Miwako Sato's mind was in a whirl. Although the muzzle was still pointed at Kanjuro, the trembling of her arm betrayed the storm raging in her heart. She didn't understand what Kanjuro's words meant—"become one of 'them'"? "experience the feeling of not having a father"?
"You... what on earth are you talking about?!" she shouted sharply, trying to use her voice to mask the instinctive fear that was constantly growing.
Kanjuro didn't answer; he just took another step forward. The smile on his face was so gentle it was suffocating, yet so dangerous it made one shiver. The distance between them was mere inches; Sato could even smell the strange scent on him—a mixture of faint musk and a certain inhuman coldness.
"You'll understand soon."
Before the words had even faded, Kanjuro's hand was as fast as a phantom. Before Sato could react, that well-defined, cold palm had already gently covered her forehead.
"Bang!"
Almost by reflex, out of extreme terror, Sato pulled the trigger! The gunshot exploded within the confined apartment, deafeningly loud.
But in the next instant, Sato's pupils contracted to the size of pinheads, and a boundless chill instantly froze her entire body.
The bullet that had left the barrel didn't hit any target, nor did it pierce Kanjuro's body. It... just stopped abruptly, violating the laws of physics, in the air a few centimeters in front of Kanjuro's forehead, caught casually and nonchalantly between his two fingers.
The bullet head still carried a trace of burning blue smoke, yet it was as submissive in Kanjuro's fingertips as an ordinary piece of candy.
Time seemed to have been forcibly paused at this moment.
Miwako Sato's mind went blank. All her courage and professional convictions were shattered in the face of a reality that transcended understanding. She finally realized clearly that what she was facing was not a 'human' who could be judged by common sense or restrained by law!
What she was investigating was an unknown existence possessing the power of a god or a demon!
Regret surged into her heart like a cold tide, but it was too late.
Kanjuro looked at the complete breakdown of shock and fear in Sato's eyes and smiled with satisfaction. He loosened his fingers, and the brass bullet casing fell to the floor with a 'clink,' rolling into the shadows.
He approached again. This time, Sato didn't even have the strength to retreat. She could only watch helplessly as his peerlessly handsome face enlarged before her eyes, feeling his fingertip lightly tap her forehead.
An indescribable, cold, and massive power, like a bursting flood, instantly rushed into the depths of Miwako Sato's consciousness!
Space-Time Authority activated!
This was not simple hypnosis or hallucination implantation, but something more fundamental, more terrifying... a direct distortion and overwriting of reality and history!
Sato felt her memories, her cognition, and even her basic perception of the entire world being brutally torn apart and reorganized.
The image of her father in her mind—the clear and warm image of the man who once carried her on his shoulders, taught her to ride a bike, and was both worried and proud when she became a police officer—began to quickly blur and fade as if erased by an eraser, until finally... it disappeared completely.
In its place, fragments of 'brand new' memories, rich in detail yet incredibly eerie, were forcibly implanted into her mind:
During her childhood, there was only her mother's busy and exhausted figure at home; the photo wall was always missing the other half.
When she was mocked by other children for 'not having a dad,' a gentle and mysterious boy named Kanjuro would always appear at the right time, holding her hand, taking her for ice cream, and comforting her with eyes that seemed to see through everything: 'It's okay, Miwako, I'm here.'
Throughout her growing years, this 'father' figure named 'Kanjuro' would appear and disappear, yet always left a mark at the important milestones of her life. Her stubbornness and her pursuit of justice seemed to stem from a subconscious desire for this 'young father's' approval... When her mother mentioned 'father,' she always spoke with a complex, blurred yearning, saying he was a man as brilliant as a meteor who stayed in her life only briefly, and his name... was Kanjuro.
These carefully woven, false memories replicated and spread like a virus, overwriting her true past and rewriting the foundation of her personality. Not just her memories, but a grander power involving the 'order' of the world itself fluctuated. All relevant paper records, electronic files, and even the subconscious of other involved parties were quietly modified by an invisible hand at this moment to corroborate this tampered history.
When that terrifying transformative power receded like a tide, Miwako Sato suddenly snapped back to her senses, staggering and nearly falling. Her eyes were dazed and confused, and the spot on her forehead touched by Kanjuro felt as if a cold brand remained.
