Kanjuro's words about "being unfair to yourself" were like arrows with barbs, deeply piercing the softest and most unwilling corner of Matsumoto Sayuri's heart. She looked at the man before her who seemed to have stepped out of an old dream. Her tears finally became uncontrollable, filling her eyes and sliding down her pale cheeks.
She subconsciously took a small step back, her back almost pressing against the cold fitting mirror, as if seeking a moment of respite from that overly burning gaze and the words that struck directly at her soul. Her voice carried an uncontrollable tremble and sob as she asked the question that had been circling in her heart for over a decade:
"Kanjuro... Brother... Why? Why did you come back? It's been so many years... I... I thought I should have forgotten long ago..." Her words were fragmented, carrying deep confusion and a trace of imperceptible resentment. "But... but your appearance, I've never truly forgotten it..."
She looked at his handsome face, untouched by time, and a sense of absurdity and unreality seized her. Why did he still look like a youth? Why did he have to appear just when she was about to marry someone else?
Amidst her chaotic thoughts, a notion that made her heart palpitate even more surfaced. She lifted her tearful eyes, carrying a hint of self-mockery and disbelief, and asked softly:
"And... after all these years... you... you still can't let go of me?"
She used the phrase "can't let go." Perhaps deep down, there still remained a trace of a young girl's fantasy, hoping that she held at least a unique, inseparable weight in the heart of this mysterious man.
However, Kanjuro's answer completely shattered any illusions of "deep affection" or "reminiscence."
Facing Sayuri's tearful questioning, Mr. Kanjuro did not show the slightest hint of emotion or warmth. Instead, as if he had heard an interesting question, he began to laugh lowly. That laughter was magnetic, yet cold and devoid of temperature.
He took a step forward, closing the already dangerous distance, and stared down at her. His gaze was as sharp as a scalpel, startlingly blunt.
"Let go? Not let go?" He repeated the two phrases with a tone of undisguised mockery, as if discussing a childish concept.
"Sayuri, you are still so naive."
His voice lowered, carrying an unquestionable certainty that reached her ears clearly, every word hammering against her fragile nerves:
"To me, matters of emotion have never been a complicated issue of letting go or not."
He leaned down slightly, nearing her ear, his warm breath brushing against her sensitive earlobe. With a near-cruel honesty, he declared his true thoughts:
"It's purely that... I have a sense of possessiveness toward you."
"!!!"
Possessiveness!
So blunt, so naked, so undisguised!
This wasn't love, wasn't reminiscence, and wasn't even hate. It was a more primal, colder, and more aggressive emotion—like a child refusing to let go of a favorite toy, or a predator not allowing others to touch its prey.
Matsumoto Sayuri trembled violently, tears freezing on her face. She looked into Mr. Kanjuro's eyes close at hand; there was no joy of reunion, no pity for her tears, only a bottomless desire and control, like a confirmation of ownership.
He returned not because she was important in his heart, but because he "wanted" her, so he came. That was all.
This realization made her feel a bone-chilling coldness more than a direct rejection, yet it also... carried a devilish, irresistible truth.
Kanjuro looked at her shocked and pale face, seeing the blankness of a collapsed faith in her eyes, and the wicked smile at the corner of his mouth deepened. He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing the cold crystals on her wedding dress, his movements carrying an elegance and danger that seemed to desecrate the sacred.
"So," he whispered, like a demon murmuring in her ear, "now, do you still want to wear this wedding dress and marry that... man you don't love at all?"
Matsumoto Sayuri stood frozen in place, her mind a complete blank. Mr. Kanjuro's appearance and his undisguised possessiveness were like a sudden storm, completely churning the lake of her heart that had already resigned to fate. At this moment, the future became blurred and unpredictable. Mr. Kanjuro's bone-chilling words about "possessiveness" were like an ice pick, while the pain of being bound by reality was like a scorching flame. Under the clash of ice and fire, she finally broke down, and the long-suppressed grievances, unwillingness, and helplessness erupted like a volcano.
"Then what can I do?!" she screamed, her heart nearly tearing apart as her tears burst through the floodgates. "My father wants me to marry! What right do I have to object! What right do I have to choose?!"
She gripped the expensive wedding dress tightly, her knuckles turning white, as if she wanted to shred this garment that symbolized her shackles, yet she was powerless. Her resistance seemed so pale and laughable in the face of deep-rooted family concepts and the pressure of reality.
