I couldn't get any proper sleep. I'd doze off for a bit, then jerk awake, as if my body thought I was about to drop off a cliff. Every time I closed my eyes, my convenient subconscious decided to throw me back into the locker room with Kai, the hard snap of him pulling away. The only thing I've got to prove he's real is his jacket, which I'm clutched onto like a lifeline as if the weight could ground me, and his stupid name sitting in the viewers' list of my story.
Sunday, I told myself I would reset, delete the app. But Sunday feels like a room I can't leave.
My phone has been lighting up since last night. Message requests, likes, views. The little numbers climbing in the corner of the app like they're harmless. Until they're not.
Just looking, my bio says like a joke, daring me to admit what I'm doing.
I haven't opened any of the messages yet. I scroll the previews instead: half sentences, the start of questions that already make my skin prickle.
The storm from Friday has left the city scrubbed clean, but I still feel filthy in ways that have nothing to do with skin, like I'm crawling with desires that I can't just scrub away.
—
By Monday, my eyes feel like sandpaper, and I'm running on almost no sleep. I feel unfiltered, like I can feel my inhibitions slipping, and I start getting brave with it. At some point, I stopped caring, started opening message requests, and responded as if I were detached from the whole thing. Typing replies, I wouldn't dare to if I were well-rested and not so off-kilter. Thumbs flying under the desk during my lectures while the professor talks, darting my eyes up occasionally to check that nobody's eyes land on me.
It doesn't feel real because no one can see my face. Cropped photos, safe angles. A voice that isn't mine, or maybe it is. Short replies, dry. I don't flirt. I don't give them anything they can hold.
It's easier that way.
Even in the cafeteria line, I almost lose track of my surroundings, scrolling like everybody else now. Yuujin talks to me about practice like I'm normal.
Even on the walk between buildings, I make it look like I'm checking for directions when really I'm looking for proof that I still exist to someone. Someone out there might reach for me and not recoil like I'm dangerous to touch.
I'm still telling myself I won't meet anyone. I'm just scrolling, just watching.
Funny.
Kai likes to watch.
I still show up to practice that evening like I've got nothing better to do, to the disappointment of Coach Nakamura. But I reassure him that I've only come to watch Yuujin and "stay engaged". My leg is still healing, and Coach doesn't want to argue, so he ushers me toward the benches.
Yuujin's out there running drills, laughing like he always does. I try to focus on him. I really do.
But my eyes keep falling onto Kai. It's the first time I've seen him since Friday. He's moving clean like always, no wasted motion. It's infuriating.
I'm so vain that when he jogs over to the benches for water, I think he's coming over to me. But then, I can't help staring at him when he tilts his head back, exposing his throat to me like he knows what he's doing. My lips suddenly feel wet with want when I see the way his Adam's apple moves when he swallows. His neck looks too perfect. Too untouched. Like a blank canvas begging to be marked.
My gaze drops to his hand wrapped around the bottle, then a drop in my stomach that feels sharp, almost sick. His knuckles are bruised, purple and swollen, like he's been fighting with something that didn't give way. I know I should be worried, but instead I feel a cruel hint of satisfaction in my chest that he's somehow not as sacrosanct as he usually appears. Less like some flawless statue I'm supposed to worship, more like someone who bleeds, breaks and loses control.
Fuck it.
I force my voice to stay flat, cold.
"Takato."
He glances over to me and tries to give me that same unreadable stare, but I've already clocked the way his shoulders stiffen when I said his last name at him like he's a formality. I let my gaze drag over him slowly, then curl my lips into a smirk.
"Careful with those hands," I say, nodding at his bruised knuckles. "Wouldn't want you to ruin your pretty face next time you decide to pick a fight with something that actually hits back."
The silence stretches as tight as a wire. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. But I don't back down. "Or maybe you just like the pain," I add, voice dropping lower, almost a dare. "Guess we all have our vices when we lose control."
Kai's expression doesn't change.
He finishes the bottle, then crushes it in his fist with a sharp crack, plastic warping under his grip. The sound snaps through the air between us, louder than it should be. If it's supposed to scare me, it's not working because I just want him to grip onto my throat like that.
