The alumni hall glittered like a costume party for ghosts—chandeliers dripping crystal tears, walls papered in gold leaf, and air thick with perfume and pretense. Seika High's "Founder's Legacy Gala" was the event of the season for Tokyo's old money: black ties, designer gowns, and whispers of deals sealed over caviar. Kai tugged at his borrowed vest—Sora's dad's ancient tuxedo kit, smelling faintly of mothballs and regret—feeling like a kid playing spy in a boardroom.
"Relax, 007," Sora muttered through a tray of hors d'oeuvres, balancing shrimp puffs like a pro Jenga player. Yumi had scored them "caterer" badges via a lit club contact (perks of dramatic flair), but Sora's "service with a scowl" vibe was blowing their cover. "Act natural. Or at least like you know what foie gras is."
Aiko, in a sleek black dress swiped from her sister's closet, adjusted her name tag—Mia, Server—and shot Sora a glare. "You're the one who just dropped a canapé on Mrs. Tanaka's shoe. Irony much?"
Kai stifled a snort, eyes scanning the crowd from behind a potted fern. Yumi had briefed them en route: Mori would be here, schmoozing donors, his inner circle orbiting like satellites. The flash drive's files painted a rogue's gallery—execs who'd funneled "donations" through Sato's ghost company, covering the 1987 mess. One name burned: Principal Nakamura, listed as "facilitator" in a 1988 memo. The suits own this place. If the principal was Mori's mole, the betrayal cut deep—Nakamura, the "fair" advisor who'd consoled Kai after Dad's death, promising "justice would prevail."
"There," Yumi hissed, materializing beside him with a champagne flute prop. Her gown was simple emerald silk, blending her into the elite like camouflage. She nodded toward the dais, where a podium awaited speeches. "Mori—center stage, 2 o'clock. Silver fox, scar on his left cheek from a 'hunting accident.' Flanked by the alumni board."
Kai clocked him: mid-60s, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, suit cut sharp as a switchblade. Mori laughed at some quip, revealing teeth too white, too even. Beside him, a cluster: a portly banker nursing scotch, a sharp-eyed lawyer in pearls, and—Kai's gut twisted—Principal Nakamura. Beaming, handshake extended, like old war buddies. Nakamura's tie pin glinted: Mori Corp logo, subtle as a snake.
"Photo op incoming," Aiko whispered, snapping discreet candids with her phone's hidden mode. "Got Nakamura's grin—says 'guilty' louder than a siren."
Sora sidled up, tray wobbling. "Incoming order: Table six wants refills. And eyeballs on us. Play it cool."
They split—Kai and Yumi circulating trays, ears perked for crumbs. The hall thrummed with small talk: stock tips, yacht shares, the occasional "remember when" laced with nostalgia that reeked of cover stories. Kai weaved through legs like a shadow, catching fragments.
"...Sato's fund was genius—laundered cleaner than a Swiss account..."
"...that Tanaka fool thought he could audit us? One bump in the road..."
Kai's tray nearly slipped. Tanaka fool. He edged closer, heart slamming. The voices: Mori's banker crony and the lawyer, huddled by the bar. He feigned a spill, dabbing at a nonexistent spot on the carpet to linger.
The banker chuckled, low and wet. "Overdose kid was collateral. Nakamura handled the paperwork—forged the coroner's report like a pro. Mori's sedan? Clean getaway. Insurance called it 'freak weather.'"
Lawyer lady sipped her martini. "And now the boy's sniffing. Whispers of a club—kids playing detective. Nakamura says watch the Tanaka spawn. If he gets the drive..."
Mori's voice cut in, smooth as oil. He joined them, clapping the banker's back. "Gentlemen. Ladies. To legacies." Glasses clinked. "And to burying the past where it belongs. Nakamura's got the school locked—any leaks, we plug 'em. Quietly."
Kai retreated, pulse roaring, the words searing. Forged report. Sedan getaway. Dad's death, pinned on rain. Nakamura—not consoler, but conspirator. The principal's office raid replayed: the key, the photo. He'd been steps ahead, feeding Mori intel. Betrayal, school staff edition—hitting like a gut punch. Nakamura, who'd patted Kai's shoulder at the funeral, murmuring We'll find who did this. Liar.
He rendezvoused with the group by the dessert cart, face schooled neutral. "Nakamura's the linchpin. Forged the cover-up, still feeding them eyes on us. The drive's our bomb—timed right, it blows his world."
Yumi's eyes darkened. "Auntie suspected. That's why the riddles—keep it off the grid till we had proof. Gala's our shot: corner him, or snag more dirt."
