It was a cold night in Tokyo, but Keijo didn't mind.
The city lights sparkled below like tiny galaxies. He leaned over the railing of his apartment balcony, staring at nothing in particular, sipping a warm cup of green tea. His tie hung loose. His eyes had that quiet look — like someone who's finally found peace after a long war inside.
Inside the apartment, the TV was playing an old romantic drama, but neither of them were watching. The real story was happening right here.
"Keijo, the rice is burning!" a voice shouted from the kitchen.
He smiled.
So turn it off, genius."
A woman walked into the room, mock-annoyed. Araki.
His fiancée. Tomorrow — his wife.
She wore his hoodie over her nightgown, holding a wooden spatula like a sword.
> "You always do this. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly we're smoking out the building."
He turned to her, laughing softly.
"You'll miss this one day."
She stared at him for a second. Then her smile softened. She walked closer.
"You're right," she whispered. "I will."
She hugged him from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder. They stood there in silence, listening to the sounds of the city, their breathing in sync.
"You know…" she started.
"Hmm?"
After tomorrow, everything will be different."
"Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "I finally get to be happy."
She pulled away slowly.
Her face didn't quite match his mood.
Eyes distant.
Smile just a little... too calm.
It was having night so both of them slept hugging each other tightly and ant midnight nearly 2:07 am.
Keijo woke up with a jolt.
His throat was dry. The room was dim. The air felt... heavier than usual.
> "Araki…?"
No answer.
He got out of bed, barefoot, rubbing his eyes. He walked into the kitchen.
She was there — standing still, back to him, wearing all black.
His gut twisted.
> "Babe? What are you doing?"
She didn't turn.
> "You weren't supposed to wake up," she said quietly.
> "What…?"
Then came the sharp sting in his neck.
He staggered back, hand flying up to the spot. His vision blurred. His knees buckled.
> "Araki… what the hell—"
She turned around slowly.
Her eyes were cold.
> "I'm sorry. No… not really."
> "W-Why are you…?"
> "Because I need out. And you? You're the ticket. You're the heir to a billion-yen empire. Your family's the last piece on the board. And tomorrow, everything would've belonged to me. You were so easy, Keijo. All I had to do was smile."
He was fading fast. The world around him was spinning.
> "We were… going to be happy…"
> "You were."
Then darkness swallowed him.
After araki stood infront of the lifeless body and said"oo honey even your soul will cry infront of me in hell"
The only sound in the room was the slow drip... drip... drip… of blood pooling across the floor.
Keijo's body lay twisted near the dining table — the same table where they'd just shared ramen three hours ago. Now, his neck was slashed clean open. His face frozen in disbelief, like his soul was still stuck somewhere between shock and heartbreak.
Araki stood barefoot in the blood. Her wedding ring was off.
She was breathing heavy — not from panic, not from guilt — but from the weight of dragging his body across the floor.
> "You should've known better," she muttered, yanking a tarp from the closet. "Love? That was never part of the plan."
Her voice was low. Flat. Like she'd already rehearsed this in her head.
She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. Looked at the wall clock.
3:29 a.m.
She had thirty minutes before the buyers came.
But they arrived before expected.
Time Tokyo Outskirts – Kemio Mansion – Backyard | 3:52 a.m.
The cold of the early morning clung to the air like a wet blanket. The tall hedges surrounding the property whispered in the wind. Silence ruled.
A black van, silent as death, rolled to a stop behind the mansion.
Two men stepped out — black hoodies, black gloves, faces hidden beneath shadows. One walked with a limp, the other's wrist was shackled to a silver briefcase. They didn't speak to each other. They didn't need to.
The tall one approached first, the gravel crunching under his boots.
Araki stood there at the back door, arms crossed, blood dried on her sleeves. Her expression was unreadable. Somewhere between exhaustion and detachment.
> "You got the sample?" the tall one asked.
Without a word, she pointed to the metal container by her feet. They crouched beside it, popped the latches, and opened it.
Inside: chopped, wrapped body parts — bone-white under the dim light. One heart, sealed tight in a steel cylinder. No smell. All clinical.
> "I had to cut him," she said, almost like she was talking about groceries. "Whole body wouldn't fit. You'll reconstruct him, won't you?"
The shorter man nodded, scanning the heart.
> "Vitals still reactive. Consciousness will reboot once synced with the neural chip."
They began loading the pieces into the van. The taller one turned back toward her.
