[Riku Residence, Shibuya Ward — Evening, 7:47 PM]
Running into Satou Kiyo and her younger brother Satou Shirou had been pure coincidence.
Still, Riku couldn't help but marvel at the fact—this was the first time he'd ever acted so brazenly in broad daylight. The old Riku would never have dared to be so shameless, so openly reckless. But that version of him felt like a distant memory now, a supporting character written out in the first arc of some shounen manga.
He pushed open the front door.
The apartment hit him immediately—not with stale air or the faint neglect of a bachelor's den, but with the sharp, clean scent of lemon floor cleaner mingling with something warm and savory drifting from the kitchen. Every surface gleamed. The windows had been wiped so thoroughly they caught the last amber light of sunset and threw it across the walls in soft bands.
Tachibana Emi was on her knees near the genkan, wringing out a mop into a bucket. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a messy side-tail, a few damp strands clinging to her temples from exertion. She wore an oversized T-shirt—one of his, he realized—and tiny cotton shorts that rode up her thighs as she worked. The fabric clung to her waist, emphasizing the delicate flare of her hips.
She was the first to spot him.
"Riku-kun is back!"
Her voice rang out through the apartment like a herald's trumpet, bright and eager.
From the kitchen came the immediate clatter of utensils being set down, followed by the soft padding of feet. Tachibana Haru emerged first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and behind her—Yukigami Nahiro.
Riku's breath caught.
Nahiro wore the outfit he'd selected and sent over that morning. A black silk blouse, the material so thin and lustrous it seemed to drink the light, clinging to every curve of her chest and waist like it had been painted on. The deep V-neckline revealed the pale valley between her breasts, shadowed and inviting. Delicate lace trim edged the sleeves and hem, adding a touch of coquettish elegance that made her look less like a woman drowning in life and more like a high-class hostess from a Ginza establishment. Her lips curved into a soft smile, her dark eyes gleaming with something warm, something knowing.
He came back. He actually came back to us.
Haru stood beside her in a bright yellow camisole—no bra beneath it, the outline of her nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric—and black leggings that hugged her impossibly long legs from hip to ankle. Her golden-brown hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, and there was a flour smudge on her cheek that she hadn't noticed.
I hope he likes the sweet-and-sour pork. I practiced the glaze three times...
The three women turned to face him in unison, their voices overlapping in a chorus that sent an electric current straight down his spine:
"Riku-kun."
"Riku-kun."
"Riku-kun."
Three different timbres—Emi's bright and playful, Haru's softer and more uncertain, Nahiro's low and honeyed—braiding together into something that vibrated through his entire body. It was like the opening chord of some romantic visual novel, the moment the screen fades in and the protagonist realizes his life has irrevocably changed.
Whatever awkwardness had existed between the three women that morning had clearly been sanded smooth over the course of the day. They moved around each other now with an easy familiarity, a rhythm already forming.
Emi bounced to her feet, setting the mop aside. "Sit, sit! Dinner's almost ready!"
Haru and Emi disappeared back into the kitchen to ferry dishes, while Nahiro returned to finish the final plate she'd been preparing. Riku sank onto the cushion at the low table, his stomach growling audibly. The mingled scents of sesame oil, ginger, and caramelized sugar wrapped around him like a blanket.
He really was starving.
"Nahiro, come sit down and eat with us."
From the kitchen, Nahiro's voice floated back—a soft "Mm"—and moments later she emerged carrying the last dish, setting it carefully in the remaining gap on the table.
The small table was absolutely covered. Seven dishes and a soup, arranged in a colorful spread that would have looked at home in a food manga. Glazed sweet-and-sour pork glistening under the light. Stir-fried greens with garlic. Rolled tamagoyaki arranged in neat spirals. Miso soup steaming gently in lacquered bowls. Each dish had clearly been prepared with care, the plating deliberate, almost anxious in its precision.
All three women watched him, breath held.
Riku reached for his chopsticks and plucked a piece of the sweet-and-sour pork from its bed of sauce. He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the crunch of the exterior giving way to tender meat, the tang of vinegar balanced against the sweetness.
Haru leaned forward, her fingers pressed to her thighs, eyes wide and expectant. The motion made her camisole shift, the outline of her breasts swaying gently beneath the thin yellow cotton.
"Riku-kun—how is it? How is it?"
He swallowed. Nodded.
"Really good. The flavor's excellent."
The smile that broke across Haru's face was like sunrise after a week of rain.
He liked it. He actually liked it!
Riku moved to the next dish—a simple vegetable stir-fry—and took a bite. Emi watched him with barely contained anticipation, her body practically vibrating where she sat in seiza, her small hands clutching the hem of her oversized shirt.
