My first time on a plane was messy as fuck. My ears wouldn't stop ringing, and I spent most of the flight trying not to puke. Still, I felt this strange kind of childish excitement underneath it all. Like a kid who's eaten way too much sugar.
This was the first time I was leaving Japan.
My dream, ever since I first got pulled into American culture and everything that came with it.
I knew it was still just South Korea. Not some sweet escape into a new life, just a move to force the Japanese labels to keep me home by showing them I can branch out anytime I want.
Still Japan, some hardliners of a dying empire might've said—clinging to long-buried imperial dreams that never meant anything in the first place. Dreams already reduced to history by the same expansionist force I'd been idolizing in my head.
…Yeah. Even when I'm supposed to be excited, I still slip into this nihilistic shit.
God, have mercy on my existence.
And yet, the moment my feet touched the ground, the moment I heard Korean — a language I didn't understand at all, sharp and rhythmic, syllables flowing into each other in a way that sounded nothing like my mother tongue— it hit me hard.
Not even in a thousand years could this land ever truly become Japanese. No matter what some delusional nationalists back home liked to believe.
Once I made it out of ICN, Seoul stretched before me in full.
Glass buildings stretched into the sky, reflecting the gray clouds of late fall. Neon signs layered over each other in Hangul I couldn't read. Convenience stores glowing at every corner, the street food smell mixing with the car exhaust into the cold, crisp air.
Everywhere I looked, the city pulsed with restless energy. Massive digital billboards flashed K-pop idols and luxury brand ads—capitalism shoved directly into your eyes at full brightness.
Cars and people moved with an almost aggressive efficiency, like the entire city was running on double speed.
Delivery scooters weaved through traffic like they had a death wish. Fashionable couples walked by, teenagers in oversized hoodies laughed outside cafés, and salarymen smoked near subway entrances with dead eyes.
In the far distance, I could see the faint silhouette of mountains cutting through the concrete jungle — a quiet reminder that nature was still here, stubbornly holding its ground.
Seoul felt… different.
Tokyo is crowded and suffocating, everyone packed together pretending to follow the rules. This city seemed to have accepted the madness and decided to run straight into it at full speed.
Standing there with my bag slung over my shoulder, I realized just how far from home I actually was.
And I actually felt happy.
Like the world had suddenly gotten bigger than Matsumoto, bigger than Tokyo, bigger than all the bullshit that kept trapping me.
Then my phone rang.
Daeun.
I picked up.
"So," she said, voice low through the speaker, "did you survive your first international flight, or are you dying at the airport? Should I come pick you up?"
"I think I'm fine. I'm just gonna go drop my stuff to the hotel," I said.
"Good. I was starting to think you'd miss the flight on purpose," she replied, laughing slightly.
"And to miss a chance to make it out of Japan? Hell nah," I retorted, actually laughing this time.
There was a short pause on the other end.
Then Daeun laughed again—quieter this time, more surprised than amused.
"…You really say things no Japanese person is supposed to say out loud," she said.
I smirked a little.
"What, you expected me to start talking about the honor of the homeland or some shit?"
"That's not what I meant," she replied, still sounding amused. "It's just… most people there act like Japan's the center of the universe."
"Yeah," I muttered, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as I stepped outside the airport. "That's kinda the problem."
"You're seriously weird for a Japanese guy," she said, laughing softly now.
Yeah, no shit.
"Go rest for a bit. You sound dead," she said flatly, tone calmer now.
I always sound dead, it's my default.
"I'm stuck in studio sessions until late tonight, but… meet me at Maple Tree House after, okay?"
"Is it a date?," I asked with a smirk that looked too stupid in public.
"You sound way too happy about that idea."
"Good luck at work, Daeun. Be seeing ya,"
"Mm, thanks. Good luck surviving Korea until then," she replied with a chuckle before the line went dead.
Did I sound "too happy" about the idea?
I mean… I don't even think I'd return if I had the chance.
What the fuck is there to return to?
An estranged family? Mom and Kaede only reaching out when it's convenient for them—or when enough time passes for my reputation to stop embarrassing them?
A school system that took a normal kid who just wanted to fit in and turned him into a lone wolf delinquent?
A girlfriend who flirts with my own crew while I'm busy throwing up in a trash can?
Or girls like Inazuki—people who got close the moment they found out I was Forsaken, only to pull away the second they saw what my real life actually looked like?
