The moment he pressed send, Suzaku Tōma's heartbeat skipped a single beat. Why, he thought. Emotions were something he'd left outside the executive office long ago. And yet — what was this subtle irregularity? His fingertips had already placed the smartphone at the edge of his desk. The screen had gone dark. And still, a single point deep in his chest wavered, faintly, unmistakably. Tōma slowly turned his gaze toward the Tokyo night view. Beyond the windows of the forty-first floor of Suzaku Tower, the nighttime city center sprawled out. Countless lights arranged in a grid pattern, the red of Tokyo Tower bleeding into the distance. It was quiet. No one was in the office. The executive office past midnight was a solitary room, the only one lit in this massive building. (It's a rational choice. Not a matter of emotion.) He tried telling himself that. But the words echoed through his chest like a hollow cavity. —— The meeting that day began at two in the afternoon. The executive conference room on the forty-first floor of Suzaku Tower. From the window-side seat, you could look down on the Marunouchi streetscape, a high-ceilinged room. Twelve faces around the table all bore the same expression of tension. The agenda was an acquisition proposal for Tachibana Trading, a mid-sized trading company with a scale of thirty billion yen. It was a project the Strategic Business Division had spent a year building up. Suzaku Tōma took his seat thirty seconds before the start. His tall frame of one hundred eighty-four centimeters pulled back the chair. Jet-black short hair, dark navy suit, silver cufflinks gleaming at the cuffs of his white dress shirt. Expressionless. Yet his blue-gray eyes moved as if measuring everyone in the room one by one. A faint crease was etched between his brows. His lips held a thin line as if concealing something. Whether he was smiling or emotionless — no one in the conference room could tell. That was the kind of face it was. "Let's begin," Tōma said. His voice was low and flat. The presentation started. Tachibana Trading's financial statements appeared on the screen. As the business division representative read off the numbers, Tōma remained motionless, his eyes fixed on a single document. The problem occurred at the fourth slide. "...However, our division has concerns about the risks of this project." Kirashima, the division head of the food business department, leaned forward with the force of striking the table. A large man in his fifties with a powerful voice and emotions that showed easily on his face. "We have information that one of Tachibana Trading's major clients is currently in negotiations with a competitor in our group. Considering the possibility that major transactions could disappear after acquisition, isn't a valuation of thirty billion yen excessive?" The room stirred. Tōma didn't look up. Keeping his gaze fixed on a certain point in the document, he spoke quietly. "Where is that information from?" "From industry sources..." "Industry sources — specifically?" Kirashima faltered. Only then did Tōma raise his gaze. His blue-gray eyes turned quietly toward the division head's face. "Tachibana Trading's major client, the large restaurant chain, has a contract renewal coming next March. According to their IR materials, there is no fact that they are considering changing suppliers. Rather, transaction volume in the previous quarter increased twelve percent year-over-year." The sound of papers being turned. Tōma continued. "Regarding the story of negotiations with competitors, our investigation has found no confirmation of this. Even if it were true, we can limit the risk by including exclusivity clauses in the contract after acquisition completion. Tachibana Trading's true value lies in its logistics infrastructure. Even if some clients fluctuate, the basis of valuation remains unharmed." The room fell silent. Kirashima started to say something, then stopped. Tōma had already returned his gaze to the document. Not a shred of emotion. No anger, no contempt, not even a sense of victory — nothing was reflected on that face. The meeting ended in an hour and a half. The moment he stepped into the hallway, people scattered. Space naturally formed around Tōma. No one walked beside him. No one spoke to him. Colleagues were chatting somewhere down the corridor, but that was a conversation from a different world than Tōma's. (It's always like this.) Tōma didn't mind it. Or at least, he thought he didn't. The sound of his leather shoes echoed on the marble hallway. Regular, emotionless footsteps. When he returned to his office, a stack of documents had been placed at the edge of his desk. Arranged by his secretary. On top was a report with the name of a young employee, Tōdō. He was twenty-four, assigned to the company just this month. Tōma sat in his chair and picked up the report. The content wasn't bad. His way of reading data was still rough around the edges, but the perspective itself was interesting. From the arrangement of numbers, you could see an attitude of trying to view the market from a different angle, not dragged along by industry conventions. Tōma picked up a red ballpoint pen. He pointed out errors. In several places where there were logical leaps, he drew lines. That much was ordinary editing. But on the last page, in the bottom margin with plenty of white space, the movement of the pen changed slightly. Tōma wrote just one line there. *Your perspective is good. Deepen it in this direction.