Chapter 2: The Boardroom of Shadows
The night was still young, but the invited few had already begun indulging—bubbles rising in crystal flutes, amber liquid swirling in heavy-bottomed glasses. It was an afterparty for a charity event, a carefully curated affair for those who had ensured its success. Well of Fortune had played their part, and now, like the rest, they were free to bask in the aftermath.
Nachi, ever the opportunist, was draped over the bar, exchanging lazy flirtations with a model who laughed just a little too sweetly. Takao, stationed with a group of junior staff, looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else, nodding absently at a conversation he had already tuned out. Mamoru, perched in a quiet corner, was scrolling through medical articles on his tablet, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
And then there was Hideki. Smirking, amused, languidly making his way to the bar. He rested an elbow against the counter, one hand slipping into his pocket as he signaled for the bartender.
“A whisky,” he began, voice smooth.
“Are you sure you should be drinking that?”
The voice was soft but pointed, and Hideki turned his head—only to be met with an altogether unexpected sight.
She stood effortlessly poised, a contradiction in lace and velvet. Blonde curls cascaded down her shoulders, tied into meticulous pigtails that should have belonged to a porcelain doll, not to the woman before him. Her lips were painted the softest pink, her skin unnervingly pale, and yet it was her eyes that unsettled him most—large, violet, glinting with something unreadable beneath the dim lights of the bar.
Hoshikaze.
He didn’t so much speak her name as breathe it, a whisper edged with something between amusement and calculation.
Yano.
Her smile did not waver, nor did her gaze falter. Instead, with an air of quiet amusement, she reached into her clutch and withdrew a bottle of water—Voss, unopened, pristine. She held it out to him with the casual confidence of someone who already knew he would take it.
“Take this instead,” she said, her grin widening just enough to make it unsettling. Her teeth glimmered as she leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something just above a murmur.
“I look forward to working with you.”
And with that, she turned, the black hem of her Gothic Lolita dress swaying as she vanished back into the party, leaving Hideki standing there, fingers still curled loosely around the cool glass of the bottle.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
February 14, 2016 – Omotesando, Morning
As she turned, the fluorescent pink of a Valentine’s Day display caught her eye.
A café stand, filled with cheap red roses, heart-shaped chocolates, and neatly wrapped confectionery. A woman passed by, giggling with a coworker over a box of pastries decorated in sugar hearts.
Anna’s lips barely moved, but the ghost of a smile flickered.
Valentine’s Day. The Yano twins’ birthday.
A day for public devotion, romantic gestures, and carefully staged performances.
How fitting.
She slipped the receipt into her coat pocket—her fingers grazing something else.
The familiar shape of a Seven Stars cigarette pack.
A relic from another time. A past version of herself.
The habit wasn’t the nicotine. It was a reminder.
She could still hear a voice in her mind. Soft. Concerned. Honest.
“Anna, it’s bad for you. Please.”
She hadn’t listened.
And now?
She curled her fingers around the box, then released it, letting it fall back into the pocket, laughing at the irony.
She wasn’t that girl anymore.
The cold February air. The first snowflakes of the evening drifted down, landing against the wool of her coat before melting away.
She moved with precision—not hurried, not sluggish.
Too slow, and people asked if you were unwell.
Too fast, and they assumed you were anxious.
She walked at the exact speed of a woman with no reason to rush.
Her eyes flicked to the road.
A taxi idled near the curb.
Her next scene was about to begin.
She lifted her hand, signaling to the driver, already slipping into the next version of herself.
Perfect timing.
The heat inside the taxi hit Anna immediately.
Too warm. Too enclosed. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and stale air freshener clung to the seats, mixing with the distant chemical clean smell of the cold air pollution still lingering on her coat.
She exhaled slowly. Not too fast. Not too shaky.
The driver barely glanced at her as he adjusted the meter with a tired grunt. The car rolled forward, pulling into the city streets.
Outside, Tokyo was dusted in early February snow, the neon glow of convenience stores and streetlights casting flickering colors onto the icy pavement. Inside, it felt stagnant, too still.