Hell, even Yamashita still tried to take care of me without realizing I was turning into a monster right in front of her.
Fuck that.
Honestly, Suzuki mocking me that day might've been the best thing that ever happened to me. Even then, she felt guilty enough to squash the beef just because I used it to jumpstart my career.
It all feels like one big mockery.
My whole life so far.
Honestly, I'd rather just stay in Seoul and grind until I can make it to America. V€xxx already said I could pull up in New York.
I'd pay the yakuzas their monthly cut so they'd leave me alone and move on with my life.
In my cage, even a temporary escape is a breath of fresh air.
That's what I sounded so "happy" earlier.
As for the dating part…
Yeah, Daeun would probably make a better girlfriend for me than Kurumi right now. But long distance?
No thanks.
I already know how that story ends.
Those were the thoughts running through my head as the Uber took me to the hotel near Sinchon Station. A cheap place called Petercat Hotel.
Petercat.
Koreans really do have weirder names than us.
Whatever.
I arrived carrying nothing but a backpack and a four-day reservation, slipping quietly into my room without fanfare.
I took a nap and woke up a little after noon. I could've stayed in the hotel doomscrolling social media like usual, but I didn't fly to Seoul just to rot in bed.
So I went out.
First I hit Gyeongbokgung, the Joseon dynasty palace. At first it looked kinda like old Japanese temples—curved roofs, wooden buildings, stone yards, mountains in the back.
But the longer I walked around, the more different it felt. Way brighter and louder with all those colorful patterns painted everywhere. Wider courtyards, bigger halls, less tight and orderly than back home.
Then I went to Changdeokgung. It was calmer, more laid-back. The gardens and paths just followed the land instead of forcing everything into straight lines. Felt kinda peaceful, like the modern city disappeared for a bit.
After that I went to Seodaemun Prison History Hall—the one Japan used during the occupation to lock up Korean independence fighters. The second I walked in it got heavy. Tiny cells, narrow halls, old interrogation rooms. Photos of people my age staring back from mugshots.
Standing there as a Japanese guy, reading all that... yeah. Shit felt complicated.
Outside, Seoul was just going on like normal. Inside, it was still stuck in the 1930s.
I bowed a bit in front of the wall of mugshots. A couple Koreans nearby stared at me, surprised.
Yeah, I couldn't blame them. Some random Japanese teenager apologizing in the middle of Seodaemun Prison wasn't a normal sight.
"I'm sorry for our history," I mumbled in broken English, then quickly headed for the exit.
That is way too much.
I had no idea why I thought kicking off my Seoul trip with historical trauma was a smart move.
So I bailed and went straight to Hongdae.
That was more of my place — a maze of neon side streets, graffiti-tagged alleys, tiny basement clubs, vintage shops, and late-night cafés packed with students and musicians. Hip hop and rock were blooming, with street performers everywhere, dancers battling outside convenience stores, and indie bands shaking the walls of cramped venues. It felt way less fake than the idol Korea.
At some point, I just played a beat over some speakers and started freestyling.
"Ey yo,
Feel like Fetty Wap, I'm like hey, what's up, hello
I pop a lotta crap and you know it's not for show
Forsaken in Seoul, one, two, three, let's go
I'm a glitch in the matrix with my forest steal stones
You're a bitch in the making, boy, you my clone
Yeah, we call you half-baked when you say you got the dough
I'm a one man army, they get struck by my flow"
And people actually dug it.
A couple foreigners and locals that had stopped nearby just stood there for a second after I finished, like they weren't expecting some random Japanese guy to start rapping in the middle of the hood.
Then the whispers started.
Some in Korean. Some in English I could actually understand.
"Wait… isn't that the Japanese dude who covered Fall Out Boy?"
"No way."
"What's he doing in Seoul?"
"Maybe vacation?"
"Or a collab or something."
A few phones were already pointed at me.
One foreign guy wearing a beanie walked up first, grinning.
"Yo, man, your stuff's fire," he asked me in a midweast American English. "Can I get a picture?"
That word felt surreal directed at me.
Picture.
Not:
move out the way, delinquent.
Not:
problem child.
Not:
failure.
A picture.
"Uh… yeah, sure," I answered awkwardly.
A Korean high school kid came up right after, holding out a notebook carefully.
