Katsushika Ward, Shibamata. Past one in the morning. Akizuki Nagisa sat seiza before a low table in a six-mat room, pressing the tip of a ballpoint pen against the numbers in her passbook. Balance: ¥453,200. The tuition payment form for her younger brother Riku's first semester listed ¥870,000. Below it: "Payment deadline: July 14th." She set down the pen. Picked it up again. (I don't need to calculate. I already know.) And yet she calculated anyway. From her monthly take-home of ¥180,000, after rent, utilities, and food, barely ¥60,000 remained. There was no way to pay ¥870,000 from a ¥450,000 savings. The second semester fees would come again in November. Nagisa's eyes turned to the corner of the table. A small shelf held her parents' memorial tablets. Two small wooden plaques wrapped in white cloth. A traffic accident three years ago. She'd been twenty-three. From that day forward, Nagisa had become her brother's guardian. That was all it was—or so she'd trained herself to think. There had been no time for tears, no one to confide her weakness to. An envelope caught her eye. White envelope with "Tsurumi Law Office" printed on it. She'd been opening and closing it every three days since it arrived a week ago. Today was the final deadline for her response. The final notice had arrived in her mailbox this evening. Nagisa pulled the envelope closer and unfolded the documents inside. The cover read: "Proposal Regarding Contract Marriage." Below it, the terms were listed. Duration: Two years. Monthly compensation: ¥1,000,000 (¥790,000 after-tax take-home). With her ballpoint pen, Nagisa wrote calculations in the margins. ¥790,000 multiplied by twenty-four months. Total: ¥18,960,000. Riku's four-year tuition would cost around ¥3,500,000. Even with her living expenses included, there would be money left over. Plenty left over. (This will work.) Riku's face floated into her mind. He'd only just started university this spring, and he always said on the phone, "Sis, you don't have to push yourself so hard." Every time he said it, Nagisa laughed it off. It was quiet, she thought. Outside the apartment, a car passed somewhere in the distance. The candle in front of the memorial tablets had burned out. Nagisa stared at the documents for a long time. Her heart wasn't racing. That was what frightened her. Facing something this momentous, her own feelings were too quiet. No trembling. No tears. Only the sense that this had to be done—like that night after her parents died, when she'd called the funeral home. That same sensation. Nagisa picked up the pen and wrote "Akizuki Nagisa" in the signature field of the contract. The letters blurred slightly. Whether from tears or from her eyes drying out from staying up late, she couldn't tell. 　　　―――― The next morning, Nagisa stood before the Suzaku Tower. Chiyoda Ward, Marunouchi. Five minutes on foot from Tokyo Station, a forty-two-story glass building rose into the sky. The morning light of early summer reflected off the all-glass curtain wall, and Nagisa squinted involuntarily. In the first-floor entrance, a gilded Suzaku sculpture spread its wings. Over three meters tall, it remained frozen mid-flight. (This is the Suzaku Group headquarters.) Suzaku Food Service, where Nagisa worked, was technically a subsidiary of this group. But for someone who'd spent her days doing office work on the eighth floor of the Jakusho Building in Chuo Ward, this tower felt like another world entirely. The company logo was the same, yet the air that emanated from the entrance had a different density. When she gave her name at the reception desk, a woman in a suit said, "We've been expecting you," and guided her to the elevator. The doors closed. The floor numbers climbed. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty——. It stopped at forty-one. She was shown to a reception room. Her first thought was that it might be larger than her entire apartment. Daylight from Tokyo streamed in from the window side, and the white cup on the table, the white sofa, the white floor—all glowed softly. The view outside was not the Tokyo she usually saw. The Marunouchi cityscape spread out endlessly. A man stood with his back to the window. Jet-black short hair. Dark navy suit. Over 180 centimeters tall. A faint crease between his brows, a thin line at his mouth. He stood in a way that seemed neither smiling nor emotionless, yet changed the very air around him simply by existing. She hadn't expected the person who'd sent her a message last night—Suzaku Tōma—to look like this. (Like a sculpture of a concept, she thought.) Stupid, she immediately dismissed the thought. Tōma glanced at Nagisa for a moment, then his gaze fell to the documents on the table. "Please, sit." His voice was quiet. Nagisa lowered herself onto the sofa. Tōma picked up the documents and scanned them. Her resume, she realized. Within seconds, he spoke. "I'll explain the selection criteria." "...Yes." "No connections to the financial world. Low profile within the company. Clear economic motivation, low risk of emotional complications. An unremarkable person is convenient." His words were matter-of-fact. Like reading off procurement specifications. Nagisa's lips pressed together for just a moment. (An unremarkable person is convenient.) She understood it intellectually. This was a transaction. The correct response was to accept words without emotional weight, without emotion. She knew that. And yet her lips had pressed together. That was certain. Tōma raised his gaze from the documents. In that instant, his blue-gray eyes met hers. A beat. He held there. As if confirming something—as if checking whether her eyes were wet. It lasted only a moment. Then his gaze returned to the window. (Maybe I imagined it.) Nagisa conjured Riku's face in her mind. Just once. That was enough. She picked up the pen and wrote "Akizuki Nagisa" in the signature field. The same characters as last night, but this time they didn't blur. Tōma confirmed it and said only, "Then," before turning his gaze back to the window. After the elevator doors closed, Nagisa watched the numbers climb for a while. (An unremarkable person is convenient.) The words echoed in her ears once more. She couldn't quite say it hurt. They were words she'd known. Conditions she'd understood. And yet—words, even when you know them, can pierce you sometimes. At the same time, something else caught in her chest. That moment when Tōma's gaze turned to her face. That single beat. (I'm overthinking this.) She concluded as much. The elevator reached the first floor, and Nagisa left the Suzaku Tower. Stepping out into the early summer sunlight, the glass building glowed behind her once more. 　　　