The stage floated high above the ruined beauty of Neo-Tokyo, an opulent broadcast station gliding silently through the smog-choked sky like a shrine to lost grandeur. Golden light spilled across a platform of polished obsidian, reflecting the jagged silhouettes of towering skyscrapers below—broken, half-abandoned relics of a world that once dared to dream of forever.

The station's design was a breathtaking fusion of old and new. Hanging silk banners, embroidered with delicate sakura blossoms, rippled gently in the artificial breeze, while crystalline screens projected real-time feeds of the gathering public far below. From a distance, the entire structure resembled a floating temple caught between centuries, defying the slow decay swallowing the earth beneath it.

At the very center of this shimmering stage, seated beneath a canopy of steel and glass shaped like unfolding petals, was Haruki Saito. The crown prince of grace and stability. The living symbol of the Saito Clan's unbroken legacy.

He wore his clan's formal attire: a snow-white robe threaded with silver filigree, cinched neatly at the waist with a soft violet sash. The fabric shimmered subtly under the lights, the pattern of sakura blossoms winding through the folds like whispered prayers. His long, pale hair—silken and snow-white, like the legacy he carried—was brushed straight and decorated with two traditional floral-print ribbons, its soft colours barely visible beneath the stage lights. A few delicate strands framed his face, accentuating the smooth curve of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes.

Before him sat a semi-circle of interviewers, some human and some robotic, faces polished to mirror-like smoothness, voices perfectly neutral. Cameras hovered silently in the air, capturing every measured expression, every graceful movement. The broadcast stretched outward like a living pulse, transmitting Haruki's image across the fragments of surviving Japan and beyond.

The questions came, polished and diplomatic, each one carefully crafted to protect the fragile illusion of unity. Haruki answered with the precision expected of him, his voice calm, his gestures measured to perfection.

"The Saito Clan envisions a future where tradition and innovation walk hand in hand," he said. "Where honour is not lost to the passage of time, but carried forward, renewed. Where peace is not a fantasy, but a foundation for all to stand upon."

Each word was a performance, rehearsed until it sounded effortless. Each smile was a porcelain mask, hiding the ache that gnawed at him beneath the silk and ceremony.

Elegant and composed on the surface, Haruki shone as brightly as they demanded of him. But beneath the practiced grace, his heart trembled.

His hands were steady, but deep within, he could feel the phantom of old tremors stirring in his chest. He spoke of peace as if it were tangible, yet he knew, more than most, that the world below him was broken—fractured beyond the poetry of promises.

The clans were no longer the guardians of the nation. They were symbols, fantasies woven into flesh, idols the people clung to so they could pretend stability still existed.

And Haruki delivered it perfectly.

Because if not him, then who?

He was a dove painted in gold leaf, caged and polished until he gleamed, beautiful and fragile, imprisoned by duty.

And yet he smiled. And he spoke. And he shined.

Because that was what was expected of him. Because that was what he was born for.

The broadcast hummed through the airwaves, flooding neon-lit cafés, cracked public squares, and glittering high-rise lounges still clinging to life.

Across Neo-Tokyo and beyond, people paused their lives to watch him.

To many, Haruki Saito was not a boy. He was a legend wrapped in silk.

A symbol of a Japan that refused to collapse, a beautiful dream lingering in a broken world.

Citizens watched with awe and admiration, but also with a thread of envy.

"He's perfect."
"The Saito Clan never falls."
"If only others were half as dignified..."

Mothers hushed their children. Elderly men raised quiet glasses of sake. Young officials studied Haruki's every movement, wishing they could mirror even a fraction of his poise.

Very few wondered who he was beneath the robes. Very few dared imagine the weight he carried behind the perfection.

Because they needed him. Because if the illusion of peace failed, everything else would crumble.

Seated under the cold glow of the stage lights, Haruki answered another question, his voice smooth and unwavering.

"The unity of our people is not a relic of the past. It is our future."

Each word was a performance. Each smile, a mask.

On the surface, Haruki shone with elegance. Inside, he felt hollow, stretched thin by years of expectations he could no longer shoulder alone.

Movement suddenly caught the corner of his eye, snapping him back to reality.

Far below, at the edges of the crowded platform where journalists and minor officials gathered, something shifted.

A figure. Still. Out of place.

Haruki's heart stumbled before he could stop it.

He let his gaze drift, careful not to seem distracted.

There, for just a moment, he saw him.

A hooded figure stood in the shadows, silver hair slipping free and gleaming under the lights. He was still, watching, unmoving, while the rest of the world buzzed with applause and chatter.

Haruki forgot how to breathe.

Their eyes met across the distance, silent and unbreakable.

Before Haruki could react, the figure disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise and movement.

Was it real? A trick of loneliness? He could not tell.

He forced his hands to stay still, forced his voice to remain calm for the closing words of the interview.

Yet behind the mask, his heart hammered against his chest.

He already knew.

