The top floor was exactly what Arata expected from the son of a ship owner.

  The elevator opened directly into a private lobby—not a hallway with multiple rooms, but a dedicated entrance space that belonged exclusively to Jacob's quarters. Security cameras were notably absent, probably disabled at Jacob's request.

  This was perfect. No surveillance meant Arata's movements wouldn't be recorded or possibly reviewed later by Harbor Group operatives capable of remotely accessing and re-routing camera feeds to track his movements.

  For now, none of that mattered. What he really needed was to find a place to rest; his body could shut down any minute now.

  Arata looked around and found an empty room. Well, not just one empty room—the hallway was full of them. The top floor could probably host up to a hundred people.

  Why would someone need so much space?

  It was excessive even by wealthy standards. Each door he passed opened into quarters that could comfortably house a family, and there were dozens of them stretching down corridors that seemed designed more for showing off than serving any practical purpose.

  He picked a room at random, far enough from Jacob's main living area that he wouldn't be disturbed by whatever partying continued through the night. The door opened to reveal yet another display of obscene wealth—king-sized bed, private bathroom, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark ocean. Moonlight reflected off the waves in silver patterns that would have been beautiful if Arata had any energy left to appreciate them.

  He locked the door behind him.

  He checked the room quickly for surveillance equipment, but found none, just as expected. He positioned a chair against the door as a basic early warning system. It wasn’t set to stop a serious threat, but rather to make noise if someone tried to enter while he slept.

  Then he collapsed onto the bed without bothering to remove the stolen suit.

  Sleep took him immediately, dragging him down into darkness before he could form another conscious thought. His body had been running on reserves for too long, and now that he finally had a secure location, it simply shut down. No dreams. No processing of the day's events. Just the deep, empty unconsciousness of complete exhaustion.

  ***

  He woke ten hours later to sunlight streaming through the windows and the distant sound of voices echoing from somewhere down the hall.

  Arata sat up slowly, assessing his condition. The sleep had helped, but his body still ached—especially his arms, where the Reaper’s scythe had carved through his flesh—but at least the edge of exhaustion had dulled.

  He stood and moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The reflection staring back at him looked slightly more human than it had the night before.

  Arata left the room and followed the sound of voices, moving through the corridors until he reached what appeared to be a breakfast area. The dining table was loaded with a fresh spread of food. And sitting around it, looking far too energetic for people who'd probably been up drinking until dawn—

  Jacob and his… friends?

  They looked up when he entered.

  "Arata! You made it!" Jacob jumped up with that same infectious enthusiasm. "Come on, let me introduce you."

  He gestured to his friends with theatrical flair.

  "So these morons are my friends, Thomas and Travis. Guys, this is Arata, the guy I told you about."

  Jacob spoke in his usual energetic, cheerful tone.

  "I told them I got you out of trouble when the crew member questioned you."

  Thomas and Travis both looked about the same age as Jacob—late teens, early twenties maximum. One was tall and lanky, the other more compact and muscular. Both had the relaxed posture of people who'd grown up wealthy, who'd never had to worry about basic survival or fight for resources.

  They were almost certainly Candidates. The energy signatures were subtle but present, that faint pressure that came from having at least a couple of votes.

  "Nice to meet you," Thomas said.

  "Pleasure to meet you," Travis added.

  They spoke at the same time, bowing slightly in a way that suggested they had practiced the gesture specifically to show their knowledge of Japanese culture. Even if it was a bit awkward, they were just trying to be respectful.

  "Hey Arata, I bet you wonder why we speak good Japanese despite our looks."

  Jacob's drunk state was completely gone now, replaced by the cheerful personality Arata had first encountered in the corridor. He wasn’t hungover at all, despite drinking through the night. He was perfectly energetic and ready to take on the day that was coming.

  He didn’t give Arata time to respond.

  "Well, it's because we all took Japanese classes in school!"

  ...

  Arata stared at him, stopping right before taking a sip of his cup of coffee.

  Duh? How else would they expect to learn Japanese?

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Why did he say it as if it wasn't obvious?

  Arata smiled and said he'd taken English classes in school as well. That's why he could understand him when they spoke in the bathroom.

  Jacob turned around to his friends and explained what had happened, apparently finding the bathroom conversation hilarious for reasons Arata didn't fully understand. They all laughed and talked about how funny Jacob was when he got drunk, sharing stories about previous incidents that involved him shouting inappropriate things at important people.

  Arata looked around while they reminisced.

  In front of him was a real morning buffet spread across a dining table that could easily seat twenty people. The table was loaded with food that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread: perfectly arranged fruit platters with berries that gleamed like jewels, still wet from washing. Freshly baked croissants with steam still rising from their flaky layers, the butter used in their creation probably imported from some specific region of France known for dairy quality. Smoked salmon arranged in delicate roses, thin enough to see through. Small pastries dusted with powdered sugar, each one a tiny work of art. Scrambled eggs that were somehow still perfectly fluffy despite sitting on a warming tray. Bacon cooked to exact crispness. Sausages from what was probably some heritage farm that charged obscene amounts per pound.

  And the coffee.

  The coffee was amazing—rich, smooth, layered with complexity that suggested premium beans prepared by real professionals. Arata had been slowly enjoying it as if it was the last cup on earth, letting each sip linger because he had no idea when he'd taste coffee this good again.

