It started like any other department-wide presentation—drab lighting, stale coffee, and too many people pretending to care.
Ren adjusted the angle of his monitor with quiet precision as the projection loaded. The glow cast his features in sharp contrast—calm, professional, methodical. He wasn't the type to command a room. He didn't want to. But today's presentation was his. His system—the one he'd designed, revised, optimized for six months straight—was finally being implemented.
He'd memorized every metric, every vulnerability it patched, every efficiency it brought.
Still, a dull thrum of anxiety curled in his chest.
His hands, steady on the keyboard, betrayed no hint of the storm behind his eyes.
Aika stood near the side wall, arms crossed loosely over her tailored blazer. She wasn't required to attend. But ever since they began working together on internal fraud cases, she showed up whenever his work was involved.
Always quiet. Always composed.
But her gaze missed nothing.
She didn't know who he was—not yet—but Ren felt her presence like armour.
Even if she wasn't standing for him, her presence still shielded the air.
"Ready when you are," came the brittle voice of Senior Manager Tohda, who stood near the back of the room, flanked by two executives. He was in his late fifties, all sleek suits and thin patience. The type who hated being shown up. Especially by someone who didn't walk into the room with a visible swagger.
Ren nodded and began.
He explained the vulnerabilities in the old system. Showed where embezzlement patterns slipped through the cracks. Demonstrated how his framework flagged these holes in real-time and redirected workflows before damage escalated.
Clicks. Graphs. Code flows.
His voice was low but clear. Measured. Confident.
Until—
Tohda interrupted, "So you're saying we've been idiots until now?"
It was said with a chuckle. But it wasn't humour. It was a warning shot.
Some in the room laughed uneasily.
Ren blinked. "No, sir. I'm saying the system we had was based on older logic trees, which were state-of-the-art then, but—"
"So, you know better than the senior analysts who approved it five years ago?" Tohda interrupted again, louder now.
Ren hesitated.
He didn't stammer. Didn't shrink. But the hush in the room grew thick.
Aika shifted her weight slightly.
Tohda moved forward. "You're new here, Mr. Hayashi. Maybe take a few more years before claiming your way is better than processes designed by people who've led this company since before you learned to tie a tie."
A murmur from the room. One of the executives didn't bother hiding his smirk.
Ren said nothing.
Not because he didn't have a response. But because every time he tried to push against power, it reminded him of childhood—of being shoved into lockers, told to stay in his place.
But just as Tohda opened his mouth again, Aika's voice cut through the silence like a blade:
"Excuse me, Manager Tohda. But I have a question."
Every head turned.
She walked to the front of the room, heels clicking with deliberate purpose, and stood beside Ren's desk—between him and the room.
Tohda raised a brow. "Yes, Counselor Tanaka?"
Her expression didn't waver. "Is this a technical review… or a power contest?"
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
She turned to the screen. "Because from what I see, this system identifies financial leakages your department overlooked for two fiscal quarters. It proposes clear prevention logic. All backed by traceable logs and audit trails. You called it 'new'? That's innovation. You called it 'arrogance'? That's projection."
A silence slammed across the room.
Tohda's face reddened.
She didn't stop.
"If this company claims to value integrity and growth, then belittling the very solution that protects its future seems… contradictory."
Her voice was razor calm. But beneath it? Ice. Fire.
Tohda narrowed his eyes. "This doesn't concern legal."
Aika smiled. "Unfortunately for you, it does. Fraud prevention directly links to corporate liability. You asked him to present. If you didn't want results, perhaps you should've scheduled a storytelling session instead."
Someone at the back coughed to cover a snort.
Ren stared—frozen.
Not from fear. But from the force of memory.
It was like watching the scene from the rooftop again.
The courtyard again.
The fountain again.
The girl with the fists and fire.
Only now… she wielded words sharper than punches.
Tohda tried to recover. "I was simply challenging the assumptions—"
"No," Aika interrupted. "You were challenging the person."
Her tone softened, but only slightly. "Which begs the question… why?"
Tohda didn't reply. He turned, mumbled something to his assistant, and exited the room under the weight of thirty silent eyes.
The door clicked shut.
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted.
The executives cleared their throats, muttered praise about Ren's metrics, and began asking follow-up questions—as if Tohda's outburst hadn't just happened.
Aika didn't sit.
She stayed standing beside Ren, subtly but unmistakably.
Not saying a word.
Just there.
Ren turned to thank her. But the words caught.
She was scanning the screen again, pointing out something in the risk dashboard.
Still working.
Still acting like it was normal.
But to Ren… it wasn't.
Because seventeen years had passed.
And she still stood up for him.
Not because she knew who he was.
Not because she owed him anything.
But because Aika Tanaka had always done one thing when she saw injustice—
She stood in front of it.
And Ren?
He'd loved her so much for that since the very first time.
Ren clutched the pen in his hand long after the meeting. Not because he had more to write—but because he was afraid if he let go, his feelings might spill across the desk.