In the long, endless whirlpool of sensory and spiritual torment that followed, Kaoru Hoshitani felt as though his entire soul had been flung to the very edge of a precipice.
His consciousness hung above an unfathomable abyss, clinging desperately with just ten fingers to the rough edge of the rooftop, straining every last ounce of his strength and willpower, barely keeping himself from letting go and plunging into the darkness below—that darkness that symbolized utter surrender, moral collapse, and the loss of self.
A chilling fear and exhaustion gnawed at his fingertips, as if carried upward by the cold winds rising from the abyss.
Meanwhile, Rika Kawasaki stood at ease, savoring a cruel pleasure, planted firmly on the rooftop that represented “reality” and “control.”
She gazed down at her fragile prey, struggling beneath, and then, unhurriedly, lifted her foot and pressed it—precise and merciless—upon Kaoru Hoshitani’s hands, knuckles white and trembling as they clung to the rooftop’s edge.
She even maliciously ground her shoe against them, applying a steady, unyielding pressure.
Her face was still adorned with that chilling smile—a blend of conquest, wicked amusement, and a fathomless hunger for dominance.
She was savoring the moment, enjoying his struggle as he teetered on the brink of collapse yet refused to fall, delighting in stripping away the last of his strength to resist.
Time stretched unbearably long, drawn out by the twisted contest and her one-sided “enjoyment.”
Only when the sky outside the window deepened into blue and the distant city lights bloomed bright and dense did this drawn-out “ritual” finally come to a pause.
The air inside the bedroom was thick, tainted by sweat, desire, and the bone-deep exhaustion that follows a fierce struggle of wills.
The hands of the Art Wall Clock slid silently toward five in the afternoon.
Rika Kawasaki rose with satisfaction, as if cradling a fragile, precious trophy that belonged to her alone, and lifted Kaoru Hoshitani—whose body had lost all strength, whose eyes were blank, cheeks still bearing the unnatural flush that had yet to fade, pupils dilated and unable to focus—into her arms.
She strode steadily across the empty bedroom and entered the Master Bedroom’s astonishingly spacious bathroom.
The Bathroom’s design was the epitome of modern luxury.
An entire wall of frosted glass, gleaming black marble surfaces on walls and floor, and concealed strips of warm lighting cast an even, harmonious glow, making the whole space feel like an exquisite showroom.
At the center was a white Freestanding Bathtub, its size comparable to a small pool, its lines smooth and elegant.
Rika Kawasaki tested the water’s temperature, then carried Kaoru Hoshitani in and slowly lowered them both into the tub.
The perfectly heated water instantly enveloped their exhausted bodies, sending ripples across the surface and billowing up gentle white steam.
The tub was spacious enough for them to sit side by side, water reaching only to their chests, just their heads exposed.
Rika Kawasaki looked languid and content, while Kaoru Hoshitani’s gaze remained hollow, as if his soul had yet to return.
“How is it?”
Rika Kawasaki’s voice sounded through the mist, hoarse and carrying a hint of barely concealed pride.
One hand slid naturally under the water, her fingertips caressing Kaoru Hoshitani’s skin—still slightly cold even in the hot water—as delicately as if handling fine silk.
“See… it’s much more comfortable here with me, isn’t it?”
She tilted her head, sweeping her gaze around the spacious, almost empty bathroom, her tone unashamedly superior:
“Look at this bathroom—it’s almost as big as your whole Living Room in that shabby little place, isn’t it? Think of that cramped Restroom you two have. You can barely turn around in there, and if you run the shower a bit too hard, the floor is all soaked… But now, not only can you soak comfortably, you could even swim a bit if you wanted.”
As she spoke, she deliberately swept her foot through the water, sending ripples across Kaoru Hoshitani’s body.
Her actions today—taking him shopping in Ginza as if money were nothing, bringing him to gaze out over Ginza from a luxury restaurant, and finally bringing him back to this Villa that symbolized her wealth and status—had not been a whim.
Behind it all lay her meticulous calculations, a psychological offensive planned step by step.
She knew well that for a man—no matter how beautiful or pure he appeared on the outside—the instincts inherited from ancient ancestors, those genes for Survival Instinct and reproduction, continued to operate beneath the surface.
In short, this instinct was to seek a “nest” and a mate that offered greater security, stability, and resources, to ensure the survival advantage of oneself and one’s offspring.
But in a highly civilized modern society, this instinct had evolved into an unconscious comparison and measurement of a woman’s social status, wealth, and ability to control resources.
Perhaps a man would love a woman deeply for the initial spark, her looks, or the resonance of emotion, willing to share a humble life with her.
However, when another woman appears—whose social status is far superior, whose wealth and resources promise an unimaginably comfortable life—even if she is older or less attractive, or even has obvious flaws, it is almost inevitable that the man’s heart will waver, will compare.
