The clock on the wall didn't tick, it hummed, matching the rhythm of the servers.
Haruto sat at his desk, but the monitors were dark. He wasn't working, he was counting seconds.
Four days.
That was all the time that had passed since she had nearly burned down her apartment, since she had walked into his sanctuary with smoke in her hair and color in her cheeks, since she had promised to come back.
She's not coming.
The thought was logical. People said things they didn't mean, promised return and chose convenience instead. He should reset the kitchenette, put the ingredients back in the cupboard, return to the silence.
He didn't move.
Instead, he looked at the corner. He had scrubbed the sink until the steel gleamed, wiped the counter until it was dry. The mini-fridge, empty for three years, now held vegetables he had bought at 2 AM from a convenience store down the block. Carrots, green onions, eggs, miso paste.
He had researched traditional breakfast ingredients and told himself it was for the lesson, for the arrangement.
But when he imagined her opening the fridge and finding it empty, something tight and painful squeezed behind his ribs.
This isn't logic.
He should tell her to stop, explain that whatever she saw in him was a projection, that he wasn't the person she thought he was.
But the image of her walking away, the light leaving her eyes, made the air in the room feel too thin to breathe.
The elevator chimed.
Haruto froze. No one came here, no one had the code, no one...
The door opened.
She stood in the doorway.
Sakura, wearing a soft sweater that looked too warm for the basement and holding a bag of groceries that clinked softly. Her hair was tied back with loose strands framing a face that lit up when she saw him.
"Haruto."
Just his name, sounding less like a greeting and more like an arrival.
"Sakura."
She stepped inside, letting the door close behind her as the silence of the workshop shifted and filled with her presence. She looked around, her eyes catching the gleam of the sink and the organized counter.
"You cleaned."
"Yes."
"You bought food." She set the bag down and opened the fridge, peering inside. "Real food, vegetables, eggs." She held up a container of miso paste. "Is this the brand I mentioned?"
"I researched traditional Japanese breakfast ingredients." He kept his voice flat and clinical, for it was easier than admitting he had remembered every word she had said. "The internet suggested miso soup is a common component. I thought if you were going to teach me, I should have the proper materials."
She turned to look at him, her expression unreadable, soft but searching.
"You researched breakfast."
"Yes."
"For me."
"Not specifically. For the cooking lessons which you proposed. I simply prepared accordingly."
She didn't look away as the servers hummed, a constant backdrop to the silence stretching between them.
"You're lying," she said finally, her voice not accusing but gentle. "You're lying, and you're terrible at it."
"I'm an excellent liar."
"No, you're not." She crossed the room, stopping just outside his personal space, close enough that he could smell the soap on her skin. "You researched breakfast for me. You bought miso paste for me. You cleaned your kitchen for me. Say it."
He couldn't, for the words stuck in his throat, heavy and unfamiliar.
"Suzuki Haruto." Soft and insistent. "Say it."
"I..." He looked at his hands and then back at her. "I wanted you to feel welcome. I wanted you to want to come back."
She was quiet for a moment, then she smiled and it wasn't the bright performative smile she wore for customers. It was smaller and private.
"You're impossible," she whispered. "You're the most impossible person I've ever met."
"Is that bad?"
"No." She stepped back, returning to the groceries. "It's just a lot. You're a lot. And I don't know what to do with it."
Join the club, he thought. He didn't say it.
She needed to focus, needed to teach him to cook. That was the plan, that was the excuse, that was the reason her hands were shaking as she unpacked the carrots.
Every time she looked at him, she remembered the supply closet, the way he had tracked her down, the way he had said no one ever comes back.
What are you doing, Sakura?
She didn't know. She just knew she didn't want to leave this room.
"Okay." She forced her voice to steady. "Lesson one, rice."
He nodded, attentive and serious like she was explaining the mechanics of a server rack instead of dinner.
"You have a rice cooker?" She scanned the counter and spotted it. "Good. First, measure."
She showed him. One cup of rice, rinse until the water ran clear, drain, add water to the line. He watched like his life depended on it, asking questions. Why until clear? Why that line? What happens if you add too much? And she answered each one patiently.
There was a hunger in his attention that had nothing to do with food.
"Now press the button." She demonstrated. "Wait forty minutes. That's it. That's the whole lesson."
He stared at the machine. "That's all?"
"For today, yes. Rice is the foundation. Get that right, everything else follows."
