Page 57 of Kotori

Kaito

I've been waiting since the dinner disaster three hours ago, Takeshi's technical analysis burning like acid in my mind.

Every screenshot authentic. Every timestamp verified.

Every piece of digital evidence confirming that my eighteen-year-old daughter had indeed sent explicit messages and photographs to a twenty-five-year-old man.

His report sits on my desk like an indictment: "No evidence of digital manipulation.

Messages sent from target device. Metadata confirms authenticity.

All communications originated from household IP address.

" My daughter's guilt, verified by the most sophisticated forensic analysis available.

The shame I felt during dinner, the cold disappointment, the way I couldn't bear to look at her without seeing corruption where innocence should be.

All justified by technical evidence that seemed unshakeable.

A knock interrupts my anger.

"Enter."

Paige steps through the doorway first, her face pale but determined. Behind her, Mizuki follows with the hesitant steps of someone approaching execution. My daughter's eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from tears, but there's something different in her posture. Less defeat. More resolution.

Whatever conversation they've had has changed something.

"Otou-san." Mizuki's voice wavers, but she doesn't flee. "I need to tell you the truth about Daichi-sempai. About what really happened."

I gesture to the chairs across from my desk with controlled movements, every muscle in my body coiled with barely restrained tension.

They settle together, Paige's protective instincts creating subtle barriers around my daughter while Mizuki gathers courage for whatever confession is about to reshape our reality.

"I'm listening." The words emerge like shards of ice.

She draws a shaky breath, meeting my gaze with desperate courage.

"The messages and pictures that Daichi-sempai showed you.

I did send them. But Otou-san, he made me believe it was normal.

That it was education." Her voice cracks, and understanding crashes through me with devastating force.

"He convinced me it was educational," she whispers, the words emerging like broken glass.

"That I needed to learn these things to be worthy of marriage. "

The words detonate in my mind. Vision blurs at the edges. The whiskey glass in my hand shatters from the pressure of my grip, amber liquid and crystal fragments scattering across expensive wood.

Groomed. My eighteen-year-old daughter. Someone systematically, methodically manipulated her innocence while I remained blind to her suffering. While I believed the lies and punished her for being a victim.

"Otou-san?" Mizuki's voice sounds distant, muffled.

The rage building in my chest burns cold and absolute. My vision tunnels, focusing on her tear-stained face while everything else fades to irrelevant background noise.

"He told me it was education," she continues, each word driving the knife deeper into my chest. "That I needed to understand men to be worthy of marriage. Made me send pictures, write messages. Convinced me it was normal preparation between people who would be married."

Education. The word ricochets through my skull. Someone convinced my innocent daughter that exploitation was learning, that degradation was preparation for adulthood.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I'm so sorry I was stupid enough to believe him."

"No." The word emerges with such controlled violence that both women flinch. "You were hunted by a predator who specializes in destroying innocence. This is not your fault."

My hands shake with barely contained need for violence. Every instinct screams for immediate, brutal retribution against the animal who dared to corrupt my child's understanding of love and trust. But beneath the rage lurks something darker. Shame. Self-hatred so pure it threatens to choke me.

I believed him. I looked at my daughter's terror and saw guilt instead of victimization. I was cruel to her at dinner, punished her for being exploited, made her carry additional shame on top of what that bastard had already inflicted.

"How long?" My voice sounds foreign, distant.

"Since Tanabata festival." She draws her knees up, making herself smaller. "He said since our families had been discussing marriage anyway, it was practical preparation. That understanding my body was important for being a good wife."

Three months of psychological torture while I praised her maturity, her growing sophistication. Three months of shame she carried alone because a predator convinced her it was her fault. Three months while I remained blind, then actively cruel when the truth was presented as lies.

"What exactly did he do?" The question emerges with lethal quiet.

Paige's hand finds Mizuki's, offering strength as my daughter explains the methodical grooming. How childhood familiarity became assumed authority. How marriage expectations became weapons of exploitation. How natural curiosity was twisted into compliance.

