Harumi Community Center - Morning
Tokyo, waterfront district. Pale gray sky, the sun faintly peeking through the clouds.
The four-story community center stands between old office buildings and a small park whose leaves are beginning to yellow. Two flags—Japan and the prefecture—flutter lazily at the front poles.
9:47 AM.
Three dark-colored buses are parked neatly on the east side. Security details move in practiced patterns—six men at the main entrance, four at the back door, the rest scattered at every corner that offers the best vantage point. Walkie-talkies crackle softly. Their right hands discreetly touch their waists, checking their weapons' positions.
A gray-tied man rearranges the speech papers in his hand. Chief of Staff Kurogane Reiji. He glances at his watch.
"Five more minutes," he says to the adjutant beside him.
---
VIP Lounge, Community Center
Frosted glass wall facing the east corridor. Black leather sofa. A wooden table with two untouched glasses of mineral water.
Haruto sits in a chair near the window.
He is fifteen years old. Black hair neatly combed to the side. Formal school uniform—white shirt, navy blue tie, black blazer with the emblem of a prestigious school on the breast pocket. Shiny shoes, reflecting the ceiling light at their tips.
He stares outside.
From here, he can see part of the main road. Traffic police have begun diverting vehicles. One patrol car is parked at an angle, its blue light flashing silently.
Beyond the glass, his own reflection appears faint.
The same face that appeared on television a week ago, standing two steps behind his father. But here, without cameras, without the glare of lights, his expression doesn't change.
Not empty.
Just filled with something not easily named.
The door opens.
Reiji enters without knocking. His steps are quick, decisive. Dark gray suit, maroon tie with a perfect knot. Two staff follow behind him, stopping precisely at the threshold.
Haruto stands.
A reflex. Not out of respect—it was never asked for—but because he knows the pattern. In three seconds, his father will speak.
Reiji looks at him two seconds longer than usual.
Haruto catches it.
There's something in the corner of his father's eyes—a tension that doesn't show on television screens. In public, those muscles are relaxed. Smiles come easily. But here, in a room without cameras, his jaw is slightly set.
"Did you sleep enough?" asks Reiji.
"Yes."
"Did you have breakfast?"
"At the hotel."
Reiji nods. Information recorded, processed, stored. No follow-up. No "do you want more?" or "what did you eat?"
The staff behind wait patiently. They're used to this.
Haruto doesn't wait for the next question. He knows this is where the conversation usually ends. But today, something is different.
Reiji steps closer.
One step. Two.
He stands about a meter from Haruto—an unusual distance. Usually they talk from across the room, or while walking to the car, or through staff.
Reiji looks at him.
The same gaze as during TV debates—confident, steady. But Haruto sees the layer beneath. Something he can't name.
"Do you know what will happen today?" asks Reiji.
A strange question.
Haruto tilts his head slightly. "The legal reform speech."
"Yes, that's what's on the schedule." Reiji pauses. "But I'm asking what you think."
Haruto is silent for three seconds.
He scans the pattern. His father has never asked about his thoughts. Never. Since childhood, the questions have always been about facts—school, health, needs. Not opinions. Not perceptions.
Why now?
He answers carefully. "I think... something is unusual."
Reiji nods slowly. Neither confirming nor denying.
"Today, stay behind me," he says. "If something happens, follow the security's orders. Don't ask questions. Don't hesitate."
Standard instruction. But his tone is different. Lower. Denser.
Haruto nods.
Reiji looks at him for one more second. Then turns away.
"We leave in five minutes."
The door closes.
Haruto sits back down.
Outside, a technician is checking camera cables. Two journalists are already standing in the designated area. Everything is going according to plan.
But in his chest, something beats a little faster.
Not fear.
Just the awareness that today's pattern has shifted slightly.
---
Community Center Corridor
They walk in formation.
Reiji at the front, two staff to his right and left. Four security—two in front, two behind. Haruto walks about three meters behind, exactly as trained since he was seven years old.
