Love is an anomaly.
The words, written in a perfect, almost machine-like script on a sheet of expensive rice paper, felt like a cold, hard fact. Kamiya Satoru sat at a desk made from a single piece of dark ebony, his back straight as a blade, his shoulders relaxed yet utterly still. The massive library, bathed in soft, diffused light, was steeped in an absolute silence broken only by the nearly soundless rustle of a turning page. The air was thick and motionless, smelling of old books, ink, and expensive sandalwood. Here, time flowed differently—slowly, weightily, subject only to the will of the one at the center of this silent hurricane of knowledge.
Biochemically, it's a complex neurochemical reaction aimed at ensuring reproductive success. Sociologically—an institution that strengthens social and economic bonds. From a strategic standpoint—a factor of unpredictability, a key vulnerability.
He set aside a 19th-century treatise on social psychology and picked up a volume of Heian-era poetry. His long, slender fingers, more suited to a surgeon or a virtuoso, traced the lines praising the fleeting beauty of morning dew and the agonizing ache of unrequited feeling. His own mind, honed like a diamond through years of training, searched these ornate metaphors for logic, an algorithm, a hidden formula. He didn't feel the poetry; he analyzed it, breaking it down into components: metaphors, rhythm, historical context. The result was unsatisfactory—pure, unfiltered emotional noise.
'True love,' so went the folk wisdom, 'seeks no gain.'
That was the crux of the matter. His entire life, his very existence, had been subordinated to a single purpose—gain. The gain of the Kamiya clan. He wasn't a person, but an asset. Not a son, but an heir. A tool.
And tools are not meant to love. They are not supposed to.
This was why his "Theory of Absolute Love" wasn't just an intellectual exercise. It was an act of rebellion. An escape. If he couldn't understand love intuitively, he would comprehend it logically, as he comprehended everything from quantum physics to calligraphy. If a wife chosen for the size of her dowry and the advantage of her alliance was his destiny, he would find his own. Not from among the daughters of other "gilded cages," but from the real world. A world where feelings, he had read, could be genuine, not calculated. A world where he would be valued not for his name or fortune, but for himself. Whoever that was.
He walked to the vast panoramic window overlooking an immaculate Japanese-style garden. Every stone, every tree, every curve of the stream was placed according to ancient Zen principles, creating an illusion of natural harmony. But Satoru saw only the tyranny of control behind it. His father controlled even nature, taming it to fit his own idea of perfection. This garden was a mirror of his life—beautiful, flawless, and utterly devoid of freedom.
Escape was inevitable. It wasn't a whim, but a strategic necessity, the only way to preserve the remnants of his own self. The only way to find himself was to disappear.
The library door opened without a knock. Only one person in this house would dare.
Kamiya-sensei, the family head, entered. He was a tall, lean man with silver at his temples that only accentuated his icy, ageless elegance. His gaze, heavy and penetrating, immediately found Satoru by the window, as if he had a built-in internal radar.
"Your movement patterns throughout the house have deviated from the standard by twelve percent over the last forty-eight hours," his voice was even, emotionless, like a newscaster reading stock reports. "You accessed the archives, requesting data on the public secondary education system. You spent six hours and forty-three minutes in the meditation room, exceeding your usual duration by three hours and seventeen minutes. Explain the anomaly."
Satoru didn't turn. He continued to look into the garden, at the artificial waterfall cascading into a perfectly circular pond. "I am conducting research," he replied in the same impassive tone.
"On what?"
"Socio-cultural interactions among Japanese teenagers from middle to lower-middle-income families."
In the window's reflection, he saw his father's thin lips twist into something resembling a smile. It was like a crack in an icy surface.
"A waste of resources. Their behavioral models are predictable and primitive. Their goals are limited to immediate gratification and basic social instincts. There is no value to be extracted from their study."
"Value is a subjective concept, Father," Satoru parried softly. "Perhaps I am searching for something not found in our reports."
Kamiya-sensei slowly paced the room, his fingers gliding over the spines of ancient folios, leaving no prints. "You plan to leave the house. To enroll in a common school. Is this your 'escape'?"
Satoru stilled for a moment. He had underestimated the surveillance. Or, more likely, his father simply read him like an open book. Always. He turned slowly to meet his father's gaze. Eyes identical to his own—cold, gray, like a winter sky before a storm—stared back.
"It is a field study," Satoru said, choosing his words with care. "Theories gleaned from books are incomplete without practical verification. I believe immersion will be beneficial for... broadening my perspective."
"Your perspective is already more than sufficient to manage the empire you will inherit. You want to find a girl. That one you read about in your romantic tracts." His father said this with a faint hint of distaste, as if speaking of something unsavory and unhygienic. "It is a weakness, Satoru. The most dangerous of all. It blinds you. Makes you vulnerable. I will not allow you to make such a mistake."
"I am not asking for permission."
A heavy pause hung in the air. It thickened, becoming prickly. Satoru felt every nerve ending on his skin tense, awaiting the blow. The shout. The order. But the blow, when it came, was quiet and merciless.
"Very well," said Kamiya-sensei. "Go. Live in their world. Observe their hectic, meaningless lives. Let their illusions of love and friendship shatter against you like waves against a cliff. You will return. The world will break you, as it breaks all weaklings. And when you return, broken and humiliated, you will finally understand. Understand that I was right. Understand that you are a Kamiya. And your place is here. Among strength. Among power. Not among them."
He turned and walked towards the door. On the threshold, he stopped, not looking back. "You have one year. Not a single yen from the family funds. No connections. No name. You will disappear. If after one year you have not returned on your own, I will find you and bring you back. And then your 'field study' will be over. Permanently."