"Is that what you want?" he asks quietly.
My eyes widen before I catch myself. "What?"
"To see me lose control."
He lets the silence hang.
"If you keep trying," he says, "you might get it." His eyes flick to my ankle, then back to my face, clinical. "Go home, Anri."
He says my name like a leash.
The air feels thick, like the whole field is holding its breath. I can hear Yuujin's laughter in the distance, teammates shouting over each other, but here, it's just Kai and me dancing around everything we're not saying.
My heart is hammering.
I force my expression to something neutral, "Is that an order?" then back into a defiant smirk. "Captain."
Kai steps towards the benches where I'm sitting, throws the bottle to the side, and leans over me. He braces a hand on the back of the bench behind me, not touching me. Boxed in again, the space shrinks to the same unbearable inch as the locker room.
"Say that again," he says softly.
My breath catches. His mismatched eyes pin me again, like he can't decide whether to punish me or protect me.
He pauses long enough to make me ache, and then his voice drops lower. "Well?" he murmurs. I can feel his grip tightening on the bench, and my body tips forward before my brain agrees. "Behave, Anri. Go home."
Kai straightens himself like he didn't just fold the air around me.
He doesn't even have to touch me.
My ankle throbs. My pulse throbs harder.
I get up before Coach can look over and ask questions. Before Yuujin can jog past and clock my face.
Behind me, the sound of practice carries on as if nothing happened. Like I didn't just get put on a leash.
I take the train home. I don't look at anyone. I don't look at my phone. My thoughts are sprinting ahead of me while my body drags.
By the time I'm in the elevator of my building, my hands are shaking. Not from my ankle, from the fact I listened. I obeyed.
I lock my door behind me and the click is louder than it should be. I kick my shoes off without untying my laces.
My apartment smells faintly of Kai's cigarettes. The jacket is still there, draped over my bed like a witness. Like a dare.
I pace my room like I'm trying to walk the feeling off, but it just follows me.
My ankle aches with every step, but it's nothing compared to the ache under my ribs, a pressure that builds whenever I picture Kai's mouth close enough to mine to steal my air and then him pulling away like he's allowed to decide what I get.
Like he gets to watch me burn and call it restraint.
I scrunch the fabric of the jacket in my hands and flop onto my bed. My fingers bunch into the lining, and my breath turns shallow. Fuck, this is so ridiculous. I hate myself for how hard I'm reacting to how close he thinks he can get.
A bitter laugh slips out of me.
He thinks he can tell me to go home and I'll obey.
I did.
If he doesn't touch me, kiss me, put his hands all over me soon, I feel like I'm going to crack. If he doesn't touch me, I'll touch myself and pretend it's him. If I don't stop, I'll start believing it's enough.
It's not even about sex. It's about the fact that he thinks he can move me like a piece on a board. The sick part is that it works.
"Behave," he said.
My laugh turns into a giggle that's too soft, too sweet—like sugar hiding a razor blade.
I can behave.
I can be perfect.
I can be everything he wants—quiet, good, obedient—
Until I'm not.
Until I'm so far past behaving that he can't pretend he doesn't want me anymore.
I press my forehead into the fabric of his jacket like I'm swearing an oath.
He's going to touch me. He's going to. I just have to stop asking nicely.
My whole body feels hot like I'm running a fever. I want him so badly that my body aches with it. I'm too far gone to be embarrassed by how quickly I unravel. Even the cold air burns as I toss my shirt aside. I'm panting as I tug at my pants, kicking everything off to leave me completely bare.
I'm desperate. I'm needy.
I've never felt more vulnerable.
I bury my face in his jacket again. It doesn't take much to imagine his hands on me instead of my own.
Just for now, I can't help but think about what Kai would do if he could see me like this.
My cock twitches against my stomach, utterly betraying me. I haven't even touched myself yet, but my body reacts as if it knows. It remembers every filthy fantasy, every desperate scenario I've played out in my head where Kai finally snaps and takes what he wants from me.
I hate how my hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, seeking him.