She looked at Kanjuro, who still wore a gentle smile. Two versions of memory clashed wildly in her mind, but the version where 'Kanjuro is my father,' carrying an irresistible force, was rapidly taking dominance, pushing her true memories to the edge of consciousness until they became like a blurry and absurd nightmare.
Her voice was dry and trembling, filled with unbelievable weakness as she asked the question she had once pursued but now had an 'answer' to: 'Is... is this the reason why those children... are your "daughters"?'
Kanjuro shook his head gently and stepped forward. Like a true elder, he used his fingers to comb through her slightly messy hair. The action was intimate, yet it made Sato shudder.
'You're wrong, my dear "daughter."' His voice was filled with a sickeningly sweet affection. 'Their situations are all different. Some, like Yuigahama, might have been connected to me through their bloodline from the very beginning. While others like Hiratsuka Shizuka and... the current you, are daughters born from memories I created.'
He paused, looking at Sato's eyes, which were gradually being eroded by the 'new memories' and beginning to show signs of dependence and confusion. He smiled with satisfaction.
'You were simply "chosen" by me, and then given a new "past," becoming my well-behaved... daughter.'
'Welcome home, Miwako.' 'No... I won't admit it! You... you aren't my father!' Miwako Sato screamed with all her might, trying to use this final denial to defend the true self that was rapidly vanishing. Her eyes were full of resistance and confusion, and her body trembled slightly from the violent conflict between the two sets of memories.
Kanjuro didn't mind her resistance at all; instead, he showed an even more 'affectionate' yet incredibly cruel smile. He stepped forward slowly, ignoring Sato's futile struggles, and gently took her cold, trembling hand.
'You won't admit it?' His voice was like a hypnotic whisper, carrying an unquestionable magic. 'Memories go deep into the bone, Miwako. Have you forgotten... who held your hand and took you home when you were bullied as a child? Who stayed by your bedside all night when you had a fever? And who said to you, "My daughter, you look so sharp," when you first put on your police uniform?'
With every sentence he spoke, those forcibly implanted, vividly detailed false memories in Sato's mind became clearer. They wrapped around her consciousness like vines, squeezing and overwriting the warm, real memories of her biological father until they became blurred and indistinct, as if they were the distant dream.
What terrified her even more was that from the hand Kanjuro held, an invisible, viscous, and cold power flowed, like countless invisible tentacles instantly wrapping around her entire body. She found she couldn't move at all, unable to control even a single finger. She could only be led by Kanjuro like a puppet, following behind him against her will.
'See, even your body is more honest than your mouth,' Kanjuro chuckled, leading his 'daughter' out of the apartment filled with the scent of corruption and despair, and into the cool night air of the street.
The night breeze brushed her face, but it couldn't disperse the chill and confusion in Sato's heart. Like a soul-less shell, she was led by Kanjuro through familiar streets, finally stopping at the bottom of her own apartment building.
The door was pushed open, and the warm light and familiar scent of home greeted her. But the next scene caused Sato's remaining sanity to almost completely shatter.
Her mother—the woman who, in her true memory, had always been independent and strong, burying her longing for her late husband deep in her heart—was currently standing in the entryway. Her face bore a complex expression she had never seen before—a mix of awe, joy, and... adoration—as she looked at Kanjuro with burning eyes.
'Lord Kanjuro,' her mother's voice was so gentle it could almost drip water, carrying a hint of girlish shyness, 'you're finally back.'
Sato felt as if struck by lightning, frozen in place. She looked at her mother, then snapped her head up to look at Kanjuro beside her.
Kanjuro's peerlessly handsome smile seemed even more dazzling and heart-stopping under the warm light. He released Sato's hand and naturally stepped forward. Under the blushing gaze of Sato's mother, he reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his embrace. The movement was intimate and natural, as if practiced a thousand times.
Then, he turned his head to look at the pale, wide-eyed Miwako Sato, his lips curling into a victor's arc filled with endless malice and mockery.
'Now,' his voice echoed clearly in the Sato family's living room, striking her soul like a heavy hammer, 'you should know, right?'
'I am your father.'
