Shiratori Seiya was six years old when he officially moved into his aunt Andō Norika's house.
He remembered the hospital hallway—fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic, the way Norika's arms wrapped around him so tightly he could barely breathe. She'd cried for a very, very long time after his parents' accident.
Before that day, he hadn't known her well. They weren't close. Just the annual New Year's visit—polite, formal, the kind of interaction where you bow and exchange pleasantries with someone who's technically family but feels like a stranger.
Compared to her overwhelming grief, Shiratori Seiya remembered thinking his own sadness felt almost... mild. Inappropriate, even.
He'd assumed her tears were for her brother. That made sense. If he had a little sister, and she died with the man she loved? He'd be devastated for her.
The brother-in-law? That would be complicated. Blame, probably. Why couldn't you protect her?
If the brother-in-law had survived, that resentment might have festered forever. But dying together... it simplified things. Made the grief cleaner.
That's what he'd thought back then.
It wasn't until years later—one year after visiting his parents' grave—that Norika pulled him aside to look through old photo albums. High school albums. His mother's face smiled up from yellowed pages, arm-in-arm with a younger Norika.
That's when he learned: they'd been best friends since middle school. Through high school, university, into adulthood. Norika hadn't just lost a brother. She'd lost her closest friend.
Looking at those photos, listening to Norika's tearful, halting stories, Shiratori Seiya finally understood. Her love for his mother ran as deep as any sibling bond. Deeper, maybe.
And so she raised him as her own.
He never wanted for anything. Food, clothes, the latest gadgets—if other kids had it, Norika made sure he had it too. Sometimes before he even asked. Before she had her own children, his uncle would joke that the Andō family had found its heir. Norika would chase him around the house, pinching and scolding—not because she disagreed, but because she worried the joke might make Seiya feel like an outsider.
She needn't have worried. He knew how much they both cared. Even then, young as he was, he'd already decided: someday, he'd take care of them.
When he started middle school, Norika finally had her own child. Her attention shifted—naturally, unavoidably. But she still made time for him. Still checked in. Still cared.
The new baby meant new expenses. Government subsidies helped, but not enough. Fortunately, his uncle's job was stable. They managed.
Then, in Seiya's third year of middle school, disaster struck.
An economic downturn. Corporate restructuring. And his uncle—Andō Yōsuke—fell down a flight of stairs. Broke his leg. While he was recovering, the layoff notice arrived.
Suddenly, the family that had always been stable was anything but.
Norika had to work. Long hours, exhausting shifts. Yōsuke, once recovered, spent every day hunting for new jobs, coming home with nothing but rejection letters. The apartment, once warm, grew cold with tension.
Seiya would wake at night to find Norika asleep on the couch, still in her work clothes, too exhausted to make it to bed.
The arguments started. Small at first. Then louder. His uncle had always been gentle, but even the gentlest temper frays under constant pressure. And Norika had never been patient to begin with. The cracks in their relationship widened.
Money. It always came back to money.
Even childhood sweethearts—the ones who'd known each other since junior high, who'd survived high school and university and entered society together, who'd finally married and had a child—even that kind of love couldn't survive without it.
Love alone wasn't enough.
Shiratori Seiya had understood that in his previous life. But the comfortable years with the Andōs had made him forget. Had lulled him into thinking he had time.
He didn't.
The plan to slowly find the right cultivation target? Erased. It was time to make money.
>>>
Two years later, Shiratori Seiya stood in the Andō family living room, holding out a bank card.
Three million yen.
"Aunt Norika. You don't need to work anymore. Money isn't a problem now."
Her reaction wasn't what he expected.
First: shock. Eyes wide, mouth open.
Second: she ran to the kitchen, grabbed a rolling pin, and demanded to know what illegal activity he'd been involved in.
Third: tears. Sobbing. Calling out his parents' names, blaming herself for failing to keep him on the straight and narrow. Threatening to call the police.
He handed her the contracts—songwriting royalties, publishing rights, performance fees. Proof that the money was legitimate.
She threw them aside without looking.
"Don't try to fool me with paperwork, Seiya. I've never heard you express any interest in music. When I took you to karaoke as a child, you were completely tone-deaf!"
She was crying harder now.
"If you'd said you won a kendo competition, maybe—maybe I'd believe you. But this? You expect me to believe this?"
Her voice cracked.
"I haven't raised you well. I haven't given you a stable life. I'm so sorry to your parents—but I can't let you go down this path!"
She reached for the phone.
"Seiya, you're still a minor. If you turn yourself in, return the money, you might only serve a year. Don't be scared. Auntie will wait for you."
