Aiko's POV-
The elevator doors closed behind me with a soft, final sound.
Too soft.
I hated that. I wanted noise. I wanted something to crack, to echo, to acknowledge that I'd just crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. Instead, the elevator just hummed and started its slow descent like nothing had happened.
Typical.
I exhaled and leaned back against the mirrored wall, staring at my own reflection. Same sharp eyes. Same controlled posture. Same woman everyone thought they understood.
They never did.
My phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from the internal system. Green. Stable. No alerts.
Good.
That meant the change was holding.
I closed my eyes.
I didn't do it for Izumi.
Not entirely.
That was the lie everyone would default to if this ever surfaced. The convenient narrative. The one that made sense. Aiko got too close. Aiko got emotional. Aiko let a man compromise her judgment.
It almost made me laugh.
Izumi was part of it, sure. He always was. The way he stood at the center of things without trying. The way people bent around him without realizing they were bending. The way he looked at systems like they were honest and people like they were variables he didn't quite trust.
I understood that. I respected it.
I wanted it.
But Yuki?
Yuki was the real reason my fingers didn't hesitate.
The doors slid open in the lobby. I stepped out, heels clicking against polished stone, the sound steady and deliberate. Every step felt earned.
People trusted her blindly.
That was the part that made my stomach twist.
Not her skill. Not her work ethic. Those things I could live with. Compete with. Outwork, even. But the trust? The quiet, unquestioned confidence people placed in her like it was a law of nature?
That burned.
No one ever asked her to prove herself twice.
No one hovered over her shoulder.
No one wondered what she might be hiding.
They just believed.
Because she was calm. Because she was composed. Because she fit the image of someone who wouldn't fail.
I pushed through the revolving doors and stepped outside. The city air hit me immediately, cooler, sharper. Cars passed. People laughed somewhere down the street. Life went on, ignorant and uncaring.
Good.
Let it.
They never saw the way Yuki's name smoothed conversations. The way meetings tilted toward her conclusions before she even finished speaking. The way leadership used her as an anchor, a reassurance, a symbol of stability.
If Yuki was involved, things would be fine.
That assumption made me furious.
I walked faster, anger threading through my chest in clean, focused lines. This wasn't a tantrum. This wasn't impulsive. I'd thought this through more times than I cared to admit.
I didn't break anything.
That was important.
Breaking things got noticed. Breaking things made enemies too early. What I did was introduce uncertainty. A hairline fracture. Something small enough to dismiss at first, but deep enough to spread once pressure was applied.
And pressure always came.
I wanted to see her stumble.
Just once.
I wanted to see the room hesitate when she spoke. To see someone ask, "Are we sure?" instead of nodding along like obedient little satellites.
I wanted her to feel what it was like to be watched instead of trusted.
And yes, Izumi was tangled up in that desire. I wasn't delusional enough to deny it.
The way his attention sharpened when Yuki entered a room. The way his voice softened without his permission. The way he chose her as his equal, again and again, without ever announcing it.
I hated how natural it looked.
Not because it was romantic. That would have been easier. Romance could be dismissed as weakness. As distraction.
This was worse.
This was respect.
I stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, watching my reflection ripple faintly in a glass storefront. My jaw was tight. I hadn't realized how tight until now.
I didn't want Izumi to choose me instead.
I wanted him to see.
To see that Yuki wasn't untouchable. That she wasn't flawless. That the system everyone believed in so deeply could still bend under her watch.
If she failed, even slightly, the myth would crack.
And once a myth cracks, it never quite seals again.
The light turned green.
I crossed.
Did I feel guilty?
No.
That was the part that scared me, if I was being honest. I'd expected something. A twinge. A moment of hesitation afterward. Some delayed moral recoil.
Nothing came.
I didn't sabotage the project out of malice. I did it out of balance. Out of resentment that had nowhere else to go. Out of a quiet rage at being competent and still never trusted the same way.
People watched me because they expected ambition.
They watched Yuki because they expected reassurance.
I hated that difference more than I hated her.
My phone buzzed again. Still green.
Good.
I slipped it back into my pocket and kept walking, the city swallowing me whole.
This wasn't the end.
It was barely the beginning.
I'd nudged the first domino. Just enough to see who would reach out to steady it.
And when Yuki finally realized the ground beneath her wasn't as solid as she believed?
I wouldn't deny it.
I'd look her in the eye and accept exactly what I was.
Because for once, I wasn't interested in being liked.
I just wanted to watch her fall.
***
Yuki's POV-
My breath burned as I ran.
Cold air scraped my throat, each inhale too sharp, each exhale too fast, but I didn't slow down. The streetlights blurred into long streaks of white and amber, the city stretching and folding around me like it was trying to keep me in place.
I refused.
My shoes slapped against the pavement in a steady, uneven rhythm. Too fast. I knew it. I didn't care.
I should have gone home.
That was the sensible choice. The professional choice. Tomorrow would be another long day, another meeting, another round of calm explanations and controlled fixes. That was what people expected from me. That was what I was supposed to be good at.
But the moment I'd seen the logs, the timing, the shape of the problem, something inside me had gone still.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't a mistake.
And it definitely wasn't Izumi.
