Investors should not rely solely on the information contained on this webpage to make investment decisions. Investors should read carefully and understand the relevant fund's offering documents (including the fund details and full text of the risk factors stated therein (in particular those associated with investments in emerging markets for funds investing in emerging markets)) before making any investment decision.
The sound is obscene, metallic, deafening. Half the carriage gasps. Heads whip around. A businessman drops his phone. A schoolgirl shrieks.
Weasel struck every three days, always targeting young women near the center doors. He used the train’s lurch as cover. His left hand did the work while his right held a newspaper. Clever. But predictable.
She never sees Weasel again.
She doesn’t press charges. She doesn’t have to. His face—already circulated on five Twitter accounts before the train reached Ueno—does the payback for her. Later that evening, Mizuki writes in her journal: “They say revenge is empty. They’re wrong. Revenge is a tool. Not for satisfaction—for restoration. Today, I took back my morning commute. I took back my voice. And I let a coward know: the crowd is not his camouflage. It is his cage.” She deletes the audio file after making one backup for Haru. She doesn’t post it online. The public shaming, she decides, is enough.
Mizuki froze. Her breath caught. The train hummed. A baby cried two meters away. No one saw. The hand vanished into the crowd like a ghost.
Somewhere between Akabane and Ueno, a hand—flat, deliberate, serpentine—slid across the back of her thigh. Not a jostle. Not a sway-induced accident. A slow crawl, then a squeeze.
The train lurches. Bodies shift. She feels it: knuckles pressing against her right hip, then sliding lower.
She named him “Weasel.”
Contact Us: 2822 0228 (Personal Customers) / 2198 8000 (Commercial Customers)Not available for Subscription : This fund is not available for subscription. For details, please click here or speak with the staff of the Bank.
The sound is obscene, metallic, deafening. Half the carriage gasps. Heads whip around. A businessman drops his phone. A schoolgirl shrieks.
Weasel struck every three days, always targeting young women near the center doors. He used the train’s lurch as cover. His left hand did the work while his right held a newspaper. Clever. But predictable.
She never sees Weasel again.
She doesn’t press charges. She doesn’t have to. His face—already circulated on five Twitter accounts before the train reached Ueno—does the payback for her. Later that evening, Mizuki writes in her journal: “They say revenge is empty. They’re wrong. Revenge is a tool. Not for satisfaction—for restoration. Today, I took back my morning commute. I took back my voice. And I let a coward know: the crowd is not his camouflage. It is his cage.” She deletes the audio file after making one backup for Haru. She doesn’t post it online. The public shaming, she decides, is enough.
Mizuki froze. Her breath caught. The train hummed. A baby cried two meters away. No one saw. The hand vanished into the crowd like a ghost.
Somewhere between Akabane and Ueno, a hand—flat, deliberate, serpentine—slid across the back of her thigh. Not a jostle. Not a sway-induced accident. A slow crawl, then a squeeze.
The train lurches. Bodies shift. She feels it: knuckles pressing against her right hip, then sliding lower.
She named him “Weasel.”
Hot Offer