With each detail, my rage crystallizes into something pure and deadly.

But threading through the fury is sick recognition of patterns I should have seen, manipulations I should have recognized because I've used similar tactics myself.

The power imbalance. The isolation. The gradual normalization of inappropriate demands.

The way he positioned himself as educator and guide while systematically destroying her boundaries.

"When did you realize the truth?" I ask when she finishes.

She looks at Paige with gratitude that makes my chest tighten. "Tonight. Paige helped me understand that what he did was called… grooming. That I was targeted because I was innocent, not because I was mature. That choice requires honest information, and he lied about everything."

I study my daughter's face. Still tear-stained, still fragile, but no longer carrying the crushing weight of imagined guilt. This American woman restored something essential that the predator had stolen. Something I failed to protect. "You understand that none of this was your fault?"

"I'm beginning to understand," she says quietly. "Paige helped me see that he lied about everything."

"I owe you an apology," I tell Mizuki quietly. "At dinner tonight, I was cruel. I believed accusations without understanding the truth. I punished you for being victimized."

"You didn't know," she whispers.

"I should have. I should have seen the signs, should have recognized that you were in pain rather than assuming guilt.

" The admission tastes like ashes. No words I say will ever be enough to atone for what I did.

"I failed to protect you, then failed to believe you when protection was what you needed most." I turn to Paige.

"Thank you," I tell her, the words carrying weight far beyond simple gratitude.

"For helping her find the truth. For giving her back her voice when I took it away with my accusations. "

"She deserved to know it wasn't her fault," Paige replies with absolute conviction.

The analysis is correct, but academic understanding pales beside the reality now crystallizing in my mind. Someone hunted my daughter like prey, exploited her innocence through calculated psychological manipulation, then used that exploitation to set political traps designed to force my compliance.

They made one catastrophic miscalculation.

They assumed I wouldn't discover the truth.

"Mizuki." My voice carries gentle authority balanced with love. "You were brave to tell me this. Braver than you know."

"I was afraid you'd be disappointed," she admits.

"I'm proud of your courage in seeking truth instead of accepting shame." I lean forward, holding her gaze with paternal certainty. "And I'm going to make sure the man who hurt you pays for what he's done."

She recognizes the violence implicit in that promise, there's no missing it, but I hope she also knows that her father's protection will shield her from further harm. "What happens now?" she asks quietly.

"Now you go upstairs with Paige. You rest, and tomorrow we begin rebuilding what that predator tried to destroy." My voice drops to something implacable. "Leave Daichi Shuichi to me."

They rise to leave, but Paige pauses at the door, meeting my eyes with understanding that chills my blood. She recognizes the promise of violence in my tone, the absolute certainty that retribution will be swift and complete. "Be careful," she says softly.

The concern touches something deep in my chest, but tonight isn't about being careful. Tonight is about being thorough.

Alone in my study, I reach for the encrypted phone that connects directly to Takeshi. Solitude allows my rage to crystallize into something pure and lethal.

He answers on the first ring. "Aniki? I was hoping you'd call."

Of course he was. Takeshi has been investigating, probably already knowing more than his initial forensic report revealed.

"Tell me you have everything on Daichi Shuichi."

"Complete profile ready for your review. Financial records, properties, security details, daily patterns." His voice carries grim satisfaction. "The technical analysis was just the beginning. I kept digging after our conversation."

"And?"

"The bastard frequents joshi kōsei bars in Shibuya. Multiple establishments, regular customer, known by name." Takeshi's disgust bleeds through his professional tone. "Lowest of the low, Aniki. He gets off on schoolgirl fantasies, pays to sit with teenagers in uniforms."

The revelation makes my vision blur with rage. Not just a predator, but someone who systematically seeks out the youngest legal targets available. Someone who fetishizes innocence itself.

"How long?"