―――― Minato Ward, Shirasagidai. The Suzaku family's main residence, "Kakushōkan," seemed to occupy an entire block—larger than the Shibamata neighborhood Nagisa had come from. A three-story Western mansion. Built in 1987, yet the exterior showed no signs of age. A tea house was visible beyond the garden, and the manicured lawn gleamed as if wet in the evening light. A man named Matsunaga, the butler, waited at the entrance. Around sixty, with an impeccably straight posture. "Miss Akizuki, thank you for joining us today." He bowed with such courtesy that Nagisa felt slightly bewildered. She hadn't expected to be on the receiving end of such deference. She was shown to a guest room in the east wing of the third floor. Twenty-eight square meters. Larger than her Katsushika apartment. But once she'd placed her single suitcase of belongings, the room's emptiness became more pronounced. The walls were vast. The closet too large. Even with the garden visible through the window, she felt like she was floating apart from it all. (Is it okay for this to be mine?) When Matsunaga mentioned, "Your husband's private quarters are next door," Nagisa found herself looking at the wall. One wall. Just that thickness of plaster and wood separated her from Tōma. Thirty centimeters, perhaps forty—that was all that stood between her and her contractual husband. Close, she thought. And distant, she also thought. Both the physical proximity and the unbridgeable distance of their relationship fell into her chest at once. Dinner would be separate, Matsunaga informed her. His tone suggested this was "standard arrangement," and Nagisa answered, "I understand." Sitting alone before the meal brought to the dining room, Nagisa held her chopsticks without moving for a while. The dishes were numerous and carefully prepared. But eating alone at this table was a different kind of loneliness than eating alone in her Katsushika apartment. When you sat alone at a large table, you became aware of how many chairs there were. (I thought I shouldn't feel excited within a contract.) Nagisa gave a wry smile. Excited was the last thing she felt. If anything, her spirits were sinking. This was unexpected. She couldn't sleep. Deep into the night, Nagisa checked the clock while staring at the ceiling. Past midnight. The hallways of Kakushōkan were silent, only the sound of garden trees swaying in the wind drifting through the window. (I'll get some water.) Using the excuse that she hadn't checked what was in the refrigerator, Nagisa got up. She pulled on a thin cardigan and stepped into the hallway. At the end of the corridor, light was leaking out. A thin, pale light. The color of a desk lamp. Nagisa stopped in her tracks. That should lead to the living room. Matsunaga had explained the mansion's layout to her. (Is someone there?) She approached quietly. The door was open a few centimeters, light spilling through the gap. She steadied her breathing, then placed her hand on the door. Slowly, she opened it——and found Tōma surrounded by a sea of documents. His jacket hung on the back of his chair. He sat at the desk in his shirtsleeves, his laptop screen glowing white. Papers were stacked around him. Tōma must have sensed the door opening, but he didn't turn around. Nagisa opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. What could she say? "Can't you sleep?" would be off the mark. "Sorry to interrupt your work" had no purpose. "Is it okay if I'm here?" made no sense. With no words coming, Nagisa's eyes drifted to the edge of the sofa. A blanket lay folded there. Light gray, thin. Before she could think, her hands moved. She took the blanket and stepped closer to Tōma's back. One step, then another. The sound of pages turning stopped. Tōma's back stiffened slightly. It might have been her imagination, she thought. But she saw it clearly. His shoulders rose just a fraction, then settled back. As Nagisa reached out to drape the blanket over his shoulders——Tōma stood up. Reflexively, she stepped back. He turned to face her. His blue-gray eyes looked at her. The blanket was in her hands. He glanced at it once, then took it wordlessly. And then——he draped it over her shoulders. The distance between them was less than thirty centimeters. His hand rested on her shoulder. The motion of placing the blanket. That was all. A beat passed, and his hand remained. Nagisa forgot how to breathe. She became aware of her lungs stopping, conscious of the cessation itself. The weight of the blanket on her shoulders. Above it, the warmth of his hand. Large hands, her mind registered uselessly. Deep in her chest, one point throbbed violently. She'd never felt this sensation before. And yet—how could she understand what it was when she'd never known it? (I shouldn't feel excited within a contract.) She'd just thought that moments ago. Tōma spoke. "If you catch a cold, it will interfere with the contract." His voice was low and quiet. The words were businesslike. But. Nagisa looked at his profile. The line of his jaw seemed slightly tense. In the depths of his gaze, something seemed to be held back——. For just a moment, it appeared that way. Tōm