* After writing it, he gazed at that single line for a moment. He didn't quite understand why he'd written it. A rational supervisor only makes necessary points. Extra words are unnecessary. And yet, the pen had stopped there. (...Well, fine.) Tōma turned the report over and reached for the next document. —— The Imperial Hotel Tokyo. An established hotel with five hundred twenty guest rooms, standing in Uchisaiwaicho, Chiyoda Ward. The call from Kenichi came in early afternoon. The location was the Phoenix Room on the thirty-fifth floor, the top floor — the exclusive space where the "Phoenix Society," an informal salon of financial leaders, held dinners four times a year. It was closed to the public, and entry required Kenichi's direct recommendation, a room in a closed world. Tōma arrived there at six in the evening. As he walked down the hallway, his footsteps were absorbed by the thick carpet. The water birds in the Japanese paintings lined on the wall all seemed to be watching him in silence. Guided by staff to a private room, Suzaku Kenichi was already seated in a chair. Sixty-two years old. Hair streaked with white, a sturdy build, navy suit. Deep wrinkles around his eyes, yet a sharpness still remained in their depths. The eyes of a man who had led the group for thirty years. He had broad connections in political and financial circles, and it was said that a single word from Kenichi at the Phoenix Society could move the underbelly of Japan's economy. Suzaku Kenichi was that kind of existence. "Sit," he said in a short tone. Tōma sat in the chair across from him. On the table, a portion of documents lay. Kenichi slid them forward to him as if it were nothing. Tōma reached out and looked at the cover. *Spouse Candidate Evaluation Table (Third Round)* Documents for three people. Photographs were attached. All were daughters of prominent families, their education, assets, and bloodline quantified and arranged in a table. As if embodying the Suzaku family motto — "Bloodline is the foundation of business, honor is the wings of Suzaku" — every number there was high and orderly. (...So this is my appraisal.) Tōma's expression didn't move. While gazing at the numbers in the document, he was looking somewhere distant. Or rather, precisely speaking, he was looking into the past. His father's study. The smell of old wood. Bookshelves covering an entire wall, about three thousand volumes. His younger self, crying there. He no longer remembered why he was crying. Only one thing remained — his father's words. *Suzaku men do not cry.* That was all. That was enough. From that day on, Tōma never cried again. He stopped showing emotion on his face. And before he knew it, that had become his entire self. "Among these, the Kirishima family's daughter has the most complete conditions," Kenichi said. "At next month's Phoenix Society dinner, the second Saturday in June, I'll arrange a meeting. Attend," Kenichi said. Tōma looked up from the documents. "...Understood," he said. His voice was flat. His expression empty. Kenichi accepted it with a satisfied look. Tōma gripped the fountain pen in his hand. Just barely, strength entered his fingers. So small that he himself barely noticed it. —— Past midnight, the executive office was empty. Tōma sat at his desk, gazing at the Tokyo night view. The lights were dimmed, so the light from outside the window reflected into the room. Countless grids of light. This city never slept. And he, too, could not sleep tonight. (Think rationally.) The problem was simple. His father intended to complete the spouse selection plan before Tōma turned thirty. A deadline two years away. If he could establish a fait accompli by then, his father would be unable to move. Presenting candidate daughters to a married man was something the Phoenix Society's dignity would not allow. So, who should he choose? Tōma opened his computer and accessed the employee database of a group subsidiary. Suzaku Food Service, approximately eight hundred employees. A food distribution subsidiary with headquarters on the eighth floor of the Suzaku Building in Chuo Ward. There were three conditions. To be inconspicuous. To have no connections with the financial world. And to be someone in a situation where they wouldn't be unfairly harmed by this transaction. The last condition seemed like rational judgment to Tōma himself. Not a matter of emotion. Simply a condition to minimize the risk of contract breakdown. That was how Tōma explained it to himself. He proceeded with the narrowing. He set the age range to the twenties. Position: general clerical staff. No history showing connections with the financial world or engagement records. Several candidates remained. Tōma's finger stopped at one of them. A photograph of someone with light brown hair carelessly tied up. The honest impression was that she was ordinary. No affectation. No manufactured impression. The face in the photograph looked straight at the camera. He called Tsurumi Kōtarō, a lawyer, at one in the morning. Fifty-five years old, representative of Tsurumi Law Office. A person the Suzaku family had long trusted. Tsurumi on the phone seemed to have been sleeping, his voice low. "Prepare a complete set of contract marriage documents. It's urgent," Tōma said. "...What are the period and conditions?" Tsurumi asked. "Period of two years. One million yen monthly, paid as after-tax take-home. No romantic relationships, confidentiality obligations, amicable divorce upon expiration. Set the penalty for breach at thirty million yen," Tōma said. There was a short silence on the phone. "...Understood. However, regarding the issue of intent to marry——" Tsurumi said. "I understand. Include risk management for that as well," Tōma said. He hung up. Tōma picked up his smartphone and opened the messaging app. The name of the recipient appeared small at the edge of the screen. Tōma typed out text. *Please forgive this sudden contact. I am Suzaku Tōma, Executive Vice President of Suzaku Group. I have something I would like to discuss with you. I am proposing a contract marriage. Would you be willing to accept these terms?* His finger stopped. He looked at the screen. Tōma gazed at the text he had typed for a while. It felt like something was missing. Or rather, it felt like something was too much. But he couldn't tell what it was. (Send