"For… autograph?" he asked in hesitant English.
I almost laughed.
Me?
Autographs?
The whole thing felt ridiculous.
Still, I grabbed the pen and signed:
Forsaken.
And honestly?
For the first time in a while, I felt like maybe the world outside Japan had room for someone like me after all.
It got dark by the time I finished taking pictures and signing autographs. I decided to head for Itaewon, since that's exactly the district where I was supposed to meet
Packed bars, people yelling in every language, American diners next to Korean spots and halal places. Clubs blasting hip-hop. Foreigners chilling with locals. No one fashion police to criticize people for their style.
It had this chaotic, international vibe that felt impossible back home. Tokyo has some diversity, sure. But it still feels Japanese first, distant to foreigners second.
Itaewon felt like the whole world just got crammed into one neighborhood.
I loved it right away.
And, I was taking a stroll, tempted to repeat my performance in Hongdae, Daeun texted me.
"I'm done. Let's meet."
I walked straight towards the Mapple Tree House.
I think I waited around 20 minutes or so outside the place, leaning against the railing and watching Seoul move around me in waves of headlights and neon.
Then I saw her stepping out of an Uber.
She wore a pink sweatshirt and a pair of skinny jeans hugging her frame cleanly. Her light brown hair falling over her shoulders like she walked straight out of one of those late-night Korean R&B music videos people get emotionally destroyed to at 2 AM.
And... yeah. She was hotter in real life.
Anyway.
Come to think of it, girls here dressed differently from back home in general. Korean girls seemed way more casual about jeans, oversized hoodies, streetwear.
Meanwhile, Japanese girls still clung to skirts like the entire country signed a contract with them decades ago.
Daeun spotted me almost immediately and walked over, adjusting the sleeve of her sweatshirt slightly.
"Hey," she said. "Did you wait long?"
"Nah, not really," I replied casually.
**Polished version:**
She looked at me for a second, like she was trying to decide if I was lying or just playing it cool. "Mm. Good," she said. "I'd feel kinda bad making an international celebrity freeze outside."
I snorted. "Celebrity is pushing it."
"That's not what your numbers say." She nodded toward the entrance. "Come on before someone recognizes you again."
We stepped inside Maple Tree House. Warm air and the smell of grilled meat hit us right away. The waiter led us to a booth near the back. Daeun slid into her seat and rested her chin on her hand, looking at me.
"So," she said, "how does it feel going viral internationally off pure spite?"
I laughed through my nose. "Efficient."
"Dangerously efficient," she corrected.
The waiter came over and Daeun ordered for both of us in Korean without needing the menu.
"You come here often?" I asked.
"Sometimes after studio sessions. The owner lets artists stay late if we're quiet."
"Seoul really has the struggling artist infrastructure figured out."
She smiled faintly. "Trust me, we still struggle."
The conversation settled for a moment. Then she looked at me again. "So what's your actual plan, rapper boy? Because you don't sound like someone who wants to stay underground forever."
Rapper boy. The same nickname Kurumi gave me. Unintentional, maybe, but it struck too close to home.
I stared at the grill as it started heating up. "I don't."
"America?" she guessed.
I blinked. "How'd you know?"
"You talk about it like people here talk about escaping to Los Angeles. I recognized the look."
"I plan on New York. Got V€xxx there and everything," I replied, then a smirk formed across my face. "Maybe we could do something in 3. America feat. Japan and South Korea—that'd be crazy."
Daeun raised an eyebrow. "Wow. You already got the cinematic universe planned out."
I laughed. "Why think small?"
"No, I get it," she replied. "Honestly… America featuring Japan and Korea does sound kinda insane."
The waiter brought the meat and it hit the grill with a loud sizzle. Daeun watched it for a second before looking back at me.
"You know what's funny, though? People online act like Japan and Korea are completely different worlds, but artists our age grew up on the same internet."
"Yeah. Same internet. Different trauma."
That got a quiet laugh out of her. She pointed at me with her chopsticks. "But New York, huh? That's ambitious even for you."
"I'm aware."
"No," she said, smirking. "I don't think you are."
"I survived being an outsider in my own country. Bullying. Delinquency. All that shit. I could probably survive there too."
I watched the smoke rise from the grill.
"Since you were wondering earlier why I'm not exactly loyal to Japan and all… it gets kinda hard to worship home once you realize there's an entire world outside of it. And honestly? The outside world feels more interested in me than Japan ever was."
