The airport hummed with quiet activity. The low murmur of travelers, the occasional crackling announcement over the intercom—everything blurred together, a white noise that felt distant. The band was scattered around a secluded corner of the lounge, exhaustion pressing down on them like an invisible weight.

  Hideki poked at the bland, portion-controlled meal in front of him—a dry, overcooked chicken breast, steamed vegetables, and precisely measured rice. His doctors had cleared it, his body could handle it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. His chopsticks hovered over the tray for a moment before reaching across the table and stealing a fry from Nachi’s tray.

  “Oi,” Nachi muttered, not even looking up from his burger. “Get your own junk food.”

  “Mm.” Hideki popped the fry into his mouth, unimpressed. “Too greasy.”

  Nachi snorted but didn’t bother swatting Hideki’s hand away when he stole another. Across from them, Mamoru sat with his elbow propped on the table, sipping iced green tea. A half-eaten sandwich sat beside him, untouched for the last ten minutes. Normally, he’d scold Hideki for messing with his diet, but he didn’t even look up. That alone told Hideki everything—Mamoru was too tired to care, and that meant something was wrong.

  Mimmi, on the other hand, had fully surrendered to exhaustion. Head tilted back, arms crossed over her chest, her phone—usually glued to her palm—sat abandoned on the table. She was out cold.

  Interesting.

  Hideki turned slightly toward Mamoru, raising an eyebrow. “She doesn’t sleep in public.”

  Mamoru barely reacted. “Hn.”

  Hideki leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly. If Mimmi was this drained, something was brewing behind the scenes.The question was—what?

  Then his phone buzzed.

  He glanced at the caller ID. Unknown number. He hesitated for half a second before answering. “Yano.”

  A pause. Then, a voice, calm and professional.

  “Mr. Yano? I’m calling on behalf of Ms. Hoshikaze’s estate. She named you in her will. There’s an inheritance set aside.”

  The words filtered through, detached and clinical. Hideki stared at his untouched meal, eyes unfocused. The background noise of the airport faded.

  Anna still playing games. Even dead.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  His grip on the phone didn’t tighten. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t blink. He only exhaled through his nose and set his chopsticks down neatly on the tray.

  “Of course she did,” he murmured, voice light. Flat.

  Bitterness simmered beneath.

  Across from him, Nachi had stopped eating, gaze flicking toward him, wary. Mamoru finally looked up, his sharp stare cutting across the table.

  Hideki took another fry.

  “Go on,” he said, tone effortlessly smooth. “How much did she leave me?”

  The police report came quietly, buried under layers of bureaucracy and PR shielding. Anna Hoshikaze—dead from cancer. But that wasn’t the scandal.

  The painkillers in her system weren’t hers. They were Hideki’s. His name was printed clearly on the bottles.

  Police flagged the prescription immediately. If Hideki was publicly diagnosed with aplastic anemia, then why did his fiancée have drugs for severe heart failure?

  Mimmi shut it down before it could spread.

  “The narrative is contained,” she told the band, voice sharp. “No headlines about suspicious drugs. For now.”

  The official story was clean: ? Anna had privately battled a serious illness. ? The painkillers were for end-of-life relief. ? A clerical error linked them to Mr. Yano—now corrected.

  Meanwhile, behind the scenes: ? Hideki’s medical records were altered. ? The pharmacy logs were erased and replaced. ? A “new” prescription bottle was planted in Anna’s belongings. ? A doctor on payroll signed off on the updated records.

  By morning, the original files would be wiped. By noon, the media would be flooded with tragic love story narrativesinstead of police suspicion.

  Takao wasn’t buying it.

  The sky over Tokyo was a dull gray, heavy clouds pressing against the skyline. Reporters lined the entrance of the funeral home, cameras flashing like strobes.

  “Mr. Yano! How are you holding up? Did you know about her illness? Are the rumors true about the engagement?”

  The questions blurred together. Hideki didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. His face remained blank as security ushered him past the chaos.

  Beside him, Mamoru walked stiffly, shoulders tight. The label had wanted Hideki alone—grieving fiancé, tragic love story intact. But Mamoru wasn’t about to let his twin face this circus alone. Screw optics.

  Inside, the world quieted. Minimalistic arrangements framed the front of the room—a single portrait of Anna, mid-laugh.

  The service was short. Carefully chosen phrases. The curated version of Anna Hoshikaze, the idol. No one mentioned Mitsuki Shion. That girl didn’t fit the narrative.

  Hideki sat front row, jaw tight, eyes downcast. A shallow inhale, a subtle quiver in his breath. Then—blink. Quick. Just enough to make it look like he was holding back tears. Public grief. A performance.

  Mamoru, seated behind him, saw through it instantly. His phone screen flashed red—

  VITALS: 0.

  One step down the stairs. Then another—until Hideki swayed. Mamoru caught the shift too late.

  Gasps erupted.

  “Hideki—!”

  He collapsed.

  Yuuki pushed through the chaos. “Move!” He knelt beside Hideki, fingers pressing against his neck. No pulse.

  “Shit—he’s in arrest—someone call emergency services!” Yuuki ripped open Hideki’s collar, starting chest compressions.

  Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Nothing.

  Mamoru crouched beside them, gripping Hideki’s wrist. “Don’t you—don’t you fucking dare.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Yuuki’s jaw clenched. “Thoracotomy—prep now!”

  Mamoru’s phone flashed again.

  VITALS: 0.

  The cameras kept flashing. The world kept turning. Time stretched.

  Yuuki’s scalpel hovered over Hideki’s chest—

  End of Book 1.