The alumni hall pulsed with the fever of finale—crystal glasses chiming like countdowns, laughter spiking over the string quartet's swell. Seika's second gala in as many chapters felt like destiny's cruel encore: same chandeliers, sharper stakes. Kai smoothed his vest—clean this time, borrowed from Yumi's uncle—and wove through the crowd, the will's folder a lead weight in his inner pocket. Dad's badge clipped to his belt, hidden under fabric, thrummed like a second heartbeat. Bring the badge. E's text, cryptic as ever. Mori's stage awaited, the board vote on the "scholarship fund" ticking down to midnight.
"Positions," Yumi murmured into his earpiece—a cheap lit club prop, crackling but clear. She blended among the donors, emerald gown swapped for a server black, tray balanced with practiced poise. "Nakamura's at the podium, Hayashi shadowing him. Aiko's on visual—Sora, perimeter."
"Copy—perimeter's a zoo," Sora's voice whined, faint static. "Old money smells like regret and cologne. No sedans yet."
Aiko chimed in, her whisper laced with mischief. "Eyes on Mori—11 o'clock, schmoozing the banker. Scar's twitching; he smells blood."
Kai nodded to no one, sipping a ginger ale prop to mask the knot in his gut. The hall thrummed: alumni in tuxes swapping war stories, Nakamura beaming from the dais like a ringmaster. Hayashi hovered at his elbow, cardigan swapped for a modest dress, her bob neat but eyes darting—nerves, or signals? The archives flip replayed: her unsent text, the fire-stairs farewell. Full allegiance. But E's warning gnawed: Hayashi's thread frays—check her shadow.
Mori took the stage at 11:45 PM, spotlight haloing his silver mane like a halo for the damned. Applause rippled, polite thunder. "Esteemed friends," he boomed, voice oiled with decades of boardrooms, "tonight, we honor legacies. Kenjiro Sato's vision—our Seika—thrives because of you. This fund? ¥100M, scholarships for the next Hiroshi Tanakas: dreamers, doers."
The name-drop landed like a slap—Kai's fists clenched at his sides. Dreamers Mori had silenced. The crowd murmured approval, Nakamura nodding fervent. Hayashi's hand brushed the podium—subtle, but Kai caught it: a thumb drive, palmed to the principal's pocket. Plant the seed. Her play? Or poison?
Yumi's voice crackled: "Vote in five. Badge ready?"
Kai's hand ghosted the clip. "Ready. Eyes on Hayashi."
Mori droned on—tax breaks, endowments—winding to the clause: "And to seal it, a family touch. My late brother Hiroshi's shares in our old firm—reclaimed for this cause. Blood builds bridges, after all."
Gasps, then cheers. Kai's blood boiled. Reclaimed. The will's codicil laughed at that—divestment, exposure. Time. He pushed forward, weaving the crowd, earpiece buzzing: "Go time—confront."
The stage loomed, steps carpeted in crimson. Nakamura spotted him first, smile freezing mid-clap. "Tanaka? Not your scene, boy."
Kai vaulted the velvet rope, folder out like a shield. "It is now. Mori—read this. Dad's will. Your 'reclamation'? Void."
The hall hushed, ripples spreading. Mori turned, scar twitching, eyes narrowing on the folder—then the badge glinting at Kai's belt. Recognition flickered, dark. "Nephew. Bold. But theatrics don't rewrite history."
Hayashi surged forward, hand outstretched. "Kai—wait. Let me." She snatched the folder, flipping it open with feigned shock. "This... forgery? Nakamura, verify!"
Nakamura's face drained, but his hand dipped to his pocket—the thumb drive. "Ms. Hayashi? Your input?"
Betrayal unspooled like film in the darkroom: Hayashi's eyes met Mori's—brief, loaded. Not ally. Anchor. She'd palmed the drive to Nakamura, not seed, but sabotage—a virus? To wipe the will's digital shadow? E's warning crashed home: Check her shadow. The archives shadow—her phone lighting Nakamura's accomplice grin.
"You," Kai breathed, the pieces shattering. "The negatives—your 'insurance'? Bait. Mori's cleanup."
