The traditional garden at the main Kageyama estate always felt like a separate world, safely walled off from the cruelty and hustle of the outside world by high stone walls. In this afternoon hour, absolute tranquility reigned here, broken only by the light rustle of leaves and the rhythmic clack of the bamboo sozu fountain.
Kaori had settled comfortably in a wicker chair on the terrace, enjoying the warm day. Her floral tea was cooling on the table before her, while she enthusiastically chattered about some socialite news, genuinely enjoying the company. But soon, this idyll was interrupted by the insistent ring of her mobile phone. Glancing at the screen, Kaori smiled guiltily and, promising to return in just a minute, fluttered back into the depths of the house to answer the call.
The silence of the garden became soft, almost tangible. And it was in this peaceful pause that a quiet melody floated over the greenery of bonsai and hydrangea bushes. The sound of singing drifted through the garden easily and naturally. The old, pure motif dissolved into the air, washing away all the anxieties of this place.
No one could have known that in the deep shadows of the veranda's overhang, just a few dozen steps away, Yasuhiro stood perfectly still.
He had just returned to the estate after a difficult meeting. His perfect dark three-piece suit fit flawlessly, his face was customarily cold, as if carved from marble, and his mind was still swirling with numbers, threats, and schemes to crush his rivals. Yasuhiro was about to walk past when this singing reached his ears.
He froze, as if hitting an invisible wall. His hand, already reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case, stopped.
The melody — the very same lullaby, the memory of which had been locked away at the very bottom of his mind since the day his parents' car burned — struck his nerves more ruthlessly than any bullet. Yasuhiro's dark, usually empty and predatory eyes slowly widened. He turned his head, seeking out the source of the sound.
Yasuhiro listened to أنت singing, and the icy mask on his aristocratic face began to crack. In that moment, for the ruthless executioner of the Munakata clan, the world narrowed down to a single figure in the garden. His breathing grew heavier. His thumb rubbed nervously against the silver ring — the legacy of his deceased mother — until his knuckles turned white. The gaze directed from the shadows changed: from cold and indifferent, it became terrifyingly feverish, absorbing every single moment.
He didn't take a single step forward, afraid to scare the sound away. Yasuhiro continued to stand in the semi-darkness of the veranda, an unseen observer, allowing a new, all-consuming fixation to take deep root in his mind.
