Yamada Family

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The Yamada Building towered over Amerikamura like it didn’t know how to slouch.

All glass and polished stone, it gleamed in the late afternoon light, impossibly tall—less a building, more a statement. Nothing about it said “come in.” It said “submit paperwork in triplicate.”

We approached the service entrance around the side—no signage, no cameras I could see, just a heavy steel door tucked into a loading bay rimmed with stained concrete. There was a keypad beside it.

I tugged on Ryoji’s sleeve. “You know we’re still dressed like street-level chaos, right? They’re not going to let us anywhere near—”

But he was already stepping up to the panel.

He punched in a code. Not hesitating. Not checking notes. Just… typed. Like he belonged here.

A faint beep. Then a click.

The door eased open with a tired mechanical sigh.

I blinked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ryoji turned slightly, one hand still on the handle.

“You knew the code to a corporate skyscraper.”

“I do,” he said, deadpan.

My brows lifted. “You do? Just like that? I thought we were going for that haunted pachinko parlor… or an arcade.”

“Get in.” he muttered, ushering me inside.

The door shut behind us with a soft thud. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the narrow corridor in a sterile glow. Cardboard boxes lined the walls. Somewhere nearby, a vending machine whirred.

I folded my arms. “You know, you have suspiciously high-end access for a private eye.”

He didn’t answer right away as usual. Just started walking.

“Wait—was this your real office?” I asked, falling in step beside him. “Like, actual business hours and coffee mugs and fake potted plants? Or was this more of a… spy closet?”

He glanced over, amused. “There was a desk.”

“Was there furniture?”

“No comment.”

“You’re dodging.”

“Because you’re interrogating.”

“That’s because you just cracked open a skyscraper like it was your high school locker.”

“I never had one”

I followed him in.

The door shut behind us with a hydraulic sigh, sealing out the humid noise of the city. Fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead, pale and clinical. The air smelled like dust, old wires, and the metallic chill of a place not meant for visitors.

But my thoughts weren’t on the corridor. They were on him.

I realized, not for the first time, that there were entire years of his life I couldn’t see—years spent in places I couldn’t imagine, with people I didn’t know. Had he really gone to high school at all?

I watched the way he moved ahead of me, confident without posturing, familiar with every step like he’d rehearsed this path countless times. And for a moment, the strangeness of it all settled in my chest like a stone.

Who was this man?

We descended into the Yamada Building’s cargo area through a service entrance tucked behind loading docks and industrial fans. The air was thick with diesel and the drone of freight elevators. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, throwing harsh shadows across stacks of containers and plastic-wrapped pallets.

Workers in coveralls drifted past like ghosts, barely noticing two more punks threading through the tunnels. Down here, in the belly of corporate Japan, survival meant keeping your head down and your mouth shut.

That’s when I spotted him.

A broad-shouldered figure in monk’s robes—completely out of place in the industrial sprawl. He loaded flour sacks and olive oil bottles into a crate with the ease of long practice. Too smooth. Too precise for a holy man.

When he straightened and wiped his hands on a flour-dusted cloth tucked into his rope belt, I caught sight of his face. Definitely not Japanese. Sun-darkened skin, laugh lines carved deep around his eyes, and the kind of weathered features that suggested he’d seen more of the world than monastery walls.

He glanced up at us casually—two punks weaving through the service corridors probably weren’t worth a second thought down here. His gaze swept over me, then moved to Ryoji with mild, distracted curiosity.

Then Ryoji just… stopped. And stared.

Not aggressively. Not obviously. Just that particular brand of meaningful eye contact that said: Look closer.

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The monk blinked, tilting his head slightly. He squinted at Ryoji’s spiked hair, the heavy eyeliner, the torn jacket held together with patches and attitude. His brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a puzzle written in a language he’d forgotten.

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant clang of machinery and echoing footsteps.

I could practically see the gears turning behind the monk’s eyes, grinding slowly through layers of confusion.

Then—like a lightbulb finally flickering to life—his eyes went wide.

“Wait…” he muttered, flour-dusted hands frozen mid-wipe. “Wait, wait, wait…”

His voice dropped to a whisper of pure disbelief.

“RYOJI?!”

“Ryoji!” he called out, throwing his arms wide. “Bello mio, come stai?!”

The accent was thick, musical, unmistakably southern Italian.

Ryoji didn’t even pause in his stride. “Lorenzo,” he replied with a slight nod. “Bene, grazie.”

I blinked, watching this surreal exchange unfold. An Italian monk-baker loading pizza ingredients at a Japanese corporate building, greeting my mysterious bodyguard like an old friend.

Of course. Because apparently, Ryoji’s network included everyone from zaibatsu owners to Neapolitan pizzaiolos turned Buddhist monks.

The strangeness of it all didn’t just settle in my chest anymore—it bloomed there, spreading through my ribs like wildfire.

What kind of world had I stumbled into?

The monk’s voice carried a thick Italian accent even when he switched to Japanese, like he was translating each word as it left his mouth.

“How’s the master?” Ryoji asked, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of genuine concern.

“Fine, fine. Old age has caught up with him, yet he still keeps training before sunrise every morning.” The monk shook his head with fond exasperation. “Why are you dressed… like a punk? Oh wait, I don’t even want to know.”

Ryoji’s expression shifted slightly. “How’s Rika?”

The question hit the monk like a gut punch. His face fell, and he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Oh, well… she’s been very determined as of late. Reika and Momochi came to the temple last month, and Rika almost skewered them both. Almost.”

“She’s the only one in Japan who actually could.”

I blinked, completely lost. Who were they talking about? Before I could even open my mouth to ask, Ryoji gave my shoulder a gentle pat and switched back to Italian.

