"He thinks I'm gone. Thinks he's safe with his fragile little flower." She picked up the gold-plated pistol Jiro had dropped. Checked the chamber. Loaded.
"Time to show him what a real storm looks like."
The ride back across Tokyo felt different than the ride there.
Hanae sat in the back of a different Mercedes—the first one was still embedded in the Ivory Tower's lobby, too damaged to drive. This one smelled newer, cleaner. No blood yet. No broken glass grinding under her shoes.
Ren was driving again, silent as ever, his eyes occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror to check on her. Takeshi had stayed behind with a team to secure the tower and get her father medical attention. Reina sat beside her, humming something cheerful and off-key, swinging her legs like a child.
Outside, the storm had lessened. Not stopped—Tokyo's rain didn't stop that easily—but the typhoon had moved on, leaving behind a steady downpour instead of a deluge. The city lights reflected in the puddles, turning the streets into rivers of neon.
Hanae's phone—the satellite phone Ryuuji had given her—buzzed. She pulled it from her jacket pocket.
A text from Takeshi: Doctor arrived. Father stable. Vitals improving. He asked for water.
She read it three times. He asked for water. Four words that meant her father's brain was starting to work again. Starting to remember how to want things, need things, be a person instead of a drugged vegetable.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to type something back. Wanted to say she'd be there soon, wanted to tell Takeshi he'd done well.
Instead, she just typed: Good.
Sent it.
Put the phone away.
Her hands were shaking slightly. She pressed them flat against her thighs, willing them to stop. The leather gloves creaked.
"Boss?" Reina's voice cut through her thoughts. "You okay? You look... I don't know. Weird."
"I'm fine."
"You're a bad liar." Reina tilted her head, twin tails swaying. "Your left eye does this little twitch thing when you lie. Did it when you told Kenji you loved his mother's cooking too."
Hanae looked at her. Reina's face was still speckled with blood—she hadn't bothered to clean it off. Her dress was ruined, soaked crimson and black. But her eyes were sharp. Too sharp.
"I'm going to see my ex-husband," Hanae said slowly. "The man who humiliated me in front of three hundred people. And my step-sister, who's probably in bed with him right now."
"And?"
"And I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there."
The admission felt strange. Hanae always knew what she was going to do. Had always been three steps ahead, planning contingencies, calculating outcomes. But this... this was personal in a way that made strategy feel irrelevant.
Reina was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know what I did? When I quit the convenience store?"
"What?"
"I went back two days later. During the night shift. When that manager was there—the one who used to brush up against me when I stocked the shelves. Who used to say it was 'an accident' even though he did it every single time."
Hanae waited.
"I didn't kill him," Reina continued, still swinging her legs. "I just... talked to him. Told him I knew where he lived. Knew his wife's name. His kids' school. Told him I'd memorized his route home. And then I smiled and left."
"That's it?"
"That's it." Reina looked out the window. "He had a heart attack three days later. Stress-induced. I didn't have to do anything. He did it to himself, just thinking about what I might do."
She turned back to Hanae. "Sometimes just showing up is enough, Boss. Just reminding them that you're real. That you exist. That they fucked with the wrong person."
Hanae considered this. "You're saying I should just... talk to them?"
"I'm saying you don't have to plan everything. Sometimes you just walk in and see what happens." Reina grinned. "Besides, you're scary as fuck when you're improvising."
Despite everything, Hanae almost smiled. Almost.
"Where are we going, Boss?" Ren's voice from the front seat, the first words he'd spoken since they left the tower.
Hanae pulled out her phone again. Opened the browser. Typed Kenji's name.
Social media loaded. She'd never followed him—had deleted all her accounts when she'd tried to become a housewife—but his profiles were public. He'd always been public, always needed the attention.
His latest post was from two hours ago.
A photo. Kenji and Emi. Both in formal wear—him in a tuxedo, her in a white dress. Not the wedding dress she'd worn at the altar. Something else. Something simpler, more elegant.
They were at the Imperial Hotel. The same hotel where Hanae had been humiliated. The caption read: New beginnings with my beautiful wife. Thank you all for your support during this difficult time. #Love #SecondChances #CherishEveryMoment
The comments were nauseating. Hundreds of them, all congratulating Kenji on finding "true love," all praising him for "doing the right thing" and "following his heart."
A few mentioned Hanae. What about your first fiancée? one asked.
Kenji had replied: Sometimes we outgrow people. She understood. We parted amicably.
Hanae's jaw clenched so hard she heard her teeth creak.
"The Imperial Hotel," she told Ren. "They're having the reception tonight."
"The same hotel where—"
"Yes."
Ren nodded once. Adjusted their route.
Reina leaned over to look at the phone. Saw the photo. "Oh. Oh, that's bold. Same location? Really?"
"He thinks I'm too broken to come back," Hanae said quietly. "Thinks I'm somewhere crying into a pillow. Thinks he won."
She zoomed in on Emi's face in the photo. Her step-sister looked radiant. Glowing. The picture of innocent joy, of a woman who'd finally gotten everything she wanted.
