Chapter 9: Ghost Notes Beneath the Surface

  Winter. Fifteen years old. A cramped, poorly heated funeral hall in Hokkaido. The faint, bitter smell of incense mixes with the staleness of cheap tatami mats. Everything feels too bright, yet too cold. Mamoru’s black funeral attire itches against his skin. Snowflakes melt on the window, trailing down like tears.

  Mamoru stood stiffly beside the coffin, knuckles white as he gripped the hem of his jacket. His chest felt tight—too tight—as if someone had cinched an invisible belt around his lungs. People moved around him: staff from the orphanage murmuring condolences, a few classmates shuffling awkwardly, eyes darting anywhere but the coffin. Cheap chrysanthemums lined the altar, wilting under the weight of the room’s collective discomfort.

  This is wrong, his mind whispered. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

  The air shifted.

  He didn’t need to turn around to know where Hideki was.

  His twin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, staring at the coffin like it was some kind of joke. His black jacket hung off one shoulder, his tie half-done, hair messier than usual. His expression flickered—boredom? No. That was a mask. But then—his lips twisted into a grin.

  Laughter.

  Not loud. Not obvious. But sharp enough to cut through the chanting priest’s drone.

  Mamoru’s breath caught. No. Not now—

  But Hideki’s shoulders shook with suppressed giggles. “Look at that picture,” he muttered, voice low but clear enough for Mamoru to hear. “Aki always hated that one. Bet she’s rolling her eyes.”

  Mamoru clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms. His heartbeat thumped in his ears.

  “Stop it,” he hissed under his breath.

  Hideki didn’t. His grin stretched wider, eyes glistening—not with tears, but something worse. “What? You don’t think this is funny? They shoved her in a box and stuck that dumb photo up like she’s some saint. She’d hate this. All of it.”

  People were looking now. Whispers prickled the air.

  Mamoru’s face burned with embarrassment and something close to rage. “Hide,” he warned, voice tight.

  But Hideki—Hideki just kept going. “They’re acting like she was some tragedy, like they cared. But they didn’t. Nobody did. Not until she—” His breath hitched. The grin wavered, twisted into something brittle. “She’s dead, Mamoru. Dead. And everyone’s pretending it’s just… normal. Like she’s off at school or something.” His voice cracked. “It’s not normal.”

  The room swam. Mamoru’s vision blurred—he wasn’t sure if it was anger, grief, or both—but his body moved before his brain caught up.

  Smack.

  Silence crashed over the room.

  Hideki’s head snapped to the side, cheek reddening where Mamoru’s palm had connected. Wide-eyed, he stared at his twin, lips parting in shock. For a heartbeat—just one—Mamoru thought he’d finally shut up.

  Then Hideki—Hideki laughed.

  “Holy shit,” he breathed out, voice trembling with mirth and something far more dangerous. “You hit me? Seriously?” He wiped at his face, tears finally spilling—but they weren’t from sadness. Or maybe they were. “God, this is so fucked up.”

  Mamoru’s chest heaved. His hand shook. “Why—why can’t you just—act normal for once?!”

  Hideki’s smile broke. His expression crumpled into something raw, feral. “Because she’s dead, Mamoru! And if I stop laughing, I’ll—” His voice strangled itself. His gaze darted to the coffin. His knees pulled up to his chest. “I’ll break. Is that what you want?”

  The priest cleared his throat awkwardly. Someone—probably one of the staff—tried to usher them outside. Mamoru barely registered it. His pulse roared in his ears.

  Hideki’s breath hitched again. “She was supposed to be here,” he whispered. “We—we were supposed to fight over dumb shit. Not—this.”

  Mamoru’s shoulders sagged. His anger drained, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His vision flicked to Aki’s photo—black and white, her expression neutral, eyes as distant in death as they’d been in life.

  Gone. Just like that.

  Present Day – Mamoru wakes up.

