The office had a sound at this hour.
Not silence. Not quite.
It was a low, almost imperceptible hum. Servers breathing somewhere behind walls. Air conditioning cycling like a tired lung. The city outside pressed its glow against the glass, distant and indifferent.
Izumi stared at the missed call.
Yuki.
He set the phone face down, not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. Whatever had made her call at this hour wasn't something he could half-handle while patching logic trees.
Focus first. Then everything else.
That had always been the rule.
He pulled the logs back up and replayed the failure path again, slower this time. Frame by frame. Input. Response. Deviation.
There.
A parameter override. Clean. Elegant. Almost polite in how it slipped past safeguards.
Izumi's jaw tightened.
This wasn't an accident. It wasn't even sloppy sabotage. Whoever did this understood the system well enough to know where it wouldn't scream. Just whisper. Just enough to shift blame downstream.
Onto him.
He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, fatigue finally catching up now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go. His shoulders ached. His neck felt like it had been held too still for too long.
"Why," he muttered to the empty room, not even sure who he was asking.
The answer didn't come.
Instead, his phone buzzed again.
This time, a message.
Yuki:
Are you still at the office?
He hesitated.
Izumi:
Yeah. Fix is holding.
What's wrong?
Three dots appeared instantly.
Then stopped.
Then appeared again.
Yuki:
Nothing urgent.
Just… don't leave yet.
That was new.
He frowned at the screen, an unfamiliar unease spreading through him. Yuki never asked for emotional availability. She scheduled. She delegated. She solved.
This felt different.
Izumi:
Okay. I'm here.
He set the phone down and exhaled slowly.
Back to work.
He documented the fix thoroughly. Not just the what, but the why. Screenshots. Logs. Timestamps. If someone wanted to question his competence tomorrow, they'd have to do it while staring at undeniable evidence.
Still, something gnawed at him.
The override hadn't come from nowhere.
Permissions. Access trails. Change history.
Izumi opened the audit logs.
Names scrolled past.
Dev ops. QA. Automation.
Then one entry made him stop.
His cursor hovered.
The timestamp was tight. Too tight. Late afternoon. Right before the issue surfaced.
He didn't click it yet.
Instead, he leaned back, fingers steepled, breathing slow and controlled. His instincts were screaming now, louder than they had all night.
If he opened this, there was no going back.
Work would stop being just work.
Finally, he clicked.
The change request expanded cleanly. No mess. No panic edits. Just a precise modification signed off under a legitimate credential.
Not his.
Izumi felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The name on the log wasn't a stranger.
It was someone who smiled too easily. Someone who lingered too close. Someone who had treated the office like a stage.
Aiko.
He stared at the screen, unmoving.
It didn't make sense. Not fully. Not yet. But the shape of it was there now, undeniable. The flirting. The pressure. The way she'd watched Yuki during meetings. The way she'd brushed off process like it didn't apply to her.
And now this.
Izumi closed the log without exporting it.
Not because he was protecting her.
Because he needed to think.
Accusations without context were weapons. And once fired, they didn't come back clean.
His phone buzzed again.
Yuki:
I'm outside.
His breath caught.
Outside where?
Before he could reply, another message came in.
Yuki:
Downstairs.
I need to talk to you. Now.
Izumi stood up so fast his chair rolled back into the desk.
Whatever had happened between Yuki and Aiko wasn't theoretical anymore. It had weight. Momentum. Consequences.
He grabbed his jacket, killed his monitors, and headed for the elevator, mind racing faster than his feet.
One thing was clear now.
This bug wasn't just a technical fault.
It was a fracture.
And tomorrow, the whole office was going to feel it.
The word left Aiko's mouth before she could shape it into something safer.
"…Sister?"
It sounded wrong the moment it existed. Too exposed. Too honest. Like a blade she hadn't meant to draw.
Yuki stopped.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just enough for the space between them to harden.
The street was narrow, tucked between two closed storefronts, shutters pulled down like tired eyelids. A single streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting a pale circle of light that felt more like interrogation than shelter. Rain from earlier clung to the asphalt, reflecting the glow in fractured patterns.
Yuki's breathing hadn't fully settled yet. Aiko noticed that first. The way her chest rose just a little too fast. The way her hands curled at her sides, not clenched, but ready.
So she ran.
