The Countdown Until Your Boyfriend Kaoru Hoshitani Is Stolen Away Remains:
Forty-Eight Days.
Just past midnight.
The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn tight, completely blocking out the faint city lights outside.
The air was quiet, so quiet she could hear the even, drawn-out breaths of the person beside her on the pillow, one after another, like some ancient timekeeping device measuring how much peace remained in this night.
Aina Saiten lay on her side on the bed, her back to her sleeping boyfriend. She didn’t move, didn’t turn over, didn’t make a sound.
Her body was stiff as a rock, only the hand clutching the old mobile phone trembled slightly—a tremor so faint it was almost imperceptible, yet it spread from her fingertips to her wrist, from her wrist to her arm, and finally to her heart.
The faint glow of the phone screen lit up her face, illuminating her weary, bloodless features.
Her eyes were wide open, her pupils reflecting the line of text on the screen—that shocking, blood-red line of text.
The Countdown Until Your Boyfriend Kaoru Hoshitani Is Stolen Away Remains: Forty-Eight Days.
This was the second time she had witnessed the countdown on that bizarre APP in the old phone decrease.
The first time was the night before last, when she watched it go from one hundred days to fifty, and then from fifty to forty-nine.
And today, the number jumped again, from forty-nine to forty-eight.
Each jump meant she was one step closer to that terrifying future.
She stared at the text for a long time, so long the screen automatically went dark. She turned it back on. It went dark again, and she turned it on again.
The blood-red numbers flickered in the darkness like an unblinking eye, watching her coldly, reminding her:
Time was running out.
Finally, she moved.
She carefully lifted a corner of the quilt, her movements so light they made no sound.
She turned over, glanced at Kazune beside her—he was still asleep, curled into a ball, his brow slightly furrowed, his lips slightly pursed, like a small animal curled in its nest, completely unaware of what was happening outside.
Aina looked at him, a wave of bitterness welling up in her heart.
Then she withdrew her gaze, sat up from the bed, and placed her bare feet on the cold floor.
The chill spread upward from her soles, along her calves, knees, thighs, all the way to her abdomen, making her shiver involuntarily.
She put on her slippers, didn’t look back, and walked step by step towards the bathroom.
Her back was straight, stiff, each step steady and heavy, as if she wasn’t going to the restroom, but to an execution ground, to face a predetermined, inescapable judgment.
Entering the bathroom, she closed the door behind her. The lock clicked into the frame with a soft sound.
That sound was especially clear in the silent night, like a pronouncement, completely separating her from the still-sleeping, oblivious world outside.
She didn’t turn on the light.
In the darkness, she groped her way to the toilet, lowered the lid, and sat down.
The cold ceramic sensation seeped through her thin pajama pants, making her shiver again.
She took a deep breath, so deep it felt like she was trying to inhale all the air in the bathroom.
Then, she slowly exhaled, her fingers sliding across the old phone’s screen, opening that yellow-background APP.
The blood-red countdown came into view.
—
Forty-Eight Days.
Her gaze lingered on those four numbers for a moment, then slowly drifted down, landing on the play button slanted below it.
Aside from those with special perversions, no woman would want to watch a video of the man she loves being intimate with another woman.
Just imagining those scenes was enough to drive someone mad.
Let alone witnessing it firsthand—watching the face she had kissed countless times being held in another woman’s hands, watching the body she had embraced countless times being pressed down by another woman, watching the intimacy that should have belonged only to her being stolen inch by inch.
Just thinking about it made Aina feel like her heart was being squeezed by a merciless hand, tighter and tighter, almost ready to burst.
But she had no choice.
She forced herself to watch.
Not out of curiosity, not because of some unspeakable fetish, but because she hoped to find some clues in those videos.
She needed to know how those things happened, needed to know what led to that ending, needed to know at which point she should intervene to prevent it all from happening.
She needed to change that despair-filled future.
