Chapter Text
Chapter 45
Favors
Masaru is halfway through drafting an email to his lawyer when the call comes in.
He doesn’t expect it. Not because Hisashi calling is unusual, they’ve shared tables, investments, favors for years but because Masaru is already braced for escalation, already planning how to move first. Hisashi is not a man who reaches out when he’s about to lose control of the narrative. He reaches out when he thinks he has already won.
The phone vibrates once against the polished desk.
Masaru exhales, slow and measured, before answering.
“Masaru,” Hisashi says warmly, as if they’d spoken yesterday instead of weeks ago. “I was hoping we could meet, just us. Catching up on… things.”
Masaru’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Is something wrong?”
A soft laugh. “Nothing serious. Thought it’d be nice to talk in person. There’s a place I like. It’s quiet, private, you know it.”
Masaru does know it. The same ryōtei they’ve used for years. Discreet, hidden behind an unmarked entrance, where private tatami rooms are prepared long before they arrive.
No lingering staff, no unnecessary interruptions. Just quiet footsteps, sliding doors, and conversations that never leave the room.
“Tonight, if that works.” Hisashi adds, tone easy.
The call ends before Masaru can say more, Mitsuki is already standing in the doorway.
“No,” she says flatly.
Masaru looks up. “I didn’t-”
“I know that tone,” she cuts in, arms crossing tight over her chest. “That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t friendly. That was him checking the temperature.”
Masaru hesitates, then nods. “He wants to talk.”
“And you’re not going alone.” It isn’t a question.
Masaru studies her for a moment, the tension pulling at his expression, and then he exhales. “Alright.”
*****
The place is nothing like the kind of elite restaurant Mitsuki had expected Masaru and Hisashi to meet in. She recognizes it the moment they arrive.
It’s a deliberate choice—the same ryōtei Masaru uses for meetings like this. Well-known in the right circles, impossibly expensive, the kind of place where private tatami rooms are insulated not just by walls but by reputation. No one overhears conversations here, because no one would ever admit to listening.
Inside, a low table is set with quiet precision. Only one place is occupied.
Hisashi sits alone.
He rises as they enter, smile already in place, perfectly measured, eyes bright with something that might pass for affection if you didn’t know how to look past it.
“Mitsuki, Masaru,” he says easily. “Thanks for coming. I was under the impression it would be just the two of us.” His gaze settles on Mitsuki, the smile never leaving his face. Both of them understand what he means.
“Inko didn’t join you?” Mitsuki asks before Masaru can speak, her voice light, conversational, already probing.
Hisashi chuckles as they sit. “Busy. Things have been… hectic lately.”
That word again. Hectic. The same one he’s used in every message, every deflection, whenever Izuku’s name hovered too close to the truth.
Tea is poured, dishes arrive quietly. The atmosphere settles into something almost comfortable. They talk.
Business first; markets, trends, a new branding cycle Masaru has barely had time to think about. Hisashi listens with practiced interest, offering insights that remind Mitsuki why so many people underestimate him at their own expense. He’s sharp, precise, endlessly patient.
Then the conversation drifts, seamlessly, into their children.
“Katsuki’s recovery seems to be going well,” Hisashi remarks, as if commenting on the weather. “The doctors were optimistic last I heard.”
Masaru nods cautiously. “The medication adjustment helped. As long as he sticks to the schedule.”
Hisashi hums. “Chronic conditions are like that. One slip, and things get… complicated.”
Mitsuki feels it then, the faint tightening in her chest, the instinctive warning she’s learned never to ignore.
They talk about school next, about graduation looming, about how university placements are already all but decided for boys like theirs. Hisashi smiles when he mentions Izuku’s grades, pride threaded through his words so convincingly that for a second Mitsuki almost doubts herself.
Almost.
It’s when the tension has fully eased, when Masaru’s shoulders have relaxed just a fraction, that Hisashi strikes.
“I know you planted a maid inside my household.”
The words land softly, conversationally, like an aside.