He nodded, still staring at the rice cooker, and she watched him thinking about all the meals he must have eaten alone, cold and fast and unremembered.
"Haruto."
He looked up.
"Why do you live here? In the basement, I mean. You could have a penthouse, an office on the top floor, anything. Why here?"
He was quiet as the rice cooker began to hum, switching to warm mode.
"Because here, no one expects anything." His voice was carefully neutral. "Up there, I'm Suzuki Haruto, sixth son, always being watched, always being evaluated, always falling short. Down here, I'm just the IT guy. No one cares what I do. No one notices if I disappear."
"But you're not the IT guy." She said it gently. "You're still Suzuki Haruto, even down here."
"Yes." He met her eyes. "But down here, I get to pretend. And sometimes pretending is enough."
Sometimes pretending is enough.
She understood that better than she wanted to. Hadn't she been pretending her whole life? The cheerful daughter, the willing helper, the one who stayed. Pretending that the shop was enough, that Fukuoka was enough, that she was enough?
"Maybe," she said slowly, "pretending is how we figure out what's real."
He looked at her, really looked, and she felt seen in a way that terrified her.
"What's real for you, Sakura?"
The question hung between them.
You, she thought. This. Whatever this is.
But she couldn't say that, couldn't admit it, couldn't let herself want something she didn't understand.
"Food," she said instead. "Food is real. Cooking, eating, sharing meals. That's real."
He nodded, accepting her deflection. Or maybe just waiting.
The rice cooker clicked.
"Rice is done," she said. "Come on. Let's eat."
They sat at his small table, the one he had never used before her.
They ate rice with furikake and miso soup she had made from the paste he had bought. It was without question the best meal of his life.
Not because of the food, but because of the company. Because for the first time in as long as he could remember, he wasn't alone.
"Sakura." He said her name without planning to.
She looked up, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. "Hmm?"
"I need to tell you something."
Her expression shifted, cautious.
"Okay."
"The program you're in, the assignee program. It's not just training."
"I know. It's a year, then we decide if we stay or go back."
"Yes, but there's more." He set down his chopsticks, needing his hands free. "The program is being evaluated by the board, by my father. They're considering ending it."
She went very still. "Ending it?"
"Not immediately. But if the assignees don't perform, if the program doesn't show results, they'll terminate it. Everyone would have to go back. There would be no choice."
The color drained from her face. "Go back, as in leave?"
"Yes."
"But I just got here, just started." She stopped and swallowed. "How do you know this?"
"I have access to the board's communications. I monitor the data architecture. I see things."
"You've been spying on the board?"
"Not spying, observing." He paused. "I observe everything. It's what I do."
She stared at him, processing shock and fear and then something else, determination.
"How long?" she asked. "How long before they decide?"
"Six months, maybe less. They're watching closely. One mistake, one failure, and..."
"And we're all gone." She finished his sentence. "Back to our old lives. Back to nothing."
"Not nothing." He said it before he could stop himself. "You wouldn't be going back to nothing. You have your family, your shop, your..."
"My shop that I left. My family that I disappointed. My life that wasn't enough." Her voice cracked. "I can't go back, Haruto. Not yet, not like this. I haven't figured out who I'm supposed to be yet."
The words hit him somewhere deep, somewhere he had been protecting for years.
I haven't figured out who I'm supposed to be yet.
He knew that feeling, lived it every day.
"Sakura." He reached across the table, slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
"What if I could help?"
"Help how?"
"I know things about the board, about what they're looking for, about how to make the program succeed. I could tell you, guide you, help you and the others prove your worth."
She looked at his hand hovering near hers, not quite touching.
"Why would you do that?"
Because I can't lose you.
The thought was immediate and terrifying and true.
But he couldn't say that, couldn't admit it, couldn't let himself want something he had no right to want.
"Because I believe in the program." The lie felt wrong in his mouth. "Because the assignees deserve a fair chance. Because..."
"Because you're lonely." Her voice was soft, not cruel. "Because you want us to stay as much as we want to stay."
He couldn't deny it, didn't try.
"Yes."
She looked at him for a long moment, then she turned her hand palm up. An invitation.
He took it.
Her skin was warm, warmer than he had expected, and her fingers curled around his as something in his chest loosened, something he hadn't known was tight.
"Okay," she said. "Okay, Haruto. Tell me what to do."
His hand was warm, larger than hers but not overwhelming, careful like he was holding something fragile.
