Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
13. Security & Shadows
Coming of Age Story: 13. Security & Shadows - Defenceman: Parallel Ice (A Non-Canonical Saga) builds on Cold Creek’s Defenceman series while offering a new interpretation. Michael Stewart’s journey extends beyond the rink into intrigue, modeling, and the launch of his AI: Aegis. From Ann Arbor to London, Japan, and Spain, the story explores honor, love, betrayal, and resilience. Rivals and allies test his limits in the arena, courts and shadows—where triumph demands sacrifice and heart both on and off the ice.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty
Early June 2010
Silent Watch: Jack Danner
The week after the Northern Edge launch felt too quiet — an unnatural quiet that follows an explosion before anyone decides whether to cheer or rebuild. The code had gone live cleanly, servers balanced across continents, and the first-week analytics looked like what every investor dreams of: steady, repeatable growth.
Melissa Travers called it “contained success.”
Kiyomi Matsuda described it as “acceptable noise.”
Hanna, who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, just smiled into her second energy drink and said,
“Trending, but not viral — exactly how we planned.”
They were proud, but they all understood what was to come next. Visibility is an invitation. The moment Northern Edge appeared on public websites, it painted a target on the people who built it — especially Michael. A gold-medal athlete turned coder-entrepreneur made a story the tabloids could sell by the headline. For the wrong readers, that story was leverage.
The Matsuda Compound in Ann Arbor became the new command post. The extended family gathered there: Kiyomi, Rika, Takeru, Hiroto, Ryuichi Matsuda — Mitsy’s father and current head of the family — and his father, Takeshi Matsuda (Senior), joined by Melissa, Hanna, and Bill Dixon from the legal side. Even Sensei Ogata checked in between training sessions. The Duke of Castile acknowledged the launch from Madrid, while the Queen’s Private Secretary confirmed the Crown’s awareness from London. From Tokyo, Kenji Yamamoto sent a short BBM through the Compound line — pleased with Kim’s dedication and the early success.
No one uses open email anymore. Every message moved through BBM, its traffic wrapped inside the Matsuda VPN that bounced through Tokyo before reaching Ann Arbor. Voice communication was limited to landlines — hard-wired, limited, and logged. Mobiles were for logistics or misdirection, never detail. Everyone assumed a cell was compromised. Paranoia’s a luxury until it turns out to be accuracy.
I didn’t need their memos to see it coming. The moment the press embargo broke, I knew what would follow. When the others powered down and finally slept, I did the opposite — poured a mug of coffee, looked at the sensor board, and made the call I’d been delaying since February: every site, every wire, every wall — swept. If Northern Edge were a laser, I had to make sure no one used it to aim.
I time my breathing to the sweep — inhaling on the approach and exhaling on the pass — keeping the rhythm slow enough to catch a change in the wind. The condo complex looks peaceful at 05:42: dew on the grass, a newspaper half-folded by the breeze, streetlamps fading like they’re ashamed to be awake. Peace is the kind of lie people pay extra for. My job is to find who’s telling it.
I start with the edges. Garage sensor: Logs are clean, but the metal casing shows fresh scratches near the mounting screws — the edges are too sharp, with no sign of weathering. Someone’s been close enough to touch it, maybe trying to open the cover. I mark it. The keypad housing shows micro scratches along the lower lip — right where a pocket camera lens might press during a close inspection. Could be nothing. It could be someone rehearsing.
The alcove under the mailbox is the first confirmation. Most residents consider it a decorative recess. I think of it as a perfect hide. When I crouch, my fingertips trace along the lower edge — there’s a slight ridge where the surface should be smooth. A patch that doesn’t belong. I run a nail under it and feel the edge lift just enough to reveal the truth: a directional microphone, thumb-sized, disguised as chipped paint. The circuit board’s cheap, but the LTE modem attached to it isn’t. Whoever planted this knew where to shop. Paparazzi build, professional funding. Someone wants ambient sound — doors, laughter, names. They’ll strip context later to make headlines mean something else.
I bag the mic, photograph the position, and log the GPS tag. Fifteen years in protection work has taught me that evidence disappears faster than truth. I find its twin ten minutes later in the hedge facing the drive — same make, same epoxy. You don’t need dialogue to ruin a reputation. A laugh in the wrong frame does the job.
Inside Michael’s condo, the air smells faintly of breakfast — eggs, something with chives. He’s on the couch, half-curled, the faint shadow of bruises still visible along his forearms where training caught up with him. Healing isn’t always about injuries. Sometimes it’s about rest.
