The suitcase's casters rolled across the marble floor. Click, click, click—the sound echoed unnaturally loud. Hana stopped and looked around. The entrance had high ceilings, with indirect lighting casting a soft glow on white walls. It felt like a different world from a typical apartment. Nothing resembled the old apartment in Bunkyo Ward where she'd lived until now. "You must be Kirishima-sama." A woman in a suit stood near the reception counter. Probably in her thirties. Her hair was neatly arranged, and she offered a calm smile. A badge embroidered with "RESIDENCE PRISMA" adorned her chest. A concierge. "[gentle]I'm Kashiwagi Tomomi. Thank you for choosing us today." "[surprised]Ah... yes. I'm Kirishima Hana. Thank you." Kashiwagi glanced at Hana's suitcase and casually reached out. "I'll carry your luggage." Hana started to say it was fine, but Kashiwagi had already taken it. They entered the elevator. As the doors closed, Hana's reflection appeared in the mirrored interior. (I came. I actually came.) Seven days had passed since she signed the contract at that Crossfield Tower last week. Her father's medical bills would be fully covered. She'd receive 80,000 yen monthly. In exchange, for two years, she'd play the role of Kurosaki Ren's "wife"—that was the contract. Legally, they'd filed a proper marriage certificate. A real marriage. But the contents were purely business. "For two years: no romantic feelings allowed, no interference in private life." She'd repeated the contract's language to herself countless times. The elevator stopped at the 42nd floor. When the doors opened, Hana almost gasped. The living room was vast. About 150 square meters—she'd heard the number, but numbers meant nothing. In a space where her entire childhood home could fit, refined sofas and low tables were arranged. Most of the wall was window, and Tokyo's April dusk spread out like a painting. She could see Tokyo Tower in the distance. The lights of Minato Ward melted into the orange sky. There was no sense of life here. It didn't look like anyone actually lived in this place. "[gentle]This is the living room. The study is in the back, and across the hallway to the right is your room, Kirishima-sama." While Kashiwagi was explaining, the study door opened. A man emerged. Black shirt, slacks. No suit jacket, yet there was no carelessness about him. Black hair with a hint of red mesh woven through. A silver ear cuff on his right ear. He was about two heads taller than Hana, and his silver eyes—sharp, piercing—looked at her. Kurosaki Ren, 29 years old. The heir to Crossfield. Hana's "contractual husband." She was seeing his face for the first time. Ren gave her a quick once-over, then looked away. His expression was completely unreadable. "Put the luggage there." "[serious]...Yes." "Three rules. Don't talk unnecessarily. Don't intrude on my private life. Don't bring emotions into this." With that, he turned to go back to the study. Hana called out impulsively. "Um—" Ren stopped. He didn't turn around. "[serious]...I understand." That was all she could say. Ren entered the study and closed the door. *Click*—a quiet sound. Kashiwagi looked like she wanted to say something, but only said, "Please let me know if you have any questions," before heading back to the elevator. Hana was left alone in the living room. Alone in the vast room. Tokyo's evening view spread beyond the window. "...This is the worst." She felt like collapsing onto the marble floor, but stopped herself. (It's business. Just business. I came here to protect Dad.) Repeating this to herself, Hana dragged her suitcase down the hallway. --- The next morning. When she woke, she didn't know where she was for a moment. The ceiling was white. The window was large. Oh, right. Here. Hana got out of bed, washed her face, and headed to the kitchen. She'd planned to prepare breakfast herself—but a bag was sitting on the counter. A white paper bag. The moment she saw the printed logo, Hana froze. "Komugi no Kaze." A small bakery in Yanaka Ginza shopping street. She'd been going there since childhood, and still bought from it every time she returned to her father's house. Their signature item was melon pan—fluffy dough topped with crispy cookie dough. Some people wouldn't eat melon pan from anywhere else, and Hana was one of them. —Why was this here? She opened the refrigerator. Another identical pan was inside, presumably for the next day. Hana stared at it for a while, then knocked on the study door. "[serious]...Um, excuse me." Silence for a few seconds. "What?" "Who put this bread here?" The answer came through the door. "Kashiwagi from concierge probably did it on her own." "I see." Hana went downstairs and found Kashiwagi. The concierge at the reception counter smiled softly when she saw Hana's face. "About the bread in the kitchen..." "[gentle]I haven't done anything, I assure you." The answer was calm and definitive. Hana returned to the 42nd floor. The paper bag was still on the kitchen counter. (If it wasn't Kashiwagi-san—) There was only one possibility: Ren had bought it. But with that cold attitude from yesterday? When he'd said "don't talk unnecessarily"? Hana took out one melon pan and bit into it. Sweet. Soft. The cookie dough crunched, and the bread inside was fluffy. It was her favorite taste. (I don't... understand.) Yet somehow, she felt a little relieved. "It's