Bito divided the money into portions, distributing shares to every employee, while setting aside a central fund to invest in what he was preparing for his daughter.
The azure butterfly merged back into the white-haired man—into me. "One hundred million won, invested in Lady Kurayami," I said casually. "Her birthday's in a week. Quite a gift."
Seto lounged back, propping one foot on his sofa, the dragonfly tattoo on his thigh clearly visible.
"So what about the credibility of this Russian doctor we're dealing with, boss?" Seto asked, wanting to be sure.
"Haruki knows what he's doing," Mr. Bito replied with a low chuckle. "According to his profile, the man's a specialist in neurology and engineering. He abandoned a project involving virtual-world devices. I'm thinking of buying it and continuing the work myself. He should be arriving soon, so act normal—no funny business. One wrong move and the cops will swarm us clean."
"Got it. Not keen on losing a finger," Seto said lightly as he stood up, grabbed a canned tea, and cracked it open. "I'll act like an ordinary, clueless customer."
"Dad! Dad~!"
Kurayami's voice rang out. Seto and I stood at once, pistols tucked discreetly at our waists. Mr. Bito hurried toward his daughter, and we flanked him instinctively, scanning our surroundings for any sign of trouble.
When the door opened, we found Kurayami seated at the piano bench, gazing at a hologram. It showed a long-haired girl in a white fantasy outfit, a red skirt blooming outward like petals. Kurayami was customizing the character herself—choosing colors, adjusting details with care.
"It looks like the dress Mom used to wear, doesn't it?" she said, proudly displaying her design.
"Kurayami… did you make this yourself?" Mr. Bito knelt beside her, eyes fixed on the image.
"Do you like it, Dad?" She looked up at him. He gazed back, his expression soft and full. "I wish Mom could come home and see it."
Mr. Bito raised a hand to wipe the tears slipping down his left cheek.
"I love it," he said quietly. "I promise you—before long, you'll be wearing that dress yourself. You'll be just as beautiful as your mother."
Seto and I leaned against the wall, watching father and daughter embrace, warmth filling the room. Seto bumped my shoulder with his fist, smiling.
"So… this is it, huh? The first step."
"Seems like it," I replied, nodding as I looked up at the ceiling, where white roses were etched into the design. "No one knows what's waiting for us ahead."
"Next week, I'll start teaching you how to compose music," Seto said. "Be ready."
"Mm!" Kurayami nodded, her eyes shining with determination.
Knock, knock.
"He's here," Majima's voice came from outside.
Seto and I stepped away at once, slipping back into calm, unremarkable roles as Mr. Bito picked up his suit jacket and went to greet the guest. We sank into the sofa in silence—until Seto, unable to resist, spoke up.
"Hey, Soki… mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead," I said, gesturing with one hand.
"What brought you here, really? It wasn't coincidence, was it?"
I thought for a moment. "I wanted to escape my old life… after my parents died. But…" My nails dug into the sofa cushion. "There's still a debt I owe—to one life I left behind."
"So you came here to make money," he said. "The shortcut kind."
"Yeah. Maybe it's selfish. But just breathing is already a struggle in this world." I glanced at him. "What about you? Why this job?"
"I'll keep it short," he said. "When I was a kid, my dad dumped me with an old man who ran a repair shop. The old guy said my father was a lousy thief—worked for the yakuza. A hopeless drunk, drowning in debt."
Seto pulled a crumpled letter from his wallet and handed it to me.
"Before he disappeared, he left this."
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Seto, If you're reading this letter, I want you to know—you can choose your own name. As for the reason… you're better off not knowing. Heh. I've left everything to the old man. If you need anything, go to him. I hope you grow up to be a great one. Work hard—don't rely on luck. Build a decent life for yourself. Or at the very least, live longer than I did.
Take care of yourself.
Your father, Hayashida Sato.
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"When I turned fifteen," Seto continued, "the old man told me he'd seen my father die in a blaze—burned up with his dirty money. Not long after, the old man himself died of pneumonia. The shop got bought out by some tycoon. His friends—the geezers I used to hang around—helped me here and there. After that… I drifted. Didn't know where my life was headed. The only paths I saw were either the old man's… or my father's."
I handed the letter back to him.
"Guess it's no wonder we get along so well," I said.
I picked up a guitar and began strumming idly. Seto tapped the table, falling into rhythm beside me.