I can't even breathe without wanting him.
And I bet he fucking knows. He has to know. I'm not subtle. I'm not strong.
That lockbox under my bed, I reach under and click it open, flipping the lid, fingers searching around its contents until I find it. A small bottle of lube that I bought out of curiosity from a vending machine, no less. My thumb brushes over the cap, and it snaps open a little too loudly. I squeeze some of the gel onto my fingers, too rushed, too eager.
My fingers are clumsy, too slick, trembling as they press against my entrance.
"Hah—!"
A sharp gasp tears from my throat, body jerking at the first brush of contact. It's cold. It's too much. But my cock leaps against my stomach anyway.
I try to steady my ragged breaths, but I'm hopeless.
My finger slides inside—just the tip—and my whole body clenches, thighs trembling.
It's too tight.
It hurts.
But my cock leaks, untouched, throbbing with every shallow thrust of my finger.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as my unpractised finger works myself open, slick and uncoordinated. The stretch burns—I'm too tense, too impatient—but my neglected dick is still twitching with precum with every hesitant press inward.
"F-fuck," I whimper into the empty room, knees falling wider apart in shameful surrender. The lube makes obscene wet sounds that would humiliate me if anyone could hear. But no one's here to witness how depraved and desirous I've become—how easily I fall apart imagining Kai's touch instead of mine.
Instead, I'm just a shaking mess, fucking myself on my fingers like some pathetic substitute.
My body aches with how badly I want that control to be his. I want his hands here, gripping me, holding me still even though I keep squirming. I want his eyes watching me—demanding, making me feel small and shameless.
I want to be his good boy, his pretty thing, whatever he needs me to be.
I want to be his.
I need to be his.
A sudden thrust hits something deep inside that makes my thighs jerk up violently. I cry out to nobody, then bury my face in the lining of Kai's jacket to muffle the sounds tearing from my throat, back arching and toes curling as white-hot pleasure sears through me. Every breath thick with his scent, it makes my head spin.
My cock pulses wildly, painting my stomach in thick stripes as I come completely untouched—just from the filthy fantasy of Kai being the one to ruin me like this.
The sound I make is pathetic. Half sob, half moan muffled into his jacket like some shameful secret.
"Kai—Hah—Please!" His name tastes like ruin on my tongue.
Please touch me.
Please own me.
The orgasm drags through me like a fucking punishment, dragging whimpers from my throat as my fingers clutch at the jacket like it's the only thing tethering me to earth until I'm nothing but a trembling, oversensitive mess.
Then the emptiness crashes back in.
Harder.
Crueller.
Because Kai isn't here.
He can't hold me. He can't put me back together.
I press my lips to the jacket again anyway—silent, starving, sick with want.
"Mine,"
Even if he doesn't want me.
—
Tuesday is a write-off.
I tell myself I'm going to my lectures, to the music club, and the library. But I sit on the edge of the bed after my shower with my towel over my head, my ankle is throbbing; at least that's the excuse I use for not going in today.
The thought of walking through campus makes me feel tired in advance. The thought of seeing Kai, or not seeing him, makes my ribs ache with anxiety.
I don't message Yuujin to tell him I'm skipping. I don't want him asking why. He already knows too much but not enough all at once. He most likely thinks that my feelings for Kai are remnants of a high school crush, but it feels deeper than that. It's intense. Yuujin doesn't know that Kai's presence is the only thing holding me together; his absence is enough to pull me apart. He doesn't know that I unravel and lose myself in the space Kai creates.
My sense of time turns into little chunks. I drink my cheap coffee, and I try to practise different pieces on my piano, but nothing sticks. I feel unreal in a way that feels like I can't connect with anything I try to do. I try watching a new show, but it's going over my head.
So I just end up back in bed like my body has chosen the place where I'm allowed to feel miserable.
The dating app fills the gaps. I scroll and scroll until faces stop looking like faces and start looking like options.
Some of the guys who message me have no game. A single "hey" that sits there like they expect me to do the work. I leave them on read just to see how it feels.
