Tokyo, Marunouchi.
In the President's office on the top floor of Saionji Industries HQ, the air felt like it had turned to lead.
The central AC hummed silently, holding the room at a perfect twenty-three degrees. It did nothing for the cold sweat on Managing Director Endo's temples as he stood before the desk.
Endo clutched a white handkerchief, dabbing his sideburns every few seconds.
Ever since the young lady left for vacation, Shuichi's mood had been… volatile. Endo and the other execs were getting chewed out like schoolboys every other day. He swore he was getting younger from all the scoldings.
Behind the desk, Saionji Shuichi sat hunched over a thick document, Montblanc hovering.
"Endo."
Shuichi's voice wasn't loud, but in the vast office it echoed.
"Yes! Your instructions, President."
Endo bowed, fast.
"Here."
The pen tip pressed down hard. Ink bloomed.
"Uniqlo summer line raw-material procurement budget — why is it up three percent versus last quarter? Yen's strong, imported cotton's cheaper. Warehousing and logistics costs don't explain this."
He looked up. Eyes on Endo.
"There's a twenty-million-yen 'loss reserve' here. Explain."
Endo flinched. Bowed deeper. "Yes! President! Rainy season moisture risk, so we—"
"The warehouse dehumidification system was upgraded last month," Shuichi cut in. "If you don't trust Saionji Construction's work, talk to Itakura. If you don't trust your own management…"
He didn't finish. Shut the folder. Pushed it to the desk edge.
"Take it back. Redo it. I don't want 'accounting for accounting's sake' on my desk again."
"Yes! Apologies!"
Endo snatched the file and backed out like he'd been pardoned.
Heavy oak door closed.
Click.
Lock engaged. Shuichi's ramrod-straight back finally slumped. He pulled off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaled stale air.
Silence.
He swiveled to the floor-to-ceiling window. Marunouchi sprawled below — suits scurrying through concrete canyons like ants.
Late April Tokyo. Sky a lukewarm gray-blue.
Satsuki flew to America in early April. The two weeks since felt like a century.
His eyes dropped to a document on the desk corner.
Letter of intent. 'Satellite Communications Industry.' Five billion yen. Partnership invite from Mitsubishi Corp.
Years ago, a number that big would have paralyzed him.
But after two years — The Club, the politicians, the sharks — he wasn't the old noble who only knew how to preserve. He could read financials. Parse jargon. Spot the holes in Endo's "perfect" reports.
He could keep this empire running. No mistakes. No bleeding.
He picked up the satellite doc. Flipped.
He understood every word. Technical specs. Market projections.
But he couldn't see.
Drop five billion — would it be a money printer like the Ginza Crystal Palace? Or a sinkhole like the Okura family's land reclamation?
He didn't know.
Fingers traced the edge of the paper.
If Satsuki were here… she'd glance once and say, in that dry, certain voice: "Father, this is a front for government subsidies." Or: "Buy it. This is the ticket to the next decade."
That voice was gone.
Shuichi felt the old powerlessness crawl up.
He was a battleship. Thick armor. Big guns. Could cruise, deter, sink anything that got close.
But he had no radar.
Vast ocean. Didn't know where to aim. Didn't know where the storm was.
"Preservation…"
Shuichi laughed, bitter. Tossed the five-billion proposal into the deepest drawer.
Decisions that needed 'Heaven's Eyes' could wait for the real Brain to come home.
His job now: guard the house. Not let anyone steal a coin.
He put his glasses back on. Pulled a new file — Main House garden maintenance.
Pine pruning. Pond water changes.
Trivial. Tangible. Safe.
But quiet let the other feeling in.
He looked at the desk calendar.
April 26th.
Sixteen days.
Sixteen days of waking on time. Eating on time. Office on time. Home on time. Golf when required. Club when required.
But Bunkyo Ward mansion: empty.
Rows of maids. Butler. Respectful.
No small figure on the sofa, legs swinging, book in lap.
No voice with black tea, sly eyes: "Father, let's go rob some money."
Even her teddy bear was gone.
The house — built with bottomless cash — felt like a cold tomb.
Chest tight. Shuichi loosened his tie. Sipped coffee.
