Tetsuo Ishikawa didn't believe in ghosts.
He believed in *metrics*.
In viral spikes.
In engagement rates.
In the cold, beautiful logic of fame.
So when his assistant, Ms. Sato, handed him the latest analytics report — **"AYA KURENAI: +482% FOLLOWERS IN 72 HOURS"** — he didn't see a mystery.
He saw a *goldmine*.
He adjusted his silver tie — custom-made, woven with threads of actual platinum — and stepped into the penthouse suite of the Hoshino Hotel, flanked by two assistants carrying tablets, a stylist with a garment bag, and a publicist with a list of endorsement offers.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Tetsuo announced, throwing open the curtains.
Sunlight flooded the room.
Aya flinched beneath the sheets, the red kimono already coiled around her like a second skin, even in sleep. The mirror in the corner remained covered — a towel still draped over it, though the fabric trembled slightly, as if something beneath it was *breathing*.
Tetsuo didn't notice.
He never noticed the quiet horrors.
Only the *results*.
"Aya Kurenai," he said, clapping once, sharp as a whip. "You are no longer a dancer. You are a *movement*."
She sat up slowly, eyes heavy, voice raw. "I didn't sign up for this."
"You *did*," Tetsuo said, tapping his tablet. "Page 17, subsection D: 'Total brand alignment and aesthetic surrender.' You gave us creative control. And darling, we're going to *use* it."
He snapped his fingers.
The stylist unzipped the garment bag.
Inside: a kimono unlike any other.
Not silk. Not fabric.
*Light.*
Woven from fiber-optic threads, embedded with micro-LEDs, designed to shift color with her movements — crimson to violet to black, like a living bruise. The obi pulsed with a heartbeat rhythm. The sleeves were lined with motion sensors.
"The *Neo-Kimono*," Tetsuo said proudly. "Collaboration with *LUMEN Tokyo*. It'll debut at your first live performance — *NHK Traditional Arts Special*, live in two days. Ratings are already through the roof."
Aya stared at it. "I'm not wearing that."
"Oh, you will," Tetsuo said, smiling. "Because it's not just a costume. It's *advertising*. Every movement triggers a hashtag. Every spin displays a sponsor. You'll be the first *living hologram* of Japanese art."
She shook her head. "I dance to remember. Not to sell."
Tetsuo laughed — a dry, metallic sound.
"*Remember?*" He leaned in. "Sweetheart, no one cares about *remembering*. They care about *watching*. And you? You're *unforgettable*."
He gestured to the TV.
It flickered on.
A news segment:
> **"The Crimson Dancer: Japan's New Cultural Icon?"**
> Clips of Aya's viral performance.
> Experts debating: "Is she human?"
> Fans weeping: "She made me feel something."
> A scholar: "This is not traditional dance. It's *possession*."
Tetsuo grinned. "See? You're already a legend. All we have to do is *monetize the myth*."
Aya looked away.
The red kimono *tightened* — not in anger.
In *amusement*.
As if it, too, found Tetsuo's ignorance hilarious.
Then, from beneath the towel-covered mirror —
—a soft *click*.
Like a shutter.
Tetsuo didn't hear it.
But Aya did.
She turned.
The towel had shifted.
Just an inch.
But enough to reveal a sliver of glass.
And in it —
— her reflection.
Smiling.
Wearing the *Neo-Kimono*.
Dancing.
Before it even existed.
---
### 📸 Interlude: *Kaito's Notebook – Entry #4*
> *I went back to the tea house today. The old man remembered her. Said she came in every Thursday. Always ordered thick matcha. Always sat in the same corner.*
>
> *"She was quiet," he said. "But her eyes… they remembered things she didn't."*
>
> *I showed him the photo. He looked at it for a long time.*
>
> *"That's not her," he said.*
>
> *"What?"*
>
> *"That's the girl who dances. But the one who* lives *here? She's gone."*
>
> *I asked when he last saw her.*
>
> *He said: "Three days ago. She left a thread tied to her cup. Red. Faded."*
>
> *I looked. Nothing there.*
>
> *But when I touched the table… it was warm.*
>
> *And for a second, I swear I heard music.*
>
> *And laughter.*
>
> *And then — silence.*
>
> *I don't know how to save her.*
>
> *But I know this:*
>
> *The woman on the screen isn't Aya.*
>
> *She's a ghost wearing a name.*
---
Back in the suite, Tetsuo was already on the phone.
"Get me *Vogue Japan*. I want her on the cover by next month — 'The Devil's Dancer.' Perfect tagline."
Aya stood.
Slowly.
The red kimono hissed against her skin, like silk over bone.
"I'll do the NHK performance," she said.
Tetsuo turned, triumphant. "See? You're learning."
"But on one condition."
"Name it."
"I dance *my* piece. *The Crane and the Willow*. No edits. No effects. No sponsors."
Tetsuo hesitated. "That's… not very *spectacular*."
"It's what I do," she said. "Or I walk."
He studied her.
For the first time, he saw something in her eyes.
Not submission.
*Defiance*.
He smiled.
"Fine. One dance. Traditional. *Boring*." He snapped his fingers. "But after that? We go full spectacle. Understood?"
Aya didn't answer.
She walked to the covered mirror.
Placed her hand on the towel.
And whispered — so softly only the kimono could hear:
> _"You want me to dance for him?_
> _Then let me dance for* me*."_
Behind the fabric, the reflection *laughed*.
Silently.
And began to move.