WONDERLAND

one. "honour among thieves."

Soft notes hung in the air, occasionally interrupted by the faint rustle of paper, the youngest Department Head of the Clarkeston Conservatory of Performing Arts sits on a leather chair, surrounded by a halo of light, presenting a rare display of her eyes as she watched the bin she reserves solely for paperwork needing shredding. Above the stack of paper already in a neat pile, a single, white, crisp envelope rests atop the colourful paper.

Her lips curl into a grimace.

The Totsuki emblem is stamped on it, clear and golden. The letter is unopened, but the scent on it was clear: a clean, masculine scent that bled leather and hair gel, and on the seal rested a peculiar sign.

The Headmaster's insignia.

As if that would have any means of helping him to enforce her opinion.

What did Azami Nakamura hope to achieve by threatening her?

Does he even begin to imagine the whiplash on his beloved culinary world and his abstract Nakiri name if he dared harm her — whether or not as the estranged and shunned heir of the Tetsuya Empire?

He wouldn't dare.

Oh, but he did. The letter made it very clear: there were still people from her inner circle he could harm.

Indeed, Dojima Gin and Shinomiya Kojirou were safe. But for how long? It was only a question of when, not if, he would get to them.

Mahiru leans a pale cheek against her palm and exhales softly before abruptly sliding back on her chair and getting up, startling her assistant Shimizu Kohinata.

"Miss?..." Shimizu intones timidly.

"I'm going to Aokurou-O'. Arrange for my private chauffeur, I'm not going by the company car."

"But Mahiru-sama, the flight from the United States to..."

A cold gaze from eyes coloured by molten gold of her employer stops her.

"Hai, I understand." 

%%%

As the company car pulls out of the airport and into the midst of a rainy Osaka, Mahiru allows herself a sigh as she turns back to the laptop perched on her lap. The driver remained ignorant of the tiny sliver of irritation in the infamously docile Mahiru, eyes flicking wildly at the traffic and the screeching tires.

Mahiru was tired.

The internet connection on the flight was horrendous. The most it afforded to do was allow her to tidy up her schedule and catch up on paperwork. Honestly, Business Class flights she went on when she was still at Totsuki had arguably better wifi than the self-claimed First Class.

Her phone rings. Scowling, she glances down at the buzzing device, screen alight.

She turns back to her laptop, continuing to type up the specifics of a new chain shop. A sudden thunder sounds, she glances at the windows, and she sees a flash—

The phone keeps ringing, the rain keeps falling, the crowd keeps pushing, the car continues down a blurry road. The world goes on. And Mahiru feels it again; the ache in her bones and the heavy eyelids, the desire to just stop. To step out of this game of snakes and dragons.

Like last time. Eight months ago, the angry tears streaming down her cheeks.

Like always. The shatter of delicate china, the violin bow in her hand.

"Mahiru-sama, we have arrived."

The restaurant they arrive at has no shinning banners welcoming customers in. Only hard, rain worn wood and delicately stacked tiles as roofing.