No one's life is smooth sailing—not even kings and generals avoid life's hiccups.
How many life-threatening moments have you faced so far?
As a kid, Takizawa's family warned him he nearly wandered off with a stranger, destined for a grim fate—disfigured, homeless, limbs broken, begging on streets. In this mundane world, no chance to rise like a hero, only to freeze in some snowy alley.
Years later, safe and grown, he embraced his wild side, honing his spirit to shine brighter. But a tricycle sent him flying mid-journey, executing an untaught double-and-a-half aerial spin, landing headfirst. Minor issue, thankfully.
By now, he'd grasped the world's dangers. No more craving superhero powers or knightly belts, he turned to soulful art—grew bangs, switched his signature to an obscure font, and became a brooding, emo teen.
He loved snapping teary, cigarette-dangling selfies, reveling in the bold flair of downing drinks.
Until he chugged two bottles of hard liquor, landing in the ER for alcohol poisoning.
One moment, he was rowdy, fist-bumping. The next, he was propped up like a frail elder, barely standing.
Liquor really did warp time.
…Subjectively, at least.
After that, the dazzling party star died at reunions, replaced by a wholesome youth who flinched at excess.
But the trials didn't stop.
Who knew squatting in a bathroom would unlock true transcendence?
Through countless tests, Takizawa was fearless, his will ironclad, reaching a state of calm amidst storms, seeing mountains as mountains. If this were a fantasy city, his brushes with death might've unlocked an invincible mystic eye.
So why was he yowling like a cartoon cat?
Because right now, living felt worse than death.
Takizawa staggered off the roller coaster, a mangled mess, like a cosmetics package torn apart by eager hands. Bloodied, scarred.
Sakura, the frantic culprit, trailed behind, teary-eyed, sniffling, clinging like a delicate bird.
Why's the aggressor acting victimized?
"Mommy, those two screamed so loud. So wimpy!" A kid pointed, blunt as ever.
"Aki, don't talk about people behind their backs," The mother hushed, hurrying him away.
Under the kids' mocking stares, Takizawa wanted to bolt from this humiliating, blood-soaked scene.
"Guests, free photos here!" A staffer called, unfazed by routine, pointing to a screen showing Panda Express's moments.
Cameras along the track captured riders in a montage. Amid parents and kids, their striking pair drew eyes.
Takizawa stared.
No peerless beauty of legend.
Just a grimacing man in agony, a pale woman tormenting him.
He dubbed it Interstellar, Panda Express Murder Case, The Tragic End of Rose Boy.
"Want prints?" The staffer pitched, seeing their gaze.
"What, to ward off evil on my wall?" Takizawa scoffed.
"Now, now," The staffer said. "You two are clearly stunning, used to the spotlight. Average students cheer for passing; prodigies fret over less than perfect. Rare moments like these lift spirits. You don't show this side often, right? A keepsake will shine in your youth's memories—embarrassments endure. Plus, shared dark secrets deepen bonds."
"You look like a new couple…" The staffer rambled.
"Stop. We're not dating," Takizawa corrected.
"Siblings?"
"Nope."
"Cousins?"
"Just friends."
"Come on, who brings a 'friend' to a kiddie coaster?" The staffer frowned. "And screams like the Titanic's sinking?"
"DiCaprio's not bad," Takizawa mused.
"Think of it this way: after all this, no memento's a waste. You're here," The staffer pushed. "They say fights forge bonds, especially with blood drawn. True friendship grows through trials. Don't you want a secret just for you two?"
"Heh, I thought you had some grand pitch. This sales talk's weak," Takizawa said, immune to loan-ad spam.
"How much?" Sakura's eyes lit up, cutting in. "I'll take them all."
"?"
"We've got all sizes and styles. Which ones? We offer framing, home delivery," The staffer grinned, rattling off options. "Even post-editing—cinematic filters, action, romance, apocalyptic vibes, or custom DIY. Our motto: we work till you're satisfied."
"No edits, just originals. One of each size," Sakura snapped her fingers, pulling out her wallet, handing over crisp yen without glancing.
She didn't even ask the price—nouveau riche.
"Why buy these?" Takizawa asked, puzzled.
Too much pocket money?
Oh, right, she has tons.
"A memento," Sakura said, her red eyes sparkling with inexplicable glee. "Didn't you hear? Proof of our friendship's growth… a secret we can't tell."
Takizawa shook his head. Deepen friendship? Easy—treat me to dinner or karaoke, no need for this detour.
Wait.
That devilish whisper echoed: Record it, record it—
Oh no, she bought them! I'm the one recorded!
In a flash, time froze, stars streaked. He saw the future.
Sakura, at a live event, flashing edited photos—her erased—pointing at a wailing man, mocking his fear on a kiddie coaster. Labeled a coward, ridiculed. Fan letters demanding confessions or taunts, shoots forcing him onto kids' rides for laughs, producers leaning into his "crybaby" persona.
No more tales of a dashing hero.
What a diabolical plan.
Vicious woman.
Takizawa paled.
But there was a loophole.
History taught of mutual assurances—everyone's on the same sinking ship, so no one snitches.
Fine.
"Hmph, a secret? Same specs, one set for me!" He declared firmly.
At worst, it's a one-for-one trade, no loss. As a fine youth, he'd never smear her name, but having a sword unused is different from having none.
"Got it! I knew your bond was gold… er, hearts in sync," The staffer babbled, thrilled by the sales. "Companionship, trials, shared choices—your friendship's purity just soared."
"Friends to best friends?" Sakura asked.
"Absolutely," The staffer said. "But honestly, you were already besties. This seals you as soulmates!"
The sacrifice was worth it.
Sakura, quietly thrilled at their upgraded bond, stole a glance at him.
"How long's the wait?" Takizawa asked, arms crossed.
"Small ones are quick—sticker-style, great for phone cases, couples love them. Mediums take longer, fit standard frames," The staffer said.
"And the large?"
You two are the large ones, the staffer thought, scratching his head.
"No worries, we'll deliver."
"Wallposter size?!" Takizawa gasped.
"Not quite, but you got a lot. Hard to carry," The staffer said kindly. "Within four business days."
To avoid being her pawn, to dodge ridicule, he accepted. Heart aching, he handed over crumpled bills, like severing a limb.
They left the chaotic scene.
"Got my tissues?" Takizawa asked suddenly.
"Yup, heh, but I'm not crying anymore. I'm tough," Sakura said, chipper, skipping, short hair bouncing prettily.
"Give me some. I wanna cry," Takizawa said flatly.
***
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