> "You know… when he wakes up, he might come looking for you."
A pause.
The wind blew.
Araki didn't blink. She stared straight at the man.
And then… her voice came out low. Quiet. Unshaken.
> "I won't be alive by then."
The taller man stopped.
He didn't ask what she meant. He just gave a small nod. Respect? Pity? Maybe both.
He handed her a sealed black envelope — thick with bills and something heavier: silence.
> "Then let's hope he never remembers."
She looked down at the envelope, then back up at the van as it disappeared into the morning mist.
A crow flew overhead. The sky was beginning to turn grey.
Inside the van, the pieces of Keijo's body lay packed and labeled — waiting for the day he'd rise again.
At the morning
Kemio Mansion – Master Bedroom – Morning, 8:03 a.m.
The early light cut through the curtains like dull blades, landing on Araki's face.
She was awake but not really there. Eyes open, face blank, heart silent. Her robe was still half open, her hair slightly tangled from the night before. Not a single crease on the bedsheet beside her. She hadn't moved all night.
Knock knock knock.
A sharp knock at the door, followed by the anxious voice of a maid.
> "Madam Araki? Are you awake?"
Another knock, louder this time.
> "Madam?"
She slowly got up, walked barefoot to the door, and cracked it open just enough to show her face.
The maid, maybe 19 or 20, looked nervous. She was holding a breakfast tray.
> "Sorry to bother, but… where's Keijo-sama? He hasn't come downstairs. Everyone's looking for him."
Araki paused for a second.
Not too long.
Just long enough to seem like she was confused.
She rubbed her eyes.
> "I thought he was already up. I… I didn't see him when I woke."
> "But his shoes are still by the front door, and his phone's in the study," the maid said, looking more worried now.
Araki kept a calm voice, even put a little fake concern in it.
> "Maybe he went out to the garden? Or—he could be with his brother."
The maid nodded quickly and ran off. Araki closed the door slowly, her fingers gripping the handle tightly before letting go.
Then silence.
Not guilt. Not sadness.
Just a deep breath.
"Stay calm," she whispered to herself. "They'll never know."
9:10 a.m.
Still no sign of Keijo. His bed was untouched. His phone was still charging. His watch — the one he never left without — still sat on the dresser.
Downstairs, in the grand living room, Ayame Kemio, Keijo's mother, held a photo of him close to her chest. Her hands trembled slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Ayame (anxiously):
"Taki… he didn't even drink his tea this morning. He always greets me before leaving..."
Taki Matsu Kemio, the head of the family, stood tall near the window, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He didn't speak, but the storm in his mind was obvious. This wasn't just odd — it was wrong.
Renji Kemio, Keijo's 19-year-old brother, was already pacing back and forth across the room, phone pressed tightly to his ear.
Renji (sharply):
"He's not at the gym. Not at the cafe. I even checked with Hiroshi — he hasn't heard a damn thing. He's ghosted, and that's not him."
Miyako, the youngest of the family, peeked from the staircase. Just 15, her eyes were still swollen from sleep. She tugged nervously on her sleeve.
Miyako (softly):
"Nii-san didn't say goodnight last night… Is he okay?"
Nobody had an answer.
The mansion, once full of order and power, now echoed with whispers and footsteps. The gardener was questioned. The driver was called. Cameras were checked — but the files from midnight to 4 a.m. were missing. Deleted.
Ayame sat down suddenly, holding her head.
Ayame (whispering):
"Please… don't let anything happen to my son…"
Taki's jaw clenched. His silence was louder than a scream.
Upstairs, in the same room where Keijo once held her close, Araki sipped her coffee slowly, watching the panic unfold through the window.
No guilt. No remorse.
Just silence.
And a smile that barely touched the corners of her lips.
10:12 a.m. – Kemio Estate
The once calm halls were now filled with frantic footsteps. Servants were whispering, the staff was on edge, and the Kemio family's tension was boiling over.
At the center of it all stood Taki Matsu Kemio — a man known across Tokyo for his composed demeanor and strategic mind. But right now?
He was not calm.
His fist slammed down on the antique oak table in the study. The crash made even the chandelier shake.
Taki Matsu (roaring):
"Enough of this! This isn't just some rich boy going off on his own! This is my son we're talking about!"
He turned sharply to Renji.
Taki Matsu:
"Get me a secure line to the President. Now."
