After ten at night, I'd find myself staring at my smartphone screen before I even realized it. "[sad]...Again." My apartment in Ebisu, all alone. The leaves of my houseplants quivered faintly in the breeze from the air conditioner. Still seated on the sofa, Shiori waited for the screen to go dark. Two weeks had passed since that night. Since that second night at Vanvert—since she'd lain with Reima—Shiori's everyday life had begun to crumble audibly. It wasn't as though she was summoned every night. Reima's messages, always from a blocked number, came without warning. *Come tonight.* Just those two words. And that alone was enough to empty Shiori's mind of everything else. The screen went dark. Tonight, nothing had come. A chill seeped slowly through the center of her chest. (*What am I even hoping for?*) She covered her face with both hands. Waiting to be called—by *that* cold man. Even at work, the mere sound of Reima's footsteps crossing the floor made her fingers tremble. Every time they passed each other, she found herself searching for his gaze. On days their eyes never met, a heaviness sat in her chest all afternoon. Three years ago, when her father died, it had been the same. Something was missing, but she couldn't tell anyone, so she carried it alone—that same sensation was creeping back, little by little. That was when it happened. *Bzzz.* Her smartphone vibrated. On the screen, two brief characters. —*Come.* Shiori rose to her feet. She grabbed her coat and headed for the door. (*Today, I won't go.*) She repeated it to herself, over and over in her mind. She got in the elevator and left the building. She hailed a taxi and gave the address in Nishi-Azabu. Outside the window, the lights of Ebisu streamed past, blurring before her eyes. (*Today—I won't go.*) Her own murmured voice was so thin and frail it made her sad. ── Hotel Vanvert Tokyo. The Presidential Suite, "Gekka." In the quiet fifty-five-square-meter room, the red glow of Tokyo Tower filtered in. On the bed, Shiori clutched the tangled sheets to her chest. Her breathing still hadn't settled. Along the inside of her thighs, the cold remnants of her own arousal lingered. Reima lay on his back, silently combing through Shiori's hair with his fingers. That movement alone belonged to someone entirely different from the coldhearted president she saw in the office by day. Slowly, as if untangling knotted strands. Every so often, the back of his fingers grazed behind her ear. The gesture was tender—and precisely because it was tender, it made her chest ache with a tightening pain. (*Please stop.*) If he touched her like that, she'd start to hope. It was Reima's low voice that broke the silence. "[whispers]Become mine." A murmur, yet a tone with steel at its core. Shiori's breath stopped. Something lurched violently in the center of her chest. *What did he just say?* She opened her eyes, tried to look up at his face—and in that instant. Reima's icy blue eyes had already chilled back to coldness. "[cold]A joke." He said it curtly, almost throwing the words away, and rose from the bed, brushing aside the sheets. A joke. The sensation of him inside her moments ago, the warmth of his fingers stroking her hair—that single phrase made it all feel like a betrayal. The center of her chest ached as if gouged by a sharp blade. "[cold]Have the revised proposal submitted to the conference room by tomorrow morning." Heading toward the bathroom, Reima said only that. His voice no longer held even a trace of the earlier heat. Frozen on the bed, Shiori stared up at the dark ceiling. She wanted to cry. And yet, not a single tear would come. Instead, the back of her throat went dry and parched. Her fingers, clutching the sheets, trembled faintly. (*Become mine.*) (*A joke.*) The two voices echoed alternately in her head, and nausea welled up inside her. ── The next morning. The 39th floor of Roppongi Hills Mori Tower, the Production Department floor. Shiori arrived at work having barely slept. Behind her eyes burned with heat. The characters on her computer monitor looked blurred, swimming before her. Trying to input the figures for the proposal, her hands shook, and she made one mistake after another. "[gentle]Shiori? Have you lost weight lately?" A bright voice came from behind her, and Shiori's shoulders jolted. Turning around, she saw Ai Tsujimura, her red hair swaying, peering at her with a worried expression. A fellow hire from the same year, a junior creator in the Production Department. Always cheerful, Ai was the one person in this oppressive office she could breathe around. "[gentle]I'm fine. Just a bit swamped with work." Shiori forced a smile. Ai didn't press further, but her hazel eyes said she wasn't convinced. Eleven in the morning. Saegusa, the head of the Production Department, strode imposingly across the floor. A man in his fifties, he belonged to the old-guard faction and thought little of Reima. But unable to oppose him directly, he took it out on Shiori instead. "[cold]Kagami, the documents for the president are due by noon today. Don't be late." The moment Saegusa's voice stabbed into her ears—Shiori's vision went softly white. (*Huh?