The corridor is quite wide. Cream walls. Fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Doors to meeting rooms on the left and right, all closed.
The sound of shoes on the ceramic floor is rhythmic.
Haruto observes.
The front security—Kato and Suzuki—move with standard vigilance. Right hands near their waists. Their gaze moves systematically: left, right, front, ceiling. The same pattern every time.
The rear security—Nakamura and Endo—focus more on the back, but occasionally glance sideways.
The staff—Tanaka and Yoshida—are busy with phones and documents.
And his father...
Reiji walks with a straight back. Doesn't look behind. Shows no hesitation.
Haruto suddenly remembers something.
About six months ago, he woke up in the middle of the night to get water. On the stairs, he saw his father sitting in the dark living room, alone, staring at the ceiling. Not moving. Not doing anything.
Haruto watched for two minutes before returning to his room.
The next morning, Reiji was already at the dining table in a neat suit, reading the newspaper, as usual.
Haruto never asked.
Now, in this corridor, he wonders if his father also sat alone last night.
---
Main Hall, Community Center
They enter the main hall from the stage side door.
A large room. Capacity about 300 people. Folding chairs neatly arranged facing the stage. Spotlights directed at the podium. Two television cameras in predetermined positions.
About 150 chairs are filled. Recognizable faces: city council members, local businessmen, NGO representatives, some journalists. And in the back rows, ordinary citizens who managed to register.
Applause welcomes them.
Reiji steps onto the stage with a perfectly formed smile. He gives a small wave. Pauses at the podium, arranges his speech papers, giving the cameras time to capture his best angle.
Haruto stops at the side of the stage.
This position is familiar. From here, he can see almost the entire room, but he's not in the camera frame. Designed from the beginning—the Reformist's Son should be visible, but not intrusive.
Beside him, Nakamura stands at the ready.
The spotlight feels warm.
Reiji begins to speak.
"Good morning. Thank you for taking the time..."
His voice is steady. Well-projected. Intonation rises and falls exactly at the right points.
But Haruto doesn't listen to the words.
He observes the audience.
This isn't something he was taught.
Since childhood, he's always sat in waiting rooms, backstage, in room corners, waiting. His father is busy. His mother... doesn't talk much. Staff are busy with their respective tasks.
So he learned to observe.
At first, just to kill time. Counting how many times someone blinks. Seeing who frequently checks their watch. Noticing small movements that are out of sync.
Over time, he realized something:
Everyone has patterns. And a broken pattern always means something.
A guard shifting his weight too often—maybe tired, maybe anxious, maybe has a stomach ache. A staff member playing with their tie end—maybe nervous, maybe hiding something. A journalist sitting too tense—maybe waiting for a scandal, maybe holding in urine.
Haruto can't read minds.
But he can read inconsistencies.
His eyes move systematically. Left to right, row by row.
Rows 1-3: Local officials. Sitting straight. Smiling right at applause moments. Normal pattern.
Rows 4-6: Businessmen. One person yawns, covers his mouth. Normal pattern.
Rows 7-9: Mixed. A middle-aged woman taking notes. Normal pattern.
Rows 10-12: Ordinary citizens.
Stop.
Row 10, seat 4 from the left.
A man. Around 40s. Dark brown jacket. Hands on his lap.
He's not looking at the stage.
His eyes are focused on a point on the left side of the room. Not towards Haruto—more towards the emergency exit.
His lips move. Speaking to the person beside him without turning his head.
Haruto shifts his gaze.
Row 10, seat 5.
Another man. Dark jacket. Similar age. Also not looking at the stage.
His hand—his right hand—is slightly inside his jacket pocket.
Not fully. Just up to the wrist. Like holding something.
Haruto notes it.
Two men. One pattern. Communication without eye contact. Hands in pockets at a formal event.
He shifts his gaze further.
