My languid afternoon was about to be ruined. This was the utter ceiling of acceptable disruption. I squinted, running a mental calculation. The sniper was perhaps thirty feet away, horizontally, across the moon-washed gap between the Shinjo residence and the colossal Sapporo Gold billboard. Vertically, he was three floors down from my penthouse perch. A bullet, even a high-caliber one, would be a nuisance. What I needed was something heavy, requiring negligible physical strain, and something that made a satisfying thud. My gaze drifted to the sprawling, jade-leafed *Ficus microcarpa* bonsai, a relic from Kenjiro's grandfather, its ceramic pot weighing at least a hundred kilograms. It sat on a low, ornate stand near the balcony balustrade, a ridiculous symbol of forced, traditional 'natural beauty' in a house that otherwise screamed chrome and neon. It was also blocking my view of the city's twinkling lights. Two birds, one stone, one minimal push. A sigh escaped my lips, a delicate exhalation of pure exasperation. This was actual manual labor. My shoulder muscles, atrophied from a decade of professional inactivity, registered a pre-emptive complaint. Kenjiro was about to execute his wicked aunt, and I was about to execute a plant. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, demanded balance. I shifted my weight on the lounger, my bare foot, adorned with a single painted toenail, snaked out. The polished tip of my big toe hooked *under* the lip of the oversized ceramic pot. It was a delicate maneuver, requiring just the right amount of pressure. Too little, and it wouldn't move. Too much, and I’d lose my balance, perhaps even have to *stand up*. The horror. I braced my core, tensing for the brief second required to apply leverage. A soft groan, barely audible, escaped my throat. *Shhhk.* The pot scraped against the marble sill. The movement was barely perceptible, a slow, grudging slide. The *Ficus* teetered, its branches swaying like a drunken dancer. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed to cling to the edge, defying gravity, mocking my precious indolence. My eyes narrowed. This was insubordination. With another microscopic nudge, a fractional increase in pressure from my toes, the pot finally succumbed. It tipped, a massive, unhurried arc, then plummeted. Air rushed past it in a whisper. The heavy ceramic, the dense soil, the ancient roots—all converged into a single, accelerating projectile. Down it went, a green blur against the neon night. The sniper, still focused on Kenjiro below, was a dark, prone shape. He never saw it coming. There was a wet, sickening *CRACK* that echoed even over the distant rumble of the city. A small, almost dainty *thunk* followed as the heavy rifle clattered onto the billboard gantry. The silhouette of the sniper slumped. My job was done. My foot retreated, seeking the plush comfort of the lounger. “Reika! My love! Are you unharmed?” Kenjiro’s voice tore through the lingering tension. He was a whirlwind of motion, abandoning Chiyo entirely, who lay stunned and groaning in the courtyard. He vaulted over the remaining rubble, his katana still clutched in one bloodied hand, his eyes wide with a terrifying panic that only I seemed to inspire. His dark suit was ripped, his face smudged with soot and sweat, but his concern was laser-focused on me. “What was that sound? My darling, did you… did you *move*?” He burst onto the penthouse balcony, his gaze frantically scanning for any sign of my supposed distress. He found me reclined, serene, a faint sheen of perspiration on my brow from my recent 'exertion'. His eyes fastened on the empty space where the bonsai once sat, then to the jagged hole in the marble railing. “You… you threw the ancient bonsai?” His voice was a strangled whisper, a mix of awe and unvarnished horror. “You flung Oba-san’s ancestral *Ficus* with your *bare hands* to protect me?” He took a shaky step towards me, his hand reaching out as if to touch a sacred relic. “My delicate flower, you are truly a warrior spirit! Such passion! Such ferocity in defense of your husband!” I blinked, my mind racing to reconcile his interpretation with reality. Passion? Ferocity? I just wanted to save my black card. “It was… getting dusty,” I murmured, a noncommittal shrug. “And it was blocking my view of the… cityscape.” Kenjiro’s face softened, his eyes brimming with a devotion so intense it was almost frightening. “Even in the face of imminent peril, you maintain your aesthetic sensibilities! My beautiful, brave wife!” He knelt beside the lounger, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead. “I shall have the strongest artisans craft a new, reinforced parapet for you to launch projectiles from. And perhaps a selection of even heavier, more aerodynamic potted plants.” Before I could formulate a languid protest, a familiar, disheveled figure stumbled onto the balcony. Sayuri. Her designer dress was torn, her hair a wild, matted mess, and her face was streaked with dirt and what looked suspiciously like grease paint from a clown. She looked utterly, profoundly exhausted. The fire in her eyes, once a blazing inferno of ambition, had been extinguished, replaced by a dull, weary flicker. “Reika-sama,” she rasped, her voice hoarse, “I… I have been watching. You didn’t even stand up. You just… pushed a plant. And somehow, everything is fine. My empire is gone. I am ruined. I have spent every waking moment of the last five years chasing success, chasing power, chasing *Neon Ascendant*’s original plotline, only to end up here, bruised and bankrupt, while you… you simply exist.” She sank to her knees, not in supplication, but in pure, unadulterated fatigue. “Reika-sama, I have been going about this all wrong. The grindset… it’s a lie. The hustle… it’s a trap. I beg of you, teach me. Teach me the Lethal Art of Doing Nothing. Let me be your personal assistant. I will organize your snacks, I will fan you when it’s warm, I will even brew your tea… as long as it’s safely gunpowder-free.” I considered her. Sayuri, the ambitious transmigrator, humbled and broken by her own relentless drive. It was almost poetic. A personal assistant who would handle all the minor inconveniences of existence? That sounded… *acceptable*. No more reaching for the remote. No more retrieving my own sparkling water. The possibilities for enhanced laziness were truly boundless. “Alright,” I said, sinking back into the cushions. “But you start by finding my charging cable. It’s probably under that pile of discarded fashion magazines. And make sure it’s the long one. I hate having to stretch.” Sayuri’s eyes, for the first time in weeks, held a glimmer of something akin to peace. “Of course, Reika-sama. Immediately.” She stumbled off, a new, albeit dramatically different, sense of purpose in her step. Kenjiro, meanwhile, was already issuing orders into a sleek, brick-sized phone. “Reinforce the entire perimeter! Add three more layers of sonic fencing! And commission a new massage chair for my wife, one with triple cushioning and a self-refilling beverage dispenser! She has exerted herself beyond all reasonable limits today!” My new massage chair arrived before dawn, its velvety contours promising untold hours of undisturbed languor. Kenjiro directly supervised its installation, positioning it precisely to give me the optimal view of the cityscape, now unmarred by any inconvenient flora. He even had a small, discreet button installed on the armrest, labeled 'Projectile Launch', just in case. Sayuri, true to her word, had already organized a meticulous snack drawer within arm's reach. I sank deeper into the plush embrace of the chair, my limbs relaxed in complete inaction. Kenjiro watched me, his expression a blend of protective adoration and lingering, intense awe. My black card was safe. My hot spring was safe. My precious, utterly unbothered existence stretched out before me, an endless vista of perfectly calibrated comfort. The Neo-Kyobashi night hummed outside, a distant symphony of sirens and distant explosions, a frantic, beautiful chaos that had nothing, *absolutely nothing*, to do with me. And I finally, blissfully, closed my eyes.

Happily Ever Unbothered