The coffee shop was called "Cafe de la Paix," which was French for "Cafe of Peace," and Ren thought that was the most ironic name he had ever heard. Peace was the last thing he felt as he walked through the door at exactly 2:00 PM.
The shop was small—six tables, a counter, a display case filled with pastries that looked too expensive for the neighborhood. The walls were exposed brick, fake probably, but convincing enough. A woman sat in the corner booth, her back to the wall, her eyes on the door.
She was in her late thirties. Short black hair, cut in a sharp bob. Glasses with thin silver frames. A navy blue blazer over a white blouse. She looked like every therapist Ren had ever seen on television—calm, professional, unreadable.
Saito Yuki.
She stood as he approached. "Akiyama-kun. Thank you for coming."
"You said you wanted to talk."
"I did. Please, sit." She gestured to the seat across from her. "Would you like something? Coffee? Tea? I'm paying."
"Nothing."
"Suit yourself." She sat back down, folded her hands on the table, and looked at him. Not stared—looked. There was a difference. Staring was aggressive. Looking was assessment.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone smaller. More... broken." Her eyes didn't waver. "Your file makes you sound like a tragedy. But you don't look like a tragedy. You look like a soldier."
Ren didn't respond to that. He didn't know how.
"I've been assigned by the court to evaluate both parties in the Tachibana guardianship case," Saito continued. "That means I need to interview you, Hikari, and Kenji—assuming he shows up. I'll submit a report to the judge. That report will influence the final decision."
"I know how court-appointed psychologists work."
"Do you?" She tilted her head. "Most seventeen-year-olds don't."
"I'm not most seventeen-year-olds."
"No. You're not." She pulled a notebook from her bag—leather-bound, expensive-looking—and opened it to a blank page. "Tell me about your relationship with Hikari Tachibana. How did you meet? Why did you agree to let her live with you? What are your intentions?"
Ren was quiet for a moment. He had expected these questions. He had prepared answers. But now, sitting across from this woman with her calm eyes and her expensive notebook, he found that his prepared answers felt like lies.
"We met three years ago," he said. "At a hospital. Her cat was sick. I helped her find a vet."
"And you remembered her?"
"No. She remembered me."
Saito wrote something in her notebook. "Go on."
"She transferred to my school three weeks ago. Her family had collapsed—her father in jail, her mother in a clinic, her stepbrother trying to control her. She had nowhere to go. She asked to stay with me. I said yes."
"Why?"
"Because she needed help. And I was the only person she trusted."
Saito looked up. "That's very noble."
"It's not noble. It's practical." Ren's voice was flat. "She offered to pay rent. She cooks. She cleans. She's not a burden."
"But you care about her."
Ren said nothing.
"I'm not asking as the court psychologist, Akiyama-kun. I'm asking as a person." Saito set down her pen. "I've read your file. I know about your mother. I know about your father. I know about the guardianship hearing when you were fourteen. I know that you've been alone for a very long time."
"So?"
"So I'm wondering if Hikari is the first person you've cared about since your mother died."
The words hit Ren like a physical blow. He didn't flinch—he had trained himself not to flinch—but something inside him cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
"Yes," he said. "She's the first."
Saito nodded slowly. She wrote something else in her notebook. Then she closed it and set it aside.
"That's not going in the report," she said.
"What?"
"That. What you just told me. It's not going in the report." She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Because I'm not here to evaluate you, Akiyama-kun. I'm here to warn you."
Ren's eyes narrowed. "Warn me about what?"
"About Kenji. About what he's planning." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I found this in his hotel room. The police missed it. I didn't."
She slid the paper across the table.
Ren unfolded it.
It was a photograph. Old. Faded. A woman in a hospital bed, her face gaunt, her eyes closed, tubes running from her arms. She looked like she was sleeping. But Ren knew she wasn't sleeping.
She was dead.
His mother.
"Where did you get this?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"Kenji's room. He had it hidden in a false bottom of his suitcase. Along with these." She pulled out more papers—documents, medical records, handwritten notes. "He wasn't lying about having information about your mother. He has a lot of information. Too much for someone who wasn't connected to her."
Ren stared at the photograph. His mother's face. Her thin hands. The wedding ring that had slipped off her finger because she had lost so much weight.
"What does he want?"
"He wants you to stop. To withdraw from the case. To convince Hikari to come with him voluntarily." Saito's voice was grim. "If you don't, he's going to release these documents to the media. He's going to tell the world that your mother's death wasn't an accident. That someone—someone connected to you—was responsible."
"That's not true."
"I know it's not true. But Kenji doesn't need the truth. He needs a story. And this story—a prodigy's mother, killed by medical negligence, covered up by powerful people—this story will destroy you."
Ren looked up at her. "Why are you telling me this? You're court-appointed. You're supposed to be neutral."