Hanae remembered when they'd first met. She'd been twelve, Emi had been ten. Her father had just married Emi's mother—a woman who'd smiled at Hanae with her mouth but not her eyes, who'd called her "the poor dear" whenever Hanae's real mother was mentioned.
Emi had been sweet at first. Or pretended to be. Called Hanae "onee-san," asked to braid her hair, wanted to be best friends.
But Hanae had noticed things. Small things. Her training materials going missing. Her father's attention being monopolized. Whispered conversations between Emi and her mother that stopped when Hanae entered rooms.
The breaking point had come when Hanae was fifteen. She'd been preparing for her inheritance ceremony—the formal recognition as the Kurosawa heir. Emi had gotten "sick" the day before. Terrible fever, the doctors said. Needed constant care. Hanae's father had stayed by her bedside instead of attending Hanae's ceremony.
Later, much later, Hanae had found the empty pill bottle in Emi's trash. Medication that induced fever. Theater.
But by then Hanae was already being groomed to take over the clan. Already becoming the Asura. She'd confronted Emi once, quietly, in a hallway.
"I know what you did," Hanae had said.
Emi had just smiled. That same sweet smile. "Prove it, onee-san."
They'd maintained the fiction of sisterhood after that. Polite. Distant. Emi had stopped pretending to be affectionate. Had stopped pretending at all, really, when it was just the two of them.
And now here she was. In a white dress. With Hanae's ex-fiancé. At Hanae's wedding venue.
"Boss?" Reina's voice pulled her back. "You're doing the eye twitch thing again."
Hanae put the phone away. Looked down at her hands. The gloves were stained now—blood and worse. Her suit was still mostly clean but there were spatters on the cuffs, the collar.
"Ren. Stop somewhere. I need different clothes."
"There's a boutique two blocks from the hotel," Ren said. "High-end. They'll be open—stores like that stay open late for the rich people's impulse purchases."
"Perfect."
The Mercedes pulled up outside a boutique that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought gold fixtures and marble floors were subtle. The kind of place where a dress shirt cost more than most people's monthly rent.
Hanae stepped out. The rain immediately soaked into her hair, her jacket. She didn't care.
A doorman was already moving toward her—probably to tell her they were closed, or that she couldn't come in looking like she'd walked through a crime scene.
He got one look at her face and stepped aside.
The boutique's interior was all white and chrome and soft lighting designed to make everything look expensive. A sales associate approached—young woman, probably mid-twenties, wearing the kind of outfit that cost more than Hanae's first car.
"Welcome to—" She saw the blood. Saw Hanae's expression. Her smile froze. "How can we help you today?"
"I need a dress," Hanae said. "Something for a wedding reception."
"Of course. What's your budget?"
"I don't have one."
The associate's eyes lit up. "Wonderful. If you'll follow me—"
"No." Hanae walked past her, scanning the racks herself. "I know what I'm looking for."
She found it three racks in.
A dress. Not white—she was done with white. Not black either—too obvious, too expected.
Red. Deep red. The color of arterial blood. The kind of red that made people think of roses and lipstick and warning signs.
It was sleek. Form-fitting. No frills, no lace, no attempt to hide or soften anything. Just clean lines and a plunging neckline and a slit up the thigh that would make walking easy and running easier.
"That one," she said.
The associate hurried over. "Excellent choice. This is a Valentino piece, just arrived from—"
"I don't care. Do you have it in my size?"
"Let me check."
While the woman disappeared into the back, Hanae caught sight of herself in one of the full-length mirrors.
She looked like hell. Hair plastered to her skull from rain. Face pale, no makeup. Blood on her collar, her gloves, probably her face though she couldn't see it clearly.
But her eyes...
Her eyes looked alive. Actually alive. For the first time in six years they looked like they belonged to someone who existed, who mattered, who could change things.
Not the dead eyes of Hanae the Housewife. The burning eyes of the Asura.
The associate returned. "We have it in your size. Would you like to try it on?"
"Yes. And I need shoes. Heels. Red. Same color if you have them."
"We do. I'll bring them to the fitting room."
The fitting room was obscenely large—bigger than some apartments Hanae had lived in during her early days in the clan. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, soft lighting, a velvet couch that probably cost more than a used car.
Hanae stripped off her blood-stained suit. Peeled off the gloves. Stood there in her underwear looking at herself.
Her body had changed in the last six hours. Not physically—she was still too thin from six years of kale smoothies and careful portion control. Still weaker than she'd been at her peak.
But she stood differently. Shoulders back. Spine straight. No more hunching, no more making herself small.
The scars were visible now. All of them. The knife wound on her ribs from Yokohama. The bullet graze on her shoulder from Osaka. The burn marks from Kyoto. Her body was a map of violence, and she was done hiding it.
She slipped into the dress.
It fit perfectly. Hugged every curve, every sharp angle. The red looked like war paint against her pale skin. The neckline showed the top of the scar on her collarbone—the one from the first time someone had tried to kill her, when she was sixteen.
She looked dangerous. She looked expensive. She looked like someone you didn't fuck with.
