Summer days stretched long and languid across Tokyo, the sun reluctant to surrender its golden dominion. The evening illumination of the city—that famed Nihon no akari—had not yet flickered to life. Instead, the waning sunlight caught in the girl's dark, flowing hair as she ran, setting the strands ablaze with hues of deep amber and burnished copper.
She sprinted all the way from the main teaching building to the campus gates, her lungs burning, her legs screaming. She didn't dare pause, didn't allow herself even a moment to double over and catch her ragged breath. The moment she cleared the entrance, she pivoted sharply and launched herself toward the train station with the desperate velocity of a shoujo protagonist racing against a tragic confession deadline.
The wind howled in her ears, a relentless roar that drowned out almost everything. Almost. She thought she heard someone calling her name—a distant, familiar voice carried on the breeze—but she couldn't be certain if it was real or just her panicked imagination conjuring auditory hallucinations.
Mio didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Even if someone was genuinely calling out to her, even if it was a friend waving with genuine concern, she had absolutely zero bandwidth to spare for polite conversation. Every second was precious. Every heartbeat counted.
If she had to distill her current emotional state into a single word, it would be: hot.
Her body was ablaze, a furnace stoked by exertion and adrenaline. Her face burned crimson, flushed with heat and anxiety. Her heart... her heart felt like a kettle of water pushed to ninety degrees, bubbling and churning with frantic, scalding urgency. The steam of her panic threatened to whistle out of her ears at any moment.
Beyond the oppressive, all-consuming heat, only one other sensation remained: regret. Bitter, gnawing, self-inflicted regret.
If only she had called her mother earlier. If she had just taken five minutes—five measly minutes—out of her chaotic schedule to perform that simple, routine act of filial piety, none of this would be happening. She wouldn't be sprinting through the streets like a fugitive, her carefully constructed new life teetering on the brink of exposure.
The words she had offered her mother on the phone—"I'm too busy, there's just no time"—were a convenient half-truth. A comfortable lie wrapped in a thin veneer of honesty.
She was busy. Unquestionably, exhaustingly busy. But not so utterly consumed that she couldn't spare a few moments for a phone call. Several nights, lying awake in her dark apartment, she had stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over her mother's contact information. There was so much she wanted to say. So much she ached to share. The weight of her secrets pressed against her ribs, desperate for release.
But what could she possibly say? How could she even begin?
"Hey, Mom. Guess what? I owe two million yen to some very unpleasant people. I was drowning in debt, totally screwed, but then this guy—Shiratori Seiya—he just... saved me. Paid it all off. Crazy, right?"
"And Mom, he's so weird! He doesn't want anything from me. Like, nothing. He just... gave me the money. Actually gave it to me. Who does that?!"
"Oh, also, I found out his ex-girlfriend is Hojo Shione. You know, THAT Hojo Shione? The singer I used to be totally obsessed with? Yeah. Her."
"And it gets better! Apparently, several of his ex-girlfriends are still completely hung up on him. I'm basically trapped in a love polygon—a real-life harem anime scenario, except I'm not even sure I'm the main heroine!"
"Oh, and get this—he was secretly 'A-sensei' this whole time. The legendary composer! He wrote all of Shione's biggest hits! Can you believe it?!"
"But Mom... I finally found something. A real dream. Something worth fighting for with everything I have. I want to become an actress. A real star. And I've been working so, so hard these past few weeks—training until I can barely stand, so exhausted sometimes that I don't even have the strength left to cry..."
She couldn't say any of it. Not a single word.
Every time she imagined voicing these truths, her mind conjured her mother's bewildered, worried expression. After careful, painful consideration, she would always move her thumb away from the call button. She would simply stare up at the blank, indifferent ceiling and digest the chaos alone, in silence.
She didn't even need to think too hard about it. Her mother wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand.
She wouldn't believe that someone as foolishly, inexplicably kind as Shiratori Seiya existed in this cynical world. She wouldn't believe that he was genuinely that good to her daughter without ulterior motives. She would immediately, instinctively, label him a liar. A con artist. A predator in sheep's clothing. Exactly as Mio herself had initially suspected.
Without personally experiencing the quiet, unwavering consistency of his care—the way he showed up, the way he planned, the way he seemed to see her clearly even when she was a mess—her mother would never know how truly good he was. How infuriatingly, wonderfully good.
But then again...
He wasn't all good. That would be too simple. Too boring. The guy was, objectively speaking, kind of a huge jerk.
Here she was—Takahashi Mio—possessing the kind of looks that turned heads and stopped conversations. She was objectively pretty. Gorgeous, even. And yet, he remained utterly, infuriatingly unmoved. Not once had he made any kind of improper advance. Not a single ecchi move. Nothing.
