Chapter 4: Rush Hour Crucible

Tokyo's morning commute pinned me in the train's steel jaws. Perfume and salaryman sweat fused into a nauseating fog against my throat. The azure dress clung like betrayal — its first public debut now reduced to fabric armor against groping hands. 

Shangguan's call came as I emerged from the station's cattle chute. "Change of plans." His new burner number flashed ominously. "I'm picking you up." 

The BMW Z4 materialized like cerulean sin. Shangguan leaned across Italian leather, morning light fracturing in his lenses. "You look—" 

"Like a walking sexual harassment lawsuit?" I snapped, clutching my tote of bento boxes. His laughter died when I bolted to deliver Erena's lunch, corporate vultures already circling the lobby. 

Road sickness hit halfway to IMA. Shangguan's palm hovered near my spine as I retched in the parking garage, his Rolex ticking louder than my humiliation. "Second floor," he ordered in the elevator, reappearing with mineral water that cost more than my hourly wage. 

Conference room warfare commenced at 10:17AM. 

Keigo-laden hellos turned predatory as female executives swarmed. I became invisible — until Ryōsuke materialized with a tennis club VIP pass. "Erena's idea," he whispered, sunlight catching his law school ring. Our staged lunch escape left Shangguan besieged by Lacquered Hyenas™ at a Michelin-starred trap. 

"Rescue him," Ryōsuke goaded over miso ramen. 

"Why?" 

"Because you're taking his dry cleaning receipts to the grave." 

The extraction required Oscar-worthy theatrics. I invented three international calls and a custody battle emergency, Shangguan's gratitude burning hotter than the whiskey in his abandoned glass. 

By dusk, the BMW's convertible top stayed raised. "Drop me at the office," I rasped, bone-deep exhaustion seeping through designer fabric. "Need Erena's lunchbox." 

His profile hardened. "You realize they'll say we slept together?" 

"Let them." I stared at glowing skyscrapers. "Gossip dies faster than ethics here." 

We both knew the lie. Tomorrow's tabloid-ready rumors would outlive us — fuel for the corporate hydra forever hungry for fresh sacrifices.