Under The Radar

Chapter 2: The Weight of the Escape

The attic was a chaotic symphony of half-built machines and forgotten dreams. The low-hanging ceiling made the room feel smaller than it was, a cramped space littered with wires, gears, and scattered tools. Dusty blueprints, crumpled in frustration, lined the wooden walls, sketches of impossible contraptions abandoned in moments of disillusionment. The faint, tinny sound of old country music crackled from a radio Hiro had wired together himself, an old habit he never quite shook.

In the center of it all sat Hiro, his lanky frame folded awkwardly beneath a slanted beam, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tweaked a small drone. The attic had once been his sanctuary, a place to create, to tinker, to dream beyond the suffocating expectations of his family. Now, it felt more like a cage—a prison where the walls were made of unfulfilled potential and his father's looming shadow.

He held the drone in one hand, the soldering iron in the other, muttering quietly under his breath as if coaxing the machine to life. The faint scent of burnt metal and motor oil clung to the air. Outside, the city hummed with distant sounds of Tokyo's never-sleeping underworld. But inside, it was just Hiro, his machines, and the growing weight of his father's demands.

The faint creak of the ladder broke the silence. Hiro didn't bother looking up—he recognized that sound, the way each step groaned under familiar weight. He sighed and flicked off the soldering iron, setting it down next to the drone. His fingers lingered on the tiny machine, as if it were the only thing in the world that made sense.

Without turning around, Hiro spoke. "If you're here to offer me a raise, I'll take it in American dollars this time. Yen's not really doing it for me."

Taro's head appeared through the trapdoor, his expression as dry as Hiro's tone. "Still the comedian, I see," he said, pulling himself up into the attic. He looked around, eyeing the clutter like it was a personal insult. "But you're not going to laugh your way out of this one. Your father's not happy, Hiro."

"Dad's never happy," Hiro shot back, finally turning to face Taro. "He's the kind of guy who could win the lottery and still complain about the taxes."

Taro didn't bite. He stepped further into the room, his boots crushing wires and screws underfoot, each step deliberate. His eyes, sharp and dark, didn't waver as he spoke. "This isn't a joke, Hiro. You were supposed to hack into the stock exchange three days ago. What the hell have you been doing up here?"

Hiro's gaze followed Taro's, sweeping over the mess of gadgets and blueprints littering the attic. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, shrugging. "You know, the usual. Trying to get Sprocket to fly faster than a goldfish swimming through syrup. You'd think he'd have a little more personality, but maybe he's just shy."

Taro's patience was running thin. He folded his arms, his jaw tightening. "I don't care about your toys, Hiro. Your father wants results, not distractions. You know what's riding on this job."

The mood shifted, the humor in the room evaporating as quickly as it had come. Hiro's smile faded, his shoulders stiffening as he crossed the room to face Taro. He gestured around him, at the half-built contraptions, the makeshift lab he had turned the attic into.

"Distractions?" he echoed. "This is what I'm good at. This is what I want to do—build things, create something that's mine, not break into banks or crash someone's stock portfolio because Dad says so. I didn't sign up to be a pawn in his empire."

Taro didn't flinch. He had heard this argument before—too many times, maybe. "You didn't sign up for it," he agreed, voice level, but colder than before. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're in it. Your father gave you time, Hiro. He gave you space to do this... hobby." He waved a hand toward the machines, dismissively. "But now, he needs you back in the game. You know what happens if you don't deliver."