I move quietly enough not to wake him and start the network scan from the console on the side table. Hanna’s laptop and phone ping first — open comms, nothing suspicious. Two more laptops, Michael’s personal and project units, plus a single smart-enabled television — about as connected as a house gets in 2010. The rest of the system is older Matsuda tech: Asuka’s legacy cameras are still hidden in the corners, and the rooftop sensors Ren installed after the Yakuza incident. Their encrypted beacons check out — steady and silent. Then I see it — a low-bandwidth signal pulsing at precise intervals, out of phase with everything local. Not one of ours. The encryption is clean, professional, and annoyingly polite. It waits ten minutes between bursts, as if asking permission. That’s not a leak. That’s a listener.
I tag the anomaly and exit the console. Before I make assumptions, I send a BBM through the Compound line.
Takeru Matsuda answers from the Ann Arbor dojo, the rhythmic thud of practice strikes muffled in the background. He listens without interrupting, then nods once.
“If it’s out of phase with the system, it’s not ours,” he says. “Those rooftop sensors Ren installed after the Yakuza breach haven’t changed firmware in two years.”
“Copy. Any chance one of your people modified them locally?”
“Not here. But Asuka might have. She helped lay the wiring when we rebuilt the perimeter,” he replies, patching Hiroto into the landline.
Hiroto joins mid-sentence, voice edged with static. “Jack, if you suspect interference, speak with Asuka directly. She knows the original circuit paths and can tell you if any of her micro-cameras are still live. It’s better to confirm than assume.”
Kiyomi comes onto the landline — precise, steady. “Keep Rika looped in. She’ll handle field coordination if you need to test signal ranges. And Jack — be honest with Asuka. If she believes it’s about Michael, she’ll cooperate. Probably over-cooperate.”
That draws the faintest smile out of me. “Message received.”
The line clicks off, leaving only the quiet hum of equipment. I draft a short BBM for Asuka: Need verification on your legacy installs. Two anomalies detected. Possible foreign relay. Can we talk?
The Communication Triangle: Melissa Travers
At 07:10, the condo’s secure channel lights up. Melissa leads the briefing from Ann Arbor, voice calm, clipped with fatigue. “Press cycle’s holding. Top-tier outlets have picked up Northern Edge’s revenue model; no NCAA overlap has been reported yet. We keep messaging technical, not personal.”
Kiyomi joins from Ann Arbor, her backdrop the Compound study with sliding doors half-open to morning light. “Monitoring chatter from Japan’s esports sector through Yamamoto’s feed. Nothing unusual. However, Whitcombe’s media group just purchased ad slots in two Michigan business journals. That is not a coincidence.”
Hanna appears next, hoodie up, eyes bright with caffeine. “I’m seeing small account clusters cross-tagging Michael’s name with improper benefits. Bot behavior, low credibility, but the timing is suspicious.”
“Leave them,” Melissa says. “Better to map than delete. Rourke’s sending our evidence packet to the NCAA counsel this afternoon. We’ll need provenance.”
Kiyomi nods. “Jack, continue your sweeps. Assume external infiltration is coordinated with digital narrative pressure. One softens the other.”
“Copy,” I say. “And if it escalates?”
“Then we go to full shadows,” Melissa answers. “Quiet rooms, controlled exposure, zero-chance photography.”
Hanna grins. “That’s fancy talk for: he disappears till the hearing’s done. Got it.”
The call ends with three clicks. No good-byes. Just work.
Why it Matters: Jack Danner
Outside, Ann Arbor is waking — cars warming up, sprinklers hissing, joggers rehearsing their virtue. Inside, I catalog angles: windows with external sightlines, hallways that funnel movement, corners that echo differently when you’re being watched. Security isn’t paranoia. It’s pattern recognition under stress.
When I first took this job, Ogata Sensei told me something I didn’t understand until now: Protection is the art of removing coincidence. Every coincidence I remove today buys Michael one second more to breathe during the hearing week. That’s the economy we live in.
I finish the sweep around 09:00. By then, Michael’s in the dojo stretching through slow kata. The scar on his chest catches the morning light like a warning flare. Rika Sato joins him midway through a sequence — silent, deliberate, presence heavy enough to bend air. I watch from the doorway, unseen but not unwelcome.
When they finish, Rika crosses to me. “The floor’s clear,” she says. “You found what you expected?”
