I sat on the edge of my futon in my flat, phone screen dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. Kyoto feels like a fever dream now.
The trip went by without a hitch.
Or at least, that's how I'd like to remember it.
It's funny — when you're young, stupidity doesn't feel like stupidity.
It feels like momentum. Like energy with nowhere useful to go.
And high school boys? We're basically generators with no voltage regulator.
I still don't understand why the whole "who's got it bigger" debate is a universal law of male existence. There's no trophy. No scholarship. No long-term strategic advantage.
Yet somehow, in the steamy haze of the bathhouse, Kenta decided history needed to be made.
He, of course, was loud about it. Mori pretended not to care — which meant he cared deeply. Someone declared "no backing down." Someone else called for fairness.
And just like that—
Swords flew.
Shields cracked.
Civilization regressed by several thousand years.
Kenta and Mori were practically tied on the unofficial leaderboard when Kenta, in all his brilliance, decided to drag me into it.
And just like that, every guy in the bath turned to look at me.
I don't know why I stepped forward. Peer pressure, maybe. Or maybe something even dumber.
Either way—
I won.
I won the most useless contest humanity has ever invented.
Woe is me.
"Bro… I'm telling you. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed," Kenta said later, still blinking like his brain hadn't rebooted.
We were back in the room by then.
Mori sat against the wall, unusually quiet. He'd been sharing first place. You could tell he'd gotten comfortable there.
Yamada and Sato — the quiet ones — just stared at me like I'd rewritten physics.
"Didn't ask for a review," I shrugged.
Kenta flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Nah, nah, you don't get it. I thought I had a chance. Like, solid contender. Then you walk in like it's nothing and the whole bath just goes silent. Not regular silent. Church silent."
Mori snorted.
"Church silent? It was funeral silent. Everyone was mourning their own ego."
I glanced at them, expression flat.
"You done?"
Kenta suddenly propped himself up on his elbows.
"Wait. Did you always know? Like, were you hiding it on purpose? Is that why you never change in the locker room?"
I let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"I don't hide. I just don't care who sees."
Kenta threw his hands in the air.
"That's worse! That's so much worse!"
Mori pushed off the wall with a faint smirk.
"Admit it, Shiba. You've been walking around with the crown this whole time and never said a word. Low-key legendary. King."
His tone was sarcastic, but the title still rubbed me the wrong way.
Didn't matter.
They started calling me that anyway.
I picked up my phone.
"Call it whatever you want. I'm still going to bed."
Kenta crawled closer like he was about to uncover state secrets.
"Okay, but real talk. Does Suzuki know? Like… does she know what she's dealing with?"
Mori actually choked.
I didn't blink.
"She sits in front of me on the bus. If she doesn't know by now, that's a her problem."
The room exploded.
…Suzuki might not know.
But Kurumi does.
So that's at least one SIX STAR member informed.
I hadn't really had a chance to talk to her since before I got rid of Yabai.
She'd been touring with the group over Golden Week — schedules packed, cities changing every other day. Not exactly the kind of situation where you sit down and "catch up."
And asking Suzuki about her?
Yeah. That was never going to happen.
We did cross paths once.
At the bar.
She came in late, still half in stage mode, ordered a drink like she hadn't slept in days. We exchanged a few words. Nothing heavy. Nothing that stuck.
"Sorry I haven't texted. Schedule's been insane," she said. "You free this weekend? We could catch up."
"Don't worry about it," I replied, flat. "I've been busy too. Sure. I'll let you know."
Then she was gone again.
Getting back to work felt almost normal.
The Manager was already in full form, barking orders like the place would collapse if he stopped for even a second.
"Move, move. We're not running a daycare," he snapped at no one and everyone at once.
Tetsu, of course, was half a drink ahead of the shift, leaning over the counter with that stupid grin.
"So, King," he drawled, nudging me with his elbow, "heard you've been stacking Ws lately. School trip. Fan encounters. What's next? Presidential election?"
"Shut up," I muttered, wiping down the counter.
He just laughed harder.
In the back corner, Maestro sat like he always did — half in shadow, glass in hand, observing everything without looking like he cared. He had that quiet, unreadable expression, like some underground broker trading secrets instead of stocks.