business, I'm telling you." She muttered it to herself in a voice no one else could hear, then ate the rest of the pan. --- Night of day four living together. Her body had felt sluggish since morning. At work, her head was foggy, and the purchase order confirmation that usually took twenty minutes took thirty. On the train home, she'd kept her eyes closed the whole time. Back at the penthouse, she tried to prepare dinner—but standing in front of the open refrigerator, she couldn't bring herself to do anything. "[serious]...I can't do this today." She closed the refrigerator and retreated to her room. Too tired to change, she collapsed onto the bed. The next moment, consciousness slipped away. Deep in the night, thirst woke her. It was dark. The clock showed past 2 AM. When she reached toward her pillow—there was a cold sensation. A plastic bottle. Pocari Sweat, 500ml. Hana rubbed her eyes and looked again. The bottle was definitely there. And when she touched her forehead—she realized a cool sheet was stuck there. A cooling patch. The kind you buy at convenience stores. She hadn't put it on. She hadn't prepared anything like that before sleeping. Hana slowly sat up and looked at her door. A thin light showed through the gap beneath it. The hallway light was on. No footsteps. The study was silent too. Hana twisted open the Pocari cap and took a sip. It was cold and slightly sweet. Her throat felt a little better. (Who came in?) There was only one answer. But when that answer surfaced in her mind, she couldn't think clearly anymore. He did it silently. Didn't say his name. Wouldn't even acknowledge it. Yet he did things like this—what kind of person was he? Hana hugged the Pocari bottle tightly with both hands. "What is this person?" She whispered it to herself. She was confused, certainly. But somewhere deep in her chest, warmth was spreading quietly. (Stop, not this.) Being shaken by these small kindnesses was unexpected. It wasn't in the contract. Hana lay back on the bed, still clutching the Pocari. --- That same deep night, in the study. Ren had papers spread under the desk lamp, but his pen wasn't moving. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small photo frame hidden in the back. Kurosaki Ayako. Ren's mother. The woman in the photo was smiling. A warm smile, holding young Ren's hand. She'd died of illness when Ren was fourteen. That was fifteen years ago now. (I won't love anyone.) He repeated the words he'd been telling himself. If you don't feel, you don't lose. If you lose, you break again. That's why the contract. Limited duration, emotionless relationship. That was safest. —Then he remembered something from earlier. A small humming had drifted from the living room. Hana was singing while washing dishes. It was some song, but her pitch was off, and it turned into a different song halfway through. She didn't seem to notice. Ren had looked up from his papers. But his hands had stopped. It was strange humming. That was all. He put the photo frame back in the drawer. Looked down at the papers. But his hands wouldn't move. --- Evening of day six living together. Hana's condition had improved significantly, and she left her room. In the kitchen, another paper bag sat on the counter. Today it was melon pan with walnuts. The walnut version from Komugi no Kaze was only baked twice a week—a limited item so rare that even locals sometimes couldn't get it. In the living room, Ren was reading documents on the sofa. He'd removed his suit jacket. In his black shirt, one leg crossed, his hand holding the documents was still. He looked like a picture, yet there was an unapproachable air about him. Hana took a deep breath. "[serious]...Um." Ren didn't look up from his documents. "You're putting these here every day... it's you, right?" A moment of silence. "Who knows." He answered curtly without looking up, then turned a page. Hana stood there, waiting for him to say something more. Nothing came. Ren turned another page. (This person...) "[gentle]...Thank you." She said it quietly. Ren's hand—for just an instant—stopped. Hana didn't notice. But it had stopped. Then he turned the page again. He said nothing. Hana took the melon pan back to her room. She sat on the bed and opened her phone's memo app. Created a new memo. Title: Ren's Mystery List. ①Melon pan (Komugi no Kaze)—doesn't deny it ②Pocari and cooling patch—puts them silently ③Kashiwagi-san said "I don't know" As she typed, Hana smiled wryly at herself. She was acting like she was investigating something. (Why does melon pan from Yanaka arrive every day? Yanaka Ginza is at least thirty minutes away by train from here.) While chewing the melon pan, she typed at the end of the list. "Can't bring myself to hate him" She deleted it. Then typed it again. Couldn't delete it. Hana set the phone face-down and looked at the ceiling. Beyond the window, Tokyo's night spread out. The lights of Minato Ward glowed with a brightness different from Bunkyo Ward. (It's supposed to be business.) That's what the contract said. Two years, no emotions, no private interference. She understood that. But somehow, these small kindnesses reaching her through the walls were growing quietly inside her. Across the hallway, the study light was on, visible through the gap in the door. He was probably still working. Even at this hour. Hana exhaled softly. Two years. It had only just begun.