He paused. Furrowed his brow slightly.
"This stir-fry..."
Emi's expression flickered with panic. Her knuckles went white against the fabric, her lower lip trembling.
Oh no, oh no, I overcooked it, I knew I overcooked it—
"...tastes fantastic."
The tension drained out of her so fast she nearly slumped over. A brilliant grin stretched across her face, her cheeks flushing pink with relief and pride.
Riku turned his attention to Nahiro.
"Nahiro, which dish did you make?"
She pointed gracefully to a plate of what appeared to be braised tofu.
Riku picked up a piece and brought it to his lips.
Salty.
So incredibly, overwhelmingly salty that his tongue nearly seized in protest. It was like she'd mistaken the salt container for sugar and just kept pouring. He could feel his blood pressure rising with each passing second the tofu sat in his mouth.
But his expression didn't waver. He chewed. Swallowed. Reached for another piece.
"Delicious."
Nahiro's eyes, which had been watching him with brittle hope, suddenly glistened. Her lashes trembled.
"I... I accidentally used salt instead of sugar..."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Riku watched in alarm as her eyes began to redden, moisture gathering at the corners like morning dew.
He's lying. He's lying to make me feel better. I ruined it. I can't even cook a simple dish without messing up. What use am I—
"It's fine." Riku reached out and placed his palm atop her head, fingers threading through her silky black hair. "Honestly, I prefer things on the saltier side. Hits the spot perfectly."
The truth was, all three dishes were decent enough—amateur, certainly, but edible. More than that, though, he could taste their effort in every bite. Their nervousness. Their desire to please him.
"Come on, no crying at the dinner table."
He rubbed her scalp gently, and Nahiro sniffled, leaning almost imperceptibly into his touch.
From his left came a sudden warm pressure—Emi had wriggled over and now clung to his arm, hugging it against her sizeable chest as she placed his hand directly on top of her own head.
"Riku-kun~" she whined, her voice pitched into an exaggerated pout that belonged in a moe dating sim. "You have to be fair, you know? Headpats for everyone~"
He couldn't help it—he ruffled her hair roughly, mussing the chestnut strands until they stuck up in wild tufts.
"You're the brattiest one here, you know that?"
"Ehehe~"
His gaze drifted across the table to Haru, who sat frozen on the opposite side, her chopsticks suspended mid-air. The moment their eyes met, she startled like a cat caught stealing food, her face flushing crimson as she jerked her head to the side.
Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me—
But Riku was already rising, circling the low table until he stood beside her. He crouched down, bringing himself to her level, and reached out to stroke her golden-brown hair. The strands were soft as spun silk beneath his fingers, still carrying the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean, like jasmine after rain.
Haru's entire face had gone the color of a ripe strawberry. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the tatami, unable to meet his eyes, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
"Everyone gets their share," Riku said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Now let's eat. I'm absolutely starving."
---
The meal passed in comfortable warmth, punctuated by laughter and the occasional squabble over the last piece of tamagoyaki (Emi won, through sheer shamelessness). By the time the dishes were cleared, the earlier awkwardness between the three women had evaporated entirely. They moved around each other naturally now, handing off plates, sharing inside jokes, a strange little family unit crystallizing in real time.
After dinner, Riku gathered all three of them in the living room.
They sat on the sofa in a row—Emi, Haru, and Nahiro—facing him where he stood with his arms crossed. The scene felt oddly like a corporate meeting, or perhaps an intervention.
"Emi, Haru." He addressed the sisters first. "Have either of you found work yet?"
Emi shook her head, her expression souring.
"No luck. After everything that happened at the hospital... no other medical facility will touch nurses who came from that place. A black mark on your employment history makes everything difficult."
The Pervert Doctor's scandal. Of course it follows us.
Riku nodded. "That's fine. Actually, it works out perfectly for what I have in mind."
He paused, letting the silence stretch for effect.
"I'm planning to invest in an entertainment company."
Three pairs of eyes went wide.
"An entertainment company?!" they chorused in unison.
The disbelief was palpable. Even a shell company required substantial registration capital. An actual entertainment venture? In this industry? The upfront costs alone would be astronomical—talent acquisition, studio space, equipment, marketing, legal fees...
"I've already registered the company," Riku continued calmly.
Emi leaned forward, her brow furrowed. "That must have cost a fortune..."
"Money isn't an issue."
The statement hung in the air, bold and unqualified.
"What I need," Riku said, "is for the three of you to jointly own and manage this company."
"Us?!"
All three women shook their heads frantically, hands raised in protest.