Cold.
Bitter spread.
Knock, knock.
He frowned. If Endo was back with that budget, he'd throw it in his face.
"Enter."
Door opened.
Not a shaking subordinate.
Fujita.
Old butler. Fresh tuxedo. Hair gleaming. Face — usually stone — lit with joy he couldn't hide. Even the wrinkles were smoother.
"Master."
Fujita's voice had lightness.
"What?" Shuichi set the cup down. Still somber.
"Airport."
Fujita stepped forward. Speaking faster than usual.
"Young Lady's jet took off from New Chitose."
Shuichi's hand on the cup froze.
"Tower confirmed flight path. Lands at Haneda in two hours."
Clatter.
Cup hit the saucer. Coffee sloshed. Shuichi didn't notice.
He stood. Fast. Chair hit glass behind him. Thud.
The low pressure in the office evaporated like someone opened a window.
"Two hours?"
Shuichi checked his wrist. Then the wall clock. Like he didn't trust either.
"Wind? Tail or head? Delays?"
He rounded the desk to Fujita, questions rapid-fire.
"Tokyo traffic? Shuto Expressway clear now? Cars at airport ready? Heaters on — Tokyo's warmer than Hokkaido, don't let her catch cold."
Fujita watched the flustered head of house. Smile deepened.
"Master, at ease. All arranged. Motorcade downstairs. Clearest routes chosen."
"Good, good."
Shuichi rubbed his hands. Paced.
He stopped. Pointed at the desk — unreviewed docs, the five-billion proposal he'd buried.
"These…"
He waved, shooing flies.
"Tell Endo the rest waits till tomorrow. No — day after. Unless it's a disaster, don't call the house."
"Yes." Fujita bowed.
"And dinner." Shuichi remembered. "Tell the chef — French foie gras arrived. Satsuki's had potatoes and seafood for half a month. She'll want something different. And also…"
He grabbed his coat. Didn't wait for Fujita. Put it on himself.
"Car! Now!"
"Master, over an hour left," Fujita said.
"We wait at the airport."
Shuichi was at the door. Hand on knob.
"What if tailwind? What if she's early?"
…
Haneda Airport, VIP Terminal.
Sunset bled across tarmac through floor-to-ceiling glass. Gold-red on silver planes.
Shuichi sat in his lounge.
Blue Mountain coffee on the table. Untouched.
He stood. Walked to window. Looked at runway. Walked back. Sat. Stood again.
Alone in the lounge, the man Tokyo's elite feared was a kid before a first date.
Attendant approached to refill water. He waved them off.
He didn't want water.
He wanted coordinates.
"How long?" Third time asking.
"Head of House, fifteen minutes to touchdown," Fujita answered from the door. Patient.
Fifteen minutes.
Shuichi breathed. Forced himself still.
He watched jets land and take off. Mind went back years.
Yuriko had just died.
Saionji family like this airport at dusk — massive, but night coming.
He smoked in his study. Stared at ledgers. Thought he'd sink with the house. Become dust of an era.
Until a small hand grabbed his.
Satsuki.
Twelve years old.
She took this crumbling house — and him, her ruined father — on her thin shoulders.
Not just carried. Gave him wings. Pushed him to heights he never imagined.
People praised him now. Sharp eye. Ruthless hand.
He knew the truth.
Without Satsuki, he was an Old Kazoku guarding ancestral land, rotting in the House of Peers.
She gave him confidence.
Only beside her could he drop the armor called "Head of House" and be a father. Happy.
"It's here."
Fujita's voice broke the memory.
Shuichi's head snapped up.
Sunset glow. A deep-blue plane cut through clouds. Edge of vision.
Elegant as a falcon. Gliding. Runway. Wingtip lights blinking in dusk.
That was the "Midnight Ghost."
Shuichi's heart kicked. Twice. Hard.
He fixed his tie. Hurried out.
…
Tarmac. Wind.
Turbofans wound down. Roar to hum.
Cabin door opened. Stairs lowered.
Shuichi stood by the car. Eyes locked on that door.
Fujita Tsuyoshi came out first. Scanned. Stepped aside.
Then: small figure.
