes. *(It's not anger.)* The words took shape in her chest. Not anger. Not possessiveness or control. —Fear. The same thing she'd seen in the depths of that man's eyes in the study late one night. The fear of loss, laid bare right here. The warmth of Tōma's fingers transmitted from her wrist's skin inward along her arm. It was just temperature, and yet it reached all the way to the center of her chest. *(Maybe this person doesn't want to lose me.)* The moment that thought surfaced, the corners of her eyes grew warm. She didn't know why. Yukari pressed her lips together, trying to contain that heat. Seconds stretched. Tōma's fingers, Yukari's wrist, their breathing slightly ragged in a frozen moment. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting Secretary Tanaka's personal time," Kirishima Renji said quietly. His voice cut through the silence. He remained seated, tilting his wine glass as if nothing had happened. His gold and silver eyes turned toward Tōma. Their gazes met for just an instant. In that space, something without substance moved. Tōma released Yukari's wrist. Without a word, he turned on his heel. His coat's hem fluttered, and the door closed quietly. ─────────── Silence fell over the table. Yukari was still standing. The warmth lingering on her wrist felt like it was still there, and she touched it unconsciously with her other hand. "Were you frightened?" Kirishima Renji asked. His voice was calm. Yukari returned to her chair. She turned the word "frightened" over in her mind. She couldn't immediately tell what it was directed at. She wasn't frightened of Tōma. She wasn't frightened of what lay in the depths of those eyes—or rather, the opposite. "...No," Yukari answered honestly. Renji was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly, in that same calm voice. "I don't think that person sees you as a human being. He treats you as something to be protected—as a possession," Kirishima Renji said. Yukari didn't answer. The words fell precisely into the softest part of her chest. Not piercing—but tracing the exact contour of a pain that already existed there. A possession. She had no words to logically deny the truth of that statement in this moment. She had no experience with love. She didn't know in her body what it meant to be needed by someone. So she couldn't articulate the difference between "possession" and "being cherished" here tonight. Renji's words might not be a lie. But they weren't the whole truth either—that sense came to her simultaneously. That gray uncertainty, standing alone in it, was what hurt Yukari most deeply. Like being left alone in a place that was neither one thing nor the other. She lifted her wine glass and took a single sip. She couldn't taste it. ─────────── The taxi ride home was quiet. The road toward Shirokane-dai was busy even at night, braking at each traffic light. Yukari gazed out the window, replaying three scenes from tonight in order. Renji's calculated warmth. His soft voice and gentle questions, and the words "doesn't see you as a human being." Tōma's hand's temperature. The sensation of his fingers enfolding her wrist, the faint tremor in his voice, what lay in the depths of those gray-blue eyes. And—the word "possession," and her inability to deny it. *(I'm twenty-eight years old and don't even know who's my enemy and who's my ally.)* The absurdity of the situation drew a dry, silent laugh from her. No sound escaped, but the corner of her mouth relaxed slightly. Earnest to the end, clumsy to the end, standing paralyzed before someone's emotions once again tonight. That was who Tanaka Yukari was. The taxi stopped in front of the Shimoka mansion. ─────────── She unlocked the front door and removed her shoes. A message had arrived on her phone: *"I have materials on Kirishima Renji and Verde Partners. I'll give them to you tomorrow morning."* It was from Tōma. She didn't need to check the sender's name to know. She read the brief message twice, three times. Verde Partners—the name of the management consulting firm Kirishima Renji headed. "I have materials" meant Tōma had known something beforehand. Or had been trying to find out. Renji's words from tonight were reexamined in retrospect. "Treats you as a possession"—what if those words had been calculated? What if they'd been aimed at the softest part of her chest, measured and targeted in advance? The pain lodged in her chest like a stake began to shift into a different form. But—what remained most deeply was not suspicion of Renji. It was the memory of Tōma's trembling hand. The temperature and faint tremor the moment his fingers enfolded her wrist. The command-shaped words, the raw something beneath his voice. Walking down the hallway toward her room, Yukari thought: Should she trust Tōma? The truth of Renji's words. The nature of her own feelings. Nothing had an answer, and everything swirled in her chest. Her feet stopped. She found herself in front of the study door. There was a sound. From beyond the door, faintly—piano music was leaking through. Yukari couldn't move. That melody wasn't practice. It wasn't the kind of sound seeking precision, but something turned inward. Fragmented, halting, as if searching for something—or perhaps confirming something. A phrase would sound, stop, then begin again. She stood there, breathing shallowly, listening intently. In a silence so complete she could hear her own heartbeat, only the piano's melody existed. Her fingertips nearly touched the door's wood grain. Nearly—but stopped just short. The melody—broke off. Silence returned. Yukari remained standing, unable to move for a while. No one was asking her anything. The man beyond the door shouldn't know she was here. And yet—she wanted the melody to return. She wanted to hear that phrase again. That desire alone was more certain than all of tonight's questions. Whether to trust Tōma—that rational question. The truth of Renji's words. The nature of her own feelings. All of it remained unresolved in her chest. But just one thing—the moment the melody broke off, Yukari wanted it to return. That alone was certain. She withdrew her hand from the door. She walked quietly down the hallway toward her room. Tomorrow morning, she would receive materials from