Sora paled under his fake mustache (a "disguise" touch that itched). "Corner? As in, confrontation? I'm allergic to felonies."
Aiko smirked. "Relax. Distraction detail: I'll 'accidentally' spill punch on the board. You three—eavesdrop central."
The plan sparked: Aiko to the punch bowl, Sora as backup klutz, Kai and Yumi tailing Nakamura to the "private lounge" wing. Speeches droned—Mori's turn, waxing on Sato's "visionary gift"—buying them time. As applause rippled, Nakamura excused himself, slipping through a velvet rope toward the back halls.
"Go," Yumi murmured. They ghosted after, badges flashing at a bored security nod. The lounge was dimmer, cigar haze and leather chairs—old boys' club vibe. Nakamura entered alone, phone out, dialing.
Kai pressed to the wall, Yumi mirroring. Voices filtered through the cracked door.
"Nakamura here," the principal said, tone clipped. "Mori's in fine form. The kids? Tanaka's leading a little crusade—ghost hunts, desk dives. Yumi's involved; girl's too nosy, like her aunt."
A pause, tinny reply from the other end. Mori? "Handled," Nakamura continued. "I'll plant the club shutdown memo tomorrow. If they push... well, accidents happen. Rainy nights, loose bikes. Echoes of 1987."
Kai's blood iced. Loose bikes. Dad's crash site—freshly paved weeks before, Nakamura's "renovation" push. Covering tracks, literally.
Yumi's hand found Kai's arm, steadying. "Got it on record?" she breathed. Kai nodded—his phone, tucked in vest pocket, captured every word via voice memo.
But footsteps echoed—another entrant. The door swung wider: the lawyer lady, martini in hand. "Principal dear, Mori wants a word. Loose ends?"
Nakamura chuckled, dark. "Tied off. The Tanaka file? Shredded years ago. Boy's chasing shadows."
They pulled back as the door shut, hearts thundering. Mission half-win: audio gold. But exposure loomed—Aiko's signal buzzed Kai's phone: Distraction deployed. Punch apocalypse. Exfil NOW.
They bolted, rejoining the chaos by the ballroom. Aiko stood amid splattered gowns, feigning horror as Sora "helped" with napkins, blushing crimson. "Mission: Splashy success," she grinned, wiping a streak from her cheek. "Board's soaked—eyes off you."
Sora thrust a tray at Kai. "Hide the evidence! And can we never do this again?"
Laughter bubbled, tension cracking, but Yumi's face stayed stone. "We bail. Process the audio at my place—cross-reference with the drive. Nakamura's the key; expose him, Mori crumbles."
They slipped out a service door into the night, gala lights winking farewell like mocking stars. The sedan idled curbside—Mori's ride, engine purring. It peeled away as they melted into alleys, but Kai felt its gaze linger.
Back at Yumi's dorm, laptop humming, they synced the recording. Nakamura's voice filled the room, damning as daylight. "Accidents happen." Kai's fists clenched. Dad's ghost, laid bare—not spectral, but sold out by a suit in the office next door.
Yumi paused the file. "One more thread: the gala program. Mori announced a 'new donation'—untraceable fund for 'scholarships.' Bet it's hush money, routing through Nakamura's pet projects."
Aiko cross-legged on the floor, sketched a quick web: Mori at center, tendrils to principal, banker, overdose ghost. "Tomorrow: Hit the school library. Old newspapers on 1987—filler the gaps."
Sora yawned, mustache askew. "Library? After this? Count me in—for moral support. And naps."
Kai nodded, but his phone lit up—unknown number, Yumi's burner forwarded. A photo: the group, mid-exfil, snapped from the shadows. Caption: Nice tux, kid. Nakamura's not alone. Check the yearbook staff photo, 1987. The advisor's still here. —E
Yearbook advisor? Kai's mind snagged: Ms. Hayashi, the soft-spoken English teacher who'd subbed his class last week, praising his "detective essays." Another snake in the grass?
The web tightened, friends closing in. But so did the light—details, once hidden, now clawing free.
As the group crashed on floor cushions, plotting dawn raids, Kai clutched Dad's badge under his pillow. Veritas in Umbris. Truth in shadows—and tonight, it whispered victory's edge.
But outside, tires hummed—a sedan, circling slow.
End of Chapter 5
*(Next chapter tease: Digging through dusty yearbooks reveals Ms. Hayashi's dark 1987 secret, but a school lockdown traps them with the enemy—and a desperate escape forces Kai to make his first real deduction under fire.)