Chapter 40: He Was Already Inside || Sude ni Naka ni Ita

  Shunsuke’s apartment, Roppongi → November 2nd, 2022

  “Some threats do not announce themselves. They wait to be noticed.”

  "We’re going to my apartment first," Shunsuke said, his voice gentle but layered with a new, executive steel. "We gather everything that’s important—your things, Yuki’s, and the mountain of supplies that 'Prince' Kuro requires."

  Miyu nodded, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights. She remained tense, her fingers interlaced in her lap. "What did you really talk about with my father? I mean... does he...?" She trailed off, the word retribution hanging unsaid in the air. She was terrified that the pact would involve more blood than Shunsuke could afford to spill.

  "Your father isn't calling for a general blood retribution against our clan," Shunsuke said, stealing a fraction of a second to look her way. His expression was calm, almost chillingly so. "I promised him that I would personally deliver Tsukasa to the Nakashima-gumi."

  Miyu’s breath hitched. She knew what that meant. In the underworld, being "handed over" to a rival family you had personally shamed was a sentence far more brutal than a prison cell.

  "That means..." she whispered, "that Tsukasa faces a fate much worse than anything Ryuichi could do in a courtroom."

  "Yes," Shunsuke replied, and this time, a dark, low chuckle escaped him. It wasn't the laugh of the host or the model; it was the laugh of the Wakagashira. "He spent years playing god with people's lives, Miyu. He thought he was untouchable behind the Kawamura name. He’s about to find out what happens when that name is stripped away."

  "Is that alright for you?" Miyu asked softly, her eyes searching his profile. "That Tsukasa gets judged by my family? He is still your brother."

  Shunsuke’s eyes didn't flicker from the road. "He stopped being my brother the moment he stood by and watched you suffer. He will get exactly what he deserves."

  The drive through the neon-soaked streets of Roppongi was peaceful, a shared silence that didn't require words. Shunsuke kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting firmly on Miyu’s knee, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles. It was a grounding touch, reminding her—and perhaps himself—that they were still a team.

  He guided the LC500 into the private, high-security garage of his apartment complex, pulling into his designated spot next to his Lexus RX. The engine’s low purr died, replaced by the humming stillness of the concrete structure.

  True to form, Shunsuke was out of the driver's seat and around to the passenger side before Miyu could even reach for the handle. He opened the door and offered his hand, helping her out with the practiced grace of a prince. Miyu stepped onto the pavement, a small smile playing on her lips. She always let him do it; there was something undeniably endearing about his contradictions.

  In so many ways, Shunsuke was the pinnacle of modern Tokyo—a fashion icon, a model, a man who broke every stereotype of the old-world Yakuza. Yet, in the way he treated her, he was stubbornly, almost fiercely traditional. He didn't just love her; he cherished her with a protective chivalry that felt like it belonged to a different century.

  Shunsuke didn't even make it past the foyer before the instinctual alarm in his gut screamed. The layout was exactly as they had left it, yet the energy was wrong. He moved with a predator’s caution, his hand hovering near the small of his back where he kept his emergency piece.

  Then, he saw it.

  Sitting on the pristine white marble of the kitchen island—the very place where he and Miyu had shared coffee and laughter just days ago—was a single, glossy photograph. It looked like a discarded piece of mail, but it drew the light in a way that felt oily and wrong.

  As Shunsuke approached, his composure shattered. The blood drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly, sickly pale. He gripped the edge of the counter so hard the stone seemed to groan under his knuckles. The image was a direct message from the darkest depths of the past: a fifteen-year-old Miyu, her eyes wide with a terror that hadn't aged, restrained and exposed in a way that stripped her of her dignity.

  Miyu stepped forward, her hand reaching out. "Shunsuke? What is it—"

  "Don’t!" Shunsuke’s voice was a raw, jagged command. He physically blocked her view, his body trembling with a mixture of nausea and homicidal rage. He felt the bile rising in his throat. "Don't look, Miyu. Go to the bedroom. Take your things. Gather everything for Yuki. Now."

  He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the photo as if it were a venomous snake. "He was here... Tsukasa was in our home."

  Shunsuke stood in the living room, the laptop screen casting a pale, clinical light over his features. He watched the grainy playback: a man in a dark coat, his head tilted just so, speaking to the front desk security. From a distance, even the most trained eye would see the "Prince of Roppongi." The posture was nearly identical, the stride familiar. But as the figure turned toward the elevator camera, Shunsuke saw the truth—the cold, predatory stillness in the eyes that no amount of acting could mimic.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  His jaw clenched with such force he felt a dull ache behind his ears. He snapped the laptop shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent apartment.

  He walked into the bedroom, where Miyu was frantically pulling essentials into a suitcase. She looked up, her eyes wide and searching for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

  "He posed as me," Shunsuke said, his voice a grim, hollow rasp. "He walked right through the front door, asked security for the spare key, and they gave it to him without a second thought."

  He leaned against the doorframe, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He could feel the edge of the photograph through the fabric of his trousers. "We look enough alike that a low-resolution camera and a polite lie were all he needed. He’s always been a snake, Miyu—always knowing exactly which skin to shed to get what he wants."