Renji's fingers scrambled across the phone as if it were on fire. Within minutes, a secure line was connected.
A calm, authoritative voice picked up on the other end.
📞 President Kajiro Hakana:
"Taki. It's been a while. What's going on?"
Taki (sternly, but with desperation under his breath):
"Kajiro… it's Keijo. He vanished this morning. No warning. No trace. Nothing. This isn't normal. I need a full-scale investigation. Now."
The line was quiet for a second. Then came the firm response.
President Kajiro:
"…Understood."
President Kajiro (resolute):
"I'll deploy a patrolling unit across the entire Tokyo Metro zone. I'll authorize drones, search dogs, intel agents — you'll have full coverage within the hour."
Taki Matsu (exhaling):
"Thank you."
President Kajiro:
"Whoever touched your son… will regret they ever did. I give you my word, Taki."
The call ended, but the energy in the room only grew tenser.
Ayame, still seated on the couch, clutched her rosary in shaking hands. Her eyes darted toward her husband.
Ayame (softly):
"What if he's hurt…?"
Taki (without turning):
"Then someone's going to bleed for it."
Renji (pale):
"I… I just hope we're not too late."
Meanwhile, Araki stood in front of a mirror in one of the guest rooms. Her face — soft, pale, framed by perfect black hair — looked like grief. Her eyes were red. But not from crying.
From lack of sleep.
From fear.
From pretending.
She had rehearsed every line, every gesture. And she was doing it well. Maybe too well.
There was a knock. The door creaked open — it was Ayame, Keijo's mother. Fragile. Broken. She held a tray of tea that trembled in her hands.
"Sweetheart... have some tea. You haven't eaten a thing."
Araki blinked, wiped a tear that wasn't real, and whispered,
"I can't even taste anything, Mama. Not without him."
Ayame sat beside her and wrapped her arms around her.
"He adored you. I know he'd never just leave you. Something's wrong."
Araki nodded. Her hands were cold. Her face calm. But deep inside, panic twisted like a knife.
> "They'll never find him. They can't. I made sure of it."
Scene Change: Keijo's Bedroom – Ongoing Investigation
Two officers from the elite missing persons unit stepped into the room. One of them, Detective Renji, looked around with a skeptic's eye.
The other, Detective Arata, crouched by the bedside.
The bed was untouched. Keijo's tuxedo for the wedding still hung untouched in the corner, draped in a protective cover.
His favorite cologne still sat on the dresser. The digital calendar still read:
> "Wedding Day – March 11, 2050 – 10:30 AM"
But no signs of life. No struggle. Not even a footprint.
Arata:
"You ever seen a disappearance this clean?"
Renji:
"Clean? No. This is surgical. It's like he never existed."
They exchanged a look. Something didn't sit right.
Late at night, Araki stood on the mansion balcony. The wind brushed against her skin. She stared at the stars — cold, distant, burning silently.
She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, hands shaking ever so slightly. Her voice was low, barely a whisper:
"You're out there somewhere, aren't you, Keijo?"
She exhaled smoke.
"But by the time you come back… no one will remember what you were. Only what you've become."
Behind her, in the darkness, something shifted. A tiny red laser flicked past her neck for a split second.
She didn't even turn.
She just smiled.
The night was silent now.
Not even the wind dared to move.
The backyard of the Keijo mansion, once a place of laughter and lights, now stood cold and lifeless. A few cherry blossoms floated down from the trees, unaware of the blood that had soaked into the earth just hours before.
Araki stood alone under the moonlight, her face calm, her breathing steady.
No trembling. No tears.
Just stillness.
She looked down at her blood-speckled hands — wiped them against her white gown, as if removing dust. Then slowly, she raised her eyes toward the mansion, where every light had gone dark.
Her lips curled.
A slow, creeping smile.
She stepped back, heels crunching gently against the gravel. Her eyes gleamed not with guilt — but satisfaction.
Araki (whispering):
"It's all mine..."
She stood still, her breath slow under the weight of silence. The moonlight kissed her skin as if blessing the crime. In the distance, the mansion slept — clueless, calm, innocent. Her hands, once held by love, were now stained with betrayal. But she didn't flinch. She looked up at the house that would soon be hers, at the world she was about to conquer. A single whisper escaped her lips, gentle as a lullaby, sharp as a knife.
"He loved me… but I loved power more."
And with that, Araki smiled.
A smile that knew exactly what came next.