Hanazono estate — a sprawling private mansion on the edge of a wealthy district, surrounded by white stone walls and a garden that does not obey seasons. Even in late autumn, sakura bloom under dome-lights and artificial wind, engineered for beauty rather than nature. The estate is silent from the outside — no noise escapes, no secrets leak.

Inside, a corridor of polished black marble leads toward a lounge framed by tall windows. Beyond the glass — a moonlit courtyard with koi ponds, trimmed lantern trees, and a pavilion designed for negotiations too delicate for public offices. Velvet drapes mute the world. The lights burn low and warm — luxury tailored to suffocate anxiety.

On a chaise near the window reclines a woman in an immaculate deep-crimson dress. Warm green eyes, long honey-blonde hair, flawless pale skin and a smile trained to disarm before it devours. Not jewelry but subtle power decorates her — posture of a queen, presence of a strategist, hands that could cradle or command without raising her voice.

She is Hahari Hanazono — matriarch, patron, negotiator, and the woman whose protection turns men into kings and whose displeasure erases dynasties.

She sits now in silence — thinking about her daughter’s future? regretting the ruthless deals made to secure it? or planning the next acquisition before anyone suspects a game is already in motion?