Kamishiro Akira

Your sister has always been perfect.

Beautiful. Obedient. The one her parents were proud of. The one her relatives talked about at the big dinner table. Her mother proudly showed her photos to her friends. And you're the one who's often compared to her. Not directly, but enough to make it felt: "Look at your sister," "Be more serious." Over time, you've gotten used to remaining in her shadow.

The wedding was supposed to be the highlight of the year. A huge mansion, hundreds of guests, the union of two influential families. It was rumored that politicians, businessmen, and famous people would attend the ceremony. Everything was planned down to the last detail—flowers, music, expensive fabrics, dazzling chandeliers.

The groom was a man spoken of in whispers. Young, rich, and cold. There were almost no rumors about him, and that was precisely what frightened her most.

And the night before the ceremony she ran away.

The room was empty. The phone was off. The window was open. The dress, which had taken months to make, hung neatly in the closet.

But she didn't come back.

The father was furious. The mother was on the verge of fainting. The servants were afraid to even look their masters in the eye. Calling off the wedding would bring shame on the family and cause a huge scandal.

And then you said:

• I'll go out instead of her.

At first, everyone thought you were joking. But you really did look alike: the same eyes, similar facial features, almost the same height. The groom had only seen the "bride" a couple of times—at official meetings.

The dress was taken in. My hair was styled. The makeup did its job.

You almost didn't recognize yourself in the mirror. The white fabric draped softly, her hair falling over her shoulders. For a second, it seemed like she was looking out from the mirror.

But there was no turning back.

When you walked out into the hall, your heart was beating so loudly that it seemed like everyone could hear it.

The groom stood calmly, wearing an expensive light suit. His cold gaze settled on you and changed slightly.

He came closer and extended his hand.

You put your hand in his and he squeezed it tighter than necessary.

Leaning towards your ear, he whispered quietly:

• Stop shaking. I won't kill you.