Chapter 21: Crossroads

Nakano Port Studios, Warehouse D-1.

The set of "The Voyage of Hiriyu" sprawls across four thousand square meters of converted industrial space. The production design attempts to suggest the bridge of a military starship—consoles that blink with programmed sequences, viewscreens showing pre-rendered space vistas, captain's chairs upholstered in synthetic leather that's already peeling at the seams. The smell is equal parts fresh paint and old warehouse: marine industrial beneath theatrical illusion.

Hana has been sitting in a holding area for six hours.

The call time was 4:00 AM. It is now 10:17 AM. Nobody has asked them to do anything except exist, remain in costume, and refrain from leaving the designated areas. This is, apparently, normal for television production.

"This is insane," Rei mutters from the folding chair beside her. "Six hours of nothing."

"They're setting up the explosion," Miya explains. She's curled in another chair, practicing the dance movements from their upcoming routine with her fingers against her thigh. "The pyrotechnics team needs precise conditions. Temperature, humidity, clearances."

"So we wait while they set up fireworks."

"Essentially."

The holding area is a repurposed corner of the warehouse, separated from the main set by temporary partitions. The amenities are minimal: folding chairs, a table with bottled water and rice crackers, a portable toilet that nobody wants to use. Through gaps in the partition, Hana can see the production crew moving with the choreographed chaos of people who do this every day.

Calculate, Vex suggests. Time spent here versus productive time. Return on investment.

The numbers are unflattering. Eighteen hours at the studio. Maybe three hours of actual recording. The rest is waiting, adjusting, reshooting, waiting more. If she applied the same efficiency analysis she uses for trading, the operation would be flagged for optimization.

But this isn't trading, Sage observes. This is art. Art has different metrics.

Does it?

The first recording block happens at 2:47 PM.

Prism5's role in "The Voyage of Hiriyu" is minimal—a brief scene where they appear as passengers rescued from a damaged ship, their lines limited to variations of gratitude and relief. The exposure is valuable regardless. Television drama placement translates to broader recognition, which translates to more opportunities, which translates to the gradual accumulation of capital that might eventually lead to freedom.

The scene itself takes forty-three minutes to complete. Three takes of Sora's single line. Five takes of the group reaction shot. Seven takes of the establishing moment because the lighting kept creating unwanted shadows on Rei's face.

Then back to waiting.

The explosion happens at 5:12 PM. From the holding area, it sounds like a muffled thunder—contained but still impressive. The pyrotechnics team has been preparing for this moment all day. The actual detonation sequence lasts perhaps eight seconds.

"All that for eight seconds," Yuki says.

"Welcome to show business," Rei replies.

The laptop comes out at 7:30 PM.

Hana sets it on the makeshift table, positioning the screen so nobody can see it from the partition gaps. The trading software loads slowly on the studio's wireless network—security protocols probably, layers of authentication designed to protect the production's intellectual property.

The numbers scroll past. Green. Red. The eternal dance of markets that operate without regard for exhaustion or artistic ambition.

Current balance: ¥78,421,003.

She stares at the figure.

Above the buyout threshold, Vex notes. You could leave tomorrow.

But would you?, Quinn counters.

Should you?, Sage asks.

The question has been circling for weeks now. The money exists. The exit exists. The door out of this impossible situation stands open, requiring only the decision to walk through it.

And yet.

Sora is reading lines from tomorrow's radio interview, her lips moving silently as she memorizes. Rei has fallen asleep in her chair, exhaustion finally winning. Miya continues her finger-choreography, preparing for a performance that won't happen for another week. Yuki watches the production team through the partition gaps, her expression a mixture of fascination and fatigue.

Eight months, Hana calculates. Eight months until the contract ends naturally. Eight months of this—the waiting, the performing, the slow accumulation of industry experience.

Or you could be gone tomorrow.

Yes.

But you're not going to be, are you?

She closes the laptop. The numbers vanish, replaced by the reflection of the warehouse lighting in the dark screen.

The return to Tokyo happens at 11:47 PM.

The van takes the Bayshore Route through Odaiba, the city's skyline glittering across the water. Everyone except Hana is asleep—the accumulated exhaustion of eighteen hours finally asserting itself. She watches the lights pass and thinks about nothing in particular.

The balance in her account. The contract that binds her. The people who have become, against all rational expectation, something like friends.

What do you want?, Frost asks. Really want. Not what you're supposed to want.

I don't know.

That's not an answer.

It's the only one I have.

The van pulls into the Residence D loading area at 12:23 AM. The security lights cast harsh shadows across the concrete. Everyone stumbles toward the elevator in various states of exhaustion, mumbling good nights, disappearing into their apartments.

Hana's door closes behind her. The silence is absolute.

She sets down her bag. Removes the costume she's been wearing since 3:30 AM. Changes into something comfortable. Opens the laptop again, checks the positions, confirms everything is stable.