She focused on the passing signs, reading them in her mind like a chant—something to keep her grounded.
Y-2, Celine, Omotesando Hills…
The nausea ignored her efforts.
A slow, familiar twist coiled in her stomach.
Not yet. Not here.
She pressed the pad of her thumb against her wrist, feeling her own pulse beneath the skin. A controlled distraction. A tether.
Still, the world tilted.
Her fingers ghosted over the plastic bag tucked into her pocket. Always prepared. Always controlled.
She swallowed. Breathed. Braced.
The sickness clawed up her throat anyway.
Anna barely had time to pull out the bag before it hit—sharp, acidic, unforgiving. The bitter taste of bile mixed with chocolate burned the back of her throat as she doubled over, her body betraying her in the most human, unscripted way possible.
The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his expression shifting from indifference to mild disgust.
“Miss, are you—”
She lifted a hand, cutting him off, composure already returning to her posture.
“It’s fine.” Her voice was steady. “Just drive.”
She wiped her mouth with the edge of a folded tissue, her movements precise, almost elegant, despite what had just happened.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The taste lingered. A cruel contrast.
She had bought that chocolate at a high-end chocolatier in Omotesando, a mindless purchase meant to fill the silence between appointments. It had been rich, velvety, laced with orange zest and hazelnut.
Now, it was ruined.
The human body was pathetic. It didn’t matter how much control she believed she had—instinct always won.
Her grip tightened around the plastic bag before she folded it neatly and tucked it back into her coat.
She forced her breathing to steady, her heartbeat to slow.
No one saw this. No one would remember it.
By the time she stepped out of the taxi, she would be untouched by this moment.
The world outside continued.
Snow drifted onto the glowing city streets, melting into the asphalt.
Her next scene was waiting.
Anna lifted her head, erasing the last traces of vulnerability from her face.
Almost there.
The moment Anna stepped out of the taxi, she was flawless again.
The warmth inside the studio lounge was immediate—heated floors, the hum of distant equipment, the faint scent of coffee and cigarette smoke.
A small birthday cake sat on the table, its frosting slightly smudged, with cheap heart-shaped candles stabbed into the top. Strawberries had been carved into little hearts and placed on top.
Takao was the culprit. He sat on the couch, long legs stretched out, grinning at the setup.
“Happy birthday, old men.”
Hideki barely glanced at the cake. “You’re literally a year younger than us.”
Takao shrugged. “Still younger.”
The air was light, playful—but beneath it, something sharper.
Anna scanned the room quickly.
•Takao was relaxed, sipping from a disposable coffee cup.
•Hideki leaned back against the table, twirling a plastic fork between his fingers, eyes lazy but assessing.
•Mamoru, still near the door, unreadable. Watching her.
Then—fan gifts.
A mountain of chocolates, letters, roses, expensive perfumes stacked near the window, gifts from Hideki’s adoring fans.
But she caught Nachi’s smirk as his gaze flicked between her and the pile. He was still standing next to her.
“Damn, Hide, your fan club really goes all out.” He plucked a red envelope from the stack, inspecting it. “You gonna read any of these, or just let them pile up?”
Hideki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll read them.”
Anna turned away before anyone could see the flicker in her expression.
And then—Mimmi entered.
The room shifted.
Gone was the casual birthday teasing—the moment she walked in, the energy sharpened.
She didn’t waste time. With a sleek black envelope in hand, she strode past the others, tossing it onto the table in front of Hideki.
“Happy Valentine’s.”
Fifteen minutes before recording was set to begin, Mimmi called Mamoru inside the control booth.
Beyond the glass, the rest of the band watched in silence. They couldn’t hear the words, but they could see the body language—sharp movements, clipped gestures, two figures locked in combat.
Mimmi tilted her head, her lips curving—not into a smile, but something sharper, something that said I don’t make threats. I make decisions.
Mamoru wasn’t sitting anymore. He had pushed off the console, standing opposite Mimmi like a man preparing to go to war.
Through the glass, Takao nudged Nachi. “What the hell are they saying?”
