Four days.
That was the time Kazuya's consciousness drifted in a thick ocean of anesthetics, ventilators, and chest tearing pain.
Four days in the ICU, his body harboring the seed of blood cancer had to fight the fiercest life and death battle to snatch every heartbeat back from the grim reaper.
When the blinding overhead lights stopped blurring and the beeping of the heart monitor returned to a stable rhythm, the doctors officially removed Kazuya's breathing tube and moved him to a patient room.
But he did not return there alone.
With a stubbornness bearing a distinct dictatorial style, right when he regained the ability to croak words through his swollen throat, Kazuya demanded the hospital move Ichinose Chizuru into his room. The reason he gave the doctors and police was incredibly cold and logical: "I do not have the time or energy to walk back and forth checking if she is safe. Grouping two protection targets into one room optimizes your manpower."
But everyone understood that was just an excuse of a man terrified of taking his eyes off his woman for even a second. Chizuru only suffered minor scratches and exhaustion after the night at the port, and had already been discharged. Yet, she happily accepted that unreasonable arrangement, moving all her personal belongings straight into his patient room.
…
Three days after Kazuya was moved to the regular room, an event officially put an end to their dark days.
Kazuya leaned against his pillows, his left arm still in a cast, his right hand controlling a computer mouse connected to the large TV in the room. Beside him, Chizuru was peeling an apple, but both of their eyes were pinned to the live news broadcast from the Tokyo District Court.
The preliminary trial of the Roppongi Yakuza syndicate and its associates.
The camera panned across the defendants' seats. The drug and weapons trafficking gang that once breathed fire now looked ragged, their heads bowed under the escort of armed police. And in the corner of the frame, Kazuya saw Nanami Mami.
Gone were the designer dresses and the fake innocent smiles used to manipulate men. Mami wore a prison uniform, her blonde hair messy, her once large, round eyes now streaked with the red of panic, fear, and ultimate despair. When the judge struck the gavel and read the maximum sentence: Life imprisonment for the ringleaders and key accomplices on charges of money laundering, armed drug trafficking, and attempted murder, Mami's legs completely gave out. She collapsed right in front of the stand, wailing tragically, but no one bothered to throw her a glance of pity.
Kazuya calmly pressed the button to turn off the TV. The screen went black.
There was no gleeful laughter. There was no gloating of a winner. Kazuya simply let out a long breath, feeling as if a thousand ton boulder had been lifted off his chest.
"It is over." He muttered, turning to look at Chizuru.
Trash had been sorted and thrown in its proper place. Mami's ghost was permanently buried behind iron bars. From this moment on, he could wholeheartedly focus on a single battle: Destroying the cancer cells in his bone marrow.
…
A few months later. A harsh winter enveloped Tokyo with bone chilling winds.
Kazuya's chemotherapy regimen had completed its most difficult phase. His cancer was completely pushed back, putting him into remission. However, the price of the chemicals was that his immune system was now as fragile as a blank sheet of paper. Any common cold virus or bacteria could become the grim reaper's scythe.
During that extremely sensitive period, bad news struck.
Mrs. Sayuri passed away.
She departed peacefully in her sleep, a smile lingering on her lips, because she was satisfied seeing her granddaughter grow up and have a solid man protecting her. However, for Chizuru, the loss of her only remaining relative in the world was still a gut wrenching shock.
In the hospital room, Kazuya stood silently by the window, watching the first snowflakes fall. His hands clenched into fists so tightly his nails dug into his flesh. Guilt and helplessness screamed in his brain. He wanted to wear mourning clothes, wanted to stand beside Chizuru at the funeral home to shield her from the pitying stares of relatives.
But the head doctors issued an absolute ban. "Your immune system is at zero, Kinoshita. Going to a crowded place full of infection risks like a funeral home is not paying respects, it is suicide. And if you die, do you think she can survive?"
That pragmatic warning pinned Kazuya's legs to this sterile room. He could only send Kibe and Kuribayashi to handle all the perimeter procedures in his place.
