Chapter 5: The Café of Broken Masks

The bell above the door of Hana’s Café chimed, but this time, the sound was wrong—too sharp, like a knife hitting glass.

Akira didn’t look up from his coffee. He already knew who it was.

Ryohei Kobayashi stood in the doorway, his tailored overcoat dripping rainwater onto the worn wooden floor. His gaze swept over the cramped café, the chipped counter, the girl behind it—Sakura Sato, frozen mid-pour, her eyes wide.

Then those cold eyes landed on his son.

"We’re leaving," Ryohei said.

The Ultimatum

Outside, the black sedan idled like a panther in the rain.

"You’ve been sloppy," Ryohei hissed, yanking Akira into the backseat. "Do you know what happens if Toji Kuroda finds out his driver’s daughter has been serving coffee to a Kobayashi?"

Akira kept his voice flat. "She doesn’t know who I am."

"She does now." Ryohei tossed a grainy surveillance photo onto the seat between them—Sakura, squinting at the café’s TV, Akira’s face splashed across the screen.

A muscle in Akira’s jaw twitched.

His father leaned in. "End this. Or I burn that café to the ground."

The Lie

Akira didn’t return to Hana’s Café for a week.

When he finally did, Sakura didn’t smile.

"You’re Akira Kobayashi," she said, voice low. "Heir to the empire trying to destroy the Kurodas."

He could’ve denied it. Could’ve spun a story about undercover assignments or family pressure.

Instead, he met her gaze. "Yes."

The silence between them was a live wire.

Then—

"Your usual?" she asked, turning toward the espresso machine.

Akira blinked. "What?"

"Black, no sugar." She shrugged, but her knuckles were white around the portafilter. "Unless you’re too busy scheming to drink it."

The Truth (Or Part of It)

He came back the next day. And the next.

No more lies. No more Ren.

Just Akira, slouched in his usual booth, watching Sakura work.

"Why aren’t you afraid of me?" he asked one night, the café empty except for them.

She wiped down the counter, slow and deliberate. "Should I be?"

"Yes."

"Good." She flicked the rag over her shoulder. "Now I know you’re at least half honest."

Akira laughed—a real one, rough and unpolished.

Sakura smirked. "Careful, Kobayashi. Someone might think you’re human."

The Trap

Ryohei’s patience snapped on a Thursday.

Akira’s phone lit up with a single text:

"Phase Three. Tonight."

He knew what that meant.

The Kurodas’ warehouse—stocked with prototypes for their next collection—was going up in flames.

And Sakura’s father, Kenji, was the chauffeur scheduled to make the "accidental" delivery of "flammable materials" at midnight.

Akira stood abruptly, coffee forgotten.

Sakura frowned. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied.

(Old habits die hard.)

The Choice

Akira had two options:

* Let the fire happen. Kenji would take the fall. Toji would execute him. Sakura would lose everything.

* Warn Kenji. Betray his father. Lose his inheritance, his safety, possibly his life.

He was halfway to the door when Sakura grabbed his wrist.

"Akira." Her voice was steel. "What aren’t you saying?"

For the first time in his life, Akira Kobayashi hesitated.

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