Some of them talk like they're trying to impress me, and I let them. I feed them short answers to humour them, just so I can watch them perform for me. It's funny how they start dancing when they think you're watching.
Some guys actually seem relatively tame, as if they're on the app for the same reasons I am. Just curious, not testing fate too much and letting conversations happen naturally. Some of them don't want to talk about how much money they have or sex. Sometimes it's mundane things like music or anime, and it's just connecting with other people who might feel just as lonely as me.
But a few messages are too much, too fast: things they'd do, things they'd want, things they assume I'd let them. What's worse is that I don't block them. It's everything Yuujin warned me about. Men acting a bit too keen to feel safe, like they lack the same self-control that Kai exudes. But at least they're being transparent with what they want.
And it's not like I'd do anything.
Not that I could. It's not like I know how to actually please a man.
And even if I wanted to—
I want it to be with Kai. He's probably got experience.
I feel embarrassed at the thought. Because no matter how many guys message me, they're not him. My heart isn't jumping every time my phone buzzes anymore because I know it's not going to be Kai.
—
By Thursday, I've been bed-rotting for two days straight. I'm not just exhausted anymore; it's changed shape, hazy around the edges. The world feels out of focus, and I'm tethered to my phone for too long, until I decide to try and actually function for a day.
My phone buzzes.
New message from Reo:
Hey, sorry for being so forward, but you're really cute and I liked talking to you last night.
Do you want to go on a lunch date? Nothing crazy. Maybe get to know each other a bit?
I stare at the screen like it's written in a different language.
Not because I don't understand it, but because I do. Perfectly.
My throat goes tight anyway, and I hate how fast my body reacts. That stupid, electric flicker under my skin. Like I've been starved and someone just held food out in front of me.
Nothing crazy.
It's harmless. It's the kind of message people send all the time without it turning into a life event. But my brain latches onto the words you're really cute like they're proof I still exist outside my own apartment.
Outside Kai.
I read it again, like I'm trying to catch the part where this is just a joke or a trick.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. My hands feel clumsy, like I'm back in high school and I don't know the rules yet. It's not even that I want Reo; my body doesn't light up for him the way it does for Kai. It's softer than that. Cleaner.
And it still makes my chest ache.
Because he's asking. Just asking. No games. No silence. No watching me through a screen and refusing to claim me.
For a second, I imagine it, sitting across from someone in daylight, something warm between my hands, laughing like my life isn't a secret I'm carrying in my mouth. I picture my phone face down on the table. I picture not checking it every thirty seconds like a dog waiting for a whistle.
My stomach twists. My pride flares, defensive.
Don't be pathetic.
It's just lunch.
He doesn't know you.
And then, quieter, uglier:
At least he wants to see you.
My eyes drift to Kai's jacket slung over the chair, too black, too expensive, too present in my apartment like he left a mark here.
I look back at Reo's message.
My pulse ticks up. Not fear. Something closer to hope. Then I finally type something simple. Something that sounds like I have control.
Ace:
Bold…
Lunch could be nice though. When/Where? You close to Sendagi?
Reo:
Haha… Yeah sorry about that ^
There's a Sakura Café nearby.
We could go, sit outside, just chat and have lunch?
12:30, tomorrow, if you're free?
Tomorrow. 12:30. An actual plan.
My brain does the math automatically.
Ace:
Sakura Café - 3 Chome-43-15?
That one is ten minutes away. I'm free.
I put my phone in my pocket to convince myself that I'm not waiting for a reply. But, for the first time in days, I feel like I actually exist to someone. I draw my curtains to let light into my room and open the window.
I finally leave the apartment because I need air, and because if I'm meeting someone new tomorrow, I want to at least make the impression that I can take care of myself.
My hair is a mess, my face looks pale, and the clerk in the little 7-Eleven near my building definitely thinks I'm strange if he didn't before. He's seldom seen me in a state of ordinary, not in the way most people blend into Tokyo's daily rush.
I grab something that will pass as sustenance: Onigiri and a protein milk drink. As for the messy nest on my head, I decide to pick out some new shampoo, and I'm already considering what outfit I might wear tomorrow. Maybe I can go lowkey, but smart. It's just coffee. But too casual means I don't care. But too smart means I care too much—I shake my head. It's just lunch.