During the day yesterday, Aina had clicked the play button several times, finding the video was the same one she had seen in the early morning.
She had watched it many times, each viewing making her heart ache and her eyes sting, but she hadn’t found any useful information.
That video had no date, no location, no clues to tell her “when did this happen.”
So she decided to wait until after midnight to see if this APP would update.
Her finger hovered over the play button, trembling slightly.
She took another deep breath, so deep it hurt her chest.
Then, she pressed it.
The image on the screen began to play.
Different from yesterday’s video—this time, the woman appearing in the frame was no longer Chinatsu Ayase.
It was Rika Kawasaki.
That yellow-haired woman, tall, with an overwhelming presence that made it hard to breathe.
The woman who had been entangled with Kazune in the first video.
The woman who had unsettled her for so long, yet whose origins she still couldn’t figure out.
The scene in the frame looked like an office.
The lighting was bright, floor-to-ceiling windows showed a distant city view, a computer and files were on the desk, and a few decorative paintings hung on the wall.
Everything seemed normal and professional, forming an absurd contrast with what was about to happen here.
There were only two people in the office.
Rika Kawasaki stood in front of the desk, arms crossed over her chest, looking down at Kaoru Hoshitani sitting in the chair.
Her lips were moving, clearly saying something, her expression not looking pleased—brows slightly furrowed, corners of her mouth downturned, carrying an impatient, condescending arrogance.
And Kaoru Hoshitani kept his head down.
He wasn’t looking at Rika Kawasaki. His gaze fell on the desktop, on his own knees, on some empty point in space.
His shoulders were slightly hunched, his whole body curled in the chair, like a small animal backed into a corner with nowhere to escape.
His lips were also moving, as if responding to something, but that response clearly had no effect—Rika Kawasaki’s expression grew colder, more impatient.
Aina watched this scene, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the phone.
She didn’t know what they were saying, but she could feel the tense, explosive atmosphere.
She could feel that something bad was about to happen.
A minute passed.
Rika Kawasaki seemed to have lost her last shred of patience. She walked around the desk and stood in front of Kaoru Hoshitani.
Her movements were fast, fast like a predator pouncing on its prey.
Kaoru Hoshitani looked up, a flicker of panic in his little deer eyes. He tried to stand up, tried to dodge, tried to run—
But it was already too late.
Rika Kawasaki bent down, one hand pressed on his shoulder, forcing him back into the chair.
The motion was rough and decisive, carrying an absolute, irresistible suppression.
Then, her other hand cupped the back of his head. She lowered her head and kissed him.
It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss, but one full of possessiveness, a declaration of sovereignty, a kiss of plunder.
Her lips pressed against his, blocking all his resistance.
His hands pushed against her shoulders, trying to shove her away, but that bit of strength, in front of her, was like an ant trying to move a mountain.
Every second that followed felt like a knife stabbing into Aina’s heart.
She watched helplessly as her boyfriend was dragged from the chair by that yellow-haired woman and pressed onto the office desk.
His back was against the cold desktop, his legs dangling, his hands pinned firmly above his head by just one of her hands.
He struggled, twisted, but that slender body, in front of that tall, robust frame, was as fragile as a reed ready to snap at any moment.
She watched helplessly as that yellow-haired woman’s lips moved from his lips, sliding over his chin, his neck, his collarbone.
He tilted his head back, suppressed, broken sounds escaping his throat, unsure if they were resistance or gasps.
She watched helplessly as that tanned, calloused large hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, roaming over his fair skin.
His body trembled, a tremor that seemed to travel from the screen, almost shattering her heart.
She knew what would happen next, of course.
She didn’t want to watch anymore.
Her finger had already moved to the edge of the screen, ready to press the close button, ready to escape this suffocating scene.
But she couldn’t.
She was afraid that if she closed it now, she would miss some crucial clue.
She was afraid that in the scenes she didn’t see, there might be information that could change the future.
She was afraid that her escape would allow the scenes in the video to truly happen in the future.
