It was supposed to be just another meeting.
The boardroom hummed with low murmurs and shifting papers—typical signs of anticipation in a company trying to pretend things weren't falling apart from the inside. Ren sat near the end of the long oval table, a black pen between his fingers, tapping once, then again. Rhythm helped sometimes. Rhythm and control.
The room was sleek—walls of half-tinted glass that let in streaks of morning light, polished surfaces that reflected too much, chairs that were too modern to be comfortable. To Ren, it always felt like a place built to look like progress while hiding decay underneath. He had learned that truth early—how corruption wore suits and recited compliance protocols while burying dissent in polite emails.
A senior manager across the table was flipping through printed memos, pretending to focus. Someone else was adjusting the display screen. And next to Ren, the junior intern kept peeking nervously at the doorway, likely rehearsing her greeting for whoever was about to walk in.
Aika wasn't late. In fact, she arrived precisely at the scheduled time—on the dot, with the kind of punctuality that didn't need a clock to prove itself.
But to Ren, time stopped anyway.
The moment the door opened, it was like the glass walls disappeared. The background noise dissolved. The meeting, the corruption reports, the anxiety—it all faded like fog clearing after a storm.
She walked in.
Unhurried. Focused. Clad in a dark blazer, tailored slacks, and a confident stride that silenced the room faster than any shouted command.
She was older, of course. Seventeen years had passed.
But there was no mistaking her.
The sharp cut of her eyes, alert and scanning. The precise posture—spine straight, shoulders set as if carrying unseen weight. That same quiet defiance, the way she owned a space just by walking into it.
Aika.
The name didn't need to be said.
It roared in Ren's chest.
His grip tightened around the pen. He felt the pressure behind his eyes, like a memory trying to claw through a dam. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
The years melted away—not the world's years, but his. The shared lunches, the moments he carried alone, the sketches he never showed. The thank-you letter never read. The dream of seeing her again that he never dared make into a real plan.
And now, here she was.
She greeted the room with a crisp nod. "Good morning. I'm Aika Tanaka, external legal counsel. I'll be leading the case of the whistleblower and subsequent compliance measures. Thank you for your time."
Her voice. Calm, measured, professional.
But to Ren, it was like hearing sunlight after too many winters.
He didn't speak. Couldn't. His throat had closed tight with emotion.
She hadn't seen him yet—not really. Her gaze swept across the room as she set down her bag, flipping open a binder filled with legal documentation. She addressed the board's questions one by one, responding with directness and quiet authority. Her voice didn't falter. Her hands didn't shake.
She was, without a doubt, exactly who the company needed.
And yet, she had no idea that the boy she once stood in front of—that boy who had watched her break the silence of bullies and the grip of fear—was sitting barely three chairs away.
Ren's pulse echoed in his ears.
She doesn't recognize me.
Of course she doesn't.
He hadn't expected her to. Not really. He was different now—no longer the child with thick glasses and bruised arms. The sketchbook was closed, the rooftop forgotten. And even if she remembered pieces, what reason would she have to tie them to him?
To her, this was a boardroom.
To him, it was a full-circle collision.
Aika continued to speak, flipping pages, referencing legal precedents. The team listened, some shifting uncomfortably under the precision of her words. She knew her material too well. She cut through their practiced vagueness like a blade through mist.
Ren watched.
Every detail.
The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear while flipping pages.
The way her brows furrowed slightly when someone tried to downplay a legal violation.
The way she paused for half a beat before answering—long enough to show she wasn't there to react, but to choose.
He could've stared forever.
But he didn't.
He forced himself to take notes. To nod at questions. To respond when prompted. A ghost in the room, tethered only by control.
And when the meeting ended, and the chairs scraped back, and people gathered their things with polite chatter, Ren stayed quiet and still looking at her as if they are the only ones in the room.
She packed her files with a quiet efficiency. Still professional. Still unreadable.
As she turned to leave, she walked past him—close enough that the faint scent of something warm and citrus drifted past. Like the way the summer air once smelled before she vanished.
She didn't pause.
She didn't look twice.
She didn't see him.
But Ren?
Ren saw everything.
And he remembered.
Every damn detail.
He lowered his eyes to the notes in front of him, not because he needed to—he didn't even remember what they were. He just needed something to ground him. Something to hold onto.
Because the storm he had kept inside for seventeen years had just walked back into his life.
And she didn't even know it.
She didn't look back. But what happens when the past he's carried alone begins to echo in the present?