Saito's expression softened. "Because I knew your mother."
The world stopped.
"I was her nurse," Saito said quietly. "At the hospital. Before she died. I was young—just out of training—and she was the kindest patient I ever had. She talked about you constantly. About how proud she was. About how she wished she could see you grow up."
Ren's throat tightened. "You're lying."
"I'm not. Her room was 407. She had a window facing east, so she could watch the sunrise. She kept a photograph of you on her bedside table—you at nine years old, holding a trophy from some math competition. She told me you hated the trophy. That you only posed for the picture because she asked."
Tears burned behind Ren's eyes. He didn't let them fall.
"She died on a Tuesday," Saito continued. "I wasn't working that day. But I came to see her anyway. I held her hand while she passed. Her last word was your name."
Ren.
He heard it. Not with his ears—with something deeper. Something that had been broken for three years and was now cracking open.
"Why didn't you find me?" he asked. "After she died. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I tried. Your father wouldn't let me near you. His lawyers threatened to sue me. To have me fired. To destroy my career." Saito's voice cracked. "I was twenty-four years old. I was scared. I backed down."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not scared anymore." She reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were warm. "I've been waiting three years for a chance to make this right. When I saw your name on the court assignment, I knew this was it."
Ren pulled his hand back. Not because he was angry—because he was afraid of how much he wanted to hold on.
"Kenji's documents," he said. "Are they real?"
"Some of them. The medical records are real. Your father did stop paying for your mother's treatment. He redirected the funds to a different account—an account in his new wife's name. I have proof."
"And the rest? The part about someone being responsible?"
"Fabricated. Kenji created it to blackmail you. But he's smart—he mixed real documents with fake ones, so it's hard to tell the difference."
Ren stood up. "I need to go."
"Akiyama-kun—"
"I need to think."
He walked out of the coffee shop. The cold air hit his face, sharp and clean. He didn't look back.
---
He walked for an hour.
Through Shinjuku, past the neon signs and the crowds of tourists, through the narrow alleys where the old men played shogi and the hostesses smoked cigarettes. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stop.
His mother's face. Her last word. Ren.
He had been at a competition when she died. Standing on a stage, holding a trophy, smiling for the cameras. He hadn't known. No one had told him until three days later, when the competition was over and the media had gone home.
Your mother passed away, Ren-kun. But don't worry—you made her proud. You won.
His father's voice. Flat. Empty. Like he was reading a weather report.
Ren stopped walking. He was in a small park—he didn't recognize it—with a single bench and a dying cherry tree. He sat down. Put his head in his hands.
His phone buzzed.
Hikari: Where are you?
He didn't answer.
Another buzz: Takeshi said you went out. Alone. Why didn't you tell me?
Another: Ren. I'm worried.
He typed back: I'm okay. I'll be home soon.
Home. He had called Takeshi's apartment "home." When had that happened?
He sat on the bench for another ten minutes. Then he stood up, found a station, and took the train back to Kamata.
---
Hikari was waiting at the door.
She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She just looked at him—at his face, his eyes, his hands—and then she pulled him inside and hugged him.
"You're an idiot," she whispered into his chest.
"I know."
"You went to meet someone without telling me."
"I know."
"You scared me."
"I'm sorry."
She pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying. "Who did you meet?"
"A psychologist. Court-appointed. She wanted to talk about the case."
"And?"
Ren hesitated. He could lie. He could tell her it was nothing, that everything was fine, that there was nothing to worry about.
But he was tired of lying. Tired of protecting her from the truth.
"She knew my mother," he said. "She was her nurse. At the hospital. Before she died."
Hikari's eyes widened. "What did she tell you?"
"She told me that Kenji has documents. Medical records. Proof that my father stopped paying for my mother's treatment. He's going to use them to blackmail me. To make me withdraw from the case."
Hikari's face went pale. "Will it work?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Ren looked at her. At her fear. Her hope. Her trust.
"I'm sure," he said. "Because I'm not the same person I was three years ago. I don't run anymore."
Hikari hugged him again. Tighter this time.
"Together," she whispered.
"Together," he said.
But even as he said it, he knew that this was a different kind of together. This was the kind that came with costs. With sacrifices. With the possibility of losing everything.
He just didn't know what everything was yet.
---
That night, Takeshi came home with news.
"The reporter is running the story," he said. "Tomorrow morning. Front page. Everything we gave her—the recording, the list, the connection to Sakamoto. Kenji's face will be everywhere."
"That's good," Hikari said.
"It's good and bad. Good because it puts pressure on the police to find him. Bad because it might make him desperate." Takeshi looked at Ren. "Desperate people do desperate things."
"Then we prepare," Ren said.
"How?"
"We stay here. We don't go out alone. We wait for the court date." Ren paused. "And we hope that Kenji makes a mistake."
"That's a lot of hoping."
"It's all we have."