The neon lights of Tokyo pulsed like a frantic heartbeat, casting shimmering, distorted reflections over the rain-slicked, obsidian streets. Inside the sterile, hushed private wing of St. Akari Hospital, two women, their worlds vastly different, gave birth within mere minutes of each other—one, the elegant, porcelain-skinned wife of Toji Kuroda, a man whose influence stretched like a shadowy web across half the city; the other, the weary, gentle wife of his unassuming, loyal chauffeur.

Toji Kuroda was not a man accustomed to the agonizing crawl of time. He paced outside the pristine delivery room, his impeccably tailored sharp suit, a symbol of his power, untouched by the emotional chaos surrounding him. His cold, obsidian eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were fixed on the closed door, a silent command for speed. His vast empire—a complex network of Tokyo’s underground dealings, meticulously concealed beneath the shimmering veneer of a legitimate high-fashion dynasty—demanded heirs, not sentimental delays. When the weary nurse finally emerged, her face etched with exhaustion, she placed a delicate, blanket-wrapped bundle into his waiting arms. "Congratulations, Kuroda-san. A healthy daughter," she announced, her voice a mere whisper in the sterile hallway.

Across the hall, in a stark contrast to the Kuroda's opulent surroundings, Kenji Sato, his loyal driver, slumped in a worn plastic chair, his face a mask of exhausted joy. His own wife, Hana, her face flushed and radiant, cradled their newborn girl, her eyes filled with a love that transcended any material wealth. The nurses, their voices soft and cooing, admired the baby’s bright, innocent eyes, completely unaware of the devastating mistake that had just been made, a silent, irrevocable twist of fate.

A hurried shift change, a carelessly misplaced identification tag, a single, fleeting moment of distracted attention.

And just like that, with the silent, unseen hand of fate guiding the chaos, the rightful Kuroda heir, a tiny, innocent soul, went home to a cramped, humble apartment above a bustling coffee shop, the scent of roasted beans permeating the air, while the Sato baby, equally innocent, was whisked away to a luxurious penthouse overlooking the dazzling, sprawling city, a world of opulence and hidden danger.

Eighteen Years Later

Sakura Sato, her fingers calloused from years of tireless work, diligently wiped down the worn, wooden counter of Hana’s Café, the small, family-owned shop that was her world. The morning rush, a chaotic symphony of caffeine and hurried chatter, had finally subsided, leaving the small shop in a comfortable, peaceful quiet. Her mother, Hana, hummed a soft melody in the bustling kitchen, the comforting scent of freshly roasted coffee and warm, buttery pastries wrapping around them like a warm, comforting hug.

Across the vast, sprawling city, in the opulent confines of the Kuroda estate, Yumi Kuroda, her face contorted in a mask of petulant rage, slammed her designer purse onto the polished marble floor, the sound echoing through the silent halls. She screamed at the trembling maid, her voice a shrill, piercing sound, for daring to serve her tea at the wrong, unacceptable temperature. "Do you even know who I am?" she hissed, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her delicate palms, leaving angry red marks.

Toji Kuroda, his face an impassive mask, watched his daughter’s outburst from the doorway, his expression unreadable, a cold, calculating gaze. She had inherited his ruthlessness, his unwavering determination, but none of his self-control, his calculated precision. A spoiled, impulsive creature, a stark contrast to his own calculated demeanor. He turned away, already dialing his next meeting, the city’s intricate workings demanding his constant attention. The city didn’t run itself, after all.

Meanwhile, in a sleek, black car idling outside a rival’s towering skyscraper, Akira Kobayashi, his eyes glinting with mischief, smirked at his phone, the screen displaying a message from his demanding father. He had just been ordered to sabotage the Kurodas' upcoming fashion show, a move that would escalate the already tense rivalry between their families. But his mind was elsewhere, captivated by the memory of a girl with warm, gentle eyes and a shy, captivating smile, the one who served him coffee every Tuesday at the small café.

And beneath the surface of the city's glittering facade, Toji’s elegant wife, Mika, her face a mask of bored amusement, slipped into the humble chauffeur’s quarters, her silk robe sliding off her shoulders like liquid moonlight as Kenji—poor, loyal Kenji—looked up in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Just for fun," she whispered, her voice a seductive purr.

The city breathed, a silent, complex entity, its secrets hidden beneath the neon glow.

