The lawyer's office perched on the edge of Tokyo's legal district like a smug gargoyle—glass facade etched with Mori & Associates, reflecting the city's neon veins in fractured rainbows. Kai stared up from the alley across the street, collar turned against the drizzle that had chased them from the konbini. Midnight tomorrow, the text said. But waiting felt like handing Mori the clock—tick-tock to his next move. Yumi's aunt's contact had coughed up the address: Takashi Mori's family solicitor, handling Hiroshi's "estate closure" since the crash. Hidden will? If Dad had squirreled one away, it was here, buried in legalese like a clue in a crossword.
"Break-in bingo," Sora muttered, huddled under a shared umbrella that did more leaking than shielding. His eyes darted to the lobby's security cam, winking red. "Or we could, y'know, ring the bell? 'Hi, we're here for the murder plot files?'"
Aiko snorted, her breath fogging the damp air. "Subtlety's your middle name? No—janitor ruse. Yumi's got the uniform from her theater stash."
Yumi nodded, backpack slung low, the negatives zipped inside. "Elevator key from the lobby—card swipe faked with a hotel clone. Top floor, Mori's corner suite. Files in the safe: combo's date-stamped, 1987 scandal month. Auntie hacked a memo."
Kai's stomach knotted. Auntie Emiko's web of whispers—texts, drives, now this. But Hayashi's flip still itched: too convenient, her midnight tip leading to the ambush. Trust me. Echoes of Mori's family first. "We go in pairs. Me and Yumi for the files; you two, lookout. Signal if cams spin."
The plan locked, they moved—Sora and Aiko melting into the crowd of salarymen fleeing the downpour, Yumi flashing a forged ID at the doorman with a smile that screamed "intern." Kai trailed, heart a drum solo. The lobby hummed sterile: marble floors, potted ferns, a receptionist tapping away at nothing. Elevator dinged empty; they piled in, Yumi swiping the cloned card. Floor 17 lit up, doors whispering shut.
Ascent felt eternal, the box humming like a coffin lid. "If it's a trap..." Kai started.
Yumi met his eyes, steady. "It isn't. Emiko vetted the solicitor—old Tanaka family friend, before Mori's shadow fell. Will's the kill shot: Hiroshi cut Takashi out, donated his shares in the old Mori import biz to charity. Crumbles the inheritance Mori's chasing—why the hit, to 'correct' it."
Ding. Doors parted to a hushed hall: plush carpet muffling steps, doors numbered in brass. Suite 1703: Confidential Archives. Yumi's pick clicked softly—bump key magic. Inside: a warren of filing cabinets, desks piled with briefs, air stale as forgotten verdicts. The safe hulked in the corner—combination lock, no digital frills.
"October '87," Kai murmured, dialing: 10-15-87. Click-tumblers falling like dominoes. The door swung open, revealing stacks of envelopes, deeds, a lone folder: Tanaka, Hiroshi—Last Will & Testament (Addendum, Sealed).
He lifted it, paper crinkling like dry leaves. Sealed with red wax, stamped Mori & Assoc—Do Not Breach. Kai broke it, unfolding the pages under the desk lamp's glow. Legalese swam: assets listed—Dad's apartment, savings, a stake in Mori Imports (the pre-scandal firm, clean money from silk trades). Then the clause: To my son, Kai Tanaka: Full inheritance upon majority, with directive to expose any familial corruption. To charities: 100% divestment from Mori Enterprises. Witnesses: Emiko Sato, Kenjiro Sato.
Sato—Hayashi's overdose kid's kin? The donor ghost. And Emiko—E—tying it tight. But the kicker: a codicil, scrawled in Dad's hand: If Takashi pursues, the truth surfaces. No blood money for my boy. Forgive the shadows, Kai. Fight them.
Kai's throat tightened. Fight them. Not just words—a blueprint. Mori's plot crystallized: the hit to void the will, forge an "accident" payout routing to his coffers. The gala donation? Smoke—reclaiming the shares through "scholarships" funneled back. Crumble the will, and Kai's legacy became Mori's noose.
"Got it," Yumi whispered, phone snapping pics of every page. "This with the negatives? Bulletproof. Leak to the bar association—disbarment dominoes."
But rustle from the hall froze them. Footsteps—light, hesitant. Not security's stomp. Yumi killed the light, they ducked behind a cabinet, breaths synced. The door creaked open, silhouette framed: slight, bob haircut dripping rain. Hayashi.
Kai's blood surged. Double-cross? She scanned the room, flashlight beam jittering. "Tanaka? Yumi? I know you're here—the night guard pinged the elevator."
Yumi tensed beside him, hand on the crowbar. "How? We jammed the log."
Hayashi stepped in, door clicking shut. "Emiko. She told me the plan—backup if you hit snags. The ambush last night? Mori's play, not mine. I fed them the darkroom tip to flush their hand." Her voice cracked, eyes glinting wet—not rain. "The will... did you find it?"
Kai rose slow, folder clutched. "Why? Leverage, you said. But this—it's everything. Mori's my uncle. Blood. You knew?"
She nodded, sagging against a desk. "Hiroshi confided, end days. Begged me to watch you—after the overdose, I owed him. Sato was my failure; your dad gave me a shot at redemption. The negatives? My insurance. But Nakamura... he's cracking you next. Texted me an hour ago: 'Handle the kids, or join Hiroshi.'"
Yumi emerged, wary. "Proof? Or Mori's echo?"
Hayashi pulled her phone, screen glowing: Nakamura's message, timestamped 11:42 PM. Archives compromised. Clean it. Sedan waits. Her reply, unsent: No more ghosts.
Kai's mind whirred—details: Tremor in her voice, unsent draft. Genuine fracture. But trust fractured too. "Join us. Full. Or we walk—with this." He tapped the folder.
She met his gaze, resolve hardening. "Full. Mori's gala tomorrow—board votes on the 'donation.' Nakamura chairs. Slip the will in anonymously; I plant the seed in his ear. Crumbles from within."
A beat. Alliance reborn? Yumi pocketed her phone. "Deal. But one slip—"
"Understood." Hayashi straightened. "Out the fire stairs—guard's looping the lobby. I'll cover the log."
They moved, a tense quartet slipping into the stairwell. Rain drummed the roof, masking descent. At the bottom, Hayashi paused. "Kai—Hiroshi was proud. Fight smart, not alone."
The alley swallowed them, folder burning in Kai's jacket like a brand. Mori's plot: inheritance heist, cloaked in family ties. But the will flipped it—Dad's final checkmate, from beyond.
Back in the downpour, Sora and Aiko waited by the bike racks, umbrellas sagging. "Score?" Sora asked, teeth chattering.
"Endgame," Kai said, flashing the folder. Excitement rippled, but his phone buzzed—unknown, the burner chain. Will secured? Good. But Hayashi's thread frays—check her shadow. Gala's the stage; Mori cues the curtain. Bring the badge. —E
Shadow? Kai glanced back—Hayashi vanishing into the lobby, but a flicker: her phone, screen lighting a second figure in the hall. Nakamura? Or worse—Mori's earpiece glint?
Doubt seeded. Ally or anchor? The archives' echo lingered: trust, rain-soaked and slippery.
As the group scattered to safe houses, the city lights blurred through tears—not rain. Dad's words: Forgive the shadows. But some deserved none.
The sedan prowled a block away, headlights cutting the night like a promise unkept.
End of Chapter 8
(Next chapter tease: At the gala's climax, Kai confronts Mori with the will in hand, but Hayashi's true allegiance unravels in a shocking betrayal—forcing a desperate alliance with an unexpected Mori insider to expose the full conspiracy live on stage.)