"Riku-kun, we can't possibly—"
"We're nurses! We don't know anything about entertainment—"
"I haven't even graduated high school yet!"
He's lost his mind. Two medical workers and a high schooler running an entertainment company? This isn't a light novel!
Riku held up a hand to quiet them.
"I'm not asking you to build it from scratch. Over the next few days, I'll identify an established company with the proper qualifications and credentials. We'll acquire it outright. All you'll need to do is oversee operations at a high level."
He turned his attention specifically to Nahiro.
"Nahiro, I'll be transferring funds to you directly. Use them to make purchases and expenditures according to my instructions."
The real goal, of course, was to have Nahiro spend money on behalf of the company—triggering his rebate ability in the process. Whether the venture actually turned a profit was secondary at best.
The three women exchanged uncertain glances, engaging in a rapid-fire whispered conference. Emi's hands flew in animated gestures. Haru chewed her lower lip nervously. Nahiro's brow furrowed in calculation.
Finally, they turned back to face him.
"We don't agree," Nahiro said firmly.
"Me neither," Haru added, her voice quiet but resolute.
"It's too dangerous," Emi finished. "The capital investment for something like this is massive. Especially in entertainment. We'd be throwing money into a black hole."
Riku had expected this.
Without a word, he pulled out his phone, navigated to his banking app, and initiated a transfer. Two hundred million yen, sent directly to Nahiro's account.
The notification chime on Nahiro's phone cut through the room like a thunderclap.
She looked down at the screen.
Her face went pale.
"Two... two hundred million...?"
Emi lunged across the sofa to look over her shoulder, and her jaw dropped. Haru made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.
Two hundred million yen. Just like that. Transferred like it was pocket change. Who IS this man?
"Use one hundred million to repay Yamashita Touya immediately," Riku instructed, his voice calm and businesslike. "Consider that debt settled in full. The remaining hundred million is seed money—use it to lease facilities and cover initial operating costs. I'll send more as needed."
Two hundred million yen was roughly ten million US dollars. Not an astronomical sum for a serious business venture, but hardly pocket change either. It was the casualness of it that stunned them—the way Riku spoke about nine-figure sums like he was discussing what to order for lunch.
Nahiro's fingers trembled around her phone. "Riku-kun, I can't just—"
"Transfer it now."
His voice brooked no argument.
Nahiro stared at him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Whatever she saw there must have convinced her, because she slowly, reluctantly navigated to her banking app and initiated the transfer.
One hundred million yen, sent to Yamashita Touya.
The confirmation appeared on her screen, and something in Nahiro's chest cracked open. That debt—the weight that had been crushing her for months, that had driven her to the very edge of despair, that had nearly forced her into a life of sexual servitude—was gone. Erased with a few taps on a screen.
She was free.
No. Not free. She belonged to Riku now. Completely, utterly, irrevocably.
I'll spend the rest of my life repaying him. Not the money—the money is meaningless. I'll repay him with everything I am. Everything I have.
Riku, meanwhile, was staring at his own phone with barely concealed glee.
A notification had appeared:
DEPOSIT: ¥1,000,000,000
One billion yen.
The tenfold rebate had triggered. Nahiro's expenditure on his behalf counted just as surely as if he'd spent the money himself. The system didn't care whose hands actually made the transaction—only that the spending occurred under his direction.
"Riku."
He looked up.
Nahiro stood directly before him, having crossed the room in silence. She was close—so close he could smell her perfume, something dark and musky that mingled with her natural scent. Her silk blouse caught the lamplight, the fabric shifting over her breasts as she breathed.
Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, almost reverent—but it deepened quickly, her mouth opening against his, her tongue sliding past his lips to tangle with his own. She tasted like miso and something sweeter beneath, and she kissed him with the desperate gratitude of a drowning woman finally pulled to shore.
Thank you. Thank you. I'm yours. Forever.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and a soft moan escaped her throat, muffled against his mouth.
"Mmm—"
"HEY!"
The sharp protest cut through the moment like a blade. Emi had vaulted off the sofa and now stood beside them, her cheeks puffed out in outrage, her small fists planted on her hips.
"I want one too! Me too!"
Her oversized T-shirt had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate jut of her collarbone and the smooth pale skin beneath. She tugged at Riku's sleeve with childish insistence, her eyes blazing with jealous determination.
If Nahiro-san gets kisses, I deserve them too! Kisses for everyone!
Haru remained on the sofa, her face burning crimson, her thighs pressed tightly together as she watched the scene unfold. She didn't say anything—couldn't seem to find the words—but her eyes never left Riku's face, and her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.