She should let go, should pull back, should maintain whatever boundaries still existed between them.
Instead, she held on.
"There are things you need to know about the board, about the evaluation criteria." He spoke carefully. "They're not looking for individual performance. They're looking for integration. They want to see that the assignees become part of the company, that they build relationships, that they contribute to the culture."
"So we need to be friends?"
"More than friends. A community, a network. They want to see that the program creates something lasting, something that can't be replaced by hiring externally."
She thought about Yuki, about the other assignees, about the way they had already started to bond. "We're already doing that, a little. We had orientation together, we've been meeting for coffee. It's..."
"It's not enough." His voice was gentle but firm. "You need to be visible. The board needs to see you, needs to know your names, your faces, your stories."
"How do we do that?"
He was quiet for a moment, thinking.
"There's a mixer next week, a corporate event. All the zaibatsu families attend. If you could come, be seen, make an impression..."
"Me?" She laughed, surprised. "Haruto, I'm a ramen chef's daughter from Fukuoka. I don't belong at a zaibatsu mixer."
"You belong wherever you choose to belong."
The words were simple and direct, and they hit her harder than she expected.
Wherever you choose to belong.
She had spent her whole life belonging where she was put. The shop, the family, the expectations. She had never once thought about choosing.
"You really believe that?"
"I believe," he said slowly, "that belonging is a decision. Not something you're given, something you take."
"And you? Have you decided to belong here? In the basement, I mean."
A pause. "I decided that belonging anywhere else wasn't worth the cost. This is where I can be myself, or as close to myself as I'm allowed."
As close to myself as I'm allowed.
She thought about her grandmother's kitchen, about the steam and the noise and the rhythm of a thousand afternoons, about how easy it was to disappear into that rhythm, to let it define her, to never ask who she might be outside of it.
"I'll go," she said. "To the mixer. I'll go and I'll be seen and I'll try to belong."
"You will." He said it like a fact, not a hope. "You will belong because you're you, and you can't help but make people want to be near you."
She felt her face heat. "That's not... I'm not..."
"You are." He squeezed her hand once, briefly. "You're the most alive person I've ever met, Sakura. Anyone with eyes can see it."
Anyone with eyes.
She looked at him, at the way he was looking at her like she was the only real thing in his gray world, and she felt something shift inside her.
"Haruto."
"Yes?"
"This deal, you helping me and me helping you not be lonely. What is this?"
He considered the question with the same seriousness he had given the rice. "I don't know. A partnership, an arrangement, something we're building together?"
"Something we're building together." She tried the words and found they fit. "I like that."
"Good." He almost smiled. "I like it too."
They sat there, hands still touching, the rice cooling on the table, the servers humming their quiet song.
Finally Sakura stood. "I should go. There's orientation stuff, paperwork."
He stood too, reluctant. She could see it in the way he moved.
"Tomorrow, same time?"
"Same time." She gathered her things and headed for the door, then paused and looked back.
He was watching her, always watching her.
"Haruto." His name, given back. "Thank you for telling me, for this."
"Thank you for coming back."
She smiled, real and warm and maybe a little bit afraid. "I'll always come back. That's the deal, right?"
"That's the deal."
She opened the door, stepped through, and let it close behind her.
And then she was gone, and Haruto was alone with the echo of her voice and the terrifying realization that he had just guaranteed she would keep coming back.
He looked at his hand, the one that had touched hers.
What have I done?
He had just tied his fate to a program destined to fail. He had just invited chaos into his sanctuary. He had just chosen her over safety.
And he would do it again.
His phone buzzed on the desk, a message from an unknown number.
*Rice cooker settings for tomorrow: 1 cup rice, 1.2 cups water. I researched it. - H*
He stared at the screen. He hadn't sent that.
Another buzz, from Sakura.
Got your message. You're cute when you try to be helpful. See you tomorrow. - S
Haruto blinked and looked at his sent folder. The message was there. He must have sent it without realizing while she was still in the room.
He hadn't even remembered typing it.
His subconscious had already committed.
He set the phone down as the silence of the workshop rushed back in, but it felt different now. Less like a cage, more like a waiting room.
He looked at the corner, at the kitchenette, at the empty space where she had stood.
Tomorrow.
He stood up and walked to the sink. He didn't clean it. He left the single bowl she had used right where she had left it.
A promise.
A beginning.
And somewhere deep in the building's architecture, a server logged a new variable.
User: Tanaka Sakura. Status: Critical.