Starting balance: ¥3,873,000
Earnings today: ¥2,250,000
Final balance: ¥6,123,000
10:10 AM – Yurakucho Exit, Ginza
She wore a white surgical mask. The headphone wires looped around her neck. The Sony earbuds were fake. Hidden in her bag was a small device designed to scramble signals.
Long coat. Low heels. Her steps were steady as she walked through the metro corridor into the basement parking lot of a department store. She looked like an office worker on her lunch break, coming to swap into heels before a meeting.
The man waiting in the corner looked like someone who sold vintage watches. Mid-forties. Wrinkled suit. Wearing a Rolex Datejust not expensive, but flashy enough to impress. He held an oversized paper envelope that didn't match the rest of him.
"Miss Lin?" He glanced her over with mild amusement. "You don't look like someone who does this."
She looked at him once, didn't smile, crouched down, and opened the envelope. Pulled out a portable bill counter.
It was a modified unit. Bluetooth jammer, high-frequency interference, capable of blocking microphones within a meter.
The money was clean. All fresh bills, consecutive serial numbers. ¥750,000. Not a single note missing.
"Do you want a receipt?"
"We don't do paper," he said, still smiling, like he was watching a rookie.
This time, she smiled barely. "You're outdated."
She stood up, grabbed the handle of her suitcase, stepped closer, and almost whispered into his collarbone.
"Paper gets traced faster. If you really want to be safe, learn how blockchain works."
The man froze, just for a second. Before he could respond, she was already walking toward the elevator. Her silhouette was calm, as if nothing had happened.
When the elevator doors closed, she put on her sunglasses and tapped out a message. "Package received."
She had never asked for his name. But she knew his full transaction history, his last five years of tax returns, and which cashmere wrap his wife had bought last week at Takashimaya.
Knowing was enough.
She didn't need trust. She needed people to fear that she understood secrecy better than the tax authority.
2:30 PM – Co-working Office, Nishi-Shinjuku
She changed into a charcoal gray suit, tailored and gender-neutral. Hair tied back, not a strand out of place. Glasses with no prescription. Her folder was empty. Everything she needed was in her head.
The meeting room was one of those upscale rentals with a coffee machine and fake plants. She stood outside for two minutes before the receptionist brought her clients upstairs.
A middle-class couple desperate to "get out." Dressed decently. Their sentences were full of phrases like "a friend told us," "we heard you can skip the queue," "is there a way without going through official channels."
She opened a PowerPoint that looked more real than most government decks. Slide by slide, she explained. "This plan is designed for clients with over one million US dollars. The choice of country depends on your asset profile and travel history."
The husband leaned forward. "We can increase the budget. Do you have a channel through sponsorship that doesn't require background checks?"
She looked up slowly. Like a surgeon hearing someone ask if they could buy organs directly.
"There is. But not aboveboard."
She pointed at a horizontal line on the slide. "This is our affiliated sponsor. On paper, you're investing in a startup. You're listed as a director. We handle the reporting, then attach you as a strategic advisor."
The wife blinked. "That sounds… is it safe?"
Her tone didn't change. "In this world, if you're bold enough, the line between legal and acceptable is thinner than you think."
She closed her laptop, stood up, and handed them a card. Only a surname and a phone number printed in black ink.
"We don't advertise. Our clients come through introductions."
Her voice suggested something else.
If you don't say yes today, this offer won't be here tomorrow.
Their fingers were slightly tense as they took the card. As if realizing they had just placed a down payment on something illegal, within a completely legal setting.
She walked them to the elevator. When she turned back, the meeting room looked untouched.
Just like her identity.
It had been here.
And could disappear just as easily.
7:10 PM – Rear Entrance of Club Athena, Shibuya
She tossed her trench coat into the backseat of the cab and walked into the alley in a leather jacket, jeans, and a pair of black ankle boots. She looked like a photographer who had just stepped out of some underground bar.
The rear door of Club Athena was lined with aging LED strips that gave off a cold, flickering light. Hoshi was crouched by the wall, smoking. When he saw her, he stubbed out the cigarette.
"Lin," he said, standing up. He glanced at her. "You're dressed exactly like my ex, who used to DJ."
She didn't smile. She pulled out a folded A4 sheet from her pocket. It was a draft of the sponsorship plan.
"For the Crypto Rave tickets, we create four fake tiers. The top tier is thirty thousand yen per ticket. We call it VIP access. No one will ever see an actual ticket."
"How does the money move?"
"Transfers go through your company. Then we label it as marketing expenses. I'll handle the water army. The ticketing site will be hosted on my end."
She spoke fast, like ticking items off a service menu. "I handle the channels. I control the narrative. All you need to do is repost. No comments."
Hoshi frowned. "What if someone checks?"
She slid a card into his pocket. "You know how many audits Athena's had in the past few years? None."
He took the card, looked at her, his voice a little lower. "What do you really do? You don't seem like PR."
This time she smiled, briefly. The kind of smile that looks like light flashing off the edge of a blade.
"I manage social tempo," she said. "But if you prefer, you can think of me as the screenwriter who scripts your money laundering scenes."
He didn't ask further. Lit another cigarette.
"Draft in three days. Transfers through your company account. I'll do the visuals and the posts."
"The amount?"
"Six hundred thousand yen. Clean through ticketing. Your cut will be calculated separately."
She patted her jeans pocket and pulled out a small USB stick.
"This contains case studies from past clients. All fake events. None got flagged."
"You even brought this?"
She tilted her head slightly. "People like us rely on preparation. Not luck."
11:23 PM – 31st Floor, Shinjuku Hotel
The hotel room was too clean. It felt like a temporary stop booked with someone else's credit card.
She dragged the heavy suitcase inside. The lights stayed off. She didn't bother taking off her shoes. First thing she did was kneel, unlock the case, and pull the money from the hidden compartment.
Seven hundred fifty thousand yen. Thick. Still warm. Felt like it had just come off the press.
She stuffed it into a black storage box at the bottom of the drawer. Next to it was a fresh pack of cigarettes she hadn't opened.
She pulled one out, rolled it between her fingers, but didn't light it.
Too late.
She walked to the window. Outside, Shinjuku glowed. The neon lights looked like a terminal screen in constant refresh, looping again and again.
Her phone lit up. Julian's name appeared.
Where did you go? Want to grab dinner?
She was too tired. Didn't respond. Passed out.