The thought flickered through Aiko's mind, sharp and uninvited.
Yuki took one step forward.
"Don't," Aiko said quickly, the word slipping out on instinct. She didn't even know what she was stopping. Another step. A question. Herself.
Yuki halted again.
Her voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
"When were you planning to stop?"
Aiko let out a short laugh that had no humor in it. "Stop what?"
"This," Yuki said, gesturing vaguely between them. "Whatever game you think you're playing."
The word game hit its mark.
Aiko tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly, a familiar defensive mask sliding into place. "You always assume intent. Maybe that's your problem."
Yuki's gaze sharpened. "You sabotaged the authentication layer."
The night seemed to go quieter.
Aiko didn't deny it.
She didn't confirm it either.
Instead, she folded her arms loosely, posture casual enough to pass at work, but here it rang hollow. "You ran across half the city for that?"
"I ran because Izumi is still in the office," Yuki said. "Fixing something he didn't break."
That did it.
Something in Aiko's chest twisted, sharp and immediate. Jealousy, yes. Guilt, maybe. But underneath it all, resentment flared hot and bright.
"Of course you'd lead with him," Aiko said. "You always do."
Yuki stiffened. Just a fraction. But Aiko saw it.
"Say it," Yuki replied. "Say what you're actually angry about."
Aiko stepped out of the light.
The shadows caught her face, softened the edges, made it easier to speak.
"You," she said simply.
Yuki didn't react.
"I watch you walk into rooms and people just… move," Aiko continued. "They trust you. Instantly. No proof. No doubt. Like you're made of glass and authority."
"That's not—"
"I know," Aiko cut in. "You earn it. That's the worst part."
Silence stretched.
Aiko clenched her jaw. "Do you know what it's like to be competent and still invisible?"
Yuki's voice dropped. "This isn't about the project anymore."
"No," Aiko said. "It never was."
She took a step closer now, back into the light, eyes bright with something she refused to name.
"You don't fail," Aiko said. "Not publicly. Not badly. You get clean lessons and quiet promotions. I just wanted you to fall once."
The admission hung there, ugly and undeniable.
Yuki closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, the hurt was there. Not dramatic. Not explosive.
Real.
"And Izumi?" Yuki asked quietly.
Aiko swallowed.
Her voice came softer now. Barely steady. "He made it visible."
Yuki laughed once, breathless. Not amused. "So you were willing to burn him to scratch an old wound?"
Aiko flinched. That one landed.
"I didn't think it would go this far," she said.
"You never do," Yuki replied.
The streetlight flickered overhead.
Somewhere nearby, a train passed, metal screaming against rails, loud enough to fill the silence for a moment. When it faded, nothing had softened.
Yuki stepped closer, close enough now that Aiko could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
"This ends tonight," Yuki said. "You will fix what you broke. You will tell me exactly what you touched. And tomorrow, you will not flirt, distract, or hide behind charm."
Aiko met her gaze.
"And if I don't?"
Yuki's voice didn't rise.
"I tell the truth."
For the first time that night, Aiko felt something colder than jealousy.
Fear.
Because she knew Yuki meant it.
I've been jealous of her for longer than I like to admit.
Longer than I even understood what jealousy was.
When we were kids, I didn't have words for it. I just knew that whenever Yuki walked into a room, adults smiled differently. Softer. Like something had settled correctly in the world.
She was never loud. Never demanding. She didn't steal attention.
It just… went to her.
I remember standing in our childhood apartment hallway, clutching a crumpled drawing in my hand. I'd worked on it all afternoon. Careful lines. Bright colors. I was proud of it in that fragile, hopeful way only children are.
Yuki had her report card that day.
Top marks. Again.
My mother barely glanced at my drawing before it slipped from her fingers onto the table.
"That's nice, Aiko," she said, already turning back. "Did you see Yuki's scores?"
I did.
Everyone did.
I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself I didn't care. But that night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I tried to remember if anyone had asked how my day was.
They hadn't.
Yuki never bragged. That almost made it worse.
In school, teachers used her as an example. Not in a cruel way. In a proud way.
"Look how clearly Yuki explains her reasoning." "Notice Yuki's discipline." "You should learn from your sister."
Learn from her. Always from her. Never alongside her.