“Enough to know we were interesting,” I answer.
She inclines her head, understanding the understatement. For a heartbeat, we’re both remembering Asuka — the one who used to stand where Rika does now — and how easy trust can turn fragile when pride enters the room.
Rika breaks the silence first. “Asuka wrote this morning. She and Willow are finishing Spain tonight. Serbia next.”
“I know,” I say. “Tell her to be discreet on social media and use a VPN on public Wi-Fi. The last thing we need is her location metadata floating about.”
“She’ll listen,” Rika replies, but her tone admits uncertainty. “Maybe.”
“She’ll listen,” I repeat because the alternative is unthinkable.
By midday, Rourke confirms the NCAA hearing date — June 28th, Chicago. That gives us nine days. Nine days for Whitcombe’s Beltway lobbyists to seed whispers, nine days for his media contacts to circulate anonymous concerns. They’ll disguise envy as ethics. It’s a familiar play.
While I’m reassembling the door frame, Kiyomi calls through the secure channel.
“We’ve finished the trace on those mics,” she says. “Jack, the serial numbers were clean. Purchases ran through a Detroit distributor and a Toronto shell. Kenji’s people in Tokyo confirmed the pattern — same vendor network Whitcombe used during the Klein buyout.”
“I’ll settle for quiet,” I tell her.
“Quiet’s relative,” she replies. “Check tomorrow’s business section before breakfast.”
The line cuts with a soft click.
I already know what it will say — something harmless on the surface, like Rising Student-Athlete Blurs Line Between Sport and Start-Up. The kind of piece written to sound admiring while quietly questioning how a college player builds global infrastructure without crossing NCAA lines. The journalist’s name will likely be associated with a boutique PR firm out of Toronto — one of those “independent analysts” who only write when someone’s footing the bill. Follow the payments, and the trail leads offshore through Orion Capital Holdings and back into Whitcombe’s vendor web. The goal isn’t an open scandal. It’s erosion — steady, professional doubt disguised as curiosity. Make ambition look improvised. Make competence look coached. Let the whispers grow on their own.
At 14:00, the sniffer flags a change. The same anomaly from the morning isn’t quiet anymore — its rhythm’s faster, the packets heavier, the route completely different. Someone switched infrastructure. I trace it live this time, watching the path jump from a Detroit sub-provider to a leased Toronto server farm before fading again. Closer. Too close.
A few hours ago, Rika forwarded a note from Willow’s tour manager in Barcelona — two men asking questions backstage, flashing freelance-media credentials that didn’t check out. The same day, Asuka’s Serbian contact reported a fake credential request under Michael’s name for the EXIT Festival. Physical probes and digital ones, overlapping footprints. Not a coincidence.
I document the new network trace — hop list, timestamps, and endpoints — and send the metadata to Kiyomi with the subject line Pattern evolving.
Her reply comes two minutes later: Noted. Observe, don’t interrupt. Cross-checking with the Duke’s cyber team. If Spain and Serbia are the visible fronts, this is the shadow war running beneath them.
By the time the sky turns amber, the condo feels smaller. Michael’s upstairs on a call with Melissa, rehearsing answers he’ll hopefully never have to share. Downstairs, Hanna’s finishing dinner — rice, vegetables, something quick and efficient — while Rika sits opposite her with a folded map of the grounds. They eat between notes, comparing rotations and blind-spot coverage, deciding who handles proximity when Michael travels and who stays on internal watch. It’s less a meal than a security briefing that happens to smell like food.
I stand at the window, half-turned, the reflection in the glass splitting me between streetlight and shadow — the posture of a man who’s supposed to see without being seen. From behind me, Hanna laughs softly at something Rika says, a moment that almost sounds normal. Maybe it’s good for him. Perhaps it’s another variable to guard. Either way, it stays on my list.
My BlackBerry vibrates on the counter — a BBM alert from the Compound line. Yamamoto’s Tokyo server still bounces all traffic through a private VPN node before it lands here. Not unbreakable, but good enough to keep corporate eyes blind.
Message – Asuka (via Compound line):
Jack-san, tell Michael we’re safe. Crowd good. Willow loud! Spain ends tonight. Serbia soon.
I don’t show it to him. Not yet. He needs focus more than sentiment. Still, I thumb a reply on the tiny keyboard: Stay where cameras see crowds, not corridors. Send. Delete. Move on.