I bow to the clerk as I leave the store, as if it'll make me look any less dishevelled.
The air feels thick and humid when I step outside.
I stare at the road for a moment, taking in the way Tokyo keeps moving, even if your own life feels insane, the city just moves like a machine. It should mean that you can blend in. But the truth is, Tokyo doesn't care if you're on top of the world or if you're falling apart. The trains run on time, the crowd always surges forward, and nobody stops to notice those who are stuck in place. I wonder if anyone else feels as out of sync as I do.
A black BMW rolls past the bank across the road and my whole body goes still.
For a second. I'm sure it's Kai. It's too quick. But it's not like I can make out a face from this far away. My brain is traitorous because it feels like it's been trained to light up at anything that could remotely be connected to him.
The car keeps going, disappears around the corner and of course, Tokyo doesn't pause to confirm my delusion.
I exhale sharply through my nose, irritated at myself.
Tokyo is full of black cars, full of men with money. I'm just tired. I'm just desperate enough to start seeing patterns where there aren't any.
The convenience store bag swings gently in my hand. I'm projecting. It can't be him—he wouldn't.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I already know it's not going to be Kai.
Still, my thumb swipes too fast when I pull it out.
Reo:
uhh sorry. something came up.
I can't meet with you.
It's so ordinary, it shouldn't hurt.
My ribs ache like someone pressed a knuckle into them. Stupid, hot humiliation flares in my chest. Not because I wanted him. Because I wanted to be chosen for once. An opportunity to put myself out there for someone to see, even if it was never going to lead to anything. Even if it was just to prove I could be wanted by someone who wasn't Kai Takato.
I stare at the message until the screen blurs.
I type three varied replies, trying to play it cool, like that didn't just sting.
Ace:
No worries.
Message not delivered.
You can no longer send messages to this user.
Inside my apartment, the quiet hits me like a wall. I held it together just long enough to get upstairs and inside.
The sound of Sendagi, still moving outside my window, as if I'm invisible, static, painfully aware that I don't belong anywhere. To anyone. To Kai.
I don't even want to think—I just hurl my phone across the room. It hits the edge of the kitchen counter, then clatters onto the floor with a sickening slap. When I inevitably look at the screen, it's spiderwebbed with cracks. My reflection fractures with it—my eyes, mouth, skin split into little pieces—like my face can't agree on what it wants to be. I don't even care.
I'm lying.
I care so much it makes me lightheaded.
For a moment, I stand there, staring at the ruined glass like it's a verdict. The cracks in the glass look like proof. Evidence that I'm not meant to be heard, not meant to be wanted.
What did I do wrong?
Did I act awkwardly?
Did I overshare?
Maybe he just found another guy to have lunch with, that's fine I guess.
My throat tightens. I'm gripping my phone too hard; the glass bites into my fingers, not enough to bleed, just enough to remind me that I'm real.
The sound that comes out of me is ugly—half laugh, half breath that catches like a hiccup.
I don't recognise myself anymore.
I'm not real.
My phone vibrates in my hand and lights up. The text is legible if I squint through the cracked glass.
New message request.
Akio Kuroda has sent you a message.
It's a profile I haven't seen before. He looks a bit older. His profile says twenty-six. His dark hair looks too perfect, gold watch glinting on his wrist, which he's clearly flaunting. A confident, practised smile, like he's used to being noticed.
Akio:
You seem different. Not like other people I've come across on here.
What's your story?
It's the kind of opener that sounds flattering on purpose. Like a hook dressed up as curiosity.
My first instinct is to scoff.
My second is worse: I've spent the past week feeling like a ghost in my own apartment.
His message should annoy me. I should roll my eyes and swipe away and go back to bed-rotting with my pride barely intact.
Instead, my thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I feel that familiar tired numbness spreading through my shoulders, smoothing everything down into just words on a screen.
In a stupid, shallow, human way; It's nice to be wanted boldly, without hesitation.
I exhale slowly through my nose and type with two fingers like I'm pretending I'm not invested.
