The call came at 03:12 AM. Kazuki Arai was already awake.

He didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the vibrating phone on the nightstand—its screen flashing an international number he recognized, one tied to a centuries-old bloodline so private, most people believed it was long extinct. He picked up.

A man’s voice, calm and noble, wasted no time on pleasantries. “Mr. Arai. I need your protection for my daughter.”

Kazuki didn’t offer confirmation—just silence, the kind that forced the speaker to get to the point.

“She has been invited to London for an international summit between royal houses. We were not consulted. And yet she must go. We’ve received threats. I want you personally at her side. Twenty-four hours. Day and night.”

Kazuki’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t do personal assignments.”

“I’m prepared to offer ten million up front. Five more upon her safe return.”

Another pause. Then Kazuki said, “Send me her profile.”

The file arrived within five minutes. Her name was Princess Sayuri Mitsuko. Age 22. Unmarried. Status: Unofficial heiress to a bloodline rumored to trace back to the sacred Yamato line. No public presence, no images online. Raised in silence and secrecy. A hidden pearl.

Kazuki closed the file and called his London team. Within twelve hours, he had a penthouse secured, three alternate escape routes mapped, the CCTV in the area rerouted to his server, and custom surveillance systems embedded in the walls of her temporary residence.

He did not believe in superstition. But something about this felt like a ghost from another era was stepping into his meticulously modern world.

—

The Day of Arrival

London's private tarmac glinted silver under an overcast sky. Kazuki stood beside his matte black sedan, parked precisely 3.5 meters from the foot of the private jet's retractable stairway. A convoy of guards in gray uniforms moved into position as the jet’s doors opened.

The air shifted. Even Kazuki—unimpressed by wealth, royalty, or theatrics—felt it.

She descended slowly, one hand grazing the rail. Her gown was a subtle shade of pearl that matched her snow-colored hair, which flowed down her shoulders like silk in a winter stream. Her eyes, a pale gray, didn’t meet anyone’s. Her steps were soundless.

Sayuri Mitsuko.

The guards flanked her immediately—two in front, four behind, another six scattered like invisible walls around them. One man stepped forward, clearly her lead retainer. His voice was firm, nearly threatening.

“You are Kazuki Arai?”

Kazuki gave him a curt nod.

“She must never be left alone. She does not speak freely. She does not attend to strangers. And if anything happens to her under your watch…”

The man didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Kazuki met his stare with the cold stillness of a glacier. “Understood.”

Sayuri reached the base of the stairs and stopped. Her expression was unreadable. She gave Kazuki a small nod, not quite deference, not quite trust. Then, very faintly, her lips lifted into a smile—more shadow than substance.

She walked past her guards and toward his car, the hem of her gown barely kissing the pavement. She didn’t speak a word. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t acknowledge the dozens of eyes around her.

Kazuki opened the car door for her himself. She stepped in, folding her hands in her lap like a porcelain doll placed back in its glass case.

He got in beside her, and the door clicked shut.

The vehicle eased forward, windows tinted, the city blurring into abstract shapes as they left the airport behind. Silence reigned. She looked out the window, face half-lit by pale sunlight, unreadable.

Kazuki watched her out of the corner of his eye, analyzing without appearing to do so. Her posture was perfect. No fidgeting. No nervous glances. She’d been trained for this. But he saw something else too—something hollow behind her silence. She wasn’t scared. She was resigned.

“You can speak freely,” he said at last, his voice low, devoid of comfort but not entirely harsh.

She didn’t turn. But after a few seconds, she nodded.