However, facing her painful and desperate accusation, Kanjuro's reaction was—to laugh out loud.
That laughter was contemptuous, mocking, and even carried a hint of impatience. It was as if her pain and her struggle were nothing more than a clumsy, worthless performance in his eyes.
"Rights?" Kanjuro sneered, pressing closer step by step, his gaze sharp as a knife. "If you have no right to object, you surely have the right to die, don't you?"
These words were like the most vicious curse, causing Matsumoto Sayuri to freeze instantly, her whole body turning cold.
Kanjuro's gaze was like a cold searchlight, scanning over her body before finally landing on her pale face, his tone filled with ultimate irony:
"After all, you kept saying how much you loved your 'Brother Kanjuro,' that you'd even give your life for him, didn't you?" He deliberately mimicked her tearful address from earlier, full of mockery. "But have you done it now? You haven't."
His voice suddenly turned cold, carrying undisguised disdain:
"Aren't you still shamelessly wearing this wedding dress, preparing to marry a man you don't love? Is your love really that cheap? So... hypocritical?"
These heart-piercing words were like a resounding slap across Matsumoto Sayuri's face. She swayed under the cruelty and precision of his strike, a tide of shame rushing over her. Yes, she kept saying she couldn't forget, saying she loved him, yet she didn't even have the courage to resist her father or follow her heart... But, amidst this extreme embarrassment and pain, she caught a fleeting, nearly imperceptible flash of irritation in Mr. Kanjuro's eyes. Was he angry? Because she was going to marry someone else?
This discovery was like a faint glimmer of light suddenly appearing in the darkness, causing a distorted, ill-timed sense of joy and hope to sprout in her broken heart. She lifted her tearful eyes, and with a hint of testing and humble expectation, she asked with a trembling voice:
"You... you really do care, don't you? So now... you're just jealous?"
She yearned for an affirmative answer, longing to prove that she could still stir at least a ripple in his heart, even if it was a negative one.
However, Kanjuro's response once again cast her into a deeper ice cellar, and completely demonstrated his unquestionable, absolute sovereignty.
"Jealous?" Kanjuro acted as if he had heard the world's greatest joke. He suddenly reached out, grabbing her slender wrist with enough force to make her cry out in pain, and then slammed her hard against the cold wedding dress display case behind her!
With a soft "thud," the glass surface of the cabinet vibrated slightly, reflecting their entangled figures.
Kanjuro's body pressed close with an overwhelming force, trapping her firmly between himself and the counter with no way to escape. He lowered his head, his nose nearly touching hers, his deep eyes burning with a near-violent possessiveness.
"My woman, why would I be jealous?" He stared into her terrified yet slightly dazed eyes, declaring his undeniable ownership word by word. "You, Matsumoto Sayuri, have been my woman from the very beginning! From the moment you fell in love with me in the sixth grade, you were marked as mine!"
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the power of a thunderbolt, crashing heavily into her heart:
"I'm just telling you, and telling everyone—the woman of me, Kanjuro, is not fit for other men to touch! No one can compare to me! Not your father, and certainly not that trash named Takasugi!"
His words were domineering and arrogant, completely ignoring her will and all the rules of reality. In his distorted and powerful perception, as long as it was something he had "possessed," it belonged to him forever, regardless of how much time passed or whether the other party was willing.
Matsumoto Sayuri was pressed against the cold glass, her wrist throbbing with pain, her body enveloped by his burning breath, and his demonic declaration echoing in her ears. Fear, humiliation, a shiver from being completely seen through and controlled... and that malformed attachment to this powerful and dangerous possessiveness buried deep in her heart that had never truly been extinguished, all intertwined, nearly suffocating her.
She looked at the handsome yet devil-like face before her, tears flowing silently, her heart in total chaos. The thought of resistance seemed so insignificant in the face of absolute power and this distorted declaration of "exclusivity."
Kanjuro looked at the struggle and the gradually crumbling defenses in her eyes, knowing his goal had been achieved. He loosened his grip slightly, but his fingertips slid ambiguously across her bare collarbone, leaving a trail of shivers.
"Now, tell me," his voice carried both enticement and command, "do you still want to continue this... boring wedding?" Mr. Kanjuro's question, like a demon's whisper, echoed in Matsumoto Sayuri's ears. Seeing the unquestionable control and mockery in his eyes, the last shred of her fantasy completely shattered. She suddenly broke free from his restraint; though her wrist still stung, a distorted calm after despair allowed her to stand steady.