Ace:
lol idk
just tired
The typing indicator appears almost immediately.
Akio:
"Tired" isn't a story.
Let's start with your name.
There's no way "Ace" is your given name. So, what is it?
My first instinct is to type something sharp:
Who said you get to start with that?
No.
I think about Reo blocking me like I was nothing. Like I was disposable.
I think of Kai, watching, silent, refusing to say anything at all.
This would all go away if Kai would just fucking say something.
I should tell Yuujin I'm spiralling, like I promised I would.
But the combination of being ignored, being erased, and being watched but not touched does something ugly to me.
My emotions feel muted like they're wrapped in cotton.
Akio doesn't know that 'Ace' is the name I can afford to hand out without bleeding.
He doesn't know that there are only two people who can say my real name like it means anything.
Yuujin, like family. And Kai, like a leash.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Half out of spite, half out of curiosity, that if someone wants to tug on me, they can at least tug on the right thing.
Ace:
anri
I hit send before I can change my mind. But then I get that sinking feeling deep in my stomach, like I've just stepped closer to the edge of something.
The typing indicator appears so fast it's almost funny.
Akio:
Anri.
That's a pretty name. Why don't you use it?
My jaw tightens, and I can't tell if I hate that it lands or if I hate the part of me that likes it.
Ace:
don't say it like that.
Akio:
Like what?
I stare at the question. It's innocent on paper. But it's more like he wants me to explain myself so he can learn exactly which wires to touch.
Ace:
like you're already familiar
Akio:
Familiar is nice.
You don't strike me as someone who enjoys being alone.
I scoff for real this time. It's close enough to the truth that it feels like a finger pressed to a bruise.
I could lie. I could joke. Instead, I do what I always do when something hits too close.
I pivot.
Ace:
you ask a lot of questions
Akio:
And you answer like you're waiting for the trap.
My mouth twitches, almost a smile.
Not quite.
Akio:
How old are you, Anri?
I stare at the message until my eyes start to sting from fatigue; a week of too little sleep makes everything feel both sharp and unreal at the same time.
Ace:
18
Akio:
Okay.
Then I'll keep it simple.
My stomach turns over. Simple is never simple. Not with men who talk like this.
Akio:
I'll take you out for lunch in Shibuya tomorrow.
I'll pick you up, take you to Dōgenzaka, have some food, and do some shopping, see what happens?
Shibuya. Kai. Dōgenzaka.
Dōgenzaka. It rings a bell, of course, I know Dōgenzaka. But I can't place my finger on why my exhausted brain is trying to connect those dots.
There's a faint sense of unease, like a thread tugging at the edge of my thoughts, but I'm too tired to unravel it. I shake it off for now, letting the feeling slip away, and tell myself it's nothing.
Ace:
fine. tomorrow.
pick me up from Sendagi station
Akio:
Good. 1 PM
Also, let's move over to LINE. This app is annoying.
Of course, he wants to move away from the app. That just makes the thread tighter. Something that feels more private, more real.
My cracked screen reflects my face again, split into pieces, and I realise I'm still standing in the middle of my apartment like I've been waiting for permission to sit down.
I really should call Yuujin. He'd tell me what to do, he'd tell me that this guy is too old for me, maybe even a bit too good to be true. He'd tell me to block Akio, tell me to rest, tell me to hang out with him tomorrow instead of being reckless with a stranger.
Instead, my fingers move.
Ace:
Ok.
Give me your QR.
The code appears on my screen immediately, like he'd been waiting for me to say yes.
I still have time to back out.
My apartment feels cold, and my fingers are trembling.
I add him.
My phone buzzes straight away—LINE.
Akio:
Better.
I'll text you here from now on.
I have to get back to work now.
See you tomorrow, Anri.
I finally crawl into bed, expecting relief, but it doesn't come. My body sinks into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion, but my mind refuses to settle. I clutch Kai's jacket to my chest, breathing in the faint trace of cigarettes and something warmer, something that almost feels like safety. It's pathetic, how much comfort I try to wring from a piece of fabric, but right now it's the only thing that makes the room feel less empty.
