Tokyo, Present-Day
The hallway outside the ICU buzzed with a cold, fluorescent indifference, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to every breath. Machines beeped with mechanical precision, each tone a cruel reminder that Akiko Takahashi was still alive—but barely. Her mother sat rigidly on the edge of the bench, hands white-knuckled around a damp tissue that had long since given up the fight. Her father, eyes sunken and unreadable, rested a hand on her knee as if trying to anchor them both to a reality that no longer made sense. He hadn't spoken in half an hour. He looked older—like five years had collapsed into one long, brutal night.
Across from the family, Renji stood with his back to the ICU window, watching the rain smear down the glass like it had nothing better to do. He hadn't cried. Not once. Not when Akiko was wheeled into surgery with her blood pooling beneath her. Not even when the doctor whispered something that made Yuki, Akiko and Mika's mother stagger against the wall. He just stood there, like he'd been carved into place. He didn't look shattered. He didn't look sorry. He didn't look like much of anything at all.
Mika sat beside her mother, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes dry and far too focused for someone who was supposed to be grieving. She hadn't spoken much since arriving, but it wasn't grief that kept her quiet. It was something else. Something unreadable. When her mother had asked, voice trembling, "Why was Akiko alone?" Mika had only shrugged and said, "She needed air," like it was obvious. Like that was enough.
Now, just a few feet from the machines keeping her sister alive, Mika didn't feel guilt clawing at her chest. She didn't feel anything close to regret. What she felt was inconvenience. The sharp, unpleasant tug of a life derailed—not from cruelty, but from the sheer fact of it all. It had happened. And now they were here. Her sister was broken. And Mika was expected to fall apart, too.
While Renji looked at Akiko the way someone might look at an old photo—recognizable, but distant. The girl behind the glass was too still, too colorless. A ghost in real time. He remembered her energy, the precision in her movements, the way she never let a single detail slip. But he didn't ache at the sight of her like everyone else seemed to. There was no trembling lip. No haunted stare. Just an eerie, quiet vacancy.
Renji and Mika hadn't come together. They hadn't spoken since the crash. But somehow, they still mirrored each other: calm, sober-faced, untouched by the emotional unraveling happening around them. They stood out not because of what they had done—but because of what they didn't feel. Or couldn't.
But just as Hiroshi turned away, a sound sliced through the silence—a long, jagged beep from the monitor behind the glass. Not frantic, not flatline—just wrong. Startling enough that everyone in the room froze.
The nurse rushed in, checking the wires and frowning at the screen, muttering something about interference. Nothing seemed to have changed. But the silence that followed was heavier. Thicker. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
Renji stepped forward instinctively, but Mika's hand shot out, stopping him. Her fingers were cold. Steady.
"Don't," she said, her voice quieter than a whisper. "Not yet."
Their parents didn't notice. Yuki was praying now, hushed and desperate. Hiroshi's hands were balled into fists. But Renji looked down at Mika—really looked—and for the first time that night, he saw something he couldn't name flicker behind her eyes. Something ancient.
And when she turned to the glass again, watching her sister's lifeless form beneath the dim hospital lights, she wasn't crying. She was... waiting.
That night, when the family had gone home in shifts and the nurses dimmed the lights, Akiko's monitors beeped steadily in rhythm with her breath. One nurse remained by her side, brushing her hair gently as she whispered soft reassurances in the dark. "You've got visitors who love you," she said. "Come back soon, alright?" But somewhere, across time and beyond the veil of consciousness, Akiko—now Kiyomi—was wide awake in a world that had no mercy. And the girl in the hospital bed remained silent, her pulse steady, her brain echoing with a silence only she could hear. Between those heartbeats, something ancient had awakened.
***
Old Japan, Present-Day
The palace was too beautiful. That was the first thing Kiyomi noticed as her carriage rolled through the gates of Tsukimura Castle. The stone walls, once feared to be oppressive, were instead draped in wisteria and crowned by cherry blossoms in early bloom. Gold-tipped towers gleamed beneath the sunlight. Musicians played gentle koto melodies near the lotus pond. It was, without a doubt, the most serene place she'd ever seen—and that's what terrified her.