When the first streetlight flickers on, I make the final circuit—no new devices. No vehicles idling longer than curiosity allows. The anomaly goes quiet at 21:15, right on schedule. Whatever’s listening has a bedtime.
I log everything, encrypt it twice, and set the backup to transmit to the off-grid vault in Tokyo — for insurance, evidence, and peace of mind.
At 22:00, I lock the condo’s front door and let silence settle. Inside that silence is the rhythm of a breathing house — electronics humming, water pipes cooling, a young man dreaming of ice rinks and algorithms while the world decides what both are worth.
Protection isn’t heroism. It’s maintenance. Every screw turned, every ghost logged, every rumor smothered before it learns to walk. Tomorrow we’ll start again. Rourke will call. Melissa will schedule. Kiyomi will translate. Hanna will turn chaos into curated noise. And I’ll keep walking circles around the boy who keeps drawing enemies simply by being alive — and excellent at it.
I pick up the two recovered microphones from the counter and set them side by side. They look harmless, almost delicate — like silver insects. I close my hand over them and feel their edges bite against my palm, a small reminder that vigilance always cuts both ways.
“Plan the day,” I tell the empty room, “or the day plans you.”
Outside, Ann Arbor sleeps. Inside, we wait for Chicago.
Clan Council at the Matsuda Compound: Ryuichi Matsuda
The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the pines around the compound dripping and fragrant. Inside, the meeting room held its own stillness—a rectangular table of dark cherry wood, a corded conference phone near Ryuichi’s right hand, the walls lined with silk scrolls of sumi-e landscapes and bold calligraphy chosen by the elders to steady the mind. Every person present could feel the weight in the air, though none spoke it aloud.
Takeshi Matsuda sat nearest the shoji screens, his cane across his knees, faint steam from his tea rising like incense. Across from him, Kiyomi waited, stylus poised above her tablet; to Ryuichi’s left, Jack Danner watched the doorway with that bodyguard’s perpetual alertness. Beside him, Rika Sato sat straight-backed, the white gi beneath her gray blazer making her look as precise as the blade she once was.
The speakerphone beeped twice—their signal that Kenji and Thomas were on the line. Ryuichi unmuted the connection. “Kenji-san, Thomas, do you hear us?”
A slight delay, then Kenji Yamamoto’s voice came through, calm and clipped, the ocean’s distance threaded beneath it. “Clearly. Good morning, Matsuda-san. It is already tomorrow here.”
“Then perhaps you can tell us what the future looks like,” Ryuichi said, allowing a thin smile to break the formality. Takeshi’s quiet exhale might have been amusement, though he’d never admit it. “Thomas, are you on?”
Static cracked once, then Thomas Rourke’s baritone filled the line. “Present. I apologize for being rushed, Ryuichi—committee pre-brief in two hours.”
“Understood,” Ryuichi replied, the weight of the room centering in his chest. “Then we begin.”
Commerce: Kiyomi Matsuda
Ryuichi’s voice carried the weight of habit. “Kiyomi. Commerce.”
Kiyomi dimmed the lights. The projector came alive with a soft hum, its glow washing the silk wall in pale gold. Everyone had the deck already, of course, tucked in their secure folders, but she preferred the discipline of guiding them through it herself. Spreadsheets could show profit; only tone could show control.
“Northern Edge launched successfully three weeks ago,” she began, voice even, precise. “The rollout has exceeded every benchmark. If current trajectories hold, we will reach sustained profitability well before the end of the first quarter. At present, global sales total 3.2 million U.S. dollars, with projections exceeding ten million by late September—roughly four months post-launch.”
She clicked once, the rhythm of her own pulse syncing to the slide change. “To understand the real picture, we separate how the money moves.”
Half of those sales—NA and EMEA—came through Steam. Their thirty-percent commission was steep but acceptable; visibility always comes at a cost. The other half flowed through direct channels—the website and regional partners across NA, EMEA, LATM, and APAC. Those kept full value after tax and freight. If these ratios continued, retained global revenue would stand at nearly 8.5 million U.S. dollars by year-end 2010, with a gross of 10 million.
The map glowed softly on the wall, continents traced in gold. She had memorized every figure, but showing them mattered; people trusted proof they could see. “Within that retained revenue,” she continued, “distribution follows the standing partnership agreement—Matsuda Industrial Group (MIG) fifteen percent, Yamamoto Industries fifteen, the Duke of Castile’s consortium ten, Michael Stewart thirty, and the remaining thirty held in reserve for Aegis development, taxes, and reinvestment.”
