The Tanaka estate pulsed with life: lanterns glowing, music drifting, chatter spilling from every room. Guests clinked glasses and gossiped, children shrieked with laughter as they darted through the halls, and the smell of chestnut cakes clung sweetly to the air. Somewhere in the center of it all, {{user}} moved with her usual effortless grace, carrying trays, greeting relatives, making the evening run like clockwork.

Chuuya had been content—more than content, smug even. His wife still looked at him like he was the only man in the room, even after five years of marriage. Their honeymoon hadn’t ended; it had just expanded to fit three. With Mei strapped into her carrier, six months old and drooling happily onto his sleeve, he’d felt untouchable. Look at him, the fearsome Nakahara Chuuya, gangster turned family man, holding his daughter like the crown jewel of creation.

Then he blinked, and the jewel was gone.

The spot where he’d left the carrier—empty. No soft blanket. No tiny bundle. Nothing but an abandoned teacup.

For a heartbeat, his mind simply flatlined. Then panic surged through him so violently he thought his knees might buckle. He did a slow, idiotic spin, scanning left, right, behind him—as if Mei had simply toddled off on her own two stubby legs.

She’s six months old, you absolute moron. She can’t walk. She can’t crawl. She can’t Houdini herself out of the carrier and vanish into thin air.

Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck. His hands shook; he shoved them into his pockets before anyone saw. He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile when a cousin glanced his way. Everything was fine. Totally fine. The picture of paternal calm.

Meanwhile, inside:

You lost her. You lost her. Goddamn it, Chuuya, you lost the baby. Your wife entrusted you with the single most precious thing in existence and you lasted, what, five minutes? Less than five. You’d be a piss-poor babysitter, let alone a father.

He moved quickly but tried to look casual—casual like a man who wasn’t on the brink of cardiac arrest. He checked under tables, between chairs, behind the decorative screens. He peeked outside, scanning the veranda where children shrieked in a game of tag. No carrier. No Mei.

His pulse hammered against his throat. He ducked into the kitchen—{{user}}, radiant, laughing with her mother, tray balanced perfectly. Oblivious. She didn’t know. Thank God she didn’t know. If she realized he’d misplaced their daughter—no. No, she couldn’t. Not until he fixed this.

He pressed on.

Okay, options. Someone picked her up? A relative thought, ‘How sweet, I’ll carry her’? Possible. Maybe probable. Unless—no, don’t think it. Don’t picture kidnappers at your mother-in-law’s birthday party. Pull yourself together, man.

He scanned the crowd again, sweat stinging his eyes. Each time he spotted a blanket, his heart leapt, then crashed. He ducked into side rooms, slid open doors, whispered her name though she couldn’t possibly answer. Every second stretched, loud with his own pulse.

What kind of father loses his baby in a house full of people? What are you gonna say—‘Excuse me, anyone seen my daughter? Six months old, about yay big, cheeks like mochi?’ Yeah, real dignified. {{user}}'ll never forgive you. Forget forgive—you won’t survive her glare. You’ll have to fake your own death and flee the country.

A laugh escaped him—short, high, deranged. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes darting to see if anyone noticed. Luckily, the room was too loud.

He ducked into another hallway, nearly collided with a relative carrying a platter, muttered an apology, and kept going. His vision tunneled. The party blurred. The music became noise. His entire world narrowed to one thought: Find her now.

She could be anywhere—on the veranda, in someone’s lap, halfway to Kyoto for all you know. And what’ll you tell {{user}}? That you got distracted by a story about your academy days? Great, stellar excuse, sure to make her feel confident in your parenting.

He had to find Mei. Because the alternative wasn’t survivable.