So she could only keep watching.
And so she stared with bloodshot eyes, watching her beloved Kazune—the Kazune she was afraid of dropping if she held him in her hands, afraid of melting if she held him in her mouth—being pressed down, turned over, and ravaged by that tall, robust yellow-haired woman.
His clothes were stripped off one by one, his body was invaded inch by inch, his struggles grew weaker, more feeble, until finally, there was only a faint, instinctive trembling.
From the depths of Aina’s heart, anger, pain, humiliation, despair—all sorts of negative emotions surged forth like a breached dam, drowning her completely.
Yet, amidst that raging flood, there was also a sliver of emotion she was unwilling to admit, one that caused her even more pain.
That was inferiority.
That yellow-haired woman’s body was so tall, so strong, so powerful.
The muscles on her forearms were clearly visible, her palms were so broad she could grip both of Kazune’s wrists with one hand. She stood there like an insurmountable mountain, instinctively inspiring fear.
And what about herself?
She was so short, so thin, so weak.
She couldn’t even lift a barbell a few times, couldn’t run on a treadmill for twenty minutes without panting.
What did she have to compete with that woman? What did she have to protect Kazune?
This thought was like a blunt knife, slowly, slowly cutting another gash into her already battered heart.
The video continued.
Aina stared at the screen almost mechanically, her mind a blank.
She didn’t know how long she had watched, didn’t know how many imprints those scenes had left in her mind.
She only knew that when the video finally neared its end, her eyes were so dry she could barely keep them open, her fingers were so stiff she could barely hold the phone.
She only gained one piece of useful information—at the very end of the video, there was no tattoo on the inner thigh of Kazune, unlike the one that had appeared when she first watched the video.
That tattoo was something she had seen the first time she opened this APP.
In that video, there was a tattoo on Kazune’s inner thigh that she had never seen before, a strange one.
She had thought it was just a flaw in the video’s fabrication, but now, she began to suspect—maybe that tattoo was a node in the future.
But was this information useful?
She didn’t know.
Just as she thought the video was about to end, the scene suddenly switched.
It was no longer that oppressive office, no longer that yellow-haired woman.
The frame now showed only Kazune alone—he was sitting in the first-class cabin of an airplane, leaning back in a wide seat, a blanket covering him, his head slightly tilted towards the window.
His eyes were hollow and unfocused, no spark, no light, his whole person like an empty shell drained of its soul.
Outside the window were thick clouds and glaring sunlight. He sat there amidst that light and cloud, alone, as if abandoned by the entire world.
Aina’s finger abruptly pressed the pause button.
Her brow furrowed tightly as she stared at the screen, at that weak, hollow Kazune sitting on the plane.
Countless thoughts collided and reorganized wildly in her mind.
‘Kazune is on a plane?’
She muttered to herself, her voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible.
‘Where is he going? Why is he on a plane?’
She rewound the video a bit, watched that scene again.
The first-class seat, the high altitude outside the window, the blanket on Kazune, and that expression on his face she had never seen before—one of complete surrender, of having given up on everything.
‘Could it be…’
A terrifying guess took shape in her mind.
‘Kazune is taking a plane to go find that Rika Kawasaki?’
This thought was like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog in her mind.
If that were the case, then everything made sense.
She had been thinking recently that she hadn’t seen that yellow-haired woman named Rika Kawasaki at the company for a while.
Moreover, she had heard from other colleagues that the president had arranged for his daughter to be sent to an out-of-town company for training.
So if something were to happen between them, Kazune might have to go to where Rika Kawasaki was.
And taking a plane was the fastest way.
But Aina couldn’t understand why Kazune, who in her view had long since had no dealings with that yellow-haired woman, would actively take a plane to go find Rika Kawasaki.
Aina stared at the screen, at that Kazune sitting on the plane, at his hollow eyes, at his bloodless face, her fingers slowly clenching tighter…