Genzo lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his room. The sun barely filtered through the heavy curtains, but the events of yesterday were already spinning in his head. His mother had finally done it. She had officially hired a maid. The woman had arrived last evening tall, with perfect posture and a cold smile sharp enough to cut glass. They agreed she would start today. She was twenty-five. Genzo remembered the number because his mother had deliberately emphasized it: "Adult, reliable. She'll keep an eye on you while I'm away on business trips."
He closed his eyes, trying to push the thought away, but at that exact moment he felt a faint movement of air across his face.
She was standing over him.
The black-and-white uniform clung to her like a second skin; short black hair neatly tucked under a white lace headpiece. She was smiling softly, almost tenderly, but something razor-sharp glinted in her eyes.
"Well, Genzō-kun, time to get up," she sang in a velvety voice. "If you don't eat soon, you'll be late for both school and training. And your mother asked me to make sure you don't skip a single day."
Genzo didn't flinch. He simply opened his eyes and looked straight up into her face.
"Why did you come in without asking?"
She leaned down lower. Warm lips brushed his cheek gently, almost weightlessly, but long enough for him to catch her perfume: vanilla and something metallic. Like blood underneath sugar.
Genzo didn't pull away. Didn't act surprised. He just exhaled heavily, as though all the air had left his lungs at once. He was fifteen. Fifteen, damn it.
"Get up, sunshine," she whispered into his ear, then straightened as if nothing had happened. "Breakfast is already on the table."
He sat up on the bed, feeling his cheek burn. Not from the kiss. From shame. Or from something else he didn't want to name yet.
Ten minutes later Genzo was sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him was a plate of perfectly toasted bread, sunny-side-up eggs with runny yolks, and a small bowl of neatly sliced fruit. The maid stood at the sink with her back to him, washing the knife she had used to cut the apples. The water ran steadily, as if deliberately drowning out the silence between them.
He ate quickly and silently. Every bite sounded too loud in the empty kitchen. When the plate was empty, he stood, tossed a "thanks" into the air, and headed for the door. She didn't even turn around. Only said quietly:
"Don't be late, Genzō-kun."
The door slammed shut behind him.
The walk to school took exactly thirty minutes at a brisk pace. He walked staring at his feet. The asphalt was already warm from the morning sun; the air smelled of dust and blooming cherry plums from someone's yard. Heavy beats thumped in his earbuds, drowning out his thoughts. Not completely.
Genzo passed behind the old abandoned school building that used to be a warehouse. Now, underground, it was his personal hell. The basement gym. Day two.
He descended the rusty staircase, pushed open the heavy metal door. The smell of dampness, sweat, and old iron hit his nose. He switched on the dim light.
It started with push-ups. Same as yesterday. Same as always now.
One. Two. Three. His arms were already shaking by the twentieth. Sweat stung his eyes. On the fortieth he collapsed face-first onto the cold concrete floor, breathing hard.
"Fuck… what the hell…" he rasped, not lifting his head. "It's only day two. I'm not a robot, I'm allowed to get tired…"
He slammed his fist into the floor. His knuckles burned.
"Enough. Stop it, you pathetic fuck. You don't get to quit. Get up."
Genzo rose. His legs trembled, but he stood. Walked over to the barbell. Second set.
Meanwhile, up above, in the alley behind the building, the sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, painting the concrete walls a dirty orange. Shadows stretched and sharpened.
A black van with no plates pulled up quietly.
The door slid open. Two men in black masks dragged out a girl. Her hands were tied behind her back with thick rope, her mouth sealed with duct tape. She thrashed, tried to scream, but only managed muffled whimpers. She looked about twenty. Beautiful. Had been.
They hauled her toward the far entrance the old club everyone thought was shut down. In reality, the basement was still operating. Partially underground, completely cut off from the world.
The door opened without a sound.
Inside dimness, red light, the smell of expensive whiskey and fear.
The men in black shoved the girl into the office. Behind the massive desk sat Takayama. Old. Around sixty-five. Gray hair combed back, face deeply wrinkled, but the eyes alive, predatory.
They knocked.
"Come in," he said calmly, without turning.
The girl was forced to her knees right in front of the desk. The masked men stood on either side.
Takayama spent another couple of minutes staring out the window, where behind the dirty glass there was now only a dark-orange fence and the slowly dying sky. Then he slowly turned.
Looked at her. Down at her. Smiled with the corner of his mouth.
"Put her down in front of me."
The men loosened their grip. The girl fell onto all fours, trembling violently. Tears streamed down her face, smearing mascara.
Takayama stood. Slowly walked around the desk. Bent over her. His old hands trembled not from weakness. From anticipation.
He grabbed her by the hair, yanked her face up.
"Filthy thing," he hissed, spraying spit. "This is exactly what happens to people who cross the wrong lines, isn't it?"
He struck her hard across the cheekbone. A wet crack. Blood sprayed onto the floor.
The girl sobbed through the tape.
Takayama straightened, adjusted his tie. His voice turned icy and businesslike:
"Deal with her. Take your time. Break her completely. Then make sure she disappears. Landfill outside the city. No traces. Not even for the dogs."
He turned back to the window, staring into nothing again, where the sun was almost touching the horizon.
"And don't rush. I want to hear every sound she makes while she still can."
The men in black stepped forward.
There was an order to simply destroy her in the most perverted way.
The office door closed with a soft, final click.