The interview ended with a polite bow, the final words echoing hollowly against the high glass walls. Applause rose from the audience below, carefully timed and orchestrated by unseen officials, but to Haruki, it sounded distant, almost unreal, like the crashing of waves against a shore he would never reach.

He rose with practiced grace, smoothing the fine silk of his robe with one hand as he turned from the stage. Cameras flashed once more, capturing his composed figure against the backdrop of a city struggling to remember its former grandeur. The floral hair ties caught the light, a small, delicate rebellion against the heaviness of tradition stitched into every thread of his existence.

Haruki smiled faintly, a polite tilt of the lips, and allowed himself to be guided away from the platform by silent attendants. The corridors behind the stage stretched long and empty, filled with the muted hum of machinery and the faint, lingering scent of polished stone. His footsteps fell softly against the floor, the sound swallowed quickly by the cavernous halls.

The weight of the evening pressed harder against his shoulders with every step. The applause faded. The cameras were gone. Only silence remained, filling the space around him like water closing over a drowning man.

Haruki did not rush. That would be undignified. But there was a growing tightness in his chest that he could not ignore, a pulse of something frantic clawing at the edges of his calm.

He had seen him.

Even if it had been a trick of the mind, even if loneliness had conjured ghosts from the shadows, the image of silver hair catching the light and blue-grey eyes burning through the crowd would not leave him.

By the time Haruki reached the shuttle pad at the far end of the floating station, night had fully claimed the city below. Lights glittered like distant stars, blurred and broken by the mist rising from the streets. The shuttle door slid open with a soft hiss, and Haruki stepped inside, sinking into one of the low seats.

The shuttle detached soundlessly from the platform, gliding into the night. Inside, the cabin was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of navigation panels and the muted reflection of Neo-Tokyo's broken skyline slipping past below.

Haruki sat motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, his posture perfect even now, though inside he felt hollow.

The city flickered beneath him like a dying constellation. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone else could see how fragile it all was—how easily the grand promises he spoke of could turn to ash.

The pod's engine thrummed softly, a soothing, almost meditative sound. For a brief moment, Haruki allowed himself to close his eyes, pretending the world outside did not exist, pretending he was just another boy heading home from a long night.

The peace was short-lived.

A soft chime echoed through the cabin. The communication panel lit up with a symbol he knew too well.

Incoming Call — Private Line: Saito Estate.

Haruki opened his eyes, the fragile illusion of peace shattering instantly. His hand moved automatically, graceful even in exhaustion, and pressed the receive key.

The screen blinked to life.

His father's face appeared first, stern and composed as always. The familiar sharpness in Harumichi Saito's pink eyes carried even through the distorted signal. A moment later, Ayame Saito materialized beside him, her expression poised and unreadable—the perfect portrait of a Saito wife.

For a second, no one spoke.

Haruki bowed his head slightly, the trained smile returning to his lips.

"Father. Mother," he greeted, his voice calm and respectful, though his chest tightened painfully with the effort.

Harumichi did not return the greeting. Instead, his voice cut through the air, precise and heavy.

"The interview proceeded as expected."

It was not a question. It was a command already fulfilled.

Haruki nodded once.

"Yes, Father."

Ayame tilted her head slightly, her dark brown eyes scanning Haruki as if searching for flaws invisible to anyone but her.

"You presented yourself well," she said. "The reporters are already praising your poise."

Another statement. Cold, detached.

Haruki lowered his gaze respectfully, hiding the flicker of emotion rising behind his eyes.

Praise from them was not affection. It was simply an acknowledgment that he had performed his duty correctly.

"I am grateful," he murmured.

Harumichi's eyes narrowed further, sharp as blades.

"Do not grow complacent," he warned, his voice slicing cleanly through the fragile air. "You are my son. Your distinguishing pink eyes and white hair declare it to the world. You are Saito blood, and you will carry this legacy without stain or hesitation."

Haruki inhaled slowly, steadying himself before offering another bow, smaller this time, more mechanical.

"I understand, Father."

Ayame's voice followed, smooth as silk but no less demanding.

"There will be a summit next month. You are to represent the Saito Clan again. Preparations begin immediately."

Haruki bowed his head lower, the weight of their expectations settling over him like a second skin.

"Of course, Mother."

Ayame's voice sharpened slightly as she spoke the final words.

"Remember, Haruki. You are the face of stability. You are not allowed mistakes."

The screen flickered once, and the call ended without ceremony.

Haruki sat back in his seat, exhaling a slow, steady breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

Outside, the night swallowed the world whole. The pod sped onward toward the distant glimmer of the Saito Estate, cutting silently through the darkness.

Haruki turned back to the window, his reflection faint and ghostlike against the glass. He touched the floral tie in his hair lightly, almost without thinking, seeking comfort in the small, fragile rebellion it represented.

Somewhere beyond the shattered city, he knew Xavier was waiting.

And for the first time in years, Haruki allowed himself the smallest, most dangerous hope:

Maybe this time, he wouldn't have to stand alone.