Late that afternoon, the hospital door opened. Chizuru walked in. She wore a pitch black mourning outfit, her face haggard, her eyes swollen and soullessly empty. She walked like a shadow, not saying a word.
If it were the Kazuya from before, he would surely use a barrage of sharp, sarcastically damaging words to wake her rationality, forcing her to strongly face the rule of life and death. He had intended to use that method.
But seeing those small shoulders tremble violently, Kazuya's brain automatically rejected that option.
"Spouting toxic shit right now is for idiots," he cursed silently in his head. A man carrying a deep emotional wound like him understood better than anyone: Some pains cannot be cured by logic, but can only be soothed by warmth.
Kazuya stepped forward in silence. He did not utter a single empty word of comfort. He opened his arms, embracing Chizuru's cold body, pulling her tight against his solid chest.
Enveloped in his arms, Chizuru's fake toughness instantly shattered. She grabbed his hospital gown tightly, buried her head in his chest, and burst into tears. Her heart wrenching sobs echoed in the quiet space.
Kazuya stood there, letting her tears soak his shirt. He used his rough hand to stroke her hair, resting his chin on top of her head.
"Cry. Just cry until you have no tears left," he whispered, his voice deep, warm, and carrying absolute tolerance. "From now on, you only have me. So I forbid you from pushing me away, and I will never let you be alone."
In the following days, Kazuya became a silent pillar of support. He did not use words, but actions. Though his body was still weak, he stayed up late working remotely, using the massive amount of money he earned to cover all the funeral expenses and clear the Ichinose family's debts, ensuring Chizuru did not have to worry about a single bill. He held her to sleep every night, coaxing her with his body warmth until the nightmares left.
Kazuya's wordless therapy was highly effective. Chizuru gradually regained her spirits. The smile began to return to her lips.
However, all psychological interventions have side effects. And the side effect of Kazuya becoming Chizuru's only lifeline was: She began to possess him intensely and became much more dangerous.
That change was most evident when Kazuya was officially discharged and sent home 2 months later, and naturally, Chizuru moved her belongings straight into his apartment without needing any official invitation.
Chizuru evolved from a sweet, understanding girlfriend into a succubus clinging to him 24/7. Having experienced life, death, and loss, Chizuru's subconscious developed an invisible fear that Kazuya would disappear. And the way she soothed that fear was through physical contact that asserted ownership.
One weekend morning, Kazuya was standing in the kitchen, wearing a gray t-shirt, focused on stir-frying a pan of spaghetti for nutrition.
Suddenly, soft arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Chizuru, wearing nothing but one of his oversized white dress shirts revealing her flawless bare legs, pressed her full chest against his back.
"Chizuru, I'm cooking. Wait." Kazuya frowned, his voice warning but his heart rate already starting to beat like a drum.
"I don't want to," Chizuru pouted, burying her face in his neck, inhaling the masculine scent mixed with the smell of shower gel. Her restless hands began to slip under his t-shirt, caressing his abs, which were gradually becoming firmer after his recovery. "You cook, I'll just hug you for a bit."
Kazuya gritted his teeth, feeling his body temperature soaring. Damn it, she knew perfectly well how weak his libido had become in front of her since the doctor lifted the "ban on intimacy." He quickly turned off the stove, spun around, and lifted her onto the kitchen counter.
"You're playing with fire, Ichinose," he growled, his dark eyes darkening with desire, pressing his lips against hers in a wet, French kiss, then devouring her for two hours instead of breakfast, ignoring the pan of spaghetti -the real breakfast - that was cooling down on the stove.
But that was not the worst part. The real disaster usually happened when Kazuya was working.
After his health stabilized, Kazuya returned to streaming. Unlike before, he shifted partly to being an FPS game streamer, showing off the god-like hand mechanics of a former pro player.
One evening, Kazuya was in the middle of a breathtaking ranked match. The stream screen displayed a tense 1vs3 battle. The chat was scrolling non-stop with tens of thousands of viewers.
Right then, the room door slid open. Chizuru had just finished showering and walked into the room with wet hair and a flimsy silk nightgown. She walked straight behind his gaming chair, wrapped her arms around his neck, and did not hesitate to bite lightly on his earlobe.