My eyelids droop, the world softening at the edges, and for a moment I almost believe I could drift off. But then—my eyes snap open. My heart lurches, a sick twist in my stomach.
Dōgenzaka.
The word slams into me, sudden and sharp, like a memory I've been trying not to look at. Not just a place. Not just a coincidence. Something important, something I should have seen sooner. It's been there all along, tucked away in the background, waiting for me to notice.
I sit up too fast, the room spinning, my ankle throbbing in protest. I barely notice. My hand fumbles for the lamp on my desk, and when the warm light spills across the mess of my sheets and the jacket tangled in my arms, everything feels too bright, too exposed.
I stare at the jacket like it might have answers, or at least a warning. My throat is tight. I reach into the inner pocket, fingers searching deeper than they need to, as if I'm hoping to have imagined finding the same contents as the first time I searched Kai's pockets. My nails catch on paper, soft and worn from being handled too many times.
I pull it out, smoothing the creased note against the desk with a hand that won't stop shaking. The handwriting is neat, almost careful, and that makes it worse. Calm, when my pulse is anything but.
Mizuno
Shibuya-ku — Dōgenzaka
I stare at the words until they blur, until they stop looking like language and start feeling like a threat. My mouth is dry. There's a slow, cold dread spreading through my chest, not panic—something quieter, heavier. Like a stone dropped in water, the ripples just beginning to reach me.
Because now it isn't just a word I half-recognise. It's a place. A place Akio picked without thinking. A place Kai wrote down, like it mattered.
My fingers tighten around the paper, crumpling it before I force myself to let go, smoothing it flat again as if that could make any of this less real.
My brain tries to save me, scrambling for excuses. Maybe Dōgenzaka is big. Maybe everyone goes there. Maybe I'm just tired, connecting dots that don't connect, seeing patterns because I'm desperate for something to make sense.
But the note is still on my desk. And my stomach is still twisting itself into knots.
I glance at the clock. It's late—too late for anything good. The kind of late where you start to believe that if you just keep moving, maybe you can outrun whatever's coming.
The laptop fan kicks on like it's annoyed with me.
I type Mizuno into the search bar and stop halfway, fingers hovering. The cursor blinks like it's daring me. Like it knows I'm about to ruin my own night.
I add the rest with stiff, careful taps.
Mizuno, Shibuya
Autocomplete drops down before I can breathe.
Mizuno Shibuya robbery
Mizuno Shibuya Tokuryū
"No. It's not." My voice feels wrong; I haven't used it properly since Monday.
I'm so tired I feel detached from my own body, like I'm watching my hands do this from somewhere up near the ceiling. Like this isn't me making a choice—just me falling into one.
I click the first result.
A local news site loads. Then another. Then, a repost of the same article on a bigger outlet. Same photo cropped slightly differently each time. Same headline in different fonts.
Shibuya Jewellery Store Robbery — Security Guard Murdered
Murder Suspect: Ryo Mizuno
My eyes snag on the word murder, and my brain tries to slide away from it. Like it's too heavy to carry, so it just… doesn't.
I scroll anyway.
The article is written in that clean, polite tone news outlets use when something horrible happens. It lists the location, the time, and the value of what was taken, like that's the important part. It mentions a security guard who tried to intervene. Mentions the hospital. Mentions "pronounced dead" in a sentence that's too neat to belong to an actual person.
Then the name again.
Mizuno.
My fingers go cold.
I look down at the paper on my desk—Kai's calm handwriting—and back at the screen, like maybe if I check enough times, the two things will stop matching.
They don't.
A part of my brain tries to rescue me.
Mizuno isn't rare.
Shibuya isn't rare.
Dōgenzaka is huge.
You're connecting dots because you want them to connect, because you're paranoid and sleep-deprived and you're making Kai into a monster because it's easier than admitting you want him—
I scroll again, sharper this time, hunting for something that makes it less real.
"According to investigators, Mizuno (19) admitted his role in the robbery that took place at a jewellery store last week, and the murder of Kenji Sakamoto, but declined to comment on the Tokuryū or any accomplices. He remains in detention pending further legal proceedings."
