The night was deep, the silence of the laboratory corridors broken only by the dim flicker of a few emergency lights. The sharp, cold scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the air. On the hospital bed, Sakurako Kawashima lay still, surrounded by the monotonous beeping of the machines beside her—a steady reminder of time slipping away. Her body was frail, but her eyes burned with unshakable resolve. She knew tonight was her only chance.
"Michiko," Sakurako whispered, her voice tinged with exhaustion and determination. "Can you get me some immunoglobulin and adrenaline?"
Michiko, who had been arranging supplies, froze for a moment before turning around with a professional smile. "Of course, Miss Sakurako. I'll call the doctor to prescribe them."
"No." Sakurako shook her head, her tone low and firm. "You give them to me yourself. Quietly. This isn't a hospital, and you have access to those drugs without paperwork. Don't ask me why. The less you know, the safer you are."
Michiko's fingers trembled slightly, uncertainty flashing in her eyes. She lowered her head and remained silent for a few seconds. Finally, she nodded. "I understand, Miss Sakurako. I'll get them right away."
Sakurako watched her leave, her heart tightening with conflicted emotions. Michiko was the only person she could trust here, but she also knew that every action might be under surveillance. One wrong step and everything would collapse.
Minutes later, Michiko slipped back into the ward, carrying two syringes. She moved like a shadow, light-footed and silent. Approaching the bed, she whispered, "Miss Sakurako, I brought the injections."
Sakurako extended her arm without hesitation. The cold sting of the needle pierced her skin, and the liquid burned as it spread through her veins. She closed her eyes, feeling a rush of strength flood her body, as if life itself had been poured back into her.
"Thank you, Michiko," she murmured, her voice heavy with both gratitude and apology.
Michiko said nothing. She packed away the syringes and quietly left, her slim figure dissolving into the shadows beyond the dim corridor light.
Elsewhere, Fukuichiro Kawashima sat in his office, a cup of tea long gone cold in his hands. His gaze rested on the surveillance screen, watching his daughter's every move. His expression betrayed nothing, but his eyes held something deeper—an unreadable complexity.
"Mr. Kawashima," Michiko reported softly, standing before him. "I administered the immunoglobulin and adrenaline as Miss Sakurako requested."
He nodded, face expressionless. "Good. Do as she asks."
Michiko hesitated, as if wanting to speak further, but in the end only bowed her head and withdrew.
Fukuichiro rose and walked to the window, staring into the darkness outside. Memories of Sakurako as a child surfaced—the little girl with twin braids, always trailing behind him, her laughter bright, her curiosity boundless.
"Sakurako…" he whispered, the softness in his tone betraying the iron mask he wore.
At dawn, he summoned his daughter to his office. The air was heavy with tension, though the faint aroma of tea lingered. He sat behind his desk, an envelope resting in his hand.
"Sit," he said gently, motioning to the chair across from him.
Sakurako complied, her eyes fixed on his, wary but calm.
"Do you remember when you were little?" His voice carried an unusual warmth. "You once asked me why the stars shine. I told you—they light the way for us."
A tremor stirred within her. She remembered that summer night in the courtyard, the stars overhead, her father's voice weaving stories of the universe. Back then, he was her hero—the man she trusted above all.
"And your first time riding a bicycle," he continued with a faint smile. "You fell again and again, scraped your knees raw, but never cried. You said you wanted to be strong, like me."
Her eyes grew misty, though she fought back the tears. She couldn't afford weakness now.
"Father," she said quietly, her voice trembling. "What are you trying to say?"
Wordlessly, Fukuichiro pushed the envelope toward her. Inside she found a nautical chart with coordinates marked, and a compact pistol. Her heart sank.
"What does this mean?" she demanded.
"I know what you're planning," he replied, his voice low but resolute. "A ship will be waiting at this location. And the gun… it's for your protection."
Her grip on the envelope tightened, emotions swirling uncontrollably. "Why? Why help me?"
Instead of answering directly, he stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Because you are my daughter. And today is the Emperor's birthday, isn't it? Security will be at its weakest—you were waiting for this day."
That evening, Sakurako pressed the pistol into her father's back as they entered the lab together. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, but her gaze remained steady.
She stopped before the incubation chamber. Inside lay a fragile figure, so small it made her chest ache with grief and rage.
"Open it, Father," she demanded.
Fukuichiro keyed in a code, and the glass cover lifted with a hiss. Cold air rushed out.
Sakurako cradled the child gently, tears spilling freely as she felt the faint heartbeat, the fragile breath. He didn't even have a name.
"Without the chamber, he won't survive," Fukuichiro warned grimly.
"Guo Yi," she whispered, kissing the boy's forehead. "That's your name. Guo Yi. We're leaving."
The silenced gun cracked with a muffled thud.
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