Chapter 113: The Wrong Direction

Chapter 113: Chapter 113: The Wrong Direction

Haruki should have followed Kuroda.

That was the obvious choice.

Which was exactly why he didn’t.

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The networking event continued around him.

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Editors talked.

Creators exchanged business cards.

Publishers negotiated future meetings.

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The industry kept moving.

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As if the mysterious older man hadn’t just walked into the room.

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As if Haruki’s heart rate hadn’t doubled.

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Across the hall, Kuroda disappeared into a private discussion area.

The gray-haired man followed.

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The mystery practically begged for attention.

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Ghost Project.

The voicemail.

The missing employee.

The archive room.

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All connected.

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Probably.

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Maybe.

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That uncertainty mattered.

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Because Haruki suddenly remembered Suzune’s warning.

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Someone keeps controlling the pace.

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The thought hit harder now.

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Every clue.

Every message.

Every push.

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Someone wanted him moving in a specific direction.

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The realization irritated him immediately.

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Not because it was wrong.

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Because it was probably right.

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Aoi Kisaragi noticed his expression.

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"You’re thinking too loudly."

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Haruki blinked.

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"What does that even mean?"

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"It means your face is arguing with itself."

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Fair.

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Probably fair.

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The creator leaned back in her chair.

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"Are you leaving?"

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Haruki looked toward the private hall.

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Then back at her.

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Then at the networking event.

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Dozens of editors.

Creators.

Industry professionals.

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Actual opportunities.

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Real creator opportunities.

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Not mysteries.

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Not conspiracies.

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Work.

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Haruki sat back down.

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"No."

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Aoi raised an eyebrow.

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Interesting.

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No.

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Still banned.

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"That’s probably the correct decision."

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The woman sounded disappointed.

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Which made Haruki suspicious immediately.

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Very suspicious.

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At seven-thirty, Reika found him.

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The contract strategist looked annoyed.

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Her default expression.

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Possibly her only expression.

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"Good."

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Haruki groaned.

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The disease had reached another victim.

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Reika ignored him.

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"You stayed."

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A pause.

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"Most creators your age would’ve chased the mystery."

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The statement felt oddly specific.

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Haruki frowned.

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"How do you know there’s a mystery?"

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Silence.

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Reika stared.

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Then:

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"Because your face keeps looking toward the hallway every thirty seconds."

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Fair.

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Very fair.

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The conversation shifted toward publishing.

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Actual publishing.

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Foreign rights.

Digital strategy.

Audience retention.

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Useful information.

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The kind Haruki desperately needed.

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At one point, Reika introduced him to a veteran editor from Kansai.

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Then a merchandising specialist.

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Then an adaptation consultant.

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The networking event transformed from social torture into education.

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Slowly.

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Painfully.

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Successfully.

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By nine o’clock, Haruki had collected more useful information than he had during the entire leak investigation.

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That bothered him.

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A lot.

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Because it revealed something uncomfortable.

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The creator side of his career still offered more value than the mystery side.

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Exactly what the blueprint demanded.

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Exactly what Kuroda had warned about.

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The manga remained the main story.

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Good.

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Useful.

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Safer.

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Then everything went wrong.

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Not because of Ghost Project.

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Because of Threadless Gate.

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An adaptation consultant approached him near the drinks table.

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The woman introduced herself.

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Then immediately asked:

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"Can I be honest?"

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Another dangerous sentence.

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Haruki nodded.

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The consultant crossed her arms.

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"Your recent Chapters are stronger."

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Good news.

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Unexpected.

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Then:

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"The readership decline is real."

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Less good.

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Much less good.

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The consultant pulled out a tablet.

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Graphs appeared.

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Professional graphs.

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The most dangerous kind.

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"The audience trust damage is deeper than you think."

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The statement landed hard.

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Not because it was cruel.

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Because it was data.

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Actual data.

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The consultant continued.

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"Readers who leave after disappointment rarely return immediately."

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A pause.

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"Sometimes they watch from a distance first."

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Another.

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"Waiting to see if the creator learned."

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The room suddenly felt smaller.

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Not emotionally.

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Professionally.

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Because she wasn’t discussing a Chapter.

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She was discussing reputation.

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Recovery.

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Trust.

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Long-term damage.

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The consequences arc wasn’t finished.

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Not even close.

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At ten o’clock, Haruki finally left the event.

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The city greeted him with cold autumn air.

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Traffic lights reflected across damp streets.

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Tokyo remained awake.

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As always.

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His phone buzzed.

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Message.

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From Yui.

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Simple.

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Short.

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How was the event?

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No hidden meaning.

No emotional trap.

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Just curiosity.

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Haruki smiled.

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Then started typing.

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Halfway through the response, another notification appeared.

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This one from Mizuno.

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Meeting tomorrow. Bring every draft page.

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A threat.

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Clearly a threat.

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The editor offered no explanation.

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Naturally.

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No.

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Still banned.

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Haruki sent Yui a reply.

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Then continued walking toward the station.

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His thoughts drifted toward Chapter Thirty.

Toward rankings.

Toward contracts.

Toward recovery.

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Not Ghost Project.

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For the first time in weeks.

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Not Ghost Project.

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The change felt small.

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Important.

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Then he reached the train platform.

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And froze.

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Not because of a mystery.

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Not because of a clue.

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Because somebody was waiting.

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A woman.

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Mid-twenties.

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Professional suit.

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Long dark hair.

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Confident posture.

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A familiar face.

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Very familiar.

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Haruki recognized her immediately.

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Because her photograph sat inside one of the old Ghost Project files.

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The file that supposedly had no surviving members.

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The woman looked directly at him.

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Then smiled.

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Not warmly.

Not coldly.

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Knowingly.

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As if she had been expecting him.

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As if this meeting had been scheduled long before either of them arrived.

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The train pulled into the station.

People moved around them.

Announcements echoed overhead.

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Neither person moved.

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Then the woman finally spoke.

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"You’re making the same mistake he did."

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Haruki stared.

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"What?"

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The woman’s smile faded slightly.

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Just enough.

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Then:

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"You’re treating the mystery like the story."

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The train doors opened.

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Passengers rushed forward.

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The crowd swallowed the moment instantly.

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And when Haruki looked up again—

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She was gone.