Chapter 2: The First Day of Color

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The city glowed that morning. Not in the flashy, neon blaze Tokyo often promised, but softly—like someone had draped gauze over the sun. A forgiving light that made even the cracked sidewalks and weathered street signs shimmer with quiet dignity.

I tightened the strap of my canvas bag and exhaled, fog curling in the cool air. The address on my phone blinked back at me:

Minami Tower.

The name alone made my stomach flutter.

Everyone in Tokyo knew of the Minami Group. They owned half the skyline—or at least the parts that made people stop and stare. Their logo appeared on train stations, schools, and hospitals. Some people joked that if you dug deep enough, even the sewer pipes would spell Minami.

And now I was supposed to clean one of their penthouses.

On my first day.

Of course. Why start small when I can risk unemployment immediately?

“Just breathe, Hana,” I muttered to myself, brushing a rebellious strand of hair away from my face.

My reflection flickered in a bakery window as I passed. The glass, dusted with flour, softened every edge of my face. My brown eyes looked wide and earnest, too expressive for their own good. My hair—dark, stubborn, and pinned back into a clip that never seemed to hold quite right—curled faintly at my temples from the humidity. My uniform was crisp, pale blue with navy trim, the kind that made me look younger, like I was still clinging to the edges of student life instead of stepping into the grown-up working world.

Ordinary. That was me.

But beginnings—bright, dull, or messy—were what I was learning to collect.

Side streets glimmered with leftover rain, puddles reflecting fragments of sky and city life. Shoes splashed through water. Bicycle bells chimed by. The air was layered with miso broth, roasted coffee, and rain-washed asphalt. Everywhere, color pulsed.

That’s when I noticed her.

An older woman near the corner market, struggling under a bundle of grocery bags. Short, compact, sturdy—like someone built for surviving long Tokyo winters and stubborn grandchildren. Her hair, streaked with silver, was pinned into a practical bun that had long since given up on neatness. Her round glasses kept sliding down her nose as she tried to catch a runaway apple.

“Ah—no, no, no!” she gasped as the apple rolled toward the gutter.

“I’ve got it!” I called, lunging. The apple was cool in my palm, skin glowing like a brushstroke of sunset.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she breathed, adjusting her glasses with a relieved laugh. “You’ve just saved me a trip back.”

Her voice was warm—husky with age but bright with habit, like someone who smiled often and easily.

“Happy to help,” I said. “Though maybe next time bring an accomplice.”

She snorted, a small, delighted sound. “Tell that to my to-do list.”

That’s when her uniform caught my eye.

Shimizu Domestic Services.

Same crest as mine.

“Oh—you’re with Shimizu too?”

Her whole face brightened. Her cheeks, soft and rosy, lifted. “I thought I recognized that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘Did I get off at the wrong stop?’ look.”

“First day,” I admitted. “Fujimoto Hana.”

“Tanabe Yuki,” she said, shifting her bags. “Senior staff. And today, apparently, your guide. Here—take one. They’re heavy, dear. Don’t pretend you don’t notice.”

I took the bag. It was heavy, warm with her grip, smelling faintly of ginger and leeks.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

She unfolded a crinkled slip of paper. “Minami Tower. Penthouse level. Belongs to the chairman’s son.” Her eyes glinted with good-natured mischief. “We’re to make it spotless before he returns this afternoon.”

I paused.

“Minami Tower,” I repeated.

Not awe—just recognition. And something I couldn’t name.

Tanabe-san chuckled at my expression. “You sound like you already know the name.”

“Hard not to,” I said. “It’s on half the buildings in this city.”

She waved a hand. “Careful in there. Their family has a reputation for… how should I put it?” She squinted. “Having very particular tastes.”

I tried to imagine the chairman’s son.

Sharp suit? Cold eyes? A face that the tabloids loved?

Or maybe someone who barely existed behind the shadow of his father’s reputation.

We walked to the bus stop together, her stories painting color into the morning—grandchildren obsessed with dinosaurs, a client who insisted his houseplants needed encouragement, how she once polished a chandelier while balancing on a jittery ladder.

The bus ride felt like drifting through a watercolor. Pastel rooftops. Laundry dancing in the breeze. Rivers glinting gold.

But when we stepped off the bus, everything changed.

Minami Tower rose like a blade of glass, cutting into the clouds. Its mirrored surface swallowed the city whole—dimming color, flattening depth. It felt cold even from the street.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tanabe-san murmured. “Though I prefer homes with flowers. This one… too perfect. Like it's afraid to breathe.”

I nodded, too in awe to respond back.

Inside, the lobby was muted luxury. The marble was so white it seemed to glow. Silver fixtures lined the building. Lilies seemed to be arranged with scientific precision on the counters. The air smelled of lemon polish and quiet wealth.

A receptionist greeted us—young, immaculate, black hair pinned so tightly not a single strand dared rebel. She looked like she’d been carved from the same marble as the walls.

“Penthouse,” she said with a controlled smile as she called the elevator. “Watch your step.”

The elevator doors slid open. Mirrored walls multiplied us—me, nervous and wide-eyed; Tanabe-san, confident and unbothered. The mirrored ceiling reflected its own cold light.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“Maybe a little,” I admitted.

“Good. It means you care.”

The elevator climbed upwards as the floors blurred by. My heartbeat kept pace.

‘Penthouse’ it chimed, as the doors slid open to a hallway.

Silence greeted us—deep, deliberate, like the air itself was holding its breath. Ivory walls. Cool filtered light. Everything was immaculate.

Tanabe-san knocked.

Nothing.

She rested a hand on the handle, thoughtful. “Guess he’s out today.”

She opened the door.

The penthouse was… gray. Beautiful, in a hollow sort of way, like a world drained of warmth. Stone, steel, glass—shadows without shape, light without color.

Even the air felt scrubbed down to nothing.

My reflection shimmered faintly in a polished steel panel. A girl with warm eyes and sunlit hands standing in a grayscale world.

For a moment, I wondered if color alone could change a place like this.

Or if I would simply disappear into its gray.