  Waiters came back and forth nonstop, bringing way too much food for four people. They moved with practiced efficiency, replacing empty platters before they were even noticed, refilling cups without being asked to.

  The view through the windows was incredible. Beautiful blue water extended as far as the eye could see, the morning sun reflecting off the gentle waves in mesmerizing patterns. The ocean looked different from up here—not the gray, vaguely threatening mass he'd seen from ground level, but something almost peaceful. Something… endless.

  Arata hadn't had much trouble getting inside the top floor. It was the same crew member who'd spotted him earlier wandering around the ship who let him inside, without even asking a question. It was as if he was used to Jacob's need to bring random people inside his private area. He just waved him through with the same exasperated sigh, probably thinking about how this was just another day in the life of working for wealthy people's children.

  Arata finished his cup of coffee and elegantly wiped around his mouth with one of the cloth napkins provided. He was good at looking like he belonged, at mimicking the small behaviors and gestures that signaled belonging in spaces like this.

  For now, his cover wasn't exposed.

  He'd stolen the clothes from one of the Harbor Group men who'd assaulted him the day before. The suit fit reasonably well—not perfect, but close enough that casual observation wouldn't notice. With his outfit, he could make anyone believe he was part of the high class, at least for now.

  He'd also thought of everything: he'd stolen a briefcase from a random old man on the ship. It wasn't very moral, but he needed it—otherwise even a naive guy like Jacob would question his presence on such a ship without at least some extra clothes to change into. The briefcase added legitimacy, suggested he was here for business rather than as some random stowaway.

  Besides, it wasn't like the old man wasn't carrying a hundred of those briefcases, using what appeared to be his servants to move them to his room. He probably wouldn't even notice one was missing. And if he did, he'd just assume it had been misplaced during transport, would have his staff search for it, and would eventually replace it without significant inconvenience.

  Arata smiled at Jacob and his friends before leaving the table. He made appropriate small talk, thanked them for their hospitality, excused himself by claiming he needed to make a phone call.

  They barely noticed him leaving, too absorbed in their own conversation about something that had happened at a party last month.

  Now that he had access to the top floor, finding a communication device was as easy as taking candy from a baby.

  Arata moved through the private quarters, checking rooms systematically. Office space. Entertainment area. Storage. Guest rooms that were somehow even more luxurious than the one he'd been given.

  And then he found it.

  A study, clearly belonging to Jacob's father based on the professional atmosphere and complete lack of teenage clutter. The desk was made from a very expensive dark wood that was probably endangered. Around it were bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that were definitely for show rather than reading. And on the desk, exactly where Arata hoped it would be—

  A satellite phone.

  Top-of-the-line model. It could reach anywhere on the planet regardless of location.

  Perfect.

  Arata picked it up, fingers already moving through the interface to access the dialing function.

  It was finally time to call Kaito.

  "What are you doing?"

  Arata turned, quickly trying to hide the phone behind his back. It was Jacob standing in the doorway.

  "I asked you a question. What are you doing in my father's room?"

  This time, Arata couldn't recognize his tone at all. It wasn’t the cheerful, energetic Jacob he'd met before. This was someone else entirely—cold and menacing, voice stripped of all warmth. The tone of someone who had just caught an intruder somewhere they absolutely shouldn't have been.

  Arata was speechless. What could he possibly say in such a situation? There was no excuse that would work. No explanation that wouldn't sound like exactly what it was: him going through someone else's private space, using their equipment without permission for who knows what.

  "You don't want to speak? Fine." Jacob's expression didn't change, eyes still locked on Arata with unsettling intensity. "Go on then. Dial the number."

  "Wh—what?"

  Arata's surprise couldn't be hidden. His mask of composure cracked completely, confusion replacing the careful neutrality he'd been maintaining.

  Why was Jacob inviting him to dial a number? Wasn't he mad that Arata was using his father's phone without permission? The reaction made no sense. People didn't respond to theft by encouraging the thief to continue.

  Jacob's intentions were cryptic, impossible to read. But it didn't matter anyway.

  The boy had made a clear mistake.

  If Arata reached Kaito, it was game over for the Harbor Group. His friend was strong enough to get rid of most of the people on this ship. And even if somehow they had Candidates stronger than Kaito—which seemed unlikely given his abnormal power level—Kaito would simply go to plan B:

  He would take hostages from the wealthy families aboard. Hold them as leverage. Threaten the things these people actually cared about: their children, their spouses, their carefully maintained reputations.

  Enough to ensure Arata's security. Enough to force negotiations on favorable terms.

  Arata swallowed, throat suddenly dry despite the situation tilting in his favor.

  It was only a matter of seconds before victory was his.

  Jacob stared at him, his gaze completely unfazed by the tension in the room. Like he was watching something mildly interesting rather than confronting someone who'd invaded his father's private study.

  Arata's fingers moved across the satellite phone's interface, muscle memory guiding him through the dialing process even as his mind tried to understand what was happening.

  090-4782-6651

  Dialing...

  The phone connected, ringing once, twice—

  Arata smiled. His lips stretched wide, showing teeth, the kind of grin that came from pure, unfiltered victory. It looked violent in its intensity, sharp and hungry.

  VICTORY IS MINE.