"Kazuya... could you come out here with me for a moment?" her voice was sticky, mesmerizing, and clearly suggestive.
Kazuya's hand slipped a beat. His in-game character ate a sniper bullet and fell to the ground. Luckily, his teammates finished what he left undone, otherwise it would have taken 2-3 more matches to rank up.
But Kazuya didn't care. He cursed under his breath, hurriedly reached out to slam the Mute button on his keyboard, threw his headset on the desk, and grabbed her waist, pulling her straight into his lap.
However, in his rush and with lust going to his head, the tech master's finger missed the Mute button by one millimeter.
The mic was still on.
Five minutes passed. The stream screen displayed the final match result with a very close winning score, but the audio coming through the viewers' headphones was vividly blush-inducing.
The intermittent sounds of fabric friction, muffled moans, a man's heavy, hoarse breathing, and a faint female voice whimpering: "Ah… Kazuya… Slow down…I'm dying."
The chat exploded. The comment speed was so fast it lagged the server.
[Wtf am I listening to?!?!]
[Damn it, turn off the mic bro! Your channel is going to get banned!]
[10,000 Yen Donate: Holy shit, the old man finished playing the game and now he's playing with his girl?]
[The old man got dragged away by the succubus to drain his yang energy again bros!]
It was a full ten minutes later that Kazuya, sweating profusely, fixed his clothes and returned to the computer desk. When he saw the chat, his always arrogant face officially started smoking. He widened his eyes, smashed his expensive mechanical keyboard, and immediately shut down the computer in an embarrassment that made him want to dig a hole and crawl into it.
Since that vivid audio incident, his Cold-blooded FPS Assassin tag was officially appended with a highly satirical nickname by the netizen community: Victim of the Succubus.
Whenever he went AFK for more than 5 minutes during a match to get water or go to the bathroom, the chat would simultaneously spam donations: "SOS! The old man got dragged away by the succubus again!"
Kazuya could only rub his forehead and sigh helplessly, but the corner of his lips could not hide a satisfied smile. Yeah, he got dragged away by a succubus, but this succubus was his alone, and he was willing to let her drain his vitality for the rest of his life.
…
Three years later.
The Saitama Super Arena trembled with the cheers of over thirty thousand spectators. Red and blue laser lights swept continuously across the grand stage of the World FPS Tournament Finals.
In the soundproof booth of the Japanese National Team, Kazuya sat quietly. He was 25 years old, an age considered a washed-up old man in esports, where players' reflexes usually peak around 18-20. Yet, using his gritty brain, razor-sharp tactical mindset, and terrifying ability to read opponents' psychology, Kazuya had hauled a patchwork Japanese roster straight into the Top 5 strongest teams in the world.
On the leaderboard displayed on the giant screen, his team had just officially been eliminated. They ranked 5th overall, standing behind the immovable giants: the US, South Korea, China, and Vietnam.
The deciding round had just ended five minutes ago. In a life-or-death 1vs1 situation, Kazuya's flick shot was off by exactly two millimeters. His muscle reflexes could not keep up with his genius brain. He was finished off by the opponent. The Japanese team was defeated.
The commentators were saying regretful words, but the atmosphere in the stands was completely different. There were no boos, no criticism.
Tens of thousands of Japanese fans stood up in unison, clapping thunderously, chanting the name "Phoenix". Because everyone knew, before this foul-mouthed old veteran returned to pro play and carried the team, Japan had never even made it to the Top 16. The fact that he dragged them into the Top 5 was already a miracle.
Kazuya took off his heavy noise-canceling headset and threw it on the desk. He looked at the word DEFEAT on the screen.
If it were his past life, or when he first reincarnated, he would have frantically cursed himself, smashing desks and chairs because his perfect ego was chipped. But now, Kazuya just calmly leaned back in his ergonomic chair, rubbing his wrist that ached from arthritis.
He smirked faintly.
"I'm really getting old", he thought to himself. "But this is enough. There is nothing to regret."