And while she knew, logically, that if he had tried something she probably would have spontaneously combusted from sheer panic and embarrassment... the fact that he hadn't... well, it stung a little.
It planted a tiny, persistent seed of disappointment in her chest.
Am I really that unappealing? Do I have zero charm in his eyes?
Even Araki-sensei, her terrifyingly strict training instructor who rarely dispensed compliments, had once grudgingly admitted that Mio possessed outstanding visual assets. "Your looks are a weapon," she had said. "Learn to wield them."
So what was his deal?! Had his threshold been set impossibly, unreasonably high by his previous relationships?
Kuso!
She couldn't stop the intrusive, maddening thoughts from creeping in. Had he done intimate things with those other women? With Hojo Shione? With Hasegawa Saori? The images her imagination conjured made her want to punch a wall.
Of course, the single most exasperating thing about Shiratori Seiya was his stubborn, lingering connection to his ex-girlfriends. The way they still orbited him like moons around a planet. That was truly maddening.
But even then... he maintained his distance. He drew lines. He didn't cross them. Even after she had explicitly told him, "You don't have to consider my feelings. It's fine if you date Hasegawa Saori. I can accept it," he still hadn't taken that step.
That delicate, careful way he handled her—like she was something precious, something to be protected and considered—made her feel as though she was being cradled gently in the palm of his hand.
But he didn't love her. Not in the way she was beginning to realize she wanted to be loved.
Every time that realization surfaced, a fresh wave of frustration and anger washed over her.
I'll make him fall for me. I absolutely will. Just wait, Shiratori Seiya.
However—
Now is NOT the time for romantic strategizing!
Mio burst onto the train platform, breathless and disheveled. She collapsed into a corner seat as the train lurched into motion, her chest heaving. Fumbling with her phone, she scrolled frantically through her contacts, searching for her cousin's number. She needed to call. Needed to intercept her. Needed to know where she was.
She tapped the call button and pressed the phone to her ear.
"The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."
Mio froze. The automated voice droned in her ear, cold and unhelpful. She pulled the phone away, staring at the screen in disbelief. Her red lips formed a small, unconscious pout, and her delicate brows furrowed into an upside-down 'ha' shape—the universal symbol of anime-girl distress.
Did she change her number?!
A frustrated sigh escaped her. Of course. Of course this would happen. The universe was clearly enjoying her suffering today.
She switched tactics, scrolling endlessly through her friends list on various social media platforms. After what felt like an eternity of searching, she finally located the account. Takahashi Miki. The profile picture was old, but recognizable.
Mio's eyes lit up with desperate hope. Her thumbs flew across the screen.
"Miki-nee! I just heard from Mom that you were coming to visit me! I'm so, so sorry—I just got out of school. Where are you right now?!"
She hit send. The message indicator showed 'Delivered.'
She stared at the screen, willing it to change to 'Read.' The train rattled on, station after station blurring past the window. They arrived at her stop. Still unread.
Is she busy? Did her phone die? Is she already at my apartment, lurking outside my door like a patient predator?!
A fresh wave of unease surged through her, cold and clammy against the residual heat of her sprint. Mio pursed her lips, shoving the phone into her pocket. She didn't have time to wait for a reply. She had to move.
She hurried home, her pace somewhere between a speed-walk and a panicked jog.
Takahashi Miki was five years her senior.
The period when Mio had been closest to her cousin was before high school—those golden, carefree years of childhood. During school holidays, Mio's home life was strictly regimented, supervised with an almost military precision. Because of that, the thing she looked forward to most in the entire world was her older cousin's visits. Whenever Miki-nee showed up, it meant freedom. It meant adventure.
Shopping excursions. Amusement parks. Movie marathons. Miki had even taken her to karaoke for the first time—a sacred rite of passage for any Japanese youth. Mio could still remember the thrill of holding that microphone, belting out her favorite anime opening themes while Miki cheered her on.
However, after Mio entered high school, their contact had dwindled to almost nothing. Perhaps her cousin had become intensely focused on her university studies? Mio had never been given a clear reason.
Years had passed since they'd last seen each other. The memories weren't exactly blurry, but they lacked detail, like a photograph slightly out of focus. Only a few sharp, vivid images remained.
The clearest memory was this: Miki-nee's personality was far, far stronger than her own. Even though their family backgrounds were strikingly similar—both raised in traditional, conservative households with strict fathers and high expectations—Miki had boldly, unapologetically announced her intention to become a model while she was still in high school.
