The rain had just begun to fall as the black luxury car pulled up outside the crumbling apartment complex. A trio of men in sleek suits stepped out first, scanning the area. Then came her—Takeshita Reika—the Crimson Widow. Her black umbrella was adorned with a crimson thread that matched the lining of her kimono. She moved with the grace of a queen and the silence of a ghost.

Room 304 was a humid, smoke-choked place that reeked of unwashed dishes and old alcohol. The parents sat on the stained couch, barely disguising their impatience. The mother, rail-thin and jittery, looked like she was trying to decide between greed and guilt. The father didn’t even pretend—his eyes were fixed on the briefcase in Reika’s hand like a predator staring at prey.

And then there he was.

The boy peeked out from behind the couch—small, frail, with a mop of black hair and wide, confused eyes. Seven years old. Mute from neglect. He clutched a worn plush bunny with no ears, the only comfort he seemed to have in the world.

Reika’s gaze met his.

For a moment, everything in her stopped—her heart, her breath, the crushing weight of years past. That gaze, so full of fear and innocence... it wasn’t the same as her son’s. But it was close enough.

She spoke coldly, businesslike. “You understand the arrangement?”

The father nodded, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Yeah, yeah. You get the kid, we get the cash. Clean. No take-backs.”

The mother flinched. “He’s a good boy... I mean, sometimes. Just quiet. Doesn’t eat much. Easy to—”

Reika silenced her with a look.

She knelt slowly, eye-level with the boy. Her expression softened slightly, just enough to scare the parents into silence. She reached out, gloved fingers brushing his cheek.

“What’s your name, little one?”

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His lips trembled.

Reika gave a slow, shallow nod. “It doesn’t matter. That name was given to you by people who don’t love you. From today on... you are Shouta. You’re mine now.”

The mother tried to speak again, but Reika opened the briefcase on the table—neatly stacked yen bills, more money than either of them would ever see again. The parents’ eyes lit up like pigs in a slaughterhouse.

The father laughed nervously. “That’s... more than we asked for.”

Reika stood. Her voice went cold again. “Consider it a parting gift. You will forget he ever existed.”

The guards stepped forward. One handed the boy a small suitcase—already packed by Reika’s people. Another took the briefcase.

The boy stared back at his birth parents as he was gently ushered out the door. Neither one said goodbye.

In the hallway, Reika took the boy’s small hand into her own.

“You’re safe now, baby,” she whispered, her voice almost maternal. “You don’t need to think anymore. Mommy will do all the thinking for you.”

And as they disappeared into the night, the boy’s old life faded behind them—sold, forgotten.

Reika never looked back.