*) Her breathing was shallow. No matter how much she inhaled, the air wouldn't reach her lungs. Her fingers went numb, and the computer keyboard seemed to warp and twist before her eyes. She tried to stand from her chair and fell to her knees on the floor. A stir ran through the surrounding area. "[scared]Shiori!?" Ai's voice reached her from far away. Someone said something about an ambulance. *Don't, I don't need an ambulance*—she wanted to say it, but her mouth wouldn't move. ── When she came to, she was lying on a bed in the infirmary tucked in the corner of the 39th floor. An IV needle was inserted into her left arm. The smell of antiseptic stung her nose. The female staff member in charge of health management said, "Please rest for a while," and left the room, leaving Shiori alone. It was quiet. Only the low hum of the air conditioner sounded with mechanical regularity. Staring absently at the ceiling, Shiori groped for the smartphone by her pillow. Two missed calls—from Ai. And—a text message from an unregistered number. The moment she opened the screen, her fingers froze. *'Do not trust him. You are a tool for revenge.—If you want the truth, look into your father's dismissal records.'* The sender was blank. The time sent was 11:14 AM, right after Shiori had collapsed. In her mind, fragments of memories from three years ago resurfaced. —*Kagami-san, as of today, you are dismissed from your position as director.* Her father's pale face. The words *suspicion of breach of trust*. Two months later, the sudden news of his death. And then—the purpose behind Saionji Reima's acquisition of M's Creative. Revenge. The words "a tool for revenge" seared themselves onto the back of her eyelids and wouldn't leave. (*That man—he... my father...*) The moment her thoughts reached that point, her smartphone vibrated again. Displayed on the screen was Reima's number. *'Tonight at eight. Come to Vanvert. I'll have dinner prepared.'* A short message. Last night's cold voice saying, "A joke." And the warning she'd just read: "a tool for revenge." The two overlapped in her mind, and something akin to nausea crawled up the back of her throat. And yet— The pull toward Reima still hadn't vanished. Unbelievably, even to herself, she still wanted to see him. She wanted to look straight into Reima's eyes and confirm the truth. But what lay beyond that confirmation—she was too afraid to imagine. (*What do I really want?*) At that moment, the infirmary door opened. "[worried]Shiori, you look terrible. Go home early today." Ai came in and stood beside the bed. In place of her usual bright smile, her face now held genuine worry. Shiori raised her upper body from the futon. "[gentle]Ai-chan... can I ask you something?" She got that far, then the words stopped. There was nothing she could tell Ai. Nothing she could tell anyone. About her relationship with the president, about the suspicion surrounding her father, about the mysterious message she'd just received. "[gentle]...Sorry, it's nothing." She laughed it off. But whether the smile was convincing, even she couldn't tell. ── Seven-thirty at night. At her home in Ebisu, Shiori stood before the mirror. She hid her neck with a scarf and slipped on her coat. Inside her bag was the smartphone with the mysterious message saved on it. (*If you want the truth—*) Those words echoed ceaselessly in the depths of her ears. But tonight wasn't a dinner to confirm that. Reima had called her, so she was going. That was all—Shiori told herself. She left her apartment and hailed a taxi. "[gentle]To Nishi-Azabu." The car pulled away. Outside the window, the lights of Ebisu streamed past. In her bag, she gripped her smartphone tightly. The cold feel of the screen seeped into her palm. Love for Reima and distrust of him existed in her chest simultaneously. She wanted to confirm the truth. But confirming it terrified her. These contradictory emotions kept spinning round and round inside her head. ── She arrived at Hotel Vanvert Tokyo. A butler silently guided her to the top floor. Before the door of the Presidential Suite "Gekka," Shiori stopped just once. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. In the center of the room, dinner for two had been prepared. The red wine poured into the glasses caught the light of Tokyo Tower, swaying like blood. Reima stood by the window, gazing down at the nightscape. "[serious]You came." On Reima's face as he turned around, there was nothing—neither the coldness of last night, nor the heat from the midst of their acts. Only his fathomless blue eyes pierced through Shiori. Inside her bag, Shiori gripped her smartphone one more time. Who was the sender of that message? How were her father's dismissal and Reima's plan for revenge connected? The answer was still nowhere to be found.