The thought of him made my chest tighten, sharp and unexpected. I pushed harder, legs screaming as I crossed an empty intersection, the signal blinking uselessly above me.
He was still at the office.
I could picture it too clearly. Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly disheveled. That quiet, stubborn focus he slipped into when something wasn't fair but still had to be fixed. He hadn't complained. Not once. He'd just nodded when the extra shift was mentioned and stayed.
For something he didn't cause.
That was the part that wouldn't let me breathe.
I wasn't angry. Not really.
I felt something stranger. Heavier.
A pressure right behind my ribs, like my body was reacting before my thoughts could catch up. It made my pace uneven, my steps sharper.
I knew this pattern.
I'd seen it before, just never pointed at me.
Only one person would do it this way.
Not loud. Not reckless. No obvious fingerprints. Just a subtle deviation, buried deep enough that it looked like stress failure instead of intent. A problem designed to bloom slowly, to surface when everyone was already tired.
Elegant.
Controlled.
Personal.
My jaw tightened as I turned down a narrower street, the buildings closing in, the noise of traffic fading behind me. My pulse roared in my ears.
I didn't want this to wait until morning.
I didn't want polite questions or careful emails or neutral meeting rooms. I wanted answers now, while the truth was still warm and raw and unpolished.
And yes, part of me knew this wasn't just about the project.
I hated that.
I hated that Izumi was part of the reason my legs kept moving. That the image of him staying late, quietly taking on weight that wasn't his, kept flashing behind my eyes.
I told myself it was responsibility.
Leadership.
Team integrity.
All the clean words that made sense.
But the feeling in my chest didn't care about my vocabulary.
It hurt in a way that felt unprofessional. In a way that felt personal.
The street curved ahead, familiar now, my body recognizing the route before my mind fully admitted it. My pace slowed just a fraction, breath hitching as realization settled in.
Of course.
Where else would she go after something like this?
The lights here were dimmer. Softer. The city quieter, like it was holding its breath. My steps echoed now, too loud in the narrow space.
I stopped at the corner, hands on my knees, dragging in air, heart pounding hard enough to make my vision shimmer.
I straightened slowly.
This wasn't a confrontation I'd planned.
But it was one I couldn't avoid.
I lifted my head and looked down the street, toward the familiar silhouette at the far end, standing under a streetlight like she belonged there.
Only then did I let myself say it, even silently.
Aiko.
And I started walking again.
***
Aiko noticed her before she wanted to.
That was the part that annoyed her most.
She'd been standing beneath the streetlight for a while, phone untouched in her pocket, thoughts finally slowing into something manageable. The city hummed around her, distant engines and muted voices blending into white noise.
Then something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a shadow.
A presence.
Aiko lifted her gaze instinctively.
Yuki was walking toward her.
Not running anymore. Not hesitating either. Just a straight, deliberate approach, footsteps steady against the pavement. Her hair clung slightly to her neck, breath still uneven, eyes locked forward with an intensity that made Aiko's spine tighten despite herself.
So she felt it too.
Aiko straightened, shoulders pulling back on reflex. Her pulse spiked, fast and sharp, like her body was ahead of her mind again. For a split second, a dozen responses flashed through her head. Deflection. Cool indifference. Controlled surprise.
None of them stuck.
The word slipped out before she could stop it, carrying more shock than she'd ever allow in the office.
"…Sister?"
Yuki stopped a few steps away.
The streetlight caught her face fully now. No smile. No warmth. Just that composed stillness everyone trusted so much, stretched thin by something raw underneath.
The air between them felt tight, unfinished.
And then—
***
Izumi rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting it creak softly beneath him.
The office was almost empty now. Just a few scattered lights on distant floors, the city beyond the glass a dark ocean broken by neon. His screen glowed too bright in the quiet, lines of code stacked neatly but stubbornly incomplete.
The bug was subtle.
That was what bothered him.
Not a crash. Not a blatant failure. Just a behavior that didn't align with the system's logic, like something had been nudged half a step out of place and left there intentionally.
He scrolled back up, fingers moving slower now, more deliberate.
This wasn't stress damage.
This wasn't negligence.
Izumi exhaled through his nose and leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, chin resting briefly against his knuckles. He hadn't said it out loud all evening, but the thought had been circling him for hours.
Someone wanted this to happen.
The realization didn't make him angry. It made him quiet.
He adjusted the logic path, tested the response, watched the simulation stabilize. The fix worked, but it felt like placing a brace on a crack instead of sealing it.
Temporary.
He glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen. Too late. Or too early. Hard to tell anymore.
Yuki should've gone home by now.
The thought came uninvited, unwelcome in its familiarity. He pushed it aside and returned to the code, forcing his focus back into the structure, the predictability.
Systems made sense.
People didn't.
His phone buzzed once on the desk.
Izumi froze.
He didn't pick it up immediately. Just stared at it, a strange tension creeping into his chest, like his body already knew something his mind hadn't processed yet.
After a moment, he reached for it.
No message.
Just a missed call notification.
From Yuki.
Izumi frowned slightly.
Whatever was happening outside this office, whatever thread had been pulled to cause this mess, it was no longer contained.
And for the first time that night, the quiet around him felt wrong.