I learned early that trying to compete head-on only made me disappear faster. When I did well, it was expected. When she did well, it was celebrated.
Once, in middle school, I beat her on a math test. Just once.
I waited for something. Praise. Surprise. Anything.
The teacher smiled and said, "Good work, Aiko. Yuki must have helped you study."
I didn't correct her.
I watched Yuki's face instead. She looked confused, almost embarrassed, like she didn't understand why the moment felt wrong.
That was the thing. She never noticed the shadow she cast.
As teenagers, the gap widened.
Yuki became reliable. The kind of person teachers trusted with responsibilities. Student council. Group leader. The one parents pointed to and said, "Be like her."
I became… flexible.
Adaptable. Social. Someone who could float between groups without anchoring anywhere. I learned how to smile at the right time, how to laugh so people stayed comfortable. How to be seen without being threatening.
Charm became my survival skill.
And even then, when things went wrong, eyes still turned to Yuki.
"She'll handle it." "She'll fix it." "She won't mess this up."
I told myself I didn't want that kind of pressure. That I was freer.
But every time she succeeded quietly, something twisted inside me.
By the time we were adults, the pattern felt permanent.
Different fields. Different paths. Same outcome.
Yuki climbed because people believed in her competence before she even spoke. I climbed because I pushed. Because I maneuvered. Because I refused to wait for permission that never came.
In the office, it was déjà vu with better lighting.
Meetings ended with her conclusions. Decisions stuck when she voiced them. People said her name with certainty, like a solution rather than a person.
And me?
I was effective. I was present. I was noticed.
But never trusted the same way.
Then Izumi happened.
And I hate how honest that is.
He looked at her the way everyone else always had. Like she made sense. Like her calm was something solid you could lean on.
And when he looked at me, it was different. Curious. Amused. Careful.
I told myself I flirted because it was fun. Because it was harmless. Because that was who I was.
That was a lie.
I wanted to see her hesitate. Just once.
I wanted to see doubt touch that perfect composure. I wanted the room to tilt, even briefly, so she'd know what it felt like to work twice as hard for half the certainty.
So yes.
I touched the system.
I nudged the fault.
I told myself it was about fairness. About exposing fragility. About reminding everyone that no one is untouchable.
But standing there under that streetlight, looking at Yuki's tired eyes, I finally admitted the truth I'd been dodging my whole life.
I didn't want her destroyed.
I just wanted her to fall.
Once.
And the worst part?
Even now, knowing the damage, knowing who I dragged into it…
A small, ugly part of me still wonders what it would feel like if she finally did.
I wish that thought had scared me more.
It should have. Any decent person would recoil from it. But jealousy doesn't announce itself as evil. It arrives dressed as justice. As balance. As a correction to an unfair equation.
I told myself I wasn't cruel. I told myself I wasn't heartless like the villains people whisper about in offices and headlines. I told myself I was just tired of being second in a race I never agreed to run.
But memories don't lie, even when you do.
I remember the first time I realized I was watching her instead of living my own life. We were already adults. Separate apartments. Separate careers. Separate circles. Supposedly free.
She got promoted.
Again.
I heard about it secondhand, through a mutual contact who spoke her name with admiration, like it explained everything on its own. And I smiled. Congratulated her later. Meant it, even.
Then I went home and sat on my bed in the dark, heels still on, and stared at the wall for an hour wondering why it felt like I'd lost something.
That was the night I understood.
It wasn't about beating her.
It was about the world never doubting her.
People questioned me. They tested me. They watched for cracks like they expected them. I learned to stay sharp, stay charming, stay ahead of suspicion.
Yuki never had to.
Trust came to her like gravity.
And Izumi…
Izumi was just the mirror that made it undeniable.
He didn't flirt back the way I expected. He didn't get flustered or reckless. He listened. He noticed. He saw me. And still, when it mattered, when pressure mounted and choices had weight, his eyes went to her.
Not romantically. Not obviously.
Reliably.
That hurt more than if he'd chosen her outright.
So I pushed.
A small change. A clever one. Something deniable. Something that would make her hesitate, make her recalibrate, make people ask questions for once.
I didn't expect Yuki to chase me through the city.
I didn't expect her voice to crack when she said his name.
I didn't expect the weight of what I'd done to settle in my chest like this, heavy and sharp and impossible to ignore.