Fate, a capricious puppeteer, laughed, its amusement echoing through the city's hidden corners.

And the game, a dangerous dance of power and deception, began.

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.

The smell of roasted coffee beans clung to Sakura Sato’s clothes like a second skin as she wiped down the counter of Hana’s Café, her fingers moving in smooth, practiced motions. The morning rush had died down, leaving the small shop in a rare moment of quiet. Her mother, Hana, was in the back kneading dough for tomorrow’s pastries, humming an old folk song under her breath.

Sakura’s eyes flickered to the newspaper left behind by a customer. The headline screamed in bold letters:

"Eikō Academy Opens Prestigious Scholarship Program for Exceptional Students."

Her heart skipped.

Eikō Academy wasn’t just any school—it was the elite institution where Tokyo’s future leaders were molded. The same school where Yumi Kuroda flaunted her designer uniforms and where Akira Kobayashi, with his effortless charm and sharp mind, held court like a prince.

And now, for the first time, they were offering a full scholarship to students outside the usual pedigrees.

Sakura’s fingers trembled as she traced the application deadline.

This is my chance.

The Exam

The scholarship test was held in a towering lecture hall that smelled of polished wood and expensive ink. Sakura sat among dozens of other hopefuls—some nervous, some arrogant, all brilliant in their own right.

The proctor, a stern-faced professor, adjusted his glasses. "You have three hours. Begin."

The questions were brutal. Advanced calculus. Classical literature analysis. A logic puzzle that made her temples throb. But Sakura didn’t panic. She had spent nights hunched over borrowed textbooks after closing the café, her fingers stained with ink instead of coffee grounds.

She wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

When time was called, her hand ached, but her mind was clear.

The Results

Two weeks later, an embossed envelope arrived at the café.

Sakura’s name was written in elegant calligraphy.

Her mother held her breath as she tore it open.

"Congratulations, Miss Sato. You have been awarded the Eikō Excellence Scholarship."

Hana burst into tears, pulling her daughter into a crushing hug. "I knew it! I knew my girl was destined for more than just this shop!"

Sakura laughed, her vision blurring. For the first time in her life, the future didn’t feel like a closed door.

First Day at Eikō

The gates of Eikō Academy loomed like something out of a dream. Students in pristine uniforms glided across manicured lawns, their laughter crisp and carefree. Sakura adjusted her secondhand blazer (bought after a month of extra shifts) and stepped forward.

Then she collided with someone.

"Watch where you’re—" Yumi Kuroda’s sneer died as she took in Sakura’s face. "You."

Sakura stiffened. She had seen Yumi before—on magazine covers, in gossip columns, once screaming at a waiter across the street. But up close, her presence was suffocating.

Yumi’s eyes raked over Sakura’s uniform, her lip curling. "Let me guess. Charity case?"

Before Sakura could reply, a smooth voice cut in.

"Yumi-chan, play nice."

Akira Kobayashi stood there, his smile easy, his eyes unreadable.

Yumi huffed. "Whatever. Enjoy slumming it, Kobayashi." She stalked off, her entourage trailing behind.

Akira turned to Sakura. "Don’t mind her. She thinks the sun rises just to hear her scream." He extended a hand. "Akira Kobayashi. And you are?"

"Sakura Sato," she said, wary.

His grip was warm. "Well, Sakura, welcome to the lion’s den."

Something in his tone made her pause.

Was that... amusement? Or a challenge?

The Wolf’s Interest

Akira wasn’t supposed to care about some scholarship student.

But as he watched Sakura navigate her first day—answering questions even the teachers struggled with, disarming bullies with quiet wit—he found himself intrigued.

She was different.

Not just smart. Dangerously smart.

And in his world, intelligence was either a weapon... or a threat.

That night, in the Kobayashi penthouse, his father frowned over scotch. "Why are you wasting time on some café girl?"

Akira swirled his glass. "Because Toji Kuroda’s empire is built on secrets. And secrets?" He smirked. "They love to spill."

Sakura’s Secret

Alone in her tiny bedroom, Sakura unfolded a faded hospital document she’d found years ago—one that listed a birthdate that didn’t match hers.

A name, scribbled and crossed out.

Kuroda.

She tucked it away, her heart pounding.

Some doors, once opened, couldn’t be closed.