Satsuki. Beige trench. Scarf not too thick. Hair wind-tousled.
She stood at the top of the stairs. Saw him.
Face lit up. Raised a hand. Waved.
"Father!"
Voice cut through wind. Clear in his ears.
Half-month of gloom and anxiety melted like snow in sun.
He didn't care about decorum. Rushed forward.
Satsuki came down fast. Amy behind her with a big bag.
"Slow, watch the wind."
Shuichi reached out, both hands, steadying her as she hopped the last steps.
He looked her over.
Color good. Cheeks pink from Hokkaido wind. Eyes bright.
"Lost weight?" Shuichi squeezed her arm. "Food okay? Heard it's all potatoes and salt fish."
"Not that bad." Satsuki laughed, let him inspect her. "Mr. Otsuka's potatoes are good. Uni was fresh. Father, your dark circles are worse."
She touched his eye corners.
Cool fingers. Shuichi's heart jumped.
"Company's busy," he said, vague. "You're back. That's good."
Nerves finally unknotted.
"Oh, right."
Satsuki turned, beckoned to Fujita Tsuyoshi.
"Fujita, that thing."
Fujita Tsuyoshi came forward with a large black box. Exquisite. Careful. Handed it to Shuichi.
"This?" Shuichi surprised.
"Gift. From America."
Satsuki smiled, mysterious. Hands behind back. Head tilted.
"I think it suits you now."
Shuichi curious.
Hollywood?
Movie prop? Signed poster?
He untied the ribbon. Opened.
Black velvet.
On it: black helmet. Ferocious design. Oppressive.
Darth Vader. Original.
Mask reflected cold light in sunset. Empty eye sockets like abyss.
Shuichi stared.
He didn't do sci-fi. But he knew the villain.
"This is…"
He looked at her. Caught between laugh and tears.
"Father, head down."
Satsuki on tiptoes.
Shuichi obeyed. Lowered his head.
Satsuki lifted the heavy helmet with both hands. Solemn. Like a coronation. Set it on him.
World went dark.
Vision narrowed. Saw out through lenses. Breathing muffled. Heard himself echoing inside.
Strange feeling.
Isolated. Powerful.
"This is the Galactic Empire's commander."
Satsuki's voice muffled through the helmet. But smiling.
"Father, you guarded our home. But Tokyo battlefield — kind Buddhas don't hold the line."
She took his hand. Through glove.
"You need this. This is Tyrant of Tokyo's mask."
"With this on, no one sees hesitation. No one sees weakness."
"As for direction…"
Satsuki's finger scratched his palm.
"I'll tell you where our ship sails."
Shuichi stood there.
Helmet only geeks and kids understood. Expensive suit. Haneda tarmac.
If House of Peers saw this, jaws would drop.
But he understood.
He heard what she didn't say.
You be the fearsome executor. Dark Knight. Lightsaber cutting obstacles.
I'll be Emperor. Pointing the way.
Shuichi's mouth curved under the mask.
He raised a hand. Adjusted the heavy helmet.
"Since it's Her Majesty's gift."
Voice through modulator. Deep. Metallic. Actual villain boss.
"I accept."
…
Sun sank.
Haneda runway lights came on. Two brilliant lines to the horizon.
Shuichi took the helmet off. Held it like treasure.
Freed a hand. Took Satsuki's.
"Let's go. Home. Foie gras ready."
"Mm, I brought California wine. Not Conti, but flavor's unique."
Father and daughter walked to the motorcade.
Sunset stretched shadows long. Merged into one massive shape.
Amy carried the big bag. Followed.
She watched the two — Japan's apex of power, yet odd.
Saionji President, dignified, now holding a ridiculous Darth Vader helmet, steps light like a kid.
Satsuki-chan, calculating like a machine, looking up telling jokes about "potatoes."
Amy pushed her glasses up. Smiled, envious.
Then Satsuki turned. Still smiling.
"Amy, see you at school!"
She said it, following Shuichi into the car. Waving through the window.
"Mm, see you at school, Satsuki-chan."
Amy waved back. Got in her own car…
Half an hour later, Amy got "Satsuki Withdrawal Syndrome" too.