Four years ago, Lan was a happy man. A useless, nothing of a man, but happy. The reason why always made him feel guilty. When no one expects anything of you, you start to expect nothing of yourself. And thus, Lan’s destructive impulses started much, much earlier than four years ago.

Lan Satake’s father was a very, very successful man. As CEO of the Satake Group, Satake Toshio worked for his fortune. Everything was business. Everything was negotiation. Everything had a price. Toshio held himself confidently no matter where he was, he had brought the group kicking and screaming into the 21st century.

As dependent as Japan was on rice, land was at a premium. Toshio’s father recognized this and taught him enough to know that not production, but harvesting and fabrication were the future, but he was not grateful for his predecessors. The rice his machines processed in other countries were only possible from the first power driven mill. Times change, cities expand, rural becomes suburban, becomes urban. Food once local is now imported, so the machines can be exported. A shifting landscape of business. Everything was business. Relationships, especially, were business.

It was inevitable for heirs or heiresses, presidents, CEOs, and their offspring to mingle with each other. The world didn’t evolve without it, true deals were face-to-face, anything less was insulting. Accompanying his plainly suited father, Toshio shadowed along behind him in a perfectly-fitted tuxedo, observing his movements and mannerisms.

His father had chided him for his choice in clothing, but it was formal, and acceptable. Toshio thought his father’s choice of a simple suit was a.. lower representation of the Satake name. His father would chuckle and shake his head. When no one expects anything of you, his father would reply, you can do anything.

Toshio would nod and listen, but he intended to be his own man. After all, personal growth is as important as corporate growth. But even after business school across the ocean, he came with only historical knowledge, market analysis. Toshio valued that, but it was the experience in person of watching his father work that he took in like a sponge.

It was much to his chagrin that early on accompanying his father, Toshio would be delegated to those heir’s princes, the CEO’s sons and daughters. There had been a few he had kept his eye on, who were just as intent on succeeding as he was. Then there were the boys and girls of leisure that wanted nothing to do with where the money came from, just that it kept them in the lifestyle that they were accustomed to: doing anything at anytime to anyone, anywhere they saw fit.

The latter disgusted him, he’d smile and nod, most knew English, and he was fluent, but their conversations would eventually drift into the latest car, or mansion, or plaything they had acquired. Toshio would find an excuse to withdraw from the conversation, neither leaving a positive or negative impression on them. Neutrality, his father taught, is a simple skill to play with, but hard to master.

Except, he found, when it came to Emma Matsui nee Greene.

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She stared down at the vegetable plate one of the servers had handed her. Specifically, the cucumber slices. Picking one up and popping it into her mouth, she considered her surroundings. Perfectly dressed, perfectly acted, perfectly choreographed. She was used to it at this point, but this moment in time, cucumber slice in mouth, it came to her.

Everyone here is.. well, a cucumber. She smiled proudly to herself at this comparison. To her, it made perfect sense.

On their own, cucumbers are.. mildly tasteless. They can be interesting, even bitter if the rind is left on. Her eyes scanned the crowd until she found what she was looking for: an impeccably dressed older woman, drink in hand, frown on her face. Bitter. And nothing.

But, cucumbers can be.. developed. Refined. Or perverted. Take.. pickles, for example. A slumped man at the bar fingered his drink – certainly not his first and if the bartender was worth his salt, hopefully his last. Disheveled and here for the booze. They can be fun, but too much salt in the brine.. hm.

Or as a Tzatziki. A light, fluffy yogurt-based-- athletic looking man, obviously proud of his physique and.. she stifled a smirk at his overly sprayed on tan.

And then there were the reasons why cool as a cucumber was a saying. Why they were refreshing, lending to a fresh scent, placed over eyes at spas, and were so.. recognizable.

Emma set her small plate on a cocktail table nearby, watching the motions of a sharply dressed Asian man in a tuxedo. He flit from conversation to conversation, mingling with his elders as well as his own age. It was intriguing. He adjusted his glasses in minutiae, with gloved hands, she knew exactly what was going on. That man—boy, she mused. He thinks he’s better than they are.

Glancing at her own parents briefly, she linked her fingers behind her back and started after him, but not to engage in conversation. A game. He had observational skills, so, the young 26-year-old Emma Matsui set off after her target.