Chapter 20: The Minami Dinner

POV: Kaito Minami

The iron gates recognized the car before it could stop.

They parted soundlessly, wrought metal sliding aside to reveal the long, curved drive that led up toward the Minami mansion. Lanterns embedded along the path cast warm, deliberate pools of light across manicured hedges and stonework trimmed so precisely it bordered on unnatural. Nothing here grew freely. Even nature was instructed on how to behave.

The mansion rose at the end of the drive like a quiet verdict.

Dark wood, pale stone, and layered roofs that curved with old-money elegance—traditional, imposing, and designed to endure earthquakes, scandals, and generations alike. Light glowed behind shoji panels, soft but watchful. It wasn’t welcoming. It was observant.

I exhaled slowly.

I hadn’t intended to come.

I’d declined the dinner three days ago. Formally. Politely. Again yesterday, more curtly.

This wasn’t reconciliation. This was summons.

The car stopped at the base of the steps. Before the engine even fully cut, the door opened.

“Welcome home, Minami-sama.”

Nagano bowed deeply, his posture immaculate, the dark lines of his uniform falling into perfect order as if pressed by discipline rather than fabric. He had been here since before I was born, a permanent fixture in a house that remembered him better than it did most names. His hair had gone fully silver, cropped short and kept that way by routine, but his movements were unchanged—precise, economical. A single monocle rested against his right eye, its chain catching the light when he straightened, framing eyes of a clear, unsettling green. They missed nothing. Even now, there was something quietly vigilant in his gaze, as though he were still standing watch over secrets long since buried.

I stepped out. Cold air brushed my face, carrying the faint scent of pine and stone.

Nagano took my coat without asking, folded it with care. Another staff member stepped forward to take my phone, placing it in a lined tray without comment. No questions. No small talk. This house did not improvise.

Inside, the temperature shifted immediately—warmer, controlled. The entry hall stretched wide and open, polished floors reflecting the ceiling lights like still water. A single floral arrangement sat in the center, balanced and understated. White lilies. No scent too strong. Nothing distracting.

Footsteps echoed softly as we moved through the corridors.

Hanging scrolls lined the walls—ancestral calligraphy, framed awards, photographs of past Minami leaders frozen mid-handshake with men whose names shaped markets and governments. History curated to remind you that you were never alone here. Never separate from expectation.

“Dinner is prepared,” Nagano said as we stopped before the dining room. “Your parents are waiting.”

Of course they were.

The doors slid open.

The dining room was expansive but restrained. A long-lacquered table sat at its center, set precisely—no unnecessary decoration, no warmth. Soft lighting pooled above each place setting, casting controlled shadows.

My father sat at the head of the table.

Yumihiro Minami looked unchanged—back straight, expression neutral, eyes sharp beneath years of discipline. His suit jacket was removed, sleeves rolled neatly, as if this were merely another meeting.

My mother sat to his right.

Ikari Minami was composed in pale gray silk that caught the light with a soft, muted sheen, the folds of her robe falling around her like water. Her dark hair was pulled back with meticulous precision, though a single strand had escaped, brushing her cheek and softening the rigid lines of her face. Her posture was impeccable, every movement measured and deliberate, radiating a quiet authority. Her eyes, dark and steady, gave nothing away, and her lips remained a careful line, unreadable.

Conversation had not begun.

I bowed. They returned it.

I took my seat.

The staff moved immediately, gliding into place with practiced precision, each step measured, each turn mirrored as though rehearsed countless times. Dishes were set down in synchronized motion, porcelain meeting polished wood without a sound. Miso soup, pale and clear, its surface broken only by tofu and scallions. Steamed white rice, short-grained and glossy, molded perfectly within its bowl. Grilled saba, the mackerel laid skin-side up, lightly charred and brushed with a careful glaze. Simmered vegetables—nimono—cut to uniform size, lotus root, carrot, and daikon arranged with deliberate balance. 

Steam rose gently from each dish, curling into the air and carrying aromas that should have been comforting: warm dashi, clean rice, rich fish, the faint sweetness of vegetables—but in the stillness of the room, even comfort felt ceremonial.

I lifted my chopsticks.

The first bite barely registered.

The food was technically flawless. Prepared by chefs who had cooked for heads of state.

To me, it tasted like ash.

“I see you’ve arrived,” my father said at last, his voice flat, stripped of welcome.

“Yes.”

“Despite your reluctance, you are here.”

“You insisted.”

He acknowledged it with a slight nod, as though the distinction were meaningless.

“This resistance is becoming habitual,” he said. “You cannot distance yourself from the family indefinitely.”

“I was sent to Minami Tower long ago,” I replied evenly. “I did not choose that assignment. The meetings alone made refusal impossible.”

His eyes remained cool.

“Obligation remains,” he said, his tone clipped. “Regardless of where you were sent, you attend when I summon you.”

I grit my teeth.

There it was.

Obligation.

The word pressed against my chest harder than any accusation.

My mother ate quietly, her movements graceful and contained. She did not look at me, but I knew she was aware of everything—how little I was eating, how my shoulders remained tense.

I chewed again.

Still ash.

“You’re unfocused,” my father said, watching me over his teacup.

I met his gaze. “I’m listening.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He wasn’t wrong.

My thoughts slipped despite my control.

The report surfaced uninvited.

Kurosawa Estate. Hana was meant to be temporarily reassigned—but one day became two, and each passing hour made the temporary feel indefinite.

Sato had handed it to me this morning because I asked.

I hadn’t asked because I needed to. I’d asked because something in me refused to stay still.

“You will maintain appearances,” my father continued. “Even if your role has changed. Perception remains valuable.”

“I understand.”

My mother finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “Eat more.”

I complied, however, the taste did not improve.

The conversation moved on—to properties, to alliances, to obligations that existed purely because they always had. I responded when required. Offered neutral affirmations. Said nothing unnecessary.

All the while, my attention kept fracturing—not toward rebellion, not toward anger.

Toward absence.

When dinner concluded, I stood. Bowed. They returned it.

No one asked me to stay.

Nagano was already there with my coat.

Outside, the mansion stood illuminated behind me—unchanged, unyielding. A monument to permanence.

As the car pulled away, the city lights waited in the distance—uneven, alive, imperfect.

The city blurred past the car window, lights and shadows merging into streaks. The Minami estate was behind me, but the weight of the earlier conversation didn’t lift; it traveled silently with me.

Then I thought of Hana.

Hana hadn’t been around for days, and it made me realize how much I’d been aware of her presence without noticing. The tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet decisiveness in her movements, the way she seemed to occupy a space effortlessly—all of it now lingered in my mind, sharper in her absence.

A sudden thought struck me: what would she be like somewhere ordinary, beyond schedules and obligation? Part of me wanted to see her there, somewhere quiet, and maybe finally know her properly—without walls, without expectations, without the constant watchful eyes of the world we were trapped in.

The car hummed beneath me, and I found myself holding onto the thought, letting it drift just out of reach, unanswered, and entirely mine.