Daeun stayed quiet for a moment. "That's a very lonely way to think." She rested her chin on her hand, eyes on me. "But I get it. More than you probably think."
"I grew up in a very lonely way, so touché," I laughed dryly.
Then I changed the subject.
"How about you, princess? How's it feel to grind outside the idol system?"
Daeun narrowed her eyes at the word *princess*. "Careful. I can still leave you stranded in Seoul."
I laughed under my breath.
"As for the idol system…" she muttered, poking at the food with her chopsticks. "It's complicated. I trained for a while when I was younger. Dance lessons, vocal lessons, monthly evaluations—all that corporate survival stuff."
"And?"
"And I hated it. Everything felt manufactured. They wanted perfect dolls, not actual artists."
"So you went indie instead?"
"Half-indie," she corrected. "I still work with a distributor because money exists and Seoul rent is evil. But the music I release under Daeun is mine. That's the important part."
She gave me a faint smirk.
"You'd never survive the idol industry, by the way."
I blinked. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You'd get kicked out in three days. Probably for fighting a manager."
I raised a brow, unimpressed.
"I was never interested in the idol system, duh. I found American culture and it made me wanna be a rapper."
Then, I took a bite of the food. And, damn, it was so good. Korean barbeque hits different than any Japanese dish I ever had.
Daeun let out a quiet laugh through her nose.
"Yeah, that tracks."
"I'm serious," I said. "It seemed a better alternative to being just another depressed Japanese salaryman."
"Very dramatic origin story."
"Shut up."
She smiled faintly before taking a sip from her drink.
"So what was it?" she asked. "The music?"
"The attitude," I replied immediately. "The struggle. The confidence. The whole idea you could come from nowhere and still force people to hear you. The fact that these guys were forced to become delinquents, just like me."
American rappers — especially black artists — were pushed toward crime and outlaw lifestyles by poverty and the feeling that there was no other way to rise above their circumstances. Me? I was bullied first, then branded a delinquent just for fighting back. That dragged me into Japan's street life — gang fights, violence, all of it — yet I was never truly accepted by any of them.
Not until the yakuza.
Different causes. Same outcome.
I paused for a second.
"In Japan, it feels like people already decide what you are before you even open your mouth."
Daeun nodded slowly at that, like she understood the feeling a little too well herself.
"And rap gave you a way out?"
"More like a weapon," I said.
That earned me another look from her. But she wasn't judging, she was genuinely thoughtful.
Daeun stayed quiet for a few seconds before looking at me again.
"That's kinda sad," she said bluntly.
I raised an eyebrow. "The hell?"
"I mean it. You talk about rap like it's the only thing keeping you alive."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because she wasn't wrong.
Daeun noticed my hesitation. Her expression softened.
"But… I think that's also why people listen to you." She paused. "You sound like someone trying to claw his way out of something."
I fell silent. She wasn't wrong.
Daeun absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair between her fingers for a moment before speaking again.
"You know," she said, "this is actually kinda weird."
"What is?"
"We're making a song together, you flew to another country to meet me…" she paused, amused. "And I still don't know your real name."
I blinked once.
…Right.
That was weird.
Online, people got so used to usernames and stage names that sometimes you forgot there was an actual person underneath all the branding.
I leaned back slightly.
"Takumi," I said. "Shiba Takumi."
She repeated it quietly, testing the sound of it.
"Takumi… Sounds softer than Forsaken," she said, smiling softly.
"Yeah, well, my mother wasn't expecting me to grow up into a mentally unstable SoundCloud rapper."
That got a short, brief laugh out of her.
Then she rested her chin against her hand slightly.
"Yoon Seoyeon," she said afterward. "That's my real name."
"Huh."
Seoyeon."
She narrowed her eyes immediately.
"The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I dunno," I admitted. "Daeun fits your vibe more."
She stared at me for another second before shaking her head with a quiet laugh.
"You're actually impossible."
Maybe I am.
Neither of us spoke for a while. The restaurant hummed around us—quiet Korean conversations, smoke from other grills, faint neon lights from the street.
Seoul felt alive in a way Tokyo never did.
And sitting there across from Yoon Seoyeon—Daeun—I realized something terrifying.
For the first time in years, I really didn't want the night to end.