Nachi didn’t answer at first. Just watched. Then he sighed, shifting his weight, one foot tapping the bass pedal.
“Newbie, I’m gonna explain this to you.”
Takao raised an eyebrow. “Explain what?”
Nachi smirked, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “That, over there?” He jerked his chin toward the glass. “That’s not just a fight. That’s a boardroom meeting.”
Takao gave him a look. “Come again?”
“Think about it.” Nachi leaned back, still twirling the drumstick lazily. “Well of Fortune isn’t just a band. It’s a business. A multi-million-dollar machine. And like any big company, we’ve got executives, branding decisions, financial management… and a whole lot of drama.”
Takao scoffed. “That’s a reach.”
“Is it?” Nachi arched an eyebrow. “Alright, let’s break it down.” He pointed through the glass. “Mamoru? That’s the CEO. The guy who keeps this whole thing from collapsing under its own weight. He handles logistics, contracts, management. He makes sure we don’t die.”
Takao frowned. “I thought that was Mimmi.”
“Mimmi’s the real power,” Nachi admitted, smirking. “She’s PR. Strategy. The one who actually makes the deals. But Mamoru’s the face. The ‘executive front’ who pretends he has control.”
Inside the booth, Mimmi exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she had been expecting Mamoru’s reaction.
“Mamoru, let me make this simple for you. If we don’t take this deal, the investors walk. No more private jet, no more custom-designed sets, no more carefully curated image. Well of Fortune stops being a global brand.”
Mamoru’s eyes darkened.
Takao watched them in silence, then muttered, “Alright. What about Hideki?”
Nachi snorted. “Oh, that one’s easy. He’s the product.”
Takao blinked. “The what?”
“The product.” Nachi twirled the drumstick once more, then pointed it at Hideki, who sat silently near the mic stand, tiredly staring at nothing. “When people think of Well of Fortune, they think of him. He’s the voice, the image, the thing fans buy into. He’s the flagship model of this whole operation.”
Takao made a face. “That’s messed up.”
“That’s reality,” Nachi corrected. “We’re not just making music. We’re selling a fantasy. A story. And Hideki?” He shrugged. “He’s the story.”
Takao exhaled, grimacing, wrinkling his nose. “Alright, fine. What about you?”
Nachi grinned. “Infrastructure.”
“Bullshit.”
“Swear on it.” Nachi stretched his legs out. “Think about it. What’s a company without its foundation? The gears behind the scenes? No rhythm, no structure? That’s me. I keep this whole thing from falling apart while the ‘executives’ fight over control and the ‘product’ plays his role.”
Takao groaned. “I hate that you actually made this make sense.”
“Right?” Nachi laughed, tapping the cymbals lightly with the tip of his drumstick.
Outside the booth, the conversation had escalated.
Mamoru snatched the papers, scanning the numbers. His pulse pounded in his ears.
Mamoru tilted his head, a half-smirk playing at his lips. “Oh, I love when you talk to me like an investor pitch.”
Mimmi didn’t flinch. “I’d talk differently if you weren’t wasting my time.”
A muscle in Mamoru’s jaw twitched. “And the investors? They know you’re planning to run the band into the ground?”
Mimmi’s nails tapped against the table. She slid a report across the console. “Margins are shrinking. Streaming isn’t enough. We don’t do this, we start losing sponsors. Then stage production. Then venues.”
Mamoru’s grip tightened on the edge of the table. “You want us to hop across the globe in a fully staffed private jet for six weeks straight? Flights at all hours, constant time zone shifts, schedules that don’t even give us a full night’s sleep? You’re treating us like—we’re not even people anymore, Mimmi.”
Mimmi didn’t blink. “You’re not.”
Silence.
Through the glass, Takao muttered, “Holy shit.” It was almost like he could hear her words through the glass, the way Mamoru was reacting.
Mamoru inhaled sharply. “Do you even care what happens when someone collapses mid-tour?”
And there—a flicker. A single second of hesitation.
Small. But he saw it.
Got you.
Her voice stayed smooth, untouched. “Then we adjust.”