Same bar. Same noise. Same low lighting.
Like nothing changed.
Which, somehow, felt stranger than everything that had.
I missed her.
Not that I was going to say that out loud.
I opened LINE.
She was online.
…Yeah. Fine.
I'll make the first move.
Hey.
What're you up to?
The typing bubble popped up almost immediately. Disappeared. Came back.
Kurumi:
Wow. The King texts first? I'm honored.
A second later:
Just got home. Finally. My feet are dead.
Then another:
You? Or are you busy winning more useless competitions?
I smirked faintly at my own screen.
Two can play this game.
What if I said I'm trying to win some time with the apocalypse princess 🙃 You said we'd catch up, remember? 🤣
Yeah. I typed that with the same expression I use when I order water.
The typing bubble showed up slower this time.
Stopped.
Started again.
Kurumi:
Apocalypse princess?
A pause.
Careful, rapper boy. I might start charging royal fees. 😏
Another message followed.
And I remember. I don't say things I don't mean. 😉
Then—
You free this weekend? Or are you too famous now?
I'm not gonna beat around the bush.
Just come over already. 🙃 I'll pay for the Bolt.
I stare at the screen a second longer than I should.
Fine. 🤭
I had her share her location and called a car through Uber.
While I waited, I made coffee. Two cups. She liked to pretend she preferred tea, but she always stole sips from mine anyway.
About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
I opened it, and there she was — black skirt much shorter than it should be, bomber jacket unbuttoned, hair slightly wind-tousled like she'd rushed but didn't want to admit it.
She stepped inside without waiting for permission.
"Wow," she said, slipping out of her shoes. "You clean up now? What happened? Kyoto changed you?"
I rolled my eyes. "You're dramatic."
She unzipped her jacket slowly, like she was performing for an invisible audience, then hung it on the rack with exaggerated care.
When she turned back to me, her expression shifted — just a little.
Then she closed the distance in two steps and threw her arms around my neck.
She kissed my cheek — quick, warm.
"Hey," she said, voice lilting in that teasing sing-song tone. "It's been, like, two whole weeks. Did you survive without me?"
"You texted me the entire trip."
"Details."
She didn't let go immediately.
Her chin rested lightly on my shoulder, fingers idly tracing the back of my collar.
"I missed you," she added, softer this time — barely above a murmur.
She pulled back abruptly, smirking again like she hadn't just said that.
"So," she continued, eyes narrowing playfully, "did any Kyoto girls try to steal you? Should I be worried?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Get serious."
We sat at the table, a joint burning lazily between us, smoke curling up toward the ceiling like it had nowhere better to be.
I took a drag, held it, then passed it to her without looking.
"So," I said, watching the steam rise from my coffee instead of her face, "how was the Golden Week tour?"
She took it from my fingers, inhaled deeper than she needed to, then let the smoke spill out in a long, theatrical sigh.
"Exhausting," she muttered. "Three cities in four days. No sleep. No privacy. Same fake smiles."
She tapped ash into the tray with unnecessary force.
"And Aika keeps nagging me. 'Kurumi, posture.' 'Kurumi, energy.' 'Kurumi, think about the brand.'" She mimicked the voice in a syrupy falsetto before rolling her eyes. "I can't stand that stuck-up princess."
First time she'd mentioned Suzuki by name.
I let a slow smirk pull at my mouth. Perfect opening.
"So that's why you dropped a laugh reaction on my TikTok when I posted the Ai-chan diss?" I said lightly. "Didn't think I'd notice?"
Her eyes narrowed for half a second before she leaned back in her chair.
"Obviously," she scoffed. "What, you think I wouldn't?" She flicked ash into the tray. "It was funny."
I held her gaze. "Funny."
She rolled her eyes.
"Don't start. It wasn't that deep."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "You were pretty quick with it."
"Ugh." She dragged a hand down her face. "It's not like I stalked you or anything."
I didn't say anything. Just waited.
Her shoulders dropped.
"I didn't know you were Forsaken when I met you at the bar, okay?" she muttered, sounding more tired than defensive now. "I just thought you were some random guy with a mouth."
"A charming mouth."
"Debatable," she shot back automatically.
But she didn't look away.