A pause, deliberate. “To make it simple—and explicit:”
· Steam’s fee applies only to its half of global sales (≈ $5 million), retaining ≈ $1.5 million and forwarding the balance to us.
· Across all channels combined, retained revenue near $8.5 million is divided as follows:
o Matsuda Industrial Group ≈ $1.3 million from NA / LATM operations and direct web sales.
o Yamamoto Industries ≈ $1.3 million from APAC digital portals — Kim’s latency optimizations have already cut hosting costs 40 percent.
o Duke of Castile Consortium (with Royal Technologies) ≈ $800 000 from EMEA freight and logistics.
o Michael Stewart ≈ $2.5 million in creator royalties and Aegis-reserve income.
o Consolidated reserve ≈ $2.5 million held for Aegis expansion and tax obligations.
The data spoke for itself—clean, efficient, defensible. Kiyomi looked up from the slide and let her eyes travel the table: Ryuichi still as stone, Takeshi’s knuckles resting lightly on his cane, Rika attentive, Jack already assessing implications. Good. They understood.
“For 2011,” she said, “we project global revenue of twelve to thirteen million dollars, with direct-channel growth outpacing Steam’s. That shift bypasses the thirty-percent commission entirely, increasing partner distributions proportionally. Steam remains our western storefront, but Yamamoto’s APAC and Matsuda’s LATM networks now carry nearly equal weight.”
Kenji’s voice came over the speaker, calm but proud. “Kim says Mitsy works like she’s racing the sun.”
Kiyomi smiled faintly. “They push each other,” she said aloud. “And it shows.” The slide advanced to regional totals, each column balanced like a well-folded ledger. “Each region is now self-sustaining. Detailed ledgers are archived on the secure servers for review. The summary is simple: the structure works, and every partner has delivered and profited.”
The following slide replaced gold with muted gray—a transition from success to caution. “But Northern Edge alone cannot fund what comes next. It will carry us through 2010 and the first quarter of 2011; however, Aegis Phase I requires $22 million in seed capital. We hold six to seven million through retained earnings and reserves; the balance must come from investors—quietly, before graduation.”
Ryuichi leaned forward, tone measured. “You’re certain of that figure?”
“Confirmed,” she answered. “Development staff, dedicated servers, AWS EC2 hosting, DevOps scaling, licensing, compliance—nothing extravagant, just reality. For now, we hide those costs inside Northern Edge’s regional R&D budgets, but auditors will eventually ask why a climbing game needs industrial-grade cloud compute.”
Takeshi’s cane touched the tatami once, the sound final. “Then discretion remains our armor.”
Kiyomi bowed slightly. “Always, Takeshi-san. For now, one feeds the other—his athletic visibility sustains the modeling; the modeling funds Aegis; and Northern Edge shields them all. Every link must hold until graduation.”
She advanced the next slide—the Aegis deck—a minimalist black background this time, with white type and no logo. “Now—Aegis,” she said. “Phase I seed is only the beginning. Based on the five-year model prepared for the Executive Summary, total projected recurring revenue approaches half a billion dollars by Year Five, assuming roughly one hundred ten installations across our four global regions.”
Across the table, heads lifted; even Takeshi’s stillness seemed to sharpen.
“The gross margins climb from forty-two percent to over sixty, and EBITDA moves positive by Year Three,” she continued. “At that scale, enterprise valuation crosses three billion by Year Five. It’s the law of large numbers—when the structure grows big enough, even small efficiencies multiply into capital.”
She shifted to the next slide—five columns, each marked by the clan crests. “For planning purposes, I’ve applied the existing Northern Edge revenue split—provisional allocations based on projected Year-Five annual recurring revenue before tax and reinvestment. Final ratios will be negotiated before launch, once capital and labor inputs are fixed.”
· Matsuda Industrial Group (15 %) — ≈ $75 million
· Yamamoto Industries (15 %) — ≈ $75 million
· Duke of Castile Consortium (10 %) — ≈ $50 million
· Michael Stewart (30 %) — ≈ $150 million
· Aegis Reserve / Reinvestment Fund (30 %) — ≈ $150 million
“These are not promises,” she said carefully. “They are indicators—a map of potential scale. However, if Aegis performs even 70% of its projection, it will redefine our financial position for the next decade. It enhances every enterprise under our umbrella—MIG, Yamamoto Digital, Royal Technologies—and gives us leverage none of our rivals can easily counter.”
