Chapter 49: No Longer Anonymous

POV: Hana Fujimura

The city felt different once I noticed it.

Not louder—Tokyo was always loud, a constant layering of sound that never truly went silent.
Not busier—crowds were an expectation, not an exception.

It felt closer.

Like the space between people had narrowed without my permission. Like every passing shoulder brushed just a fraction too near, every glance lingered a fraction too long.

I left the corner store with the plastic bag clenched too tightly in my hand, the thin handles biting into my fingers. Cold medicine. Fever compresses. A small, ordinary errand I’d done a hundred times before without thinking. The automatic doors slid shut behind me with a polite chime, and for a moment I stopped just outside, letting the cold air sting my cheeks as I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Snow dusted the edges of the street, collecting in uneven patches along the curb. Neon signs reflected off the damp pavement, pinks and blues bleeding together in soft halos. People passed by wrapped in scarves and coats, absorbed in their own lives.

Everything looked ordinary.

That should have comforted me.

It didn’t.

I took three steps.

Then—

“Hana Fujimura!”

The sound hit me like a slap.

My body reacted before my mind caught up—shoulders locking, heart jerking painfully against my ribs. I turned instinctively, eyes scanning the crowd, already bracing for what I’d see.

A man stood near the curb, half a step away from traffic, his phone already raised. The screen glowed in the cold dusk, framing my face from too far away. His expression wasn’t angry or hostile.

It was worse.

Recognition. Excitement. Ownership.

“There she is,” he said to someone beside him, voice sharp with triumph. “That’s her.”

A camera shutter clicked.

Once.

Twice.

My stomach dropped so fast it made me dizzy.

I lowered my head and started walking, forcing my legs to move faster without breaking into a run. The bag swung at my side, the contents knocking together softly with each step.

“Hana-san!” another voice called. Closer now. Too close.
“Is it true you’re involved with Minami Kaito?”

The name carried. Heads turned.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

My shoes scuffed against the pavement as I slipped between people, each step measured, controlled—just like I’d taught myself in the penthouse. How to move quietly. Efficiently. How to exist without drawing attention.

Except I was noticed now.

Too noticed.

Another shutter snapped behind me. The sound crawled up my spine.

My name followed again, blurred together with other voices, questions overlapping until they became noise. I turned a corner sharply, then another, pulse roaring in my ears. My breath came shallow and uneven, fogging in the cold air. I didn’t look back—not once—until the familiar entrance to my building came into view.

Inside.

The door shut behind me with a heavy thud.

The lock slid into place.

Only then did my knees threaten to give out.

I stood in the dim stairwell, the fluorescent light humming overhead, clutching the bag to my chest like it was something precious. I counted my breaths, slow and deliberate, until the shaking in my hands eased.

I was safe.

I had made it home.

But safety felt thin.

Like glass stretched too far—intact, but only just.

Inside my apartment, the silence pressed in immediately.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was expectant.

I set the bag down on the kitchen counter with exaggerated care. The plastic rustled too loudly in the quiet room. I flinched, heart jumping again, then forced myself to exhale.

My phone buzzed.

I froze.

The sound felt invasive now—like another knock I hadn’t invited. Slowly, I reached for it and turned the screen toward me.

A news notification.

BREAKING: Minami Group Announces Temporary Leadership Restructuring

My thumb hovered over the screen, suspended between dread and inevitability.

I already knew.

I tapped it anyway.

The article loaded quickly, brutally efficient. Kaito Minami had been removed—temporarily—from his position of authority pending internal review. The wording was smooth, professional, bloodless.

A corporate execution carried out with polite language.

I sank onto the edge of the chair, the strength draining out of me all at once.

Removed.

Because of me.

Because of a photograph taken without permission.
Because of speculation fed to people hungry for it.
Because a thread had been pulled, and the fabric hadn’t held.

My phone stayed silent otherwise.

No message from him.
No call.

I stared at his name in my contacts, the familiar characters suddenly heavy with meaning. The urge to type rose sharp and desperate, words already forming in my head.

I’m okay.
Someone followed me.
They know my name.

My fingers trembled above the screen.

If I told him…
If I added this fear to everything already on his shoulders…

I closed my eyes.

He’d been sick.
Exhausted.
Already paying for something he hadn’t even asked for.

So I made a decision.

A quiet one.

I didn’t text him.

I told myself it was protection. That I was being careful. That I was strong enough to handle this alone—that this was temporary, manageable, something that would fade if I didn’t feed it.

But as the evening stretched on, as the city lights bled through the curtains and painted the walls in shifting color, my phone stayed dark.

And something inside me shifted with it.

Silence, I realized, wasn’t neutral.

It was a choice.