Nothing this calm could be trusted. As the footmen opened the carriage doors and the scent of sakura drifted in, she stepped down, her silken slippers brushing against the polished stones. Six other women stood near the entrance, all clad in formal robes, each more dazzling than the next. Their faces betrayed nothing—though their eyes flicked toward her like knives. Kiyomi lowered her gaze, letting her long lashes veil her thoughts. Whatever game this was, she would not be the first to blink.
A young chamberlain stepped forward, smiling with impeccable politeness. "Welcome, Lady Kiyomi no Tsukihara. You are the seventh maiden. The final one." His tone held no warmth, only precision. He gestured gracefully toward the inner gates. "The King has commanded that each of you be given your own residence within the East Wing. Servants have been assigned. Mirrors, libraries, silks—anything you desire, you may ask.
His Majesty prefers contentment to chaos." His words hung with elegance, but Kiyomi heard the subtext clearly: comfort was a leash. She followed him in silence, past carved halls and paper doors painted with foxes and cranes. Every room she glimpsed dripped with beauty, from the gilded edge of the tatami mats to the celadon porcelain at the tea stands. But something about it all felt… staged. Too perfect. The kind of luxury that masked a cage.
Her room was breathtaking. A lacquered writing desk, ink stones shaped like lotus petals, and a tall mirror framed in mother-of-pearl. A deep soaking tub steamed in the adjoining chamber. Her maid, a girl named Hana, bowed shyly and offered her freshly steeped jasmine tea. Kiyomi sipped it slowly, watching her reflection in the mirror. The bruises on her neck had faded into shadows.
The woman staring back no longer looked beaten, only guarded. But the whispers from earlier still rang in her ears—"the whore who tried to seduce the King," they said. "The shame of Tsukihara." She had inherited this woman's face, name, and sins. But Kiyomi, once Dr. Akiko Takahashi, refused to accept her defeat. She needed to learn everything—fast. About this King. About the other maidens. About the rules of this glittering, murderous game.
They were not locked inside. In fact, they were encouraged to roam the palace gardens, converse with their rivals, and attend poetry readings and archery displays. But everything felt watched. Even the sparrows on the veranda seemed to report back to someone. One afternoon, as Kiyomi walked the pond path, she overheard two maidens whispering behind a painted fan. "They say Lady Kaede came from the South Seas," said one, "but I think she's the daughter of a Samurai warlord."
The other smirked. "She killed her last fiancé. Poison." When they noticed Kiyomi, the fan snapped shut. "Oh, look. The whore of Tsukihara." Kiyomi tilted her head sweetly and the maids offered a slow, mocking bow, but Kiyomi said nothing and walked on, heart racing. The more they underestimated her, the better. Let them think her powerless. She would use their assumptions as armor.
Days passed. She met each of the other maidens formally—Lady Suzume, the scholar from the west; Lady Rika, daughter of the Chancellor; Lady Ayane, the rumored killer; and the rest. All smiles, all serpents. But it was on the fifth day that she understood how truly twisted this place was.
During an evening moon-viewing, a courtier told a joke about the "last Maiden Wars," and everyone laughed—except Kiyomi. "What happened?" she asked, feigning innocence. One of the elder court ladies, draped in twilight-blue robes, sipped her sake and said softly, "The King never chooses a bride. He chooses who dies last." The laughter dimmed. Someone played a note too sharply on the shamisen. Kiyomi's blood turned cold. Was it just a cruel joke? Or had every Maiden Wars ended not in love, but in blood?
That night, alone in her room, Kiyomi stood before the mirror. The moonlight filtered through her rice-paper screens, silvering the edges of her hair. She whispered to her reflection, "What did you do, Kiyomi no Tsukihara? And why does the King want you here?" There was no answer. Only her own eyes, too modern for this world, too sharp for submission. She would play this game—but on her terms. Win his favor? Perhaps. Uncover the truth? Absolutely. She needed allies. She needed answers. And most of all, she needed to survive. As she turned to douse the lanterns, a breeze slipped in through the slats, carrying with it a whisper—low, girlish, and terrified.
"He's never chosen a bride. He chooses who dies last."