The article mentions a driver. A shooter. A getaway route. It mentions police "seeking additional persons of interest," phrased in bureaucratic terms, but the details below don't read that way. They feel like a scene.
My breath catches.
I don't realise I've leaned forward until my elbows hit the desk.
The note on the desk looks smaller now. More dangerous. Like it shouldn't be able to do this to me, but it is.
I pick it up again and stare at the ink until my eyes sting.
Mizuno
Shibuya-ku — Dōgenzaka
I flip it over like there's going to be an explanation on the back.
There isn't.
Just the faint impression of pen pressure where the letters were written with too much certainty.
My pulse starts to climb, slow and steady, not a panic attack—worse. The kind of dread that doesn't spike. It settles.
I click another link. Then another. I don't even know what I'm looking for anymore. A contradiction. A correction. A different Mizuno. A reason to laugh at myself for being dramatic.
But every article is the same shape.
Robbery. Violence. A name.
And the longer I stare at the screen, the more the unease stops feeling like paranoia and becomes a memory I can't place.
Like I should've known.
Like my body already did.
My gaze drifts, involuntarily, to Kai's jacket now draped across my lap. The air is humid but I'm shivering, sat at my desk, legs bouncing.
I swallow, throat dry.
This is stupid. This is nothing. This is—
I drag my hand down my face and exhale, shaky.
My cracked phone sits beside the laptop like a witness, screen still spiderwebbed from earlier. I pick it up and stare at Akio's chat. The confirmation is still there, bright and stupid and normal:
1 PM. Dōgenzaka, tomorrow.
My thumb hovers over his name.
I should cancel.
I should block him.
I stare at the note in my other hand, then back to Akio's chat.
And the thought that slips into my head isn't sensible or safe.
It's feral. It's tired. It's sharp.
If Kai wrote it down, then Kai knows something.
If Kai knows something, then Kai will be watching.
My stomach twists. Not with comfort.
With purpose.
I fold the paper back up, slow, careful, like I'm handling something that could cut me if I move too fast. Then I slide it into my pocket.
Not back into the jacket.
Into mine.
Then I reopen Akio's chat.
My fingers type before my pride can intervene.
Ace:
ok. see you tomorrow.
The message sends.
The bubble sits there, neat and irreversible.
I stare at it until my eyes burn, then turn off the desk lamp.
In the dark, my heartbeat feels too loud.
My eyes sting from staring at the screen too long. I snap the laptop shut, almost like I'm afraid it'll spit something else at me if I give it the chance.
The room is too quiet now. The kind of quiet that makes the shadows on the walls start to look like they're moving, like my brain is trying to fill the silence with anything it can find.
I sit there, the folded note pressed into my palm, Kai's handwriting leaving a faint imprint on my skin. I force myself to breathe—slow, steady, in through my nose, out through my mouth. It doesn't help much.
Okay. Okay.
I'm tired. I know I'm spiralling. My mind is desperate for a pattern, any pattern, just something to hold onto so I don't feel like I'm drowning in all this uncertainty. Maybe I'm just connecting dots that aren't really there, but right now, it feels safer than admitting I'm lost.
I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.
And then—like a rope dropping into my hands—my brain gives me the one memory it knows will steady me.
The day the heist happened, Kai drove me home.
It was last week, the day I fell asleep in his car.
He was with me.
He was here.
He couldn't have been there, not in Shibuya, not doing… that.
I cling to it like it's a rule of physics.
He's not a monster.
He's just Kai.
Mysterious. Locked. Too controlled. Too intense in the moments he slips.
My chest loosens by a fraction, the relief so sharp it almost hurts.
I tell myself the note could mean anything. It could be about someone he heard about. Someone he was tracking because he's paranoid or cautious or—whatever rich boys with too many shadows do.
Maybe he wrote it down to protect himself.
Maybe even because he wanted to protect me.
That thought lands like warmth, and I hate how quickly I accept it.
I fall asleep with the comfort of that lie in my chest.
And in the morning, I'll find out what it costs.