She tidied her disheveled wedding dress. Though her tear stains weren't dry, her gaze became exceptionally hollow and firm.
"No, the wedding... I will continue." Her voice was very soft, yet carried a finality that brooked no change. "I cannot go against my father's wishes. This is my responsibility, and my... fate. I am very sorry, Brother Kanjuro."
After speaking, she actually turned around, dragging that pure white wedding dress that symbolized bondage and compromise, walking step by step toward the entrance of the bridal shop. Every step felt as if she were treading on knife edges, yet they were exceptionally heavy.
Kanjuro watched her determined departing back, the playfulness in his eyes instantly replaced by a layer of cold, violent aura. He hadn't expected that after he had so nakedly declared his ownership, she would still dare to choose to leave?
"What?" He spoke with a cold sneer, his voice like ice laced with venom. "Just leaving like that? So your love only amounts to this? You don't even have the courage to resist that foolish father of yours?"
His words were like a whip, lashing Matsumoto Sayuri's already riddled heart. She stopped at the doorway but didn't look back, her shoulders trembling slightly.
She fell silent for a few seconds as if she had made some kind of decision, before slowly saying in a tone filled with sorrow and resignation:
"I know... I know you've done many... many terrible things lately. Even many police officers are afraid to offend you now and are tight-lipped about you."
She finally turned around, looking at him with tearful eyes. Her gaze was complex to the extreme—filled with love, fear, resentment, and a sense of total despair.
"Brother Kanjuro, if you must have proof... proof that I once loved you, and even still love you now..."
She took a deep breath, as if using all her strength, and spat out a hair-raising proposal:
"Then I can... die for you to see."
The air seemed to freeze. Even the bridal shop staff were so terrified they hid in the corner, not daring to make a sound. 440
Hearing this, Kanjuro was stunned for a moment, then, as if hearing the most ridiculous joke in the world, he burst into laughter. His laughter was filled with blatant mockery and a sense of absurdity.
"Alright." He stopped laughing, his tone as light as if agreeing to an inconsequential game. "Then die for me to see."
!!!
Matsumoto Sayuri was completely dumbfounded. She looked at Kanjuro in disbelief, looking at the ripple-less, even expectant smile on his face. Her heart felt as if it had been instantly frozen.
"You... you're willing to let me die?" she asked tremblingly, her voice barely audible, carrying one last shred of humble hope.
"Of course." Kanjuro's answer was firm and decisive, without the slightest hesitation. He even wore a cruel, encouraging smile as he said clearly, "Go die right now."
These words, like a final judgment, completely crushed all the luck and support in Matsumoto Sayuri's heart. The light in her eyes went out entirely, leaving only a dead, gray silence. Tears gushed out, blurring her vision.
"Fine... I can prove... that I love you..."
She murmured to herself with her last bit of strength, as if saying it to herself. Then, she suddenly turned around, pushed open the glass door of the bridal shop, and rushed into the busy street!
Her movements were startlingly fast, carrying a sense of resolute determination. The pure white wedding dress traced a piercing and tragic arc against the urban clamor and gray background.
In the final instant before her body was violently struck by a speeding car, she struggled to look back, her teary eyes taking one last deep look at Kanjuro, who stood at the bridal shop entrance watching coldly.
In that gaze, there was love, hate, relief, and questioning, all of which finally turned into nothingness.
Bang—!
A dull sound of impact rang out.
Matsumoto Sayuri was thrown like a kite with its string cut, then fell heavily onto the cold asphalt road. Piercing red blood quickly spread from beneath her, staining the sacred wedding dress, like tragic red plum blossoms blooming in the snow.
The surroundings were filled with the screeching of brakes and the screams of passersby.
And Kanjuro, from beginning to end, just stood quietly at the entrance of the bridal shop. Not only was there no trace of sadness, shock, or panic on his face, but he still wore that chilling, interested smile. It was as if this bloody and tragic scene was merely a quite wonderful play staged for him.
He even leisurely straightened his cuffs before taking a step, unhurriedly walking towards the Matsumoto Sayuri lying in a pool of blood, her life or death unknown.
His pace was calm, his gaze tranquil, as if "resurrecting someone" was truly an easy thing for him. This "proof" with life as the stake was, in his eyes, perhaps merely the beginning of a more interesting game where he could continue to exercise his "right of possession."
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