When faced with overwhelming temptation and the pull of Survival Instinct, to abandon one’s current partner for someone who can offer a better life—in Rika Kawasaki’s eyes—was not just possible, but, as proven by countless real-life examples, even probable.
Loyalty and Morality are often pitifully fragile before primal desire and a vast gap in resources.
Naturally, Rika Kawasaki believed Kaoru Hoshitani could not possibly be immune to such deep-rooted, benefit-seeking instincts.
Thus, she made a show of herself before him—her wealth, her taste, her status, the material world she could offer—all displayed in full.
Even the Parent Background she usually scorned to mention, even deliberately distanced herself from, was revealed as another form of “capital.”
She wanted him to see and feel for himself how the life with her, the comforts and pleasures, compared to the cramped, penny-pinching existence he shared with that “useless” girlfriend in their tiny Apartment.
Logically, a normal man, faced with a young, wealthy woman like her—attractive, with an outstanding figure, and, in certain ways, highly skilled—who took the initiative to “pursue” him and offered such tempting material prospects, would long ago have been overjoyed, eager to seize this opportunity and secure the relationship with every means at his disposal.
Of course, there would always be people who looked down on such men, mocking them as “shallow,” “gold-digging,” slaves to “materialism and vanity,” ready to sell dignity and feelings for a cushier life.
But Rika Kawasaki could not care less.
In fact, she would be happy to see Kaoru Hoshitani become that kind of man.
Because once he had tasted, adapted to, even grown addicted to this life of indulgence, once he felt the comfort and vanity of being wrapped in the finest material things, once he experienced the superiority of looking down from above—how could he ever bear to return to a life of counting every wage, cramped quarters, and constant worries over small things?
Rich and Poor.
That is human nature.
And then, to maintain this life of luxury and excess—to keep all these things he once never even dared dream of—Kaoru Hoshitani would have to depend on her more and more, please her, fulfill her every demand.
He would forge his own gilded chains, and could never leave her again, because he would no longer be able to bear the poverty of losing it all.
The warm water enveloped their bodies, the bathroom filled with the fragrance of high-quality Essential Oil.
Rika Kawasaki’s hand continued to stroke Kaoru Hoshitani’s smooth back, her gray eyes peering through the steam, quietly studying his lost, delicate profile up close.
The corner of her mouth curved in a confident, enigmatic smile.
This war for his heart—she was certain she had already won.
The dual corruption of material and instinct—no one can resist for long.
All she had to do was wait patiently for the walls inside this beautiful little man, the walls called “resolve,” to start cracking under extreme comfort and irresistible temptation, until finally…
Completely collapse!
The mist had yet to clear, clinging damply to the gleaming marble walls and mirrors, blurring every edge.
In the spacious round Massage Bathtub, the water had already cooled a bit.
Rika Kawasaki leaned back against the smooth tub wall, Kaoru Hoshitani in her arms, her arms loosely encircling his slender waist.
He seemed like a marionette drained of its bones, limp in her embrace, black hair dripping against his pale forehead and neck, revealing delicate yet fragile lines.
Even after soaking for over ten minutes, the fatigue and emptiness in his eyes remained, the hot water merely tinting his skin an unnatural, porcelain pink.
His lashes drooped, trembling faintly in the steam, like the wings of a dying butterfly.
After a few more silent moments, Rika Kawasaki stirred.
She stepped out of the tub first, sending water splashing. Droplets rolled down her tanned, athletic body.
She grabbed a wide, soft white towel from the rack, hastily dried herself, then turned to gaze down at Kaoru Hoshitani, still curled in the gradually cooling water.
“Get up.”
Her voice echoed in the empty bathroom, not harsh, but brooking no argument.
Kaoru Hoshitani flinched almost imperceptibly, as if snapped out of a daze.
Slowly, stiffly, he braced himself against the slippery tub edge, trying to stand, but his legs gave way, wobbling as he rose halfway.
Rika Kawasaki did not offer a hand, simply waited for him to steady himself, then wrapped him tightly in the towel—not gentle, even a bit rough, but thorough.
The thick cotton towel absorbed the cold water from his skin, rubbing across places that still bore faint red marks.
He stood motionless like a child, letting her do as she pleased. Only when she wiped the deep purple, glaring hickey on his neck did his lashes shudder violently, and his lips pressed together in silent tension.
After drying him, Rika Kawasaki led him to the dressing area, picking up his ordinary light-colored shirt and trousers from the floor—clothes that looked out of place in this luxurious bathroom.
She dressed him methodically, if not gracefully.
Throughout, Kaoru Hoshitani was exceedingly passive—neither resisting nor cooperating, simply allowing himself to be dressed, his empty gaze fixed somewhere ahead, as though his soul had floated away from the body being so carefully clothed.
