A few days passed, and in their wake, a dull routine formed. Masachiro would leave early in the morning for his work, leaving you alone in the quiet apartment. The stillness became your only companion as you spent your time wandering aimlessly around the house, your thoughts a tangled mess. Each day felt like a mirror of the last—empty, hollow, but familiar in its monotony.

You often found yourself in your room, sitting by the window, staring out into the distance as the world outside moved on without you. Your hands would sometimes trace the edges of the diary, the pages worn from days of flipping through them. The entries were becoming a haunting reminder of the family you once had, the life you once knew. Your brother's absence was like a phantom, lingering in every corner, every word. You couldn't help but wonder where he was, what he was doing, and if he even remembered you.

Masachiro would return in the evenings, just as the daylight began to fade, bringing with him the warmth of cooked meals and the strange comfort of his presence. He didn't say much, mostly silent as he prepared your food, checked in on you, and made sure you were eating. It wasn't much, but it was routine. The only pattern you could hold onto.

You didn't talk much, either. Your thoughts were consumed with the diary, with Suguru, with everything that had happened. Sometimes you would ask questions, but most of the time, you stayed silent, absorbed in the written words, searching for something in them—an answer, a clue, a piece of your family. The entries made less sense as the days passed, fragments of fear and confusion, and yet the journal seemed to hold an answer you could never grasp.

At night, you would lie in bed, the weight of the diary beside you, and the silence around you suffocating. You'd fall asleep, only to wake up again to the same emptiness.

Masachiro would come in before bed, checking on you, the same gentle words and actions as the night before. Sometimes he would sit with you for a while, but more often than not, he left you alone to wrestle with your thoughts.

Days bled into each other, and still, the world outside kept moving, but you—stuck between the past and the future—couldn't find your way forward.

One day, just as the rhythm of your routine seemed to settle into a dull lull, the doorbell rang. You barely registered the sound at first, too absorbed in the diary once again, but then there was a knock, sharp and deliberate.

Masachiro answered the door. His eyes softened as he looked over at you, sitting in the same spot by the window where you spent most of your days. You barely looked up when the cold executive entered—tall, stern, and ever so distant. His eyes, sharp and calculating, landed on you as if you were an object to be moved around.

"We have to take her for training," the executive stated plainly, his voice devoid of any warmth, like a command rather than a request.

Masachiro's body tensed, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something protective, something that wanted to argue. But he held back, knowing full well what his role was in this.

You sat frozen, your hands still clutching the diary, but your mind was elsewhere. Training? The word echoed in your head like a cold, hollow echo. Training for what?

Without a second glance, the executive turned toward the stairs, motioning for you to follow. His eyes didn't wait for any confirmation, and you knew better than to question.

Masachiro hesitated for just a moment longer. His jaw clenched, and his eyes locked onto yours, but then he turned and silently walked away, leaving you to follow the executive.

You stood up, legs unsteady. You weren't sure if it was fear or exhaustion, but something inside you felt heavy. Training? What did they want you to become? What kind of training would they subject you to?

You moved reluctantly, following him as the cold weight of uncertainty settled around you. Masachiro had no choice in this, but you... You had no idea what was ahead. Would you ever get the chance to ask about Suguru again? Would you ever be able to feel like yourself again, or would you be lost to whatever these people were trying to turn you into?

As you followed him out of the apartment, the door clicked shut behind you. The world outside felt colder than ever.

The harsh sun beat down on you, making each step feel heavier than the last as you ran laps around the perimeter of the training grounds. At first, it felt like something you could handle—a way to keep moving, to keep your mind off things. But soon, the burning heat and relentless motion started to wear on you. Your body was screaming, and every breath felt more labored than the last.

You stumbled slightly, a sharp, nauseating wave of dizziness washing over you. And then, your nose twitched—blood. It wasn't much, but the drop that fell onto your lip made everything feel even worse.

The sharp sound of a whistle cut through the air, and you collapsed to your knees, the fatigue overwhelming you.

"Enough."

Masachiro's voice was there, soft yet commanding. He was beside you in an instant, his presence a familiar comfort in the sea of strangers. Gently, he handed you a handkerchief, his eyes full of concern but also restraint—like he couldn't show too much, but he still cared. You took the cloth, pressing it against your nose as he stood close, watching over you.

The other executives hovered at the edges, looking on with detached amusement. Their laughter echoed in the background, mocking you in the most casual way. They were the ones who had made this training hell for you, pushing you without mercy and getting a twisted joy from watching you struggle.

As Masachiro returned to the others, you could hear their taunting comments, made to drag him down as well. They gave him orders with no intention of compensating him. Get us soda cans, they'd said. You know what to do, low-ranking.

But instead, when Masachiro returned to you, it wasn't with a soda can. He held two popsicles—one in each hand.

He offered you the one in his right hand, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "I figured you might need something more refreshing than just water."

You hesitated at first, still reeling from the physical exhaustion and humiliation, but his gentle demeanor made the decision for you. You accepted the popsicle, and he sat beside you, unwrapping his own. The cold sweetness was a small reprieve, a distraction from the aching in your limbs and the bruising in your spirit.

You ate in silence, the world still heavy around you. But in this small moment, with Masachiro beside you, it almost felt like it could be okay. At least, for a while.

Even if the rest of the world—the executives, the training, the demands—didn't care, at least Masachiro was trying to make it a little better. Even if only for today.

CHAPTER COMPLETED