Chapter 4: Bitter Coffee & Hidden Blades

Six Months Before Eikō Academy

The rain was a relentless drumbeat against the pavement, turning Tokyo into a smudged watercolor of neon and shadows. Akira Kobayashi moved through the downpour like a ghost—hood pulled low, hands tucked in his pockets, his father’s words ringing in his skull.

"Lose the tail. If you’re caught, you’re on your own."

A test. Always a test.

His pursuer—one of Ryohei Kobayashi’s most ruthless enforcers—was two blocks behind but gaining. Akira ducked into a narrow alley, then doubled back, slipping into the first open door he saw.

A bell chimed.

The scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon wrapped around him like a blanket.

Hana’s Café.

Small. Unremarkable. Perfect.

First Words

“Rough night for a stroll.”

A girl stood behind the counter, wiping a porcelain cup with a rag. Early twenties, maybe younger. Chestnut hair tied in a messy bun, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her eyes—sharp, amber, amused—locked onto his.

Akira forced his breathing steady. “Just needed a coffee.”

She tilted her head. “You look like someone who drinks it black. No sugar.”

A beat. Too perceptive.

He smirked. “Do I?”

“Either that or you’re a spy,” she said, deadpan. Then her lips twitched. “Or a vampire.”

Akira blinked. Then, against every instinct, he laughed.

The Ritual Begins

He didn’t mean to come back.

But the next week, after another “errand” for his father, he found himself pushing through the café door again.

She remembered his order.

"Black, right?"

No one remembered anything about Akira Kobayashi unless he let them.

Week after week, it became a game:

* She’d tease him about his “suspiciously secretive” vibe.

* He’d leave absurd tips (once, a ¥10,000 note folded into a crane).

* Neither asked for names.

(He gave one anyway—"Ren." A lie. She saw right through it but played along.)

The Crack in the Mask

One evening, the café was empty. Storm warnings kept customers away.

Sakura slid into the booth across from him, two mugs between them. "You’re here a lot for someone who ‘just likes coffee.’"

Akira sipped his drink. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who ‘just serves it.’"

A pause. Then—

"I know who you are."

His fingers tightened around the cup.

"You’re the guy who’s terrible at small talk," she finished, grinning.

He exhaled. Idiot. She can’t know.

But then she leaned in, voice dropping. "But seriously. If you’re in trouble—"

"I’m not." Too fast.

She studied him. "Okay."

And just like that, she let it go.

(No one ever let it go.)

The Unraveling

Months passed. Akira learned things:

* She loved jazz but hated piano covers.

* She read Dostoevsky behind the counter when business was slow.

* She had a scar on her left wrist from a baking accident.

Harmless details.

Dangerous details.

Then, one day, the café TV flickered to a news segment:

"Kobayashi heir Akira, 19, leads merger talks in Osaka—"

Sakura’s head snapped up. The screen showed a boy in a tailored suit, cold-eyed and polished.

Akira—real Akira—froze mid-sip.

Her gaze slid to him. To the TV. Back to him.

Silence.

"Huh," she said finally. "So you are a spy."

Now

At Eikō Academy, they pretend.

But in the café, the game remains:

"Why do you keep coming back, Ren?" Sakura asks, wiping the counter.

Akira stirs his coffee. "Best espresso in Tokyo."

"Liar."

"Maybe." He meets her eyes. "But you already knew that."

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