Mamoru let the silence stretch. Forced her to hold it.
Then, finally, he pushed off the table, straightening his cuffs like he was done playing.
“Hope the investors like high-risk assets.”
He turned. Walked out.
Mimmi didn’t stop him.
She didn’t need to.
The hallway outside the control booth was cold.
Not physically—the air was warm, heating running through the vents, soft recessed lighting casting a golden glow over polished floors. But the atmosphere was different. Tense. Unsettled.
The argument between Mamoru and Mimmi had bled into the walls. The door had barely shut behind Mamoru, but the energy of it still lingered.
Anna had watched everything.
Not just the fight itself, but the way Mamoru left—sharp steps, jaw tight, his fingers still curled like he wanted to strangle the words that had just been thrown at him.
He had lost. And he knew it.
She let exactly five seconds pass before she made her move.
Soft steps. Measured. Intentional.
Mamoru was leaning against the wall, one hand dragging down his face, the other gripping the folder Mimmi had slid across the console. He hadn’t looked through it again. He didn’t need to. He already knew what it said.
Anna stopped a few feet away. Just close enough to be noticed, but not enough to be intrusive.
A pause.
Then—a shift in weight. Just enough to make him glance up.
Anna tilted her head slightly, her voice low, smooth, a touch softer than usual.
“Rough meeting?”
Mamoru exhaled through his nose. Not a laugh, not quite a sigh.
He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at her, as if trying to decide if she was making fun of him or not.
She wasn’t.
Not yet.
“…You could say that.” His voice was flat, but not dismissive.
Anna didn’t smile. Didn’t push.
She just let the silence stretch.
Not awkward. Not demanding. Just open.
And Mamoru, for a fraction of a second, let his guard lower.
A small shift. A tell.
That was all she needed.
Anna leaned slightly against the wall, mirroring his stance, her gaze flicking toward the door he had just walked out of.
“She really doesn’t leave room for discussion, does she?”
Mamoru let out an actual laugh this time. Short, humorless.
“No. She doesn’t.”
He didn’t elaborate. But he didn’t shut her down, either.
She could work with that.
Anna crossed her arms loosely, as if just making conversation.
“You’re always the one who fights with her.”
Mamoru’s fingers tightened around the folder. Just barely.
“I have to.”
Anna hummed in response. Not a question. Not an argument. Just acknowledgment.
Then, a carefully timed pause.
“…And does she ever listen?”
The hallway was quiet.
Not in the way a place goes silent at night, but in that held-breath kind of way. The kind of quiet that comes after something sharp has been said. After an argument that left the air feeling heavier than before.
Mamoru hadn’t moved since leaving the booth. He was still leaning against the wall, fingers digging into the folder Mimmi had thrown at him, but his shoulders weren’t tense anymore. Not in the same way.
Anna had been careful. She hadn’t pushed. She had just let the moment sit.
And now, Mamoru was talking.
Not in his usual calculated, measured tone—but lower. Frustrated. Honest.
“I have to fight her,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “If I don’t, no one will.”
Anna didn’t react, didn’t nod in agreement or say something empty like That must be hard.
She just waited.
And Mamoru kept going.
“She acts like she’s the only one who sees the big picture, but she’s blind to everything that doesn’t fit her plan.” A hollow laugh. “She thinks as long as Well of Fortune stays on top, everything else is… secondary.”
A pause. A hesitation.
Something else wanted to be said.
Anna saw it happen—the slight shift in his expression, the flicker in his eyes.
He was standing at the edge of something.
For a brief moment, the hallway felt like a vacuum.
Anna had learned how to recognize these moments. The ones where a person’s thoughts were so loud, so close to the surface, that the slightest push could send them spilling over.
She knew Mamoru wouldn’t let that happen.
But there were cracks. And she could see them.
“Being on top,” she said softly, “doesn’t mean much if there’s nothing left when you get there.”
Mamoru stilled.
It was only for a fraction of a second, but she caught it—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched against the folder, the way his gaze flicked to hers, sharp, searching.
Like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to agree.