Julian leaned against the window of the train, watching Kyoto's night lights and neon signs blur and cross over each other in the glass.
He no longer remembered how many days he'd spent in this city, just the gentle, lukewarm routines: breakfast in the tiny dining room of a ryokan, the sliding wooden windows framing sparrows and a trace of cool morning air. In the afternoon, he'd wander into moss-covered temples where grass and stone lanterns blended together, the ground soft and damp beneath his feet.
He'd met that female photographer, loose coat draped over her shoulders, smoky voice low as she said, "Let me take your picture." She captured him on her Ricoh GR; for that moment, time seemed to stand still.
At night, he'd disappear into the narrow backstreets, sitting alone in a tiny izakaya with only two tables, sipping cheap sake. No one asked where he was from, and no one cared about his name. Sometimes, the photographer would drop by, raise a glass with him, and casually snap a few blurry photos.
He began to learn how to let his guard down in Kyoto's silence, the soft shuffle of slippers on tatami, the rhythm of rain tapping against the eaves, the bitterness of green tea, and the subtle flash when a shutter clicked. Even his dreams became gentler, the London calculations and anxieties in his mind dissolving, little by little, into the evening bell of the temple.
Yet as the train sped toward Kansai Airport, his body and thoughts grew tense again. He unlocked his phone; a barrage of unread emails hit the screen like bullets, most marked "urgent," some from strangers, and one from Greg at the very top, the subject line reading only: "Welcome back, superstar."
Back in London, he moved through the Underground and rain-slicked alleys, eventually standing in front of the tall glass towers of Canary Wharf. He used to orbit the lower floors like an outsider.
Today, with his new Tier 3 status, he swiped into the private elevators for the first time. As the lift rose, the view outside the glass walls was all grey clouds and steel skyline. Inside, it was silent, only the sound of his own breathing and the whisper of suit fabric shifting against itself.
The air on the upper floors was different, denser, more sterile. It smelled like fresh carpet, coffee, and industrial disinfectant. Tier 3 traders stood or sat, swift and impassive, nodding at him briefly, some polite, most neutral, a few quietly measuring.
Their desks formed a ring, each person guarding their own little kingdom. Monitors flickered with moving charts and blinking emails. The atmosphere held a pressure just beneath the surface, like an operating room, or an arena.
Julian walked toward his new desk. The phone and terminals were already set up, waiting. He could feel the eyes on him, some warm, some indifferent, some calculating. And in that moment, it hit him: the real promotion starts now.
He had barely sat down when Greg appeared beside his desk, holding a fresh cup of coffee. Greg smiled with practiced warmth and confidence, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Perfect timing, Julian. We've all been waiting for you to unsheathe that sword of yours. Don't let us down."
A few colleagues nearby looked over with faint, unreadable smiles.
Greg handed him a welcome letter, company logo embossed on thick paper, and added in a tone that was part mentor, part boss, "Rested up? Kyoto treat you well? We've got some major projects lined up. Gonna need you sharp."
People around them nodded, murmured congratulations, but their eyes were scanning him like he was a fresh cut of meat just delivered to the table.
Julian gave a surprised smile and gripped the coffee tighter, feeling more recognized than ever before.
Greg really is giving me a shot, he thought. Maybe he actually wants to develop talent.
Not once did he doubt it. In that moment, the future looked wide open, full of possibility.
The room felt warm, even welcoming, as if everyone here was ready to receive a winner.
He didn't realize this was only the overture to a much older game.
Julian had barely powered up his terminal when Rick's voice drifted in from behind him, carrying that faint tone of polite sarcasm so particular to Londoners, always ready with a smile and a blade.
"Back from Kyoto, mate? Must be nice, finding your Zen while the rest of us kept the lights on here."
He swirled the coffee in his hand and stared at Julian with a look that was part greeting, part judgment.
"Some people get cherry blossoms and tea gardens," Rick added casually. "The rest of us? Just Bloomberg terminals and Greg's all-nighters. Welcome back to reality."
A few colleagues nearby kept their eyes on their screens, but the air felt heavier now, thick with a quiet bitterness and curiosity. Julian did not return the smile, nor did he offer Rick an easy way out. He replied lightly, without looking up:
"Yeah, Kyoto's full of peace and old temples. Pity I couldn't bring any back for you lot. You should get out sometime, Rick. Stress ages people."
Rick's grin faltered for half a second. His fingers tapped once on the rim of his mug before he gave a loose shrug.
"Not everyone gets the golden ticket, do they?"
Julian glanced at him, then turned back to his screen. The silent exchange folded neatly into his memory, a skirmish filed for later analysis.
Still, something about it tugged at the edges of his focus. He could not quite tell if Rick's tone had been a joke, a warning, or a challenge. He forced the thought down and watched Rick's retreating back, quietly logging every word, every shift in expression. The water here was colder than it looked.
Julian straightened his desk. Two unfamiliar names had appeared in his internal contacts list. He scanned the floor and spotted one of them at a nearby workstation. A young man in a dark shirt, hair cropped short, typing with intense focus. That was Tomasz Lewandowski, Polish background, quiet, methodical, the kind of person who always looked like he was one checklist away from panic. He glanced up, met Julian's eyes, and gave a small nod—respectful, but cautious.
Across a row of desks, Emma Liu was already organizing a stack of compliance folders. She moved quickly and silently, her expression unreadable. Julian walked over. Emma looked up, her voice polite but distant.
"Julian, I've started prepping the client materials. If you have specific instructions, feel free to email me."
Tomasz stood as well, speaking quietly. "I'll be handling the data side. I'm going to run through the historical trades today. Should have a brief for you by tomorrow."
Julian nodded, his first taste of what it meant to manage a team settling on his shoulders.
"Good. Emma, double-check the workflow. Tomasz, send the summary directly when it's done. Remember to log the timestamps."
They returned to their desks with practiced ease, efficient but cautious. Respect was there, but so was assessment. They were watching him too, deciding whether this new lead could keep them alive in this place.
Julian sat back down and watched them both. Smart people. Careful people. The kind you could work with—or get blindsided by.
He told himself silently, I need to prove myself. And stay sharp.
It was the first time he truly felt like a Tier 3 manager. Pride flickered in his chest, but so did something else. Risk. These weren't just subordinates. They were weapons. And one day, they might be currency in someone else's game.
From Kyoto to here, the real war was just beginning.