~ Tatsuya ~
The car stops in front of the Fushichō-ikka estate. The large gate slowly opens, and the scent of cherry blossoms wafts over from the garden. I look out the window and feel the tension growing inside me. The car drives slowly into the courtyard, accompanied by the quiet dignity that old families carry with them. The walls around us are old but well-maintained—not as a sign of pomp, but of decades of consistency.
My father gets out first, calm as always. Next to him is my mother, elegant and composed. Maki steps beside her, Ryuji at her side, and finally myself. Kawamura-san, my father's right-hand man, accompanies us with his usual watchful gaze.
In the reception room, we were greeted with formal etiquette. Words were exchanged, bows were given and returned. Then we were led into the main hall. Tatami under our feet, warm wood air, a subtle hint of incense in the air.
We sat on the floor in the traditional manner. Our posture was straight, our silence respectful.
Then the side door opened.
Four people entered.
The oyabun of the Fushichō-ikka strode forward, tall, calm, a man who did not need to assert his authority—it followed him like a shadow. Next to him was his wife, a woman of quiet strength, whose movements were as controlled as they were warm.
Behind them were two women.
The older one—with self-assured calm and an expression that betrayed life experience. Her posture was that of a woman who had seen a lot and yet retained her gentleness.
And then—
Her.
My eyes remained fixed on her.
Her kimono—dark blue, almost black, interspersed with fine silver lines—looks like a night sky just before dawn. It is not flashy, not loud. And yet... it is like her: impossible to overlook.
But what really captivates me is her hair.
The roots are black, deep, and rich—like ink. But the black gradually fades into a silvery gray reminiscent of cold fog. The tips, finally, are pure silver. Not garish, not exaggerated, but like a quiet promise.
Her face is calm. Perhaps expressionless – or too controlled to reveal anything. Her features are fine, cool, almost flawless.
Beautiful? Yes. But not in the conventional sense. It is more the kind of beauty that keeps its distance.
Then she looks at me.
And her eyes...
deep black, almost like the night sky – but with a silver tinge in them.
Not in color, but in effect. Like a cold gleam in an otherwise dark mirror.
It is this look that makes me pause for a moment.
Something about her seems familiar.
A feeling, a shadow, a memory.
But I can't grasp it.
I only know this: this woman will be my fiancée.
And I don't know if that's a blessing.
Then two men entered—behind the women.
The older of the two wore his responsibility visibly in his posture and gaze. The younger—more alert, calmer, with the gaze of a man who observes a lot before he speaks.
They also took their seats.
The greetings were exchanged, respectfully and with the necessary courtesy.
Her father, the oyabun of the Fushichō-ikka, rises slightly and speaks. Calmly, as one would expect from a man of his position. Our family bows in greeting, as do she and her companions.
My mother speaks next—warmly, but controlled. Then Kawamura-san, my father's right-hand man, follows, as always with a calm, clear voice.
Formalities. Politeness. Glances that say more than words.
Misaki—she doesn't speak. Not immediately. But she listens. Attentively, with an attitude that cannot be shaken.
I know that at the end of this meeting, an engagement will be announced.
But right now, that's beside the point.
Because I can't shake the thought:
I know her.
I just don't know where from.
Or when.
The sake is poured, bowls are distributed. Polite pleasantries are exchanged – words that may seem empty on the surface, but between men like these always mean a feeling each other out.
My father speaks little. He listens, observes. Lets the oyabun of the Fushichō-ikka take the lead.
The atmosphere is calm—no tension, but a great deal of attentiveness.
The mother of the Fushichō-ikka is present, reserved, but her presence is clearly felt. Her voice is soft but firm as she talks about the course of the last year—about reforms, changes, internal consolidation.
Kawamura-san responds with a sober summary of our situation. No showing off, no numbers. Just attitude.
Sota—like his father, direct, but with more weight in his voice—offers a brief comment on the latest developments in Osaka. My brother Ryuji reacts calmly, approvingly. The two understand each other on an unspoken level.
I feel the stares.
Not the ones that openly cross the table. The others – the quiet, scrutinizing ones.
Misaki still doesn't say a word. But she's not just listening – she's analyzing.
Her facial expressions hardly change, but I notice how she moves from one speaker to the next.
She's looking for patterns. Just like I am.
Maki asks a subtle question about the role of younger family members in the Fushichō-ikka organization—a friendly bridge. The older sister responds calmly and objectively. She appears experienced and representative.
A conversation like a dance. Every step planned. Every glance a test.
I lean back slightly. Not out of arrogance. More to see the pattern.
This impression still preoccupies me.
Misaki.
That face.
That posture.
It's not just recognition.
It's a warning.
Or a memory.
But nothing I can put my finger on. Not yet.
The bowls are half empty, the conversation has moved into calmer waters—topics of the region, old alliances, new paths. Words exchanged among oyabun: thoughtful, polite, with quiet sharpness.
Then the atmosphere changes.
The oyabun of the Fushichō-ikka gently straightens up. The silence that follows is not uncomfortable – it is expectant.
"One point remains," he begins in a calm, clear voice. "One that points beyond today."
My father remains motionless, but his presence grows more intense.
I know what is coming. And I wait.
"There has always been mutual respect between our families, a silent alliance. But bonds require more than agreements."
No one moves beside me.
"That is why it has been decided," he continues, "that Tatsuya and my daughter Misaki will marry each other."
The words don't hit me like a hammer—they hit me like a fine knife, precise and final.
I hear my breathing. Nothing else.
Misaki, a few steps away, shows no emotion. She stands straight, her gaze fixed ahead.
"The wedding will take place in a month."
A month.
Not much time.
"The decision was mutual," Kawamura adds calmly. "The eldest daughter is already married. The youngest is still a child. Misaki has agreed to this step."
His gaze wanders to me—not demanding, but searching.
I tilt my head.
Acceptance, no objections.
Misaki follows with a slight, respectful bow.
Our eyes meet briefly. Her eyes—deep black with a hint of silver—hide what is going on inside her.
But she is not weak.
I know that now.
My father follows with nothing more than a brief nod—then the moment subsides back into conversation.
But the bond that has just been formed will remain.