Then she sits by the window and watches the city.

Eight months, she thinks again. Or tomorrow. Or never.

Which do you choose?

The question hangs unanswered as Tokyo's lights flicker their eternal patterns.

The air shifts at 1:17 AM.

Not dramatically. Not the way Artemis does it—sudden transitions, forced relocations. This is subtle. A change in pressure. A deepening of silence. The sense that the room contains more than it should.

Hana turns.

Kae stands by the door. Her human form today—the adolescent girl, twelve or thirteen in appearance, ancient beyond counting in reality. Her clothing is modern but her presence is not.

"You're awake," Kae observes.

"I don't sleep well."

"No. You don't." Kae moves into the room, her footsteps making no sound on the floor. "You spend the nights calculating. Preparing. Planning exits you may never use."

She's been watching, Frost notes.

Of course she has, Sage replies. She said she would.

"The money," Kae continues. "You've passed the threshold. You could leave."

"Yes."

"But you haven't."

"No."

Kae settles into the chair across from Hana. Her eyes are dark, ancient, seeing more than should be visible.

"Why?"

The question deserves a real answer. Hana isn't sure she has one.

"I don't know," she says finally. "I keep thinking I should. The rational calculation says leave. Take the money. Start over somewhere else. But then I look at them—" She gestures toward the wall that separates her apartment from Yuki's. "And the calculation changes."

"Emotions aren't calculable."

"Everything is calculable. Emotions just require different variables."

A flicker of something crosses Kae's face. Amusement, perhaps. Or recognition.

"You think like your great-grandfather," she says. "He was always calculating too. Measuring costs and benefits. Looking for the optimal outcome."

"Did he find it?"

"He thought he did. A new life. A new family. A clean break from obligations he never fully understood." Kae's voice hardens slightly. "He was wrong. The obligations followed him. The consequences traveled across oceans and generations."

"To me."

"To all of you." Kae's gaze sweeps the room—the laptop, the window, the careful order that Hana maintains. "Ren carries the weight of her grandfather's corruption. Yuki carries the weight of what she accidentally did to you. You carry the weight of a bloodline you never asked for."

"That's a lot of weight."

"Yes. It is." Kae stands, moves to the window, looks out at the same city Hana has been watching. "Which brings us to the real test."

Here it comes, Vex notes.

The thing she's been building toward, Sage agrees.

"Not combat," Kae continues. "Not strategy. Not challenges that can be won through cleverness or cooperation." She turns back to face Hana. "Truth. The memories that made you who you are. The trauma you've been carrying."

"I've already told Artemis—"

"You told her a summary. A clinical description. You didn't face it." Kae's eyes meet hers. "None of you have. Ren hasn't faced what her desperation cost. Yuki hasn't faced what her grief created. And you haven't faced the original wounds. The ones from before."

The air in the room seems to thicken. Something is building—not visible, but tangible. The sense of impending transition.

"I'm offering you a choice," Kae says. "Face your core trauma. The memory that made you who you are. See it clearly, acknowledge it honestly, without running or hiding."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you stay trapped. Not by contracts or debts or magic. Trapped by the walls you built inside yourself. Trapped by the parts of your history you won't look at."

Silence.

"That's manipulative," Hana says.

"That's accurate." Kae doesn't flinch. "Manipulation would be forcing you to do this. I'm giving you the choice. Face it and move forward, or run and stay trapped forever."

Behind Kae, the air shimmers. A doorway forms where none should exist—not to another room, not to another place on Earth, but to somewhere else entirely. The light that spills through is neither warm nor cold. Just... present.

"Ren and Yuki will face their own memories," Kae continues. "Separately. Privately. What they discover is theirs to share or not." She gestures toward the doorway. "This leads to yours."

Don't do it, Frost warns. This is a trap. Another test designed to break you.

Or it's what she says it is, Quinn counters. A chance to actually deal with the things you've been carrying.

We don't have enough information, Sage argues.

We never do, Vex concludes.

Hana looks at the doorway. At the ancient being who created it. At the choice that isn't really a choice at all.

"The others," she says. "They're facing this too?"

"Simultaneously. Each in their own space. Each with their own memories."

"And afterward?"

"That depends on what you do with what you learn."

No guarantees. No promises. Just the offer and the consequences.

Hana stands. Her legs feel steady despite the uncertainty.

"If this is a trick—"

"It's not a trick. It's the hardest thing I can offer you." Kae's voice carries something that might be compassion. "Because honesty about yourself is always harder than any enemy I could create."

The doorway pulses. Waiting.

Hana walks toward it.

"One last thing," Kae says as Hana reaches the threshold. "Whatever you see—it already happened. You survived it once. You can survive seeing it clearly."

Then Hana steps through.

The light swallows her.

And somewhere behind her, in an apartment that suddenly feels very far away, the city continues its eternal motion—indifferent to memory, indifferent to trauma, indifferent to the choices that shape who people become.