Mitsuki chokes on her tea, the liquid burning as she coughs, hand flying to her mouth. Masaru’s fingers curl into a fist beneath the table, knuckles whitening.
“What are you saying, Hisashi?” Masaru asks calmly, too calmly, the practiced denial of a man who knows better than to react first.
Hisashi waves it away. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. I know exactly what you’ve been doing.”
He takes a sip of tea, eyes flicking between them with faint amusement, as if enjoying the stillness that follows.
Silence stretches.
“How?” Mitsuki finally asks, unable to keep it in.
Hisashi leans back slightly, relaxing into the cushion. “Katsuki called me, months ago. Accused me of… things. Around the same time Izuku was hospitalized.”
Masaru stiffens. “You spoke to Katsuki?”
“Briefly,” Hisashi says, smiling. “He was emotional. Protective. Predictable.”
Mitsuki’s hands tremble beneath the table.
“I don’t only have one maid,” Hisashi continues, voice steady, almost bored. “The others report to me, they always have. They told me about the Bakugous’ sudden interest in my household. About the visits. The concern.”
He tilts his head slightly. “It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots.”
Masaru’s restraint fractures. “Izuku was hospitalized,” he snaps. “You knew about that?”
Hisashi’s smile sharpens. “Of course I did.”
Something cold slides down Mitsuki’s spine.
“I thought,” Hisashi goes on, “that eventually someone would push back. Police, social services, some well-meaning intervention… but nothing came.”
He taps a finger against the table. “And then I realized why.”
Mitsuki’s breath catches.
“Of course Izuku would refuse,” Hisashi says softly. “Why wouldn’t he? I’ve been holding Katsuki as a card the entire time.”
Masaru’s hand slams down on the table before he can stop himself, rage flashing across his face. The casual way Hisashi refers to Katsuki, as leverage, as currency, nearly pushes him over the edge.
“You-”
“And the video you have of me?” Hisashi cuts in lightly, almost lazily.
He tilts his head slightly, “I let her take it,” he says. “The maid.”
Mitsuki stares at him, disbelief cracking into fury. “What?!”
“I knew she’d give it to you,” Hisashi continues, unbothered. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. How quickly you’d move.”
Mitsuki’s fingers curl hard against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as disbelief cracks into fury, tears welling despite it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Izuku is your son!”
“Yes,” Hisashi replies coldly. “He is. Which means it’s up to Inko and me how we discipline him.”
His tone hardens, losing its pleasant veneer. “And all the more reason you shouldn’t get on my nerves.”
The air goes heavy.
“I hold a lot of keys to your family’s life, Masaru,” Hisashi says.
He lights a cigarette first, unhurried, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he takes a slow drag. Smoke curls lazily upward.
“Finding out everything about Katsuki’s illness wasn’t difficult. I know everything about him. His condition, his treatment… his risks.”
He rises at last, smooth and unhurried, then steps past Masaru instead of away from him, circling behind.
“If you want to take that video to the police,” Hisashi murmurs, brushing imaginary dust from Masaru’s shoulder, “go ahead.”
His voice drops, “But don’t expect I’d go down alone.”
Masaru’s face drains of color.
Then Hisashi moves closer. His hand settles lightly on Masaru’s shoulder as he bends just enough, his voice dropping to a whisper at his ear.
“Do you remember the favor you asked of me?” Hisashi asks quietly. “Five years ago.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Mitsuki turns sharply to Masaru. “What is he talking about?”
Masaru doesn’t answer. His gaze is unfocused, horror flickering across his expression as something old and buried claws its way back to the surface.
Hisashi smiles, satisfied.
“Just consider it, Masaru,” he says lightly, hand resting on the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
He leaves.
The room feels cavernous in his absence, the weight of what’s been said settling slowly, inexorably. Mitsuki stares at Masaru, heart pounding, dread coiling tight in her chest.
“Masaru,” she says, voice shaking now, stripped of its edge. “What favor?”
Masaru doesn’t look at her.
And that silence tells her everything she’s about to lose.