  Shunsuke stepped up behind Miyu, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle her in the high-tension air. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled the scent of her hair—shampoo and something warm that was uniquely her—desperately trying to ground his spiraling mind.

  Miyu could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against her back. It was a physical manifestation of the trauma his brother had spent a lifetime refining. "Everyone close to you would know instantly that it wasn't you," she murmured, her voice a soft anchor. "They would see it in the way he walks, the way he looks at people."

  Shunsuke let out a shuddering breath, his grip tightening just a fraction. "Maybe. But what if he goes to Yuki’s school? If he smiles at a teacher and says he’s her father? They wouldn't know the difference until it was too late." His voice was shaking, the cold terror of a parent overriding the discipline of a Yakuza.

  "We inform the school," Miyu said firmly, turning in his arms to look him in the eye. "We tell them exactly what is going on. We give them a password. We protect her."

  They moved together into the guest room—Yuki’s sanctuary. Shunsuke leaned over the small bed, his large hands looking out of place as he gathered her treasures: the raccoon plushie he’d bought her to match Kuro, a little seal, and a well-loved, slightly faded fox.

  Miyu let out a small, genuine laugh that cut through the gloom. "I bought that fox the day she was born. She’s never slept a night without it."

  Shunsuke smiled, a ghost of his usual warmth returning as he carefully tucked the plushies into a travel bag along with her drawings. Returning to the living room, he moved with purpose, snagging Kuro’s favorite cashmere blanket and his tech.

  But as they reached the door, he stilled. His gaze drifted to the grand black piano standing silently in the corner, its polished surface gleaming under the dim lights. He walked over to it, his fingers tracing the keys in a slow, mournful caress, as if he were saying farewell to a version of himself he wasn't sure he’d ever see again.

  "Someday," he murmured to the empty room, "I will be able to play again. For real."

  The elevator hummed, a sterile box of chrome and mirrors. Shunsuke looked at Miyu, his eyes soft but searching. "Miyu, how comfortable would you be driving one of the cars out? It would be easier to move everything in one trip."

  Miyu took a shallow, nervous breath, her eyes tracing the floor. "I have my license, but... apart from that night in your Lexus, I haven't driven at all since my training," she admitted, her voice small. "I can do it, but I’ll be slow. I’d probably have to avoid the main roads and the crowded streets."

  Shunsuke nodded immediately, sensing the tension in her shoulders. He didn't want her white-knuckling a steering wheel through Tokyo traffic while her mind was still reeling from the photograph in the kitchen.

  "That wouldn't be a problem," he said gently. "But if you don't want to, I can ask Ryuichi to drop me back here later on his motorcycle. I’ll fetch the second car once the initial move is settled."

  Miyu averted her gaze for a second, her fingers twisting together—a nervous habit that always pulled at Shunsuke’s heart. "If that isn't a problem... I would prefer that, Shunsuke," she murmured, her voice laced with a hint of guilt.

  Shunsuke didn't let the guilt linger. He stepped closer, cupping her face and pressing a warm, reassuring kiss to her forehead. "Don’t feel bad, Mochi-chan. It’s perfectly alright," he whispered. "The last thing I want is for you to be stressed behind the wheel. We do this at your pace, not the Gumi’s."

  As the elevator door opened, they walked towards the cars. The sudden shift in the garage was like a plunge into freezing water. The safe, sterile environment of the luxury complex had been completely compromised. Tsukasa wasn't just haunting their memories anymore; he was a physical ghost, haunting their actual space.

  "We’ll take the RX first," Shunsuke decided, his voice a low, practical hum. "More space for the bags and more practical for the drive to Shinjuku than the LC500."

  He moved with efficient speed, tossing the suitcases and Yuki’s precious plushies onto the leather backseats. Miyu slid into the passenger side, her exhaustion finally catching up to her. But as Shunsuke walked around to the driver's side, his eyes caught a flicker of movement in a gray sedan parked three rows over—a car he had never noticed before.

  His blood turned to ice.

  There, behind the tinted glass of the sedan, sat Tsukasa. He wasn't hiding. He was leaning back, a sharp, predatory grin stretching across his face, his eyes locked onto Shunsuke’s with a look of absolute triumph. He didn't move to attack; he simply watched, enjoying the sheer terror his presence inspired.

  Shunsuke dove into the driver's seat, the door slamming with a violent thud. "We need to go now... he’s here," Shunsuke gasped, his voice strained and thin.

  He thumbed the ignition, the Lexus roaring to life, and peeled out of the garage. He drove with a frantic alertness, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror, expecting the gray sedan to scream out of the shadows at any moment. But Tsukasa didn't follow. He stayed in the darkness, a shark watching its prey swim into deeper water.

  Miyu reached out, her hand hovering near his arm as she noticed the visible tremor running through his body—the aftershock of seeing his own face twisted into a mask of malice. "Should I drive, Purin-kun?" she asked softly, using the sweet nickname as a desperate tether to pull him back from the edge.

  Shunsuke shook his head, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "No... It's fine..." he murmured, though his breath was still coming in shallow hitches. "I just need to get you behind the Nakashima gates. Everything else can wait."