The door closed without a sound. Satoru was left alone in the silence of the library. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat, a rare glitch in his usually flawless composure. He had won. He had gotten what he wanted. But victory smelled not of freedom, but of ashes and cold steel. His father hadn't simply let him go. He had sent him to the slaughter. He was confident of his failure.
Satoru clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He would not fail. He would prove him wrong. He would find what he was looking for. He would find love, break it down into formulas, understand its mechanics, and prove that he was not just a tool. That he was more than just a Kamiya.
He walked to the desk and picked up his notebook. On a clean page, he wrote: "Operation 'Veritas'. Objective: To locate and analyze the phenomenon of romantic love in its natural habitat. Timeframe: 365 days."
The escape began now.
---
The preparations for his disappearance took less than a day. He already had a plan, thought out to the last detail. He left everything behind: the bespoke suits, the collector's watches, the tech prototypes not yet on the market. He powered down and left in the safe his communicator—a device that would make any intelligence agency head weep with envy.
He packed a single modest, durable suitcase. A few simple outfits he'd bought himself at a regular department store—a process he found surprisingly disorienting. Stationery. A small selection of books on philosophy and sociology. And a black lacquered document case containing his new, impeccably forged papers: Kamiya Satoru, orphan, raised by distant, modest relatives in the countryside, granted a modest scholarship to attend Hakusho High School in the city. His past was sterile and unremarkable.
As the first rays of sun began to gild the Tokyo skyscrapers, he left his wing of the mansion. No one saw him off. The house was asleep. Or pretending to be. Waiting at the main entrance wasn't a limousine, but a common dark-colored sedan, the most inconspicuous vehicle in the family motor pool. To Satoru, who had never ridden in anything but armored limousines and helicopters, it felt like climbing into a rusty cart.
The driver, a man in a severe black suit, nodded silently, opened the door, and took his suitcase. Satoru slid into the back seat. It smelled of new leather and ozone. The car pulled away, slipping silently through the gates, which closed immediately behind it, as if severing him from his past.
He didn't look back. He looked ahead, at the waking city. At the crowds of people rushing about their business. At the billboards screaming about things he didn't understand. At the chaotic, vibrant stream he was about to be thrown into. His analytical mind was already working, trying to categorize and analyze every face, every sign, every sound that flashed past the window. It was a staggering, deafening waterfall of data.
An hour later, they stopped in front of a nondescript apartment building in a residential district. No garden, no fountain, no wrought-iron gates. Just concrete, glass, and plastic.
"Apartment 305," the driver said curtly, handing him the key and his suitcase. "Essentials are inside. Good luck."
The car drove off, leaving Satoru on the sidewalk with his single suitcase. He stood motionless, feeling the curious glances of passersby. He was an outsider here. A total weirdo in his too-perfectly fitting, albeit simple, coat.
Apartment 305 was a studio. Twenty square meters that felt about the size of a postage stamp. It was basically one room with a kitchenette shoved into a corner, and an alcove sectioned off by a screen where a thin futon lay. Everything was clean, impersonal, and depressing. No art on the walls, no books on the shelf. Just the bare minimum of furniture, purchased, he immediately determined, from a budget furniture chain.
He set down his suitcase and looked around. His eyes fell on the light switch by the door. He habitually waved his hand near it, expecting a sensor to activate the light. Nothing happened. He frowned. Repeated the gesture. Still nothing. It took him a few seconds to figure out he had to flip the little plastic lever. A click. The ceiling bulb flickered to life with a dull, cold light. His first victory in this new world. And simultaneously—the first humiliating realization of his own helplessness with the simplest everyday things.
He unpacked. His books took up the one empty shelf. His clothes fit into the small closet. He hung up his new, store-bought Hakusho High uniform—a dark blue blazer and slacks. The fabric was coarse and unpleasant to the touch.
He spent the evening familiarizing himself with the apartment. The shower had only one mixer tap, and it took him time to adjust the temperature. The microwave with its dozen buttons seemed like alien technology. He opened the refrigerator—it was empty. It hadn't occurred to him that he would need to stock it. At the mansion, food simply appeared, always on time, always perfect.
In the end, he sat on the floor by the window, pulling an emergency ration bar from his suitcase—a nutrient-dense bar of his family's own design, one could replace a full meal. He ate without enjoyment, simply to replenish energy.
Outside the window, the city lights came on. Myriad points of light, each one, he knew, a life. Someone's joys, sorrows, loves. Somewhere out there was her. The girl who was supposed to be the proof for his theory. The key to his freedom.
He took out his notebook and pen. By the light of a streetlamp filtering through the window, he began to write. Not formulas, not tactics. Just words.
Day One. Location: new. Conditions: spartan. First contact with domestic anomalies: successfully neutralized. Feeling:…
He paused. What was he feeling? Emptiness? Fear? Anticipation? He couldn't label it. It was a jumble of unidentifiable signals. That's what he wrote.
Feeling: uncategorized. Requires further observation.
He set the notebook aside and lay down on the hard futon, pulling the plain blanket over himself. The ceiling was low, the room felt like it was pressing in on him. But for the first time in years, there were no surveillance cameras above him, no biometric sensors, no heavy, evaluating gaze from his father.
He was alone. Completely and utterly.
He closed his eyes, listening to the unfamiliar sounds: a car horn on the street, the laughter of neighbors through the wall, the hum of a life being lived just outside his window.
"So... this is how it starts, huh?" he whispered into the darkness.
No answer came. There was only the quiet, persistent echo of his own question, lost in the noise of the alien city. Operation Veritas had begun.