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Chapter 1 — The Shadow of Her Face
The gentle hum of the espresso machine echoed through the café. The faint smell of roasted beans mingled with the city's evening air. Ayanokoji Kiyotaka sat by the window, a cup of black coffee steaming beside his laptop.
The meeting had just ended. The final numbers blinked on the screen — another merger, another empire absorbed into his own. With a quiet exhale, he closed the device and leaned back in his chair.
The world now moved according to his decisions.
He had become the richest man alive — a title that held no thrill for him anymore. It was simply a result of his precision. His empire spanned industries across continents: technology, energy, banking, trade.
People whispered his name with fear and respect.
And yet, Ayanokoji knew the truth.
"To even rival me, one would need more than twenty times the wealth of the second richest person."
He thought of it not as arrogance, but mathematics — the simple, cold reality of power.
He stirred his coffee, watching the ripples swirl. The bitter aroma brought him no comfort. Not anymore.
After his father's death, he inherited everything: wealth, influence, and a legacy of control. But instead of continuing his father's work, he burned it to the ground — including the White Room, the twisted place that had shaped him into what he was.
He made sure not a single record, experiment, or instructor survived. The White Room's ideology of perfection had died with his father.
Ayanokoji had chosen a different battlefield — not politics, not influence in government, but business. A world where domination could be achieved with silence, intelligence, and money.
"No manipulation. No control over people's lives. Just power… pure and absolute."
Still, even after achieving everything his father had dreamed of, he felt nothing. His emotions had long been buried — until she appeared in his life.
His first love. The woman who had seen through the mask he wore. The one who had smiled at him like he was human.
But she was gone now. Killed in a "car crash" three years ago.
The reports said it was an accident, but Ayanokoji knew better. It was deliberate. One of his enemies had arranged it — he simply didn't know which one. His enemies were countless: politicians, businessmen, even former White Room elites who had survived in the shadows.
"Once I find the one responsible… they will beg for death."
He took another sip of coffee, eyes cold and calculating. That was when he saw her.
A woman passed outside the café window, her reflection flickering in the glass. Long black hair. Pale skin. The same grace, the same quiet aura.
Ayanokoji's breath caught for the briefest second.
"No… it can't be."
She looked exactly like her. But something was different — the way she moved, the faint scar near her collarbone instead of her wrist, the expression in her eyes. Softer, unsure. Not the same.
Still… the resemblance was perfect enough to make his pulse quicken.
"Am I hallucinating again?" he wondered. His doctors had warned him about the visions — trauma, grief, and lack of sleep could conjure illusions. But this time, it didn't feel like one. She was real.
He pushed his chair back and walked straight to the counter.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Can I see your CCTV footage from outside?"
The barista blinked, startled. "CCTV? Uh… are you a police officer?"
"No."
"Then I can't—"
Ayanokoji slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. "One more black coffee. Keep the change. And let me check the footage."
The barista hesitated, eyes flicking between the cash and Ayanokoji's calm, unreadable face. Something in the young man's gaze demanded obedience without words.
"…Follow me," the barista muttered finally.
Inside a small back room, rows of screens showed live footage of the café and the street outside. Ayanokoji stood beside the man, his eyes focused.
"Play back the last ten minutes," he said.
The footage rolled, and there she was — walking by, her reflection crossing the glass exactly as he had seen.
He paused the frame.
His hand moved almost automatically, snapping a picture of the screen with his phone.
The barista looked at him. "You… know her?"
"She looks like someone I used to know," Ayanokoji replied quietly.
"An ex or something?"
"She died three years ago."
The barista's eyebrows rose. "You mean… a ghost?"
Ayanokoji gave a faint smile — not warm, but hollow. "No. She's not her. But she looks like her."
He took another hundred from his wallet and handed it over. "Forget this happened."
The man nodded immediately. "Got it. I don't even remember your face."
Ayanokoji left the café, the bell chiming softly behind him. Outside, the city lights reflected on the wet pavement. He walked without haste, the sound of his footsteps blending into the night.
He glanced down at his phone again — the image of the girl frozen on the screen.
"So there's someone out there who looks exactly like you…" he thought, his expression unreadable. "Is this a coincidence… or another trick?"
The wind picked up, tugging lightly at his coat. The skyline of his own company's building glowed in the distance — the empire he had built from nothing.
"Whoever you are," he murmured under his breath, "I'll find you. And if you're connected to her death… then God help you."
He slipped the phone into his pocket, his eyes cold and sharp once more.
For the first time in years, the world's richest man felt something he thought was long gone — curiosity.
And beneath it… the faint spark of vengeance.
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