Tokyo—Minato Ward, Roppongi Hills Residence, 45th floor.
Hiroshima Mori pushed the door open and stepped into a double-height living room spacious enough to house a small gallery. Without pausing, he turned, mounted the floating staircase, and strode toward the master bedroom on the second floor—fast, decisive.
All the way through, he did not so much as glance aside.
This penthouse duplex had been their marital home, packed with far too many memories of his wife. And for the Hiroshima Mori of today, the one thing he could not afford to do was drown in the past.
He entered the bathroom connected to the master bedroom. The sensor door slid shut behind him without a sound.
The lighting system came on. Soft light spilled down.
Hiroshima Mori stopped before the broad vanity mirror. In the reflection, the man's face was pale. A few damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, and fatigue gathered between his brows like a stain that refused to fade.
But there was one difference—one thing that was unmistakable.
His eyes.
For the first time, his gaze was gathered into a single point, intensely focused. A cold flame of will roared within those dark irises, the kind that made anyone meeting them feel a chill run up their spine.
Those pitch-black eyes shifted slightly, and his stare settled on the empty space over his right shoulder in the mirror.
"What's the commission?"
"Go to Tokyo in another world," Beyer answered with solemn authority, "and complete a training program."
"Training?" Hiroshima Mori's brows tightened. "There are horse girls in that world too?"
"Not horse girls," the voice said. "A human girl."
"A human?" Hiroshima Mori frowned. "Beyer, even I can't raise a human girl to the point where she can compete on the same stage as horse girls."
"Don't be so tense, Mori. How could we bear to trouble the child we cherish most?"
A faint warmth gathered behind him, as if someone had gently draped an arm over his shoulders from the back. Godolphin's voice softened into a tender laugh.
"When we say 'training,' we don't mean defeating rivals. Trainers assist, guide, and support children as they move toward their life goals. So if you want, you can treat this as a part-time job as a mentor."
"So she's special," Hiroshima Mori said. "Special enough that the Three Goddesses would cross worlds just to send her a private tutor."
"She's somewhat special," Dali replied—light, flippant. "But not in a way that matters to us."
"I see." Hiroshima Mori fell silent for a moment, then asked at last, "Let me confirm one final time. I complete the training, and you give Kusa back to me. That's the deal."
"Of course."
With the terms confirmed, the man in the mirror suddenly lowered his head. A hidden sensor faucet activated. Hiroshima Mori cupped water in both hands and slapped it hard against his face and neck.
Water streamed down his jawline, tracing the clean lines of his throat before slipping into his shirt collar.
Then his wet black hair was combed back with force, baring a full forehead and deep-set eyes.
When he lifted his head again and his face returned to the mirror, every trace of fatigue and fragility had been scrubbed away by sheer will. What remained was a hard-edged, vigorous handsomeness—like something sharpened and brought back to life.
Behind him, three rounds of applause sounded, accompanied by low murmurs of approval.
"When do we leave?" Hiroshima Mori asked quietly.
"We're already here."
Hiroshima Mori froze.
His gaze tightened. He straightened his suit, turned, left the bathroom, and stepped out of the master bedroom.
He stopped at the bedroom doorway and looked into the distance.
The bedroom he had shared with his wife faced the apartment's enormous wall-to-wall window. The rain had already stopped. Beyond the glass, the sky was rinsed clean—bright, pure blue. Under that blue, the towering structures of Shibuya and Shinjuku rose up, carving Tokyo's signature skyline: sharp, cold, and precise.
A moment later, Hiroshima Mori withdrew his gaze and swept his eyes across the apartment.
Only then did certainty settle into his bones.
He truly had arrived in Tokyo of another world.
The view outside was identical, but the furnishings inside were entirely different. No—this wasn't his home. Here, he couldn't catch even the faintest trace of Kusa's scent.
Just then, as if hearing movement upstairs, a girl's gentle greeting floated up from directly below.
"Mom, good morning. Breakfast today is fried eggs and toast."
Hiroshima Mori stared.
Slowly, he lowered his head.
And in the instant he saw that figure, his breath stopped.
...
Butter melted under the flame with a slow sizzle, releasing a warm, tempting aroma.
Nagasaki Soyo watched the frying pan with complete focus. The egg was turning a beautiful golden brown at the edges. Beside her, the toaster and coffee machine hummed in alternating rhythms. The rich scent of coffee and the wheat-sweet smell of toast drifted from the semi-open kitchen into the entire living area, warming the body from the inside out.
Suddenly, the girl's ears twitched.
She heard footsteps—upstairs, on the second floor. Someone had come out of a room.
"Mom, good morning. Breakfast today is fried eggs and toast."
No answer came back, but Soyo didn't mind. She knew her mother had mild low blood sugar; after waking up, she often stayed foggy for a while.
Soyo picked up the spatula and gently pressed the center of the egg, nodding to herself.
Perfect. Just right—the runny sunny-side-up her mother loved most. Her mom came home very late last night. She hoped this breakfast would lift her spirits, even a little.
Ding.
The toaster chimed. Soyo took the tongs and turned to retrieve the popped toast—
And in that very moment, the edge of her vision caught a streak of somber black.
Someone was approaching from behind.
Soyo's mind went blank for a beat.
She spun around in shock, and her eyes slammed into a suit of pure black—
And a face that was far too handsome, and utterly without warmth.
A man.
Not Mom.
Was he… her mother's guest?
No—no, that didn't make sense. Mom hadn't brought anyone home last night.
Then… an intruder?
Panic surged.
What should she do? Greet him? Call the police? The footsteps she'd heard—were they his? He came down from the second floor, so what about Mom…?
In that instant, Nagasaki Soyo's thoughts tangled into a knot. She faced him and forced a thin smile, slipping her hand into her skirt pocket.
Her fingers touched the hard shell of her phone, and the tension eased by a fraction—
A smartphone. One emergency call and the police would be on the line.
"Um… hello? Are you… my mother's guest?"
The man didn't answer.
He only stared at her face, unmoving.
He was standing steadily, neatly dressed, black and white as if cut from paper—but the feeling he gave off was a lifeless gray, like a wandering spirit floating without a place to land.
And then, in the moment their eyes met—
The gray peeled away.
The ghost returned to the world.
Soyo saw a grief so deep it felt carved into bone spill from the man's eyes—like the ocean breaking a dam. A cold black tide rushed toward her. Her heart jolted, and she stood rooted to the floor.
She couldn't explain what was happening.
She was only looking into his eyes, and yet she could feel it—an enormous sorrow, enough to drown everything. A sharp ache rose in her throat, so intense it almost forced tears from her own eyes.
"Um…"
Her fear and alarm faded, dissolving into a wordless worry.
Slowly, Soyo edged closer. They faced each other across the kitchen island. She hesitated, the hand holding her phone tightening, loosening—
And in the end, she set it down carefully on the counter, screen facing down, and pushed it toward him a short distance.
"If you need help… maybe… you can use this…"
Only then did the man seem to wake from a long dream.
Faced with her expression—uneasy, yet earnest with concern—his pupils contracted sharply. His whole body jerked backward. He stumbled away in rapid retreat until his back hit the front door with a loud bang.
Soyo flinched so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
On the other side, the impact seemed to drain the man of everything he had left. He slid down the door until he sat on the floor. He raised an arm to cover his eyes—
But tears still poured through, soaking the sleeve of his suit, spilling down, tracing the contours of his refined face.
A long time passed.
And then Soyo heard him speak—his voice broken, like a sob forced through clenched teeth:
"…Wife… so you weren't dead after all…"
-------
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