Shiratori Seiya closed his eyes.
Then he called Hōjō Shione.
>>>
That was their first meeting. Norika and Shione.
Shiratori Seiya had known, instinctively, that Norika would adore her. The look of love at first sight is unmistakable.
Maybe it was because she'd raised two boys—first him, then her own son. She'd always wanted a daughter. And Shione, with her delicate features and gentle demeanor, was everything Norika could have hoped for.
So when Shione arrived and explained—calmly, convincingly—about Seiya's songwriting, about their relationship, about the legitimate source of the money? Norika believed her instantly. Didn't even ask for proof.
Shiratori Seiya still remembered that moment clearly.
Norika had tucked the rolling pin into her apron pocket. Her face, moments ago a storm of grief and disappointment, cleared like clouds parting after rain. She'd grabbed Shione's hands, pulled her to the couch, and started asking questions a mile a minute.
>>>
The conversation had started normally enough. Norika asked when they'd met, when Seiya had started writing songs—the usual questions. Then she'd learned they were already dating.
And her eyes had lit up like she'd just won the lottery.
It was immediately clear: his relationship with Hōjō Shione mattered far more to her than any amount of money he could make.
"Are you really dating?"
"What do you like about our Seiya?"
Within minutes, she'd sussed out Shione's gentle Yamato Nadeshiko personality and moved on to family background, future plans, life goals. Shiratori Seiya watched in growing alarm as Norika mentally adopted Shione on the spot.
He'd intervened before she could start asking about baby names.
"She has things to do at her agency. Vocal practice. Very busy. We should go."
He practically pushed Shione out the door.
But the damage was done. From that day forward, Norika asked about Shione constantly. How was the relationship? When would she visit again? Did she need anything? Should they prepare a guest room?
She'd even—and this still made him cringe—slipped condoms into his school bag with a meaningful look and a whispered warning about "being prepared" and "not making mistakes too young."
Shione had found them once. Laughed until she cried.
Norika's worldview was simple: people who found love in high school were blessed. She and her husband had met that way. Seiya's parents too. So clearly, Shione was destined to be her daughter-in-law.
That's why, when Seiya ended things with Shione, he hadn't dared tell her.
He'd left a note for Shione explaining—give it time, let things settle, don't make my aunt sad. Shione was gentle. Understanding. She'd get it.
But now, clearly, she hadn't.
>>>
"SPEAK! Did you break up with Shione, you little brat?!"
Norika's voice thundered through the phone, dragging Seiya back to the present.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
Finally, a dull sound escaped—like a taiko drum filled with water.
"Mm."
Silence. Two seconds of it.
"You broke up half a year ago?"
"Mm."
"And you didn't tell me? About something this important? Do you even see me as your aunt anymore?"
It's because I knew you'd react like this that I didn't tell you.
"Speak! Why? Did some vixen at university sink her claws into you? I warned you about university girls! They don't actually like you—they just see your bank account!"
She was building momentum now.
"Look at yourself! Average face, boring conversation, what do you even have besides songwriting, money, kendo, and some talent?!"
Seiya opened his mouth, genuinely unsure whether he was being insulted or praised.
"What 'I'? Do you seriously think anyone besides Shione would genuinely love you?"
"Take leave. Come home. Explain this to my face. Don't give me excuses about university being busy—nothing is more important than this!"
Click.
She hung up before he could respond.
Seiya stared at his phone, then rubbed his temples slowly.
"What's wrong?"
Takahashi Mio's voice pulled him back. He turned—there she was, those striking eyes watching him with open curiosity.
Is this what Norika would call a vixen?
He shook his head. "Nothing. Finished eating?"
Mio nodded. She'd been watching him the whole time, actually. Noticed his expression shift during the call. Found it secretly amusing.
So the scoundrel has someone who can control him after all.
The thought was satisfying. But beneath the amusement, curiosity stirred. Who had called? What was that about?
She didn't ask. Too soon. Too risky. She'd learn eventually—she always did.
Besides, he'd just offered her a million yen per task. That was enough to think about for now.
She offered her best understanding-girlfriend smile.
"Do you have something to handle?"
"Not really..."
"Then we can talk another time. Just call or text—I'm free whenever."
Seiya's mind was elsewhere, but he nodded. "Alright. I do have something today. We'll continue next time."
Mio rose, gave him one last meaningful look, and walked away.
Seiya watched her go, then glanced at the cold food on the table. His appetite had vanished.
He pulled out his phone, ready to call Hōjō Suzune for answers.
A message popped up.
「Seiya?」
「Have you been eating well lately?」