There was something different in her expression now — not rebellious, not mocking.
Curious.
"You're annoying," she added, quieter. "You act all detached, then you drop something like that and expect me not to react."
I took the joint from her fingers.
"I don't expect anything," I said flatly.
She huffed.
"Yeah. That's the problem."
She tilted her head slightly, one brow lifting.
"So," she said, voice light but probing, "how did you even end up dissing her? Was it just a clout thing… or do you actually know her?"
I held her gaze for a second too long.
How much do I give her?
No way I'm telling her Suzuki and I share a classroom. That would stitch my school life to the bar, to Forsaken, to everything. Too many threads crossing. Too messy.
So I shrugged.
"Met her once," I said, reaching for my coffee. "Handshake event. I was there with my sister."
Kurumi's eyes sharpened slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"I played her one of my tracks. Thought I'd get a polite idol smile and a 'ganbatte.'"
I took a sip.
"She criticized the hell out of it instead. Said I overuse autotune. Said I copy-paste American artists."
Kurumi blinked.
Then she let out a short, amused exhale through her nose.
"No way."
"Way."
She leaned back in her chair, smirking now.
"And you took that personally."
I gave her a flat look.
"I don't take things personally."
She laughed at that — a real one this time.
"Takumi, you wrote an entire diss."
I flicked ash into the tray.
"She gave feedback. I responded."
"By nuking her on TikTok?"
"Artistic dialogue," I corrected calmly.
Kurumi shook her head, dark hair shifting over her shoulders.
"You're unbelievable."
But she was smiling.
And there was something else in her eyes too.
Not just amusement.
Interest.
She twirled the joint between her fingers, watching the ember glow.
"Well," she muttered, "I wouldn't have known you if you didn't work at the bar. My uncle… he lets me get away with a lot." A faint shrug. "Guess that's his way of making up for stuff."
She took a drag, held it, then let the smoke slip out slow.
Maestro handed her a gilded cage and called it opportunity. Spotlights. Contracts. A name polished until it barely felt like hers.
Behind it, his real world ran on leverage — drugs, bodies, silence.
You don't grow up around that and come out untouched.
"My dad was an asshole." No hesitation. No softening. "Drunk half the time. Mean the other half."
Her jaw tightened, but her tone stayed steady.
"He used to beat me. Beat my mom." A small, humorless huff. "So we stopped taking it."
She glanced at me sideways, eyes sharp.
"We fought back. Hard."
No tears. No dramatics.
Just a statement of fact — like she was telling me the weather.
Add an abusive father to the mix — fists, fear, learning early that no one steps in unless you step up. She and her mother didn't survive by waiting. They survived by pushing back.
So of course Kurumi is the way she is.
She's a lot like me.
I took the joint from her fingers, brushing them for half a second, and drew in one last slow drag before stubbing it out.
"Yeah," I muttered. "That explains a lot."
Silence stretched for a beat. I let it.
"I used to get bullied," I said finally, like I was commenting on the weather. "Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make school annoying."
I leaned back, gaze drifting somewhere past her shoulder.
"When I fought back, it stopped. Funny how that works." A faint shrug. "But then I was the delinquent. The problem kid. Teachers watched me like I was about to set something on fire."
I picked up my coffee, already lukewarm, and finished it.
"My mom and sister were embarrassed. Couldn't even hide it." My tone stayed even. "So I stopped talking to them. Easier that way."
A small pause.
"Somewhere along the line, I found American hip hop. Guys who turned being the problem into a brand." I glanced at her, just briefly. "That's when it clicked."
I set the cup down.
"That's when the dream started."
Kurumi let out a low chuckle.
"We're a lot alike, you and I," she said, studying me like she'd just solved something. "It's dangerous. It's addictive."
A beat.
"I want more."
I closed the space between us, my gaze dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again.
"Then stop talking," I murmured. "Just kiss me already. I know you want to."
She smirked.
"You're no fun, rapper boy~."
But she leaned in anyway.
Her lips claimed mine first — deliberate, no hesitation.
Just two broken kids.
A romance that felt like a fever-dream crossover between a late-night anime episode and a Mexican telenovela—dramatic, toxic, impossible to look away from.
Honestly?
Sign me up.