Page 80 of Bearly Out Loud

“He was a librarian. That’s the problem.” Reo swiped to a second screen—financial records. “Two hundred thousand from Meridian Creative Partners in 2019. Deposited across three accounts over eight months. Careful, but not careful enough. The paper trail connects.”

“We need his testimony.”

“We need him to admit, on record, that he provided Hideo’s unpublished materials to Meridian. Which means we need him to admit he stole from a dead man whose work he claims to love.” Reo finished his toast. Brushed crumbs from his laptop with a precision that bordered on tenderness. “People don’t confess to betraying their heroes easily.”

Dojin looked at the photograph again. The mild face. The corduroy jacket. Six years in a dead artist’s library, hands in archival gloves, indexing genius with devotion. “He was given a story,” Dojin said. “Someone told him the work would finallyreach an audience. That it was what Hideo would have wanted—the world seeing it, even anonymously. Financially desperate, maybe. But you don’t spend six years in devotion and then betray it purely for money.”

“Ideologically misled, then.” Reo’s voice was neutral. “Easier to build a case around. He’s not a criminal—he’s a man who believed the wrong person.”

“Then we make it easier for him to talk than to stay quiet.”

“You want me to find Crane.”

“I want you to have a conversation with a man who is teaching art history in a building that smells like chalk and regret. Bring coffee. Bring documentation. Bring the fact that Meridian’s shell structure is about to become public record, and when it does, his name will be attached to a fraud case he can either testify against or go down with.”

Reo considered this. Nodded once. “Coffee from the place on Church Street?”

“The good one. He’s going to need it.”

Reo set down his mug. The silence that followed had a particular quality—the kind he produced when something needed saying, and he was deciding whether to let it stay unsaid. “I reviewed the original Meridian submission package,” he said. “During the acquisition due diligence. I read the source materials they claimed to be adapting.”

“I know,” Dojin said.

“I didn’t recognize what they were.” Reo’s jaw was set in the way it got when he was being precise about something that mattered. “I’ve read those volumes. Twelve times. If I had seen Hideo Saito’s hand in that material—” He stopped. Started again. “I would have pulled the deal and filed fraud the same hour.”

“I know that too. Which is why you’re going to Crane.”

Dojin plated the eggs. Slid one across the counter. The morning light through the floor-to-ceiling windows was gold and generous, and his kitchen smelled like butter and bread and the coffee that Nari drank from her specific mug—the blue one she’d claimed on her second visit and hadn’t relinquished. It sat in the dish rack, clean, waiting. He noted its presence with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose mornings had changed—proof, small and domestic, that a woman came back.

Vuzen arrived at nine.

The confrontation ran the shape they both knew—Vuzen’s indictment, each grievance delivered with the precision of a man who had been building to this for months. Dojin let him finish.

“You’ve invested sleuth resources in cartoons.” Vuzen set his cane against the table. The word “cartoons” landed on the mahogany like a dead fish—intentional, provocative, precisely aimed. “And now those cartoons have brought a corporate predator to our door. A break-in at your voice actress’s apartment. Armed operatives in parking garages. Your shift, in public. This is the cost of entertainment, Keiser.”

“Those ‘cartoons’ generated forty percent of revenue last quarter. Streaming rights alone covered operating costs for the den, the security infrastructure, and the healthcare fund through next fiscal year. The IP portfolio’s valuation has tripled since we moved into original content.” He opened a folder. Slid revenue projections across the table. Not confrontational—informational. The way you explain math to someone who prefers feelings. “Mercer isn’t here because we make animation. Mercer is here because we make animation that’s worth stealing.”

Reo, from the corner, under his breath: “Here we go, again.”

“—primary revenue was territorial. Land. Timber. The old ways.”

Dojin kept his voice level. The respect was genuine—Vuzen had built the foundation Dojin stood on, and that deserved acknowledgment even when the man was being insulted by it. “We’ve already been over this. You know the history, Henrik. The sleuth survived 2008 because Stellan diversified. I expanded what he built. Do you want to undo both?

“The threat is real,” Dojin continued. “Mercer is dangerous. The response isn’t to retreat from animation—it’s to fight for it. The Wixx family is building a legal case that will shred Mercer’s theft. Keiser Entertainment will emerge from this stronger, with a legitimate IP and a story behind it generating press that money can’t buy.”

Vuzen studied him. The ice-blue eyes were cold, calculating, and not entirely unconvinced.

“The voice actress.” Vuzen’s tone shifted. Not softer—different. Personal. “The human.”

“Her name is Nari Wixx. She’s Hideo Saito’s granddaughter, and her family’s creative legacy is the foundation of our most valuable property.”

“And your mate.”

Dojin didn’t blink. “And my mate.”

Vuzen picked up his cane. Tapped the floor once—not displeasure, not approval. Acknowledgment. The kind a bear gave when he recognized that the terrain had changed and his map was outdated.

“Don’t lose.” He walked out.