The Kanemoto Family

The office has slipped into that familiar late-afternoon lull, where the hum of fluorescent lights outlasts anyone’s real motivation. Most people are technically still working, but no one is rushing. You’re at the printer when someone beside you clears her throat—quietly, almost apologetically. “Oh—sorry,” she says. “I think this one’s mine.” She’s holding a neatly organized folder, papers aligned with careful precision. Her fingers linger at the edge before she looks up and smiles, soft and practiced, the kind meant to smooth over awkward moments. “I’m Crystal,” she adds. “I don’t think we’ve actually talked before.” That’s how it starts. Not dramatically. Just shared space. Coffee breaks that turn into conversations. Elevator rides that stretch a few seconds longer than necessary. Passing comments about clients, deadlines, and the small frustrations of office life. Crystal listens more than she speaks, but she remembers things—details you didn’t realize you’d offered. There’s a quiet warmth to her, and beneath it, something lonely she never quite names.

Weeks pass. One evening, as the office empties and the sun drops low, she lingers by your desk while you pack up. “I was wondering…” She hesitates, then exhales. “Would you maybe like to come over for dinner sometime? Just—casual.” She rushes the next part. “My family insists on meeting people I spend time with.” A nervous laugh follows. “They’re not scary. Just…intense. I promise it’ll be fine.” The Kanemoto home sits behind a minimalist gate, all sharp lines and moneyed silence. Everything feels deliberate. Curated. Crystal meets you at the door, smoothing her skirt again and again. “Okay,” she whispers. “Ground rules. Be polite. Don’t overshare. And if my mother asks you anything—answer carefully.” She pauses. “Actually…just let me talk.” The door closes behind you with a soft click. The air smells faintly of expensive candles and polished wood. Then footsteps echo from the hallway. Barbara steps out of the bathroom. Completely naked. Not posed. Not dramatic. Just damp hair, a fat ass, relaxed posture, and an expression that suggests this is the most normal thing in the world. She stops when she sees you, eyes flicking over once with casual curiosity. “Oh,” she says. “We have company.” Crystal freezes. “BARBARA.” Barbara glances down at herself, then back up. “What?” “You’re naked!” “I was showering.” “That does not make this acceptable!” Barbara shrugs. “It’s my house.” Her gaze slides back to you, amused. “First impressions matter.” Crystal groans, covering her face. “I told you someone was coming over!” “You didn’t say when,” =Barbara replies, unfazed.* “Besides—” she grins “you brought him home.” “Go put clothes on.” Barbara sighs theatrically and turns to leave, then pauses just long enough to glance back over her shoulder. She gives you a quick wink. “Welcome,” she says lightly. “Try not to be shy.” Then she disappears down the hall, leaving Crystal mortified and the house feeling far less controlled than it did a moment ago. “I’m so sorry,” Crystal mutters. “She’s not usually like this. Okay—she is. But still.”

Dinner is served in a long, spotless dining room. The table is immaculate, almost formal. Crystal sits rigidly, hands folded. Cindy Kanemoto stands at the head, wine glass already in hand, posture perfect. “So,” Cindy says calmly, eyes sharp. “You work with my daughter?” She circles slowly, assessing. “Clean shoes. Decent suit. At least you made an effort.” Barbara reappears—now dressed—lounging comfortably in her chair like she owns the room. “Careful,” she says lazily. “That’s a trap question.” “Barbara,” Crystal snaps. “I like honesty,” Cindy replies coolly. “Especially from people who enter my home.” “I like watching Mom interrogate guests,” Barbara adds cheerfully. “It’s her hobby.” Crystal leans toward you, whispering, “I’m so sorry. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.” Cindy sets her glass down with a quiet click. “Relax. I’m simply evaluating.” Her gaze lingers. “If you disappoint her, I’ll know. And if you hurt her—” “She’ll bury you,” Barbara finishes brightly. “I’ll help.” Crystal finally snaps. “Please stop talking about him like he’s not here!” Silence falls. Cindy studies her daughter instead now, expression unreadable. “Interesting.” Barbara smirks. “Oh. You care care.” Crystal exhales shakily. “I just wanted this to be normal.” Barbara softens—just a fraction. “Normal’s overrated, Crys.” Cindy lifts her glass again. “Well. You’re already here. Let’s see how the night unfolds.” The tension doesn’t break. It settles. And Crystal knows—bringing you into this house has changed something she can’t take back.