Chapter 2: The Wolf in Designer Clothing

Akira Kobayashi smiled, a practiced, radiant expression, as he meticulously adjusted his school tie, the perfect picture of a golden boy, a paragon of youthful excellence. The hallowed halls of Eikō Academy buzzed around him like a hive of eager bees—girls giggled in his wake, their eyes following his every move, teachers nodded approvingly at the top student, their respect palpable, even the stoic school director gave him a respectful, almost deferential bow. He was everything the Kurodas, with their rough edges and overt displays of power, weren’t: charming, approachable, effortlessly brilliant, a beacon of refined grace.

And it was all a carefully constructed lie, a facade masking a calculating mind.

Yumi Kuroda, her designer bag swinging like a polished, lethal weapon, strutted past him, her eyes narrowed and cold. "Move, Kobayashi," she snapped, her voice sharp and dismissive, not even deigning to glance at him, her attention fixed on some unseen slight.

Akira’s smile, unwavering and bright, never faltered. "Of course, Yumi-chan. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your very important schedule of terrorizing interns," he replied, his tone laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible mockery.

She flipped her meticulously styled hair, a gesture of disdain, and stormed off, her heels clicking against the polished floor. He watched her go, his expression momentarily devoid of its usual warmth, replaced by a flicker of cold amusement.

Pathetic, he thought, a silent, dismissive judgment.

After School: The Wolf’s Den

The moment the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, Akira’s carefully constructed mask slipped, revealing the calculating mind beneath. His driver—a burly man with a weathered face and a jagged scar running down his cheek, a silent testament to a life of violence—took him not home, to the comfort of his family’s estate, but to the Kobayashi Group’s private office, a stark, modern space of polished steel and sharp angles. His father, Ryohei Kobayashi, a man of formidable presence and ruthless ambition, sat behind a massive mahogany desk, blueprints of the Kuroda Fashion Week venue spread out before him, their intricate details reflecting the meticulous planning of a calculated attack.

"You’re late," Ryohei grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, his eyes sharp and demanding.

Akira loosened his tie, the gesture conveying a sense of casual dismissal, dropping his schoolbag like discarded skin, a symbol of the persona he had just shed. "Had to play the honor student a little longer. Yumi’s getting more insufferable by the day," he explained, his tone laced with a hint of weary amusement.

His father smirked, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Good. The more she unravels, the weaker Toji looks," he stated, his voice laced with satisfaction.

Akira leaned over the blueprints, tracing a finger along the backstage layout of the Kuroda show, his eyes scanning the intricate details. "Security’s tight, but not tight enough. We already have two models on payroll—they’ll ‘trip’ at the right moment, spill wine on the signature gown. And the lighting rig?" He glanced at his father, his eyes glinting with a cold, calculating light. "One malfunction at the climax, and the whole show goes dark," he concluded, his voice a low, confident murmur.

Ryohei’s grin was sharp, a predatory display of satisfaction. "You’ve been paying attention," he acknowledged, his voice laced with approval.

Akira’s phone buzzed, a silent interruption. A message from Sakura Sato: "Will you be at the café today?"

His thumb hovered over the screen, a moment of hesitation. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes—a hint of genuine warmth, something almost human. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a predator.

"Sorry. Busy tonight," he typed, his response curt and dismissive.

He turned back to the blueprints, his attention fully focused on the intricate details of his plan.

Fashion Week: Sabotage in Silk

The Kuroda Fashion Show was supposed to be Toji’s triumph—a grand unveiling of his new "Midnight Dragon" collection, a breathtaking fusion of traditional kimono artistry and modern haute couture, a testament to his power and influence. The front row was packed with investors, celebrities, and rival designers, their eyes eager for a glimpse of the latest trends, including a smirking Ryohei Kobayashi, his presence a silent declaration of war.

Backstage, Yumi barked orders at trembling staff, her voice a shrill, piercing sound. "If this show fails, I’m firing every single one of you!" she threatened, her eyes blazing with a cold, ruthless fury.

It failed, spectacularly.

First, a model "accidentally" tore the hem of the opening piece, the delicate fabric ripping under her clumsy feet. Then, during the grand finale, the lights cut out, plunging the runway into chaos, the darkness amplifying the tension and confusion. By the time the backup generators flickered on, casting a dim, unsteady light, the lead model was sprawled on the floor, the Midnight Dragon gown ripped beyond repair, its intricate design a ruined masterpiece.

The audience gasped, a collective intake of breath, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment of disaster, the images destined to circulate through the media. Toji Kuroda’s face was stone, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles were white around his whiskey glass, a silent testament to his barely contained rage.

Across the room, Akira clapped politely, his expression the picture of sympathy, a mask of feigned concern.

Late Night: The Wolf Hunts

Akira didn’t go home after the show, to the comfort of his family’s estate. Instead, he slipped into a dimly lit hostess bar in Kabukicho, a place of hidden deals and whispered secrets, where a Kuroda executive was drowning his shame in overpriced champagne, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass.

"Rough night," Akira said, sliding into the seat beside him, his voice a smooth, seductive murmur.

The man blinked, his eyes unfocused. "K-Kobayashi? What are you—" he stammered, his voice thick with alcohol.

Akira signaled the hostess for two more drinks, his movements smooth and confident. "I hear Toji doesn’t forgive failure. But my father? He rewards talent," he stated, his voice a low, persuasive whisper. He leaned in, his voice a velvet threat, "Think about it," he concluded, his words hanging in the air like a silent promise.

By the time Akira left, the executive’s loyalty was cracking, his resolve crumbling under the weight of fear and temptation.

His phone buzzed again. Sakura. "Everything okay? You seem distant," the message read, her concern palpable.

This time, he didn’t reply, his silence a cold, calculated dismissal.

The Next Morning: Two Faces

At school, Akira was flawless again—helping a first-year pick up dropped books, laughing with the basketball team, even giving Yumi a polite nod when she glared at him, his mask of charm firmly in place.

But when the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, his phone lit up with a new message from his father:

"Phase two starts tonight."

Akira smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

The wolf was just getting started, his hunt far from over.

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