Mio remembered the fallout vividly. A colossal, explosive fight with her uncle. Miki had reportedly run away from home for an entire week. They'd finally found her holed up in an internet cafe in a neighboring city, unrepentant and furious.
At the time, learning about the incident had filled Mio with a complicated cocktail of emotions. Shock, certainly. But more than that... fear. A deep, primal fear.
If she were in Miki's position, she knew—with absolute, bone-deep certainty—that she would never possess such a formidable inner core. She would crumble. The mere thought of facing her own father's thunderous reprimand was enough to make her feel physically ill, her stomach clenching in terrified knots.
Yet, buried beneath the fear, there was also a quiet, secret admiration for Takahashi Miki.
No matter what, being able to boldly, loudly declare what you wanted to do with your life—to plant your flag and defend it against all comers—that was simply too cool. It was the kind of protagonist energy Mio felt she sorely lacked.
So, when she finally escaped to university, she had subconsciously dyed her hair a shade remarkably similar to the one Miki had sported in her rebellious phase. A small, personal tribute. A talisman of borrowed courage.
Thinking about it now, however, with the jaded perspective of someone who had glimpsed the entertainment industry's brutal realities, Miki-nee's dream seemed... impractical. Almost impossibly so.
Leaving aside the question of her looks—Mio remembered her cousin being quite pretty, with striking features—her height was the real issue. Miki was only about as tall as Mio herself. To become a runway model, the kind who strutted down catwalks in designer clothes, one needed to clear the 170-centimeter barrier. That was the unspoken law of the industry. Unless she had pivoted to print modeling or commercial work, a height in the mid-160s was simply not competitive. It was like bringing a wooden sword to a kendo match.
She wondered, with a pang of genuine curiosity, how Miki-nee was doing now. Had she found her path? Had she made peace with her limitations? Had the world broken her spirit, or had she bent the world to her will?
Mio's thoughts spiraled without order or destination, a chaotic whirlwind of anxiety, nostalgia, and frantic planning. She was so lost in her own head that she barely registered the journey. Before she knew it, her feet had carried her to the base of her apartment building.
She scanned the entrance area. No sign of her cousin.
A small, fragile breath of relief escaped her lips. She took the stairs two at a time, her thighs burning in protest. Reaching her floor, she peered down the corridor toward her door. Still empty.
Oh, thank the kami-sama.
She allowed herself a full, proper sigh of relief. Wiping the cooling sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she fumbled for her keys, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. She tossed her bag carelessly onto the floor and, without even pausing to kick off her shoes, launched into a frantic, full-scale cleaning and hiding operation.
First, the luxury items. The designer handbag she'd splurged on during a moment of retail-therapy weakness. The accessories. Then, the clothes. The beautiful, expensive clothes Shiratori Seiya had bought for her—each piece costing well over a hundred thousand yen.
Takahashi Miki wasn't some naive country bumpkin fresh off the turnip truck. She read fashion magazines. She probably knew more about luxury brands and current trends than Mio herself did. Their family backgrounds were fundamentally similar—modest, middle-class, not the kind of households that casually dropped six figures on a single outfit. If her cousin saw these things, she would instantly know something was off. Alarm bells would ring.
It would be far too easy for Miki to jump to the worst possible conclusions. Online loans. Dangerous debt. Selling her body. A sugar daddy. The thought made Mio's stomach churn with nausea.
But that was actually secondary.
After stuffing every incriminating garment and accessory into a large suitcase and shoving it deep into the recesses of her closet, Mio planted her hands on her hips and took a brief, panting breather. Then, she turned her attention to the real contraband.
The performance materials. The acting textbooks. The annotated scripts. The dense notes on character development and emotional resonance. All the evidence of her secret, all-consuming ambition.
If Miki-nee discovered this and—intentionally or accidentally—let something slip to Mio's mother, then her father would inevitably find out. And if her father found out... Game over. Fin. Her fragile, nascent dream of becoming a star would be crushed in its infancy, smothered before it could even take its first breath.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell chimed, a cheerful, melodic sound that hit Mio's nervous system like a thunderclap.
Her heart lurched violently against her ribs. She delivered a desperate, panicked kick to the cardboard box filled with forbidden knowledge, sending it skidding beneath the bed frame. She whirled around, her eyes sweeping the room in a final, frantic inspection. Clear. Clear. Everything looks normal. Breathe. Just breathe.
She smoothed down her disheveled hair, pasted a welcoming smile onto her face, and hurried toward the door, her voice projecting a calmness she absolutely did not feel.
"Coming~!"
"..."