“I’ll stop by for dinner sometime,” he continued with the ghost of a smile.

The monk’s eyes widened in alarm. “Devi proprio?!?!”

“Rika non è l’unica ad allenarsi,” Ryoji replied calmly.

“Ah… bene.” The monk nodded, though he still looked worried.

Ryoji motioned for me to walk with him, already turning toward the service tunnel that would take us deeper into the building.

“Mi raccomando Ryoji!! Ci conto eh!!” the monk called after us, waving with flour still dusting his sleeves.

As we walked away, I shot Ryoji a sideways glance. Another piece of his mysterious puzzle, another name I didn’t recognize, another conversation in a language that felt like code even when I understood the words.

Who was Rika? And why did mentioning her make both men look like they’d swallowed glass?

We walked through a quiet loading corridor, past crates and mop sinks, then turned into a service lounge with a glass panel desk and a woman seated behind it. Before we could approach, she gestured silently to a circular platform near the wall—something between a body scanner and a minimalist elevator.

Stepping onto it, one at a time, a soft hum surrounded us as a ring of pale blue light swept up and down, scanning from boots to hairline. It was clinical, cold, precise. Took less than five minutes for both.

Then Ryoji stepped forward without hesitation and exchanged a few hushed words with her. She didn’t question the clothes. Didn’t even blink.

Just listened, nodded, and slid him a plastic keycard.

It took maybe two minutes. I stood by the wall the whole time, arms crossed, pretending not to stare. Pretending not to be on the edge of asking every question my brain could form.

Where were we?!

Why were we being followed?

Why had everything cracked open before we even made it out of Osaka?

And Mosan.

The name alone sent a chill up my spine.

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It wasn’t weather research. That much I knew. It didn’t take a genius to guess bioengineering had nothing to do with barometers. But then what did it have to do with my father?

Couldn’t I just call him?

I didn’t even know what I’d say.

Ryoji turned back toward me, card in hand, and motioned with his head. “Come on.”

I followed. Again.

We entered a side elevator lobby—silent, cold. But this time the elevator waiting for us wasn’t metal. It was glass.

Floor to ceiling. Clear on every side.

My steps faltered. “That’s…”

He flicked the card, and the door opened with a whisper. He stepped in.

I didn’t.

Not at first.

But I couldn’t stall forever.

So I stepped in after him.

And the moment the door slid shut and the ground slipped away, I knew I’d made a mistake.

I wasn’t afraid of heights. Or I hadn’t been. But this—this was different.

The city dropped below us like a collapsing stage set. Buildings shrank. Cars became toys. I saw reflections in every pane, light warping, depth folding into nothing.

My hands moved without permission.

I grabbed his arm.

Fingers curled tight.

I should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t.

“First time in a glass elevator?” he asked, glancing down.

I nodded, too stiff to pretend otherwise.

He smiled. Just a little. “You are getting really clingy.”

I wanted to snap back. Tease him. Anything to feel in control.

But my stomach was somewhere near the fifteenth floor.

Was he warming up to me? Was he enjoying this?

God, I wish I wasn’t so scared. I’d have read that smile like a map.

But all I could do was hold on.

And rise.

Above the 47th floor. Past the floor numbers. Into space that wasn’t mapped or named.

Until the elevator stopped.

And the doors slid open.

The elevator doors parted with a hush—and the air changed.

Sterile. Too clean. Like stepping into a surgical ward in a science fiction film. The light was colder here, whiter. Soft-glow panels lined the corridor, and silence pressed in—no signage, no offices, just seamless matte-white doors. Identical. Sealed. No labs in sight. An ICU for machines.

Ryoji walked like he’d done this a hundred times.

At the corridor’s end, one door glowed faint green. He went straight for it, placed his palm on the pad. A tone chirped, the door slid open—

—and the cold, clinical hall gave way to chaos.

The room inside was massive, bright but windowless. Half lab, half server room, half scrapyard. Steel and glass workstations sprawled without order. Schematics, cables, CRT monitors, surgical trays, metal chassis, biometric lenses. Machines blinked and hummed from every wall—some running, some gutted mid-disassembly.

Rails and fiber bundles webbed the ceiling. In one corner, a hologram of a brain spun slowly—except this one had four hemispheres.

And at the heart of it, standing on a rolling chair and waving a soldering tool like a conductor’s baton, was… a boy.

Short. Ridiculously short. Maybe 140 centimeters, if that. An oversized lab coat swallowed him, sleeves shoved to the elbows. Tinted goggles made his head look too big for his body. He could’ve passed for twelve—until his voice cracked when he saw Ryoji.

“NIISANNNNN!”

The scream nearly knocked a robot off the table.

Before I could register it, the boy launched himself across the room—rolled chair and all—and slammed into Ryoji with the uncoordinated force of someone who had never been told to grow up. He latched onto him like a heat-seeking missile, grinning ear to ear.

“Yokatta! You came! I told Aneki you’d never stay away too long!”

He stepped back with sparkling eyes, adjusting his goggles. “Still too cool to call? No matter. I forgive you. Welcome, shiraiai no otōto-san! Future brother-in-law!”

My brain hiccuped.

Wait. What?

Reika’s little brother?

This chaotic lab troll in goggles?

This was the heir to the Yamada name?

And—future brother-in-law?!

My eyes ping-ponged between the boy and Ryoji, who had not denied the title. He just exhaled in mock defeat and ruffled the kid’s head like they did this every week.

I suddenly remembered how to blink.

There were so many questions, I didn’t know which to scream first.

But the loudest was forming its own knot in my stomach.

What exactly happened between him and Reika?

Interlude 7

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