She looked to Ryuichi. “That’s why every measure of security, every coordination of discretion, is justified. The magnitude of Aegis demands it, especially under the current threat.”
He nodded once—agreement.
Kiyomi moved the presentation forward. “On the modeling front, we’ve engaged David Keane as Michael’s new agent. Jack, Melissa, and I vetted him thoroughly—clean record, disciplined, no conflicts with Calvin Klein’s management. He’s already initiated contact with several houses; responses have been immediate and positive.” Michael would meet David Keane soon to approve his appointment as a modeling agent.
“Calvin Klein is reconsidering Michael for the Winter 2010 campaign,” she added. “They’ve lost two leads and see reconciliation as a statement of maturity—the scholar-athlete returning to complete the circle. Keane projects one and a half to two million over two years. More importantly, it redefines Michael as disciplined and gracious—professionalism, not ego.”
She met Ryuichi’s eyes. “Ryuichi-san, I would never presume to decide for him, but accepting would show discipline, not vanity.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “If he returns, he does so as a craftsman, not an ornament. The camera must see restraint and grace.”
“Understood.”
Kenji’s soft chuckle filled the line. “Americans call that rebranding. I call it humility that sells.” Even Ryuichi smiled.
Kiyomi continued. “Aegis projections place development costs at about 1.2 million through spring 2011—four hundred thousand in algorithms, three hundred thousand in servers and networks, the rest testing, staff, marketing, and licensing. Northern Edge can sustain that until graduation, but once he enters professional life—the NHL, outside investors, formal contracts—anonymity ends. Up to now, perception has protected him: a student, an athlete, not a rival. After graduation, every signature bears his name, and that changes everything.”
Kenji’s tone shifted to business. “When he graduates, Yamamoto Industries can bridge early infrastructure through our innovation division—enough to hold Aegis until seed funding closes.”
“That timing aligns,” Ryuichi said. “Coach Benson expects Michigan to reach the Frozen Four again. Graduation follows in spring 2011. Yzerman wants him in camp within two weeks.”
Takeshi’s reply came sharply. “He must finish what he started. A warrior closes one door before opening another.”
“Of course,” Ryuichi agreed. “The Red Wings understand. Preliminary terms grant full off-season freedom for Aegis and limited media obligations—a development slot, not a full rotation. Visibility, but control.”
Kiyomi powered down the projector; the room returned to a calm, shadowy silence. Papers settled. The faint buzz of cooling bulbs filled the silence. “Combining all streams—Northern Edge profit, Aegis equity, modeling projections, licensing—Michael’s portfolio stands near 8.7 million USD gross for 2010. With conservative growth, it could exceed 15 million by 2011.”
He could fund a large portion of Aegis himself, but Kiyomi had already warned him against it. He needed liquidity, not pride.
“He requires a professional business manager and licensed accountant immediately,” she said aloud. “We’re crossing four jurisdictions, multiple currencies. Even with the Queen’s grant offsetting his Commonwealth obligations, he faces taxation everywhere else. Delay means chaos—and chaos invites scrutiny.”
Ryuichi exhaled softly. “He was never trained for this.”
“We already have the holding structure Bill created last quarter,” she reminded him. “But it’s still paper-thin—no staff, no compliance officer, no accountant. We need to fortify it—build the trust layer and make it operational by the end of next quarter. Clean. Defensible.”
The projector’s cooling fan whispered behind her. Takeshi sat motionless, his gaze distant, but she knew the look—calculation wrapped in silence. He would think on this. That was enough.
Kiyomi bowed slightly. “That concludes the formal briefing, Ryuichi-san.”
“The presentation was thorough,” he said. “And necessary.”
“There are two additional matters,” she added quietly. “Personal ones.”
“Both Willow and Asuka have reached out to Michael. The frost between them may be thawing. Willow invited him to her concerts in Spain and Serbia, but after our discussion with Mitsy, he chose only Serbia—the EXIT Festival. The decision is made; he’ll notify both Willow and Asuka shortly. That puts us on notice—he will be traveling, and he will need full protection while abroad. Asuka asked how she could assist him; whether reconciliation or confusion follows, I cannot yet tell. And after the Waters twins’ post about Northern Edge went viral, Elizabeth Ford sent him a polite email—her first since the breakup. Molly found the timing not merely curious but unsettling; during my visit to London, she dismissed the idea that Elizabeth would ever reach out. Now she’s surprised—and troubled—that she did.”
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