Pragmatism accepted physical failure easily. Esports was cruel with time, and he had proven his value enough.
Pushing the door open and stepping out of the competition booth, Kazuya walked straight toward the waiting room behind the backstage, leaving behind the bustling interview invitations.
The room door had barely opened when a familiar figure rushed over, hugging him tight.
The refreshing floral scent soothed the tension of the arena. Ichinose Chizuru, wearing a black baseball cap and a mask covering her face, was nuzzling into his chest.
"You worked hard, Kazuya," she looked up, pulled down her mask, and flashed a smile brighter than any stage light out there.
The Chizuru of three years later was no longer the college student working as a rental girlfriend. She was currently the hottest rising A-list actress in the Japanese entertainment industry. Using her genuine acting talent, honed through the nights of Kazuya scolding and forcing her emotions in the past, along with her cleverness in communication, Chizuru quickly swept independent film awards and caught the eye of major directors.
However, showbiz was a swamp full of drama, unspoken rules, and dark forces. The reason Chizuru could keep herself clean, surging forward without anyone daring to spread rumors or use unspoken rules on her, was because standing behind her was a media empire.
The crisis management and PR firm founded by Kazuya and his friends Kibe and Kuri had now become the dark boss of the entertainment industry. Kazuya was ready to use any means, from holding blackmail data on directors to manipulating public opinion, to crush any pebble blocking his girlfriend's path. Everyone in the industry whispered to each other: Touching Ichinose Chizuru guarantees being exposed until your reputation is completely ruined.
"I choked in the last round," Kazuya hugged her waist, sighing self-deprecatingly. "My hand reflexes are truly useless now. At this rate, I will probably announce my retirement next month and just be a manager."
"To me, you are always number one," Chizuru stood on her tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his lips.
She took his left hand. On the ring fingers of both of them, two platinum engagement rings sparkled under the lights.
This was Kazuya's strategic masterpiece. Right before Chizuru officially debuted as an A-list actress, Kazuya demanded they hold an engagement ceremony and made all the information public in the press.
The entertainment industry usually hid relationships to maintain bandwagon fans. But Kazuya thought the opposite. He was transparent from the start. He threw the engagement contract straight in the face of public opinion: "She is already taken. Any fan who likes her acting can stay, any fan harboring delusional thoughts of owning an idol can get lost right from the start."
That bold strategy uprooted all troubles regarding shipping culture or cheap romance scandals. It created an absolute shield of protection for Chizuru, and was also the firmest assertion of sovereignty from a man with a hidden possessive streak.
"Let's go, darling," Kazuya intertwined his five fingers with hers, lifting her backpack onto his shoulder. "I lost today, you have to treat me to a Wagyu beef BBQ meal to compensate for my psychological trauma."
"Opportunist," Chizuru glared at him affectionately, but her hand gripped his tightly, refusing to let go. "Alright, but after we eat and go home, you have to compensate me."
"Compensate you with what?" Kazuya raised an eyebrow teasingly.
"Compensate for the time you neglected me to practice this past month," Chizuru blushed, muttering softly but loud enough for the man to hear clearly.
Kazuya burst into laughter. The laughter echoed down the quiet hallway. He pulled her toward the parking garage, their shadows stretching long on the tiled floor.
Looking at Chizuru's side profile walking beside him, Kazuya felt an absolute peace flowing through his veins.
Two lifetimes. One life betrayed, trampled to death in solitude. One life resurrected in a cowardly body, carrying the seed of cancer, having to fight against a whole world of lies and violence.
He had once believed that cruelty and isolation were the only fortress for survival. But the foolish girl beside him had used sincerity and tears to smash that fortress, dragging him out into the light.
He was no longer a soulless analytical machine. He was no longer afraid of being betrayed. Because now, he had brothers to trust, a career to dedicate himself to, and a woman to love with his very life.
This world might still be full of lies and trashy scripts.
But as long as this hand remained tightly intertwined with his, Kinoshita Kazuya was ready to use his pragmatism and intellect to tear all those scripts apart, personally writing the most fulfilling ending for just the two of them.