Row 12, seat 2. A third man. Gray jacket. Sitting at the end, near the aisle.
He looks towards the first two men. Briefly. Then returns to staring straight ahead.
But not at the stage.
His eyes are vacant, like someone daydreaming in public. But his body is tense—shoulders slightly raised, breathing shallow.
Haruto recognizes that posture.
Ready to move.
Reiji reaches an important part of the speech.
"Change is not born from anger..." His voice rises, adding weight. "It is born from the courage to reform the system."
Applause.
Cameras take a wide shot, then a close-up.
Haruto doesn't clap.
His eyes are still on those three men.
During the applause, they move.
The brown-jacketed man—shifts his chair back slightly. The dark-jacketed man—his right hand comes out of the pocket, holding something dark, small. The gray-jacketed man—his right foot moves back half a step, ready to stand.
Haruto calculates.
Three men. Synchronization without open communication. Scattered positions—left, center, right.
This isn't a coincidence.
Nakamura beside him is still focused on the stage. Other guards are scattered at strategic points. Police outside. Everyone following standard protocol.
But standard protocol doesn't account for three men moving too synchronously during applause.
Haruto breathes in.
Then, silently, he shifts his position slightly to the left.
Moving closer to Nakamura.
Reiji continues the speech. About family. About reasons to persevere.
Haruto knows this part. His father will mention his name. The cameras will switch to him. He'll give a small nod. The public will like it.
But this time, he's not thinking about that.
He's calculating distance.
Brown-jacketed man—about 20 meters. Dark-jacketed man—25 meters. Gray-jacketed man—18 meters.
If they move now, the closest target is the gray-jacketed man. But he's at the end of the aisle. The route to the stage is blocked by chairs.
If they have weapons—
The dark-jacketed man. He's the one holding something in his pocket. Position in the center. The aisle is wider there.
Haruto shifts his gaze to the emergency exit on the left side. Closed. But no guard there. Only a building security guard in a blue uniform.
That guard—around 50s—stands with his hands behind his back. A blank face.
But his eyes... His eyes aren't looking at the stage.
His eyes are looking towards the brown-jacketed man.
Haruto feels something in his chest.
Not fear. Understanding.
Reiji mentions his name. "And family is my reason to persevere."
A hand on his shoulder.
More applause.
Haruto nods slightly. His face is calm. A thin smile—practiced thousands of times.
But beneath the calm, his mind works rapidly.
Three men in rows 10-12. One security guard not watching the stage. Communication without words. Perfect synchronization.
This isn't spontaneous. This is planned.
And they're waiting for something.
Reiji closes the speech with a powerful closing line.
Prolonged applause.
Cameras record. Smiling faces. Staff begin to move, preparing to arrange the next session.
Haruto doesn't move. He's still observing.
Brown-jacketed man—head down, lips moving. Dark-jacketed man—right hand back in the pocket. Gray-jacketed man—right foot back again.
The security guard—glances towards the stage, then back to the front.
'They're waiting. But waiting for what?' Haruto scans the room again.
Main door—closed, two guards outside. Side door—closed, one guard. Backstage door—open, staff coming and going. Windows on the east side—closed, barred.
Evacuation routes— Then he sees it.
In the very back row, near the main door, a man is standing.
He shouldn't be standing. Everyone is sitting.
That man—black jacket, cap—stands calmly, hands at his sides.
And in his hand— A phone. Pointed towards the stage.
Recording.
But it's not an ordinary phone camera. There's something beneath it—a dark silhouette, elongated.
Haruto doesn't need to see more clearly.
He knows.
Someone outside. Someone watching this recording. Someone giving a signal.
He turns to the dark-jacketed man.
Hand in pocket, waiting. The black-jacketed man with the phone—waiting.
The security guard—waiting. All waiting for one signal.
Haruto breathes in slowly. Then, silently, he steps one pace forward.
Moving closer to his father.