Rika Kawasaki, of course, had her reasons for all this.
The Electronic Clock on the wall showed there was still an hour or two before that “useless girlfriend” Aina Saiten usually came Home from work.
If he were not returned to that tiny Apartment they called “Home” before then, the girlfriend might grow suspicious, call, or even come searching.
Though she thought it only a matter of time before that unremarkable woman discovered the truth and caused a scene, at this stage, before she could be sure of completely controlling Kaoru Hoshitani and making him surrender willingly, Rika Kawasaki did not wish to rupture the facade prematurely and provoke chaos she could not control.
She needed time, more subtle corrosion, to block every one of his escape routes.
For now, she was not yet fully confident that when faced with his girlfriend’s shock, accusations, tears, and pleas, this little man—fragile, yet capable of biting back—would resolutely choose her, and this road of humiliation and twisted temptation, with no return.
She had to “cook the rice” a little longer.
“Leave your clothes, your bags, and so on here.”
Driving the Blue Sports Car back into the night traffic, Rika Kawasaki kept her eyes on the road ahead, speaking in a flat tone as if discussing the weather.
Neon lights outside the window cast shifting shadows across her face.
“You’ve got nowhere to put them at your place, and it’d be a pain if your girlfriend found them.”
She glanced sideways at Kaoru Hoshitani, silent as a statue in the passenger seat, the corners of her mouth curving slightly.
“If you ever want to wear them, or need to go out with them, come here and change.”
At a red light, she turned, fixing her gaze on his half-illuminated face.
“One more thing. Tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp in the morning—I want to see you in my Villa.”
She paused deliberately, making sure he heard every word.
“Come by yourself. Remember—nine o’clock sharp. If you’re not there by then…”
She dragged out her words, gray eyes gleaming coldly in the dim car.
“I’ll have no choice but to drive to your place and ‘pick you up’ myself. I don’t think you’d want that, would you? Hmm?”
Even though Kaoru Hoshitani acted as if he hadn’t heard a thing—no reaction, not even a flicker of his lashes—Rika Kawasaki was confident.
She knew, beneath his gentle surface, he was stubborn in a strange way.
He might hate her, fear her, try to avoid her, but he feared even more that his “non-cooperation” might bring trouble to the little Home he and his girlfriend had worked so hard for, that their fragile peace would be ripped apart in public.
So, he would come.
Even if every step felt like walking on knife blades, he would show up at her Villa before nine tomorrow morning.
To have someone so thoroughly in the palm of her hand, to control the rhythm of everything, brought her a rush of satisfaction.
The sports car glided silently to a stop at a quiet corner near Kaoru Hoshitani’s Apartment, the very place she’d picked him up that morning.
Night had fallen; streetlights were dim, few pedestrians passed.
The engine idled, rumbling softly.
Rika Kawasaki unfastened her seatbelt, leaning across the passenger seat.
She didn’t hurry to let him out. Instead, she reached over, pinched his chin lightly, and turned his face toward her.
His skin was cool to the touch, his gaze still empty, unfocused.
She bent down and pressed her lips to his again, those lips tinged with pale pink, now dry and colorless after the long day.
This kiss, unlike before, was not punishment or conquest, but slow, lingering—a taste of afterglow and possession, as though savoring her own exclusive fruit, reaffirming her ownership.
She felt his body tense, a faint, suppressed shudder running through him.
Only after a long moment did she let go, her fingertip brushing his now-moistened lips.
“Go.”
She released him, her voice revealing no particular emotion.
The passenger door opened. Kaoru Hoshitani climbed out slowly, his feet stumbling a little as they touched the cold, rough sidewalk.
He straightened up, neither looking back nor glancing at the person in the car.
The door shut behind him, and the sports car glided away like a ghost, vanishing into the night.
He was left alone, standing in the blurred, murky night, beneath the interwoven halos of streetlamp and darkness.
A chill wind brushed through his thin shirt, making him hug his arms.
He looked up at the familiar Apartment building, where scattered windows glowed with the warm light of “Home”—one of them belonging to him and Aina Saiten.
Yet, the light that once symbolized safety, warmth, and belonging now seemed so far away, so unreal, as if separated by frosted glass he could not penetrate.
He began to walk toward it. His steps were slow, heavy, unsteady, as if dragging invisible chains.
His back hunched, his head lowered, his gaze fixed a few steps ahead, oblivious to the sights and sounds around him.
In the shrouding night, he looked less like a man coming Home and more like a soulless, instinct-driven shell.
The little home that was once his only safe harbor now seemed just another battlefield, fraught with lies and guilt, that he had to face with difficulty.
And the short walk connecting the Apartment to the endless darkness behind him felt like a long, lonely gray zone, stretching without end between a broken reality and a past he could no longer bear…