Standing there under the streetlight, I finally understood something else too.
I wasn't angry at her anymore.
I was afraid.
Afraid that even if she fell, even if tomorrow the office whispered and doubted and re-evaluated… she would stand back up.
She always did.
And I would still be me. Still carrying this bitterness. Still explaining myself. Still reaching.
The jealousy didn't disappear with that realization.
But it changed shape.
It stopped feeling righteous.
It started feeling lonely.
I looked at Yuki then and saw not the untouchable figure everyone else worshipped, but the girl who'd carried expectations since childhood without ever asking for them. The woman who ran through dark streets because someone else was paying for my choices.
And for the first time, I wondered something terrifying.
What if the reason I couldn't stand her success
was because it reminded me of how much of my life I'd spent reacting to it?
The streetlight buzzed overhead.
The night waited.
And somewhere, Izumi was still fixing the mess I'd made, unaware that the real fracture wasn't in the system at all.
It was in me.
She didn't answer immediately.
That hesitation told Yuki everything.
Aiko looked away first, eyes drifting back toward the dark stretch of road behind her, like she was measuring the distance to escape. Then she exhaled, slow and uneven, the kind of breath you take when you already know the decision but hate yourself for it.
"…I'll fix it," Aiko said at last. "Tonight."
Yuki didn't relax. She never did that until things were actually done. "Not a patch," she replied. "A clean rollback. Logs corrected. No residual triggers."
"I know," Aiko snapped, then softened just as quickly. "I know how far I pushed it."
Silence settled again, heavier now but less sharp.
Aiko rubbed her thumb against her palm, a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. "There's something else."
Yuki waited.
"Don't tell anyone," Aiko said. "About us. About… this." She finally met Yuki's eyes. "Not Izumi. Not the team. No one."
Yuki frowned. "That's not relevant to the incident."
"It is to me," Aiko said quietly. "I don't want my work reduced to a family headline. I don't want people deciding things about me before I even speak."
The irony almost made Yuki laugh.
Almost.
She studied her sister for a long moment. The city noise filled the gap. A distant siren. Footsteps passing somewhere out of sight.
"Fix the system," Yuki said finally. "Own the correction internally. And this stays between us."
Aiko nodded, relief and something like shame crossing her face at the same time. "Thank you."
"This isn't forgiveness," Yuki added.
"I know."
They stood there a moment longer, neither quite ready to leave, the past thick between them. Then Aiko turned first, already pulling out her phone, shoulders tense with the weight of what she had to undo.
Yuki watched her go.
Only when Aiko disappeared around the corner did Yuki allow herself to sag slightly, tension draining from her spine. She pulled out her phone again.
Missed call. Izumi.
She typed quickly.
Yuki:
I'm downstairs.
Come down when you can.
---
The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.
Izumi stood alone inside the glass box, city lights sliding past as it descended. His jacket was still half-open, his laptop bag heavy on his shoulder, the weight of unfinished thoughts pressing harder than the strap.
His mind replayed the audit log. The name. The implications.
And Yuki's message.
Outside. Come down.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
The lobby was dim, polished stone reflecting the night like water. The security desk was empty, only a monitor glowing quietly behind it.
Yuki stood near the entrance, phone in hand.
She looked up the moment she saw him.
Relief crossed her face before she could hide it. Not professional. Not guarded. Human.
"You okay?" Izumi asked, stopping a step away.
"Yes," she said. Then corrected herself. "I will be."
He noticed the tightness around her eyes. The way she held herself just a little too rigid, like she'd run farther than she meant to.
"You called," he said gently. "What happened?"
Yuki hesitated.
Just a fraction of a second.
Enough for him to notice.
"It's being handled," she said. "The issue. I promise."
His jaw tightened. "Yuki—"
"Izumi," she interrupted, lowering her voice. "You did nothing wrong. And tomorrow, that will be clear."
He searched her face, wanting to push, wanting answers. But there was something in her expression that stopped him. Not secrecy. Protection.
"…Okay," he said finally.
The word tasted strange.
They stood there in the quiet lobby, the city pressing in from beyond the glass doors, both aware that something significant had shifted, even if neither of them named it.
Outside, the night waited.
And above them, in the office they'd just left behind, the consequences of truth, secrecy, and jealousy were already lining up for morning.