Hayashi's mask cracked, sorrow feigned. "For the school, Kai. Hiroshi understood—sacrifices. Sato's death broke me; Mori fixed it. Join, or fade like him."
Mori chuckled, low. "Family trait—stubborn. Guards." Two suits materialized from the wings, but the crowd murmured—phones out, recording the unravel.
Yumi's voice: "Stall—Sora's at the AV booth."
Kai backed to the podium, badge unclipped, holding it high—Dad's shield, gleaming. "This says otherwise. Witnesses: Emiko Sato. She saw the sedan. The hit. Your empire's built on blood money—1987 to now."
Gasps swelled. Nakamura sputtered: "Lies! Security—"
But the lights flickered—Sora's cue? No—AV crackled, screens blooming behind the stage: gala feed, but hijacked. Grainy footage: the negatives' prints, Mori's handover; Dad's confrontation; the will's scan, clauses bold. Audio overlay—gala recording, Nakamura's voice: Accidents happen. Rainy nights...
Chaos erupted—shouts, flashes. Mori's face twisted fury. "Cut it! Hayashi—"
She lunged for Kai, nails raking—desperate, unraveling. "Give me the badge! Proof!"
Kai dodged, podium between them, but her shadow loomed—Nakamura, cuffing his wrist. "Enough, boy."
Pinned. Guards closed, crowd a blur. Endgame slipping.
Then—a voice from the wings, amplified: "Actually, Principal—enough for you." The screens shifted: new feed, live from the bar. A woman, mid-50s, sharp suit, gray streak in her bob—Emiko Sato. E. Face stern, flanked by two in badges—real ones, Tokyo PD.
"Emiko," Mori snarled, mask shattering. "You."
She stepped onstage, mic in hand, eyes on Kai—warm, fierce. "Hiroshi's partner. His witness. And now, yours." To the crowd: "Ladies, gentlemen—this 'fund'? Laundered lies. The will stands; Mori's claim voids. Police have the drive, the negatives. Arrests pending."
Uniforms surged from exits, cuffing Nakamura mid-squawk, Hayashi wilting as guards turned on her—insider flip complete. Mori backed away, but Emiko blocked, voice steel: "Brother-in-law? No. Monster. The sedan's impounded—plates traced to your garage. 1990 plates, still registered."
Mori's eyes flicked to Kai—uncle to nephew, venom to void. "You could've had it all, boy. Legacy."
Kai clutched the badge, voice steady. "Dad's legacy? Truth. Yours? Rot."
Cuffs clicked on Mori, the hall erupting—flashes, shouts, a symphony of downfall. Yumi materialized at Kai's side, squeezing his arm; Sora and Aiko burst from the crowd, grins wide. Emiko approached, hand extended—not for the badge, but clasp. "Proud of you, kid. Hiroshi's fire."
The screens faded to PD seals, crowd buzzing with scandal's aftershock. Whispers of headlines: Seika Scandal: CEO's Empire Crumbles in Gala Bust.
Outside, as rain cleared to stars, Kai pocketed the badge—weight lighter now. Mori's sedan towed away, shadows banished. But E—Emiko—lingered by the curb, eyes distant. "Not over. Loose threads—alumni holdouts. But you? Rest. Cases wait."
Sora whooped, slinging an arm around Kai. "Club official? Everyday detectives—branch out?"
Aiko sketched the chaos, charcoal flying. "First arc closed. What's next—petty thefts? Or world domination?"
Yumi laughed, linking arms. "Whatever. We've got the clues."
Kai smiled, real this time. Dad's echo: Fight smart. Won. But the suburbs slept uneasy, mysteries murmuring in the ordinary.
His phone buzzed—new number, Emiko's. Good work. But watch the bike rack. Old case—your first solo? —E
A tease. The endless chase beckoned.
End of Chapter 9
(Next chapter tease: Back to school life, a simple "missing club funds" case spirals into a fresh mini-mystery—but a lingering Mori holdout plants a seed of doubt, hinting the conspiracy's embers still smolder.)