The shoes were five-inch stilettos. Red patent leather. Sharp enough to be weapons.
She stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized herself.
This wasn't Hanae the Housewife. Wasn't even the Asura from before—that version had still been trying to prove something, still been fighting for her father's approval.
This was something new. Something that had been forged in humiliation and rage and six hours of systematic destruction.
This was a woman who'd burned down her old life and was about to burn down what was left.
A knock at the fitting room door. "Ma'am? How is everything?"
"Perfect." Hanae opened the door. "I'll take it. And I'm wearing it out."
"Of course. Will you be paying with—"
Hanae pulled out a black card from her jacket—one she'd taken from Jiro's desk. The Kurosawa clan's unlimited corporate account. "This."
The associate's eyes widened slightly. "Right away."
While the woman processed the payment, Hanae looked at her reflection one more time.
Her hair was still wet, still plastered down. She finger-combed it back, slicking it away from her face. No softness. No feminine waves. Just severe lines and sharp angles.
She had no makeup. Didn't need it. The paleness made her eyes look darker, harder. Made the scar on her jaw visible—the one she'd spent two hours covering up that morning.
This morning. It felt like a year ago.
The associate returned. "All set. Would you like us to dispose of your... previous outfit?"
Hanae looked at the blood-stained suit crumpled on the floor. The suit Takeshi had kept for six years. The suit she'd reclaimed her throne in.
"No. Have it cleaned. Stored. I'll pick it up later."
"Of course."
Hanae walked out of the boutique. Reina was waiting by the car, had cleaned most of the blood off her face but was still wearing her ruined Lolita dress. She saw Hanae and whistled.
"Okay, now you look like you're going to ruin someone's life."
"That's the plan."
They got back in the Mercedes. Ren looked at Hanae in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable.
"The hotel, Boss?"
"The hotel."
As they drove, Hanae's phone buzzed again. Another message from Takeshi: Father is asking for you. He's confused. Keeps asking where his daughter is.
Her throat tightened. She typed back: Tell him I'm finishing something. Tell him I'll be there soon.
He says to be careful. Says the Asura is strong but the Asura is still his daughter.
Hanae stared at that message. Her father was back. Actually back. The drugs were clearing and he was back and he was worried about her.
She put the phone away before she could let herself feel too much about that.
The Imperial Hotel appeared ahead of them, exactly as ostentatious as she remembered. Golden lights, marble columns, valet parking full of cars that cost more than houses.
"Ren. Park somewhere I can leave quickly if I need to."
"Understood."
"Reina. You're staying in the car."
"What? But Boss, I want to see—"
"No." Hanae's voice was firm. "This is personal. This is something I need to do alone."
Reina pouted but nodded. "Fine. But if you need me to cut anyone, just text."
"I will."
The car pulled up to a side entrance. Ren killed the engine. The rain drummed on the roof—softer now, almost gentle.
Hanae sat there for a moment. Breathing. Centering herself.
Behind her was the Ivory Tower. Her father waking up. Her throne reclaimed. The Kurosawa clan bleeding and broken but hers again.
Ahead of her was the Imperial Hotel. Kenji and Emi. Three hundred guests who'd watched her humiliation. The final piece of her old life that needed burning.
She opened the car door.
The rain hit her immediately. Soaked into the red dress, made it cling even tighter. Made her hair drip. Ruined the expensive fabric.
She didn't care.
She walked toward the entrance. Her stilettos clicked on wet marble. Each step was measured. Purposeful.
The doorman saw her coming. Saw a woman in a soaked red dress, hair slicked back, walking like she owned the building. He opened the door without being asked.
"Good evening, ma'am."
Hanae didn't respond. Just walked past him into the lobby.
The lobby was full of wedding guests. The reception was still going—she could hear music from the ballroom, laughter, the clink of champagne glasses. People in formal wear were scattered through the space, smoking by the windows, checking their phones, talking in small groups.
They saw her. Saw a woman in red standing in the center of the lobby, dripping rain onto pristine marble.
Conversations stopped. Heads turned.
Someone recognized her. She saw it happen—a woman in a green dress, one of Kenji's mother's friends. The woman's eyes went wide. She grabbed her companion's arm, whispered something.
The whisper spread like a virus. Through the lobby, toward the ballroom. Hanae could track it by the way people's expressions changed. Curiosity to recognition to shock to something that might have been fear.
She didn't move. Just stood there. Waiting.
The music in the ballroom cut off abruptly.
The doors opened.
Kenji stood in the doorway. Still in his tuxedo. Face flushed from alcohol and celebration. He saw her and the color drained from his face like someone had opened a tap.
"Hanae?" His voice was small. Uncertain. "What are you—how are you—"
"Hello, Kenji." Her voice carried. Clear and cold and precise. "I heard you got married. Thought I'd stop by and offer my congratulations."
People were spilling out of the ballroom now. Forming a crowd. Creating an audience.
Just like this morning. Just like when he'd humiliated her at the altar.
Hanae smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
"Shall we talk?"
[To be continued]