These words were like a final judgment, completely crushing the tottering barrier of reality in Miwako Sato's heart. Her mother's submissive, even happy expression, combined with the forcibly implanted 'warm' memories of her 'young father Kanjuro,' formed an inescapable logical loop.
Resistance, anger, fear... all intense emotions became powerless under the flushing torrent of false memories. A deep despair and confusion, rooted in 'cognition' itself, slowly submerged her like cold silt.
She watched the embracing Kanjuro and her mother. The light in her eyes dimmed bit by bit, until finally, only a hollow dead silence remained... along with a twisted longing for that 'paternal love' that even she hadn't noticed.
The mental seal was deeply branded. From this moment on, on the levels of 'reality' and'self,' Miwako Sato had become Kanjuro's 'daughter.' The faint morning sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting long strips of light on the floor. Miwako Sato opened her eyes, her consciousness slowly surfacing from a chaotic dreamscape.
The first thing she felt was the warmth of a body and steady breathing beside her. She turned her head stiffly, and what met her eyes was Kanjuro's side profile, peerlessly handsome even in sleep, so close she could count his eyelashes. On his other side was her mother's peaceful, sleeping face, which still bore a hint of the satisfied flush from the previous night.
A 'family of three.'
This phrase, which once meant warmth and normalcy to her, now felt like a poisoned dagger stabbing into her chaotic heart, bringing a sharp and humiliating pain.
The indescribable yet incredibly real details of what happened last night flooded her mind uncontrollably. Physical memories, conscious confusion, the collapse of ethics—all boundaries had become blurred that night. She remembered her resistance, and she remembered how that resistance, under Kanjuro's eyes that seemed to control everything and his touch, bit by bit turned into an unspeakable trembling and... sinking...
She sighed softly, a sigh filled with endless exhaustion and confusion. She found herself trapped in a carefully woven, incredibly real snare. The forcibly implanted memories, her mother's unfathomable attitude toward Kanjuro, and her own body's reaction that defied her will—everything constituted an indestructible 'reality' that held her firmly.
Just then, Kanjuro's long eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes. There was no trace of morning grogginess in those deep pupils, only clarity and an all-seeing playfulness. He turned on his side, his arm naturally wrapping around Sato's mother, while his gaze fell on Sato's tear-stained, hollow-eyed face.
'Good morning, my daughter.' His voice carried the raspiness of someone just waking up, yet it was still full of that irresistible magnetism. 'Our family of three is finally together.' His tone was flat, as if he were stating a perfectly natural fact.
Then, as if remembering something, he added in a tone both doting and commanding, "Sato, remember to work hard today too."
Work hard?
Go to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department? Face those badges and colleagues that symbolize order and justice? Pursue criminals and uphold the law?
A massive sense of absurdity and self-mockery swept over Sato like a tsunami. She burst out laughing, her laughter dry and desolate, as more tears gushed uncontrollably, tracing the dried tear stains from last night.
She looked at Kanjuro—looked at this youth who, in a legal sense and even in her altered memories, had become her "father." She watched him embrace her mother, watched him remind her to fulfill her duties as a police officer with the air of a ruler... Her lifelong faith, the conviction that had supported her in facing danger and seeking justice—the fairness of the law, the dignity of order, the boundary between good and evil—seemed so ridiculous and fragile at this moment.
When a being capable of twisting reality, manipulating memories, and trampling over ethics lies peacefully beside you, even becoming part of your "family," what meaning is there in everything you uphold?
She began to doubt whether everything she had believed in and defended all this time was just one giant lie. Was the true "reality" actually this dark and twisted landscape defined by Kanjuro?
She felt herself being assimilated, influenced and eroded by that indescribable dark aura emanating from Kanjuro. It wasn't just her memories; even her emotions, her perceptions, and her faith as a Japanese policewoman were undergoing a terrifying distortion.
She raised her hand, looking at the fingers that once held a gun so steadily, only to find them trembling slightly now.
"I..." She opened her mouth, but found she couldn't even utter a complete sentence.
Kanjuro simply looked at her with a smile, as if saying, "See? You'll get used to it eventually."
The sunlight gradually brightened, illuminating this bizarre and desperate "family of three" in the room. Miwako Sato sat there like a weathering statue; her inner world was silently collapsing and sinking.
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