Chapter 3: The Party Crasher

Chapter 3: The Party Crasher

The phone call from his mother had been a single, tear-choked message left on his voicemail. "Leo... please... call us. We're worried sick. We just want to help." He deleted it without listening to the end. Help? They didn't want to help, they wanted to tear his world apart. They wanted to take Sakura away from him. The memory of his father's face, contorted with rage as he lunged for her, was seared into his mind. He had made his choice. His family was the past. Sakura was his future.

His job was the last thread connecting him to the life he’d had before her. It was a flimsy, frayed thread, but it was all he had left. The annual company Halloween party, usually an event he’d avoid like a plague of server failures, suddenly seemed like an opportunity. A chance for a new kind of introduction, one that wouldn't end in shattered photo frames and broken trust. It was Halloween. The one night of the year where the strange could be celebrated, where a woman of impossible stillness could be seen as performance art, not a symptom of madness.

"It's perfect, Sakura," he explained, carefully fitting a black witch's hat onto her perfectly molded hair. He had dressed himself as a generic warlock, a cheap velvet cape over his work slacks and a button-down shirt. Underneath, hidden from view, he wore his faded kung-fu cat t-shirt. His secret armor. "They'll think you're just in costume. The most committed actress they've ever seen. They'll see how beautiful you are, and they won't question it."

He carried her into the rented event space, a generic ballroom decorated with plastic skeletons and orange streamers. The air was thick with the smell of cheap punch and dry ice. For a moment, it worked. People stared, but they also smiled. A few colleagues from marketing clapped him on the back.

"Dude, that's commitment!" one of them said, laughing. "She hasn't even blinked! Where'd you hire her?"

"She's a natural," Leo replied, a tight, practiced smile on his face. He propped Sakura up in a chair against the wall, positioning her as the silent, elegant queen of the party. He felt a surge of pride. See? People could accept her. They just needed the right context.

He tried to mingle, to make it all seem normal. He’d grab a plastic cup of punch and bring it back to their corner. "Sakura's not much of a drinker," he'd say to anyone who glanced their way. "She's enjoying the music, though." He spoke for both of them, his narration a desperate attempt to weave her into the fabric of the evening. But the initial novelty soon wore off, replaced by awkward silences and sideways glances. People would talk to him for a moment, their eyes drifting to the motionless figure beside him, before making an excuse and drifting away.

The obstacle he hadn't properly accounted for was his manager, Mr. Henderson. A portly man with a comb-over and a booming laugh he used to assert dominance in meetings, Henderson was several drinks deep and feeling belligerent. He swaggered over to Leo's corner, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand.

"Leo, my man!" he slurred, clapping Leo on the shoulder hard enough to make him spill his punch. "Still with your little statue, eh? Gotta say, it's a hell of a gimmick."

"It's not a gimmick, sir," Leo said, his voice stiff. "This is Sakura."

"Sakura, right," Henderson chuckled, his eyes roaming over her form with a leering appreciation. He reached out and poked her arm. "Cold one, ain't she? A bit stiff." He laughed at his own joke, and a few other sycophantic colleagues who had gathered around snickered along with him.

Leo’s jaw tightened. "Please don't touch her."

"Oh, relax, Leo! It's a party," Henderson said, waving a dismissive hand. He was playing to his audience now. "Let's see how realistic this thing really is."

Before Leo could react, Henderson leaned in close and pinched Sakura's cheek. "Nice paint job. Very lifelike." Another colleague, emboldened by the lack of immediate reprisal, ran a hand down her smooth, plastic leg. "Wow, she doesn't even flinch!"

Something hot and acidic coiled in Leo's gut. This was a violation. They weren't just touching a mannequin; they were defiling his wife in front of him, their drunken laughter a chorus of mockery aimed at the most sacred thing in his life.

The final line was crossed when Henderson, a cruel glint in his eye, reached for the hem of Sakura's blue sundress. "Come on, fellas," he bellowed to the laughing group. "Let's see if she's anatomically correct!"

The world went silent. The music, the laughter, the chatter—it all faded into a dull, distant roar. All Leo could see was Henderson's fat, sausage-like fingers closing on the fabric of Sakura’s dress. The protective instinct that had ignited in his parents' living room now exploded into a full-blown inferno.

He didn't shove. He attacked.

With a guttural roar, Leo launched himself at his manager. He grabbed Henderson by the collar of his pirate costume and slammed him backward with all the force of his wiry frame. Henderson, his eyes wide with shock, stumbled back, arms flailing. He crashed directly into the main refreshments table. The entire structure collapsed with a sound like a car wreck—a symphony of shattering glass, splashing liquid, and splintering wood. Henderson landed in a heap amidst the wreckage, covered in punch, dip, and broken plastic.

Screams erupted. The party devolved into chaos. People scrambled away from him, their faces masks of terror and disbelief. Leo stood panting, his chest heaving, his fists clenched. His cheap warlock cape was askew, revealing the snarling kung-fu cat on the t-shirt beneath.

He had no memory of security arriving, only of being hauled out of the ballroom, his manager’s furious, spittle-flecked shouts of "You're fired! You're a lunatic! You're fired!" echoing behind him.

His last tie to a normal life was severed. He had lost everything. Family. Job. His place in the world.

He found Sakura where he'd left her, untouched by the chaos he'd unleashed. He gathered her into his arms, his movements frantic, and carried her out into the cold night air, away from the pointing fingers and horrified stares.

Back in the suffocating silence of his apartment, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving a hollow, aching despair in its wake. He had failed. He had tried to show them her beauty, and they had spit on it. He gently sat Sakura in her chair and knelt before her, his head bowed in shame. A small tear on the sleeve of her dress, where one of the men had grabbed her, caught his eye.

His fault. All his fault.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the tear in the cheap fabric, then moving to her arm, to the place where Henderson had poked and prodded her. He expected the familiar cool, hard smoothness of the plastic.

Instead, his fingertips met with an impossible, inexplicable warmth.

It was faint, barely perceptible, like the last trace of heat from a dying ember. But it was there. A patch of warmth on the cold plastic of her arm. He snatched his hand back as if burned, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared at her, at the perfect, still face, the painted, crooked smile.

Was he going crazy? Was this just another trick of his unraveling mind?

He hesitated, then slowly, tentatively, reached out again. He pressed his palm flat against her arm. The warmth was still there. A small, localized island of heat blooming from within the inanimate object he called his wife. It pulsed faintly against his skin, a secret, living rhythm that had no right to exist. The smile on her face no longer seemed mocking or serene. In the dim light of his apartment, it looked like a secret she was finally beginning to share.