The first few days were a blur of surreal monotony. Aiko's world shrank to the size of the luxury apartment. Her life fell into a simple, repeating loop: wake up, feed Mochi, stare out the window at the city she couldn't touch, browse meaningless articles on the secure laptop, and eat the perfectly prepared, flavorless meals that were delivered to their door each day by the silent Kenji.
Kaito was a constant, quiet presence. He was always there but never truly with her. He spent his time in the other room on the phone, his voice a low murmur, or staring at a laptop covered in what looked like financial charts and city maps. He moved like a ghost through the apartment, a warden in his own prison.
By the fourth day, Aiko felt like she was going to scream. The silence, the boredom, the lack of control—it was suffocating her. She needed to do something real. Something normal.
That afternoon, when Kenji delivered the day's groceries, Aiko intercepted him. "I'll cook tonight," she announced, taking the bags from him before he could put them away. Kenji looked at Kaito for approval. Kaito gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Aiko took command of the kitchen. She found pork, eggs, and onions. It wasn't the brand she was used to, but it would do. The simple act of chopping vegetables and preparing rice was grounding. It was a piece of her old life, a skill that was hers alone. She was making katsudon, a simple comfort food. A meal that felt like home.
She set two places at the small dining table. When the food was ready, she called out, her voice feeling loud in the quiet apartment. "It's ready."
Kaito emerged from the other room, looking surprised to see the table set. He hesitated for a moment.
"It's just dinner," Aiko said, her voice a little shaky. "Even prisoners get a hot meal."
He sat down opposite her. They ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was good, and the simple act of sharing a meal she had cooked felt strangely intimate. It was the most normal thing she had done in days.
"You studied abroad," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Kaito looked up from his bowl, his eyes sharp. "What makes you say that?"
"When you first came to the store, your Japanese was perfect, but it had a... different rhythm. And your English is perfect, too," she explained. "So? Where did you study?"
He seemed to consider whether to answer. He put his chopsticks down. "London," he said finally. "Economics."
Aiko was surprised. "Economics? I would have guessed... I don't know. Something else."
"My father insisted," Kaito said, a flicker of an old, tired anger in his eyes. "He believed a modern clan leader needed to understand the movement of money as well as the movement of men."
"Is that what you wanted to study?" she asked, her curiosity overriding her fear.
He was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window at the distant city lights. "I wanted to study art history," he said, his voice so low she almost missed it. "Museums are quiet. The conflicts are all in the past, frozen on canvas. There's a certain peace in that."
It was the most he had ever said to her. A small, shocking glimpse of a different man, a man who might have existed in another life. A man who preferred the quiet of museums to the violence of his reality. He seemed to realize he had revealed too much, because his professional mask slid back into place.
"It was an impractical wish," he said, his voice once again cold and distant. He picked up his chopsticks and finished his meal in silence.
Later, as Aiko cleaned the dishes, she watched him. He was standing by the window again, a solitary figure looking down on a world he controlled but could never truly be a part of.
For the first time since she'd met him, Aiko didn't just feel fear or a strange sense of gratitude. She felt a pang of something else entirely. Sympathy.
He wasn't just her warden. He was a prisoner, too, trapped in a life he had never chosen.