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Four Brides

  The knock came at door—three sharp raps.

  “Sir, your brides are waiting for you.”

  The voice was polite but firm, the kind used for announcements that brook no delay.

  In the dim glow of the vanity mirror, the young man adjusted his cufflinks. His reflection stared back: a boyish face hardened at the edges, a tailored suit that cost more than most people’s cars.

  “So the time has come.”

  His escort, a man in a dove-gray uniform, fell into step beside him as they moved down the hallway. The air smelled of jasmine and candle wax.

  “Five years since I first met them,” the groom murmured, more to himself than to the attendant. His fingers brushed the scar on his palm.

  The double doors swung open. Light flooded his vision—chandeliers, hundreds of eyes, the rustle of silk. And there, at the center:

  Four women in white.

  Their gowns were identical, but their expressions weren’t. One smiled like a knife. Another’s gaze was tender, almost pitying. The third held her chin high, defiant. The fourth—*the fourth*—looked at him.

  The crowd stirred.

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  “The groom is here!”

  Five years ago, he’d been nobody. A student with ink-stained fingers and a heart full of hunger. Then they chose him.

  Now, as he walked toward them, he remembered his first thought upon seeing them:

  I’ll never be enough.

  The brides’ smiles deepened. One extended her hand.

  He took it.

  “But now I…”

  ~Five Years Ago~

  6:58 AM – The alarm screamed into the silence of a cramped apartment.

  A jolt. A groan. A hand slapped at the phone, silencing it.

  "Oh, I'm late."

  Haruto Takumi lurched upright, his black hair sticking up in sleep-mussed spikes. The single-room apartment smelled of instant ramen and laundry left too long in the corner. He yanked on wrinkled slacks, scrubbed his face with icy water (the heater had broken weeks ago), and shoved half a stale melonpan into his mouth as he jammed his feet into scuffed loafers.

  7:22 AM – The station swarmed with salarymen, their identical black suits blending into a single murmuring mass. Haruto’s phone buzzed—a reminder:

  [INTERVIEW – S.E. CORP – YOSHIO BRANCH – 9:00 AM]

  He squeezed onto the train just as the doors hissed shut, his back pressed against a salaryman’s briefcase. Over the tinny announcement of stops, a giggle cut through the humid air.

  A young couple, fingers intertwined. The girl leaned into her boyfriend’s shoulder, whispering something that made him grin. Haruto turned away, but not fast enough to miss the way the boy tucked a stray hair behind her ear—gentle, like she was something precious.

  His throat tightened. He focused on his reflection in the window: a 20-year-old with shadows under his eyes, his only "suit" a thrift-store blazer with a missing button.

  8:05 AM – The city unfolded in a maze of glass and steel. Haruto squinted at his phone’s map, then up at the neon logos glowing down at him.

  "If that’s the SHIROHI building… then YOSHIO should be…"

  A gust of wind nearly ripped the folder from his hands—inside, his résumé, printed at the convenience store last night. The edges were already damp with sweat.

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