  Gasping. It’s that dream again. That memory…

  His chest seized with that same suffocating weight from all those years ago. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, willing the phantom pain away.

  Outside the window, Tokyo glittered—alive, blinding. Inside? Shadows clung to him. No matter how many years passed, he couldn’t outrun the echo of Hideki’s laughter at that funeral… or the guilt threading through his veins.

  It never leaves, he thought bitterly. Not really.

  Present day. Hideki’s room in the penthouse – sterile, pristine, yet oddly warm under the dim overhead lights. The faint scent of antiseptic still lingers from the daily cleaning service, but it’s muted by traces of Hideki’s shampoo and the distant aroma of Mamoru’s abandoned herbal tea. Outside, Tokyo hums with life. Inside, time feels suspended.

  Mamoru sat on the edge of Hideki’s reclining bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His fingertips rubbed against his temple, trying to scrub away the remnants of the dream—but the images clung like wet fabric. Aki’s face. Hideki’s laughter. His own hand striking his brother all those years ago.

  He exhaled, the breath shaky.

  Hideki shifted beside him, stretched out with a book balanced on his chest—a dog-eared volume of something far too dense for anyone but him. His smartwatch rested loosely against his wrist, the faintest green pulse indicator blinking with calm regularity. Not a beep. Not a whir. Just soft, persistent reassurance.

  Mamoru’s gaze lingered on it, relief mingling with something heavier. He’s stable. For now.

  “You’re staring again,” Hideki murmured without opening his eyes. His voice was rough, somewhere between exhaustion and amusement.

  Mamoru grunted. “Shut up.”

  A ghost of a smirk curved Hideki’s lips. “You know, it’s really weird how much you stare at me while I sleep. People might talk.”

  Mamoru didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have a comeback—he always did—but because the weight in his chest was pulling him under, making everything feel heavier than it should.

  He glanced at the recliner in the corner, the one the cleaning staff always lined with fresh blankets. He could stretch out there. Could close his eyes, let his brain switch off for a few hours.

  But his body didn’t move toward it.

  Instead, he kicked off his shoes with a sigh and eased himself down onto the edge of the bed. Hideki cracked an eye open, glanced at him, but said nothing. No quips. No snark. Just… silence.

  The sheets were cool. Hideki’s warmth radiated faintly beside him—a living, breathing anchor to the present. Mamoru folded his arms beneath his head, staring at the ceiling where the recessed lights cast soft halos. His mind flicked through calendars, tour schedules, medical reports—numbers, risks, percentages—but it was background noise against the louder, older thought:

  Don’t die. Just—don’t die before me.

  Minutes stretched. Maybe hours. The city beyond the window glittered on.

  Beside him, Hideki’s breathing evened out. Slow. Steady. Not a sound out of place.

  Mamoru’s eyelids drooped, exhaustion dragging him down. His body betrayed him first—muscles loosening, thoughts blurring. His last coherent sensation was the faint brush of Hideki’s foot nudging his shin, like a silent stop worrying.

  And then—darkness.

  No dreams this time. Just the quiet hum of Tokyo, the faintest pulse from a smartwatch, and the shared silence of two brothers caught in the pause between chaos

  Hideki’s penthouse room – sterile but softened by muted grays and minimalist decor. The morning sun filters through half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the pristine floor. It’s too clean, almost surgical—but the faint crumple of a hoodie on a chair, the open book face-down on the nightstand, and the mug with dried coffee stains make the room feel lived in. Tokyo hums faintly through the insulated glass. The clock reads 7:13 AM.

  Mamoru woke with a start, blinking against the thin morning light. His neck ached. His arm had gone numb. And—

  “You’re drooling on my pillow,” Hideki’s voice rasped beside him, amused.

  Mamoru scowled, rubbing at his face. “Shut up.” His voice was gravelly with sleep.

  Hideki, fully awake and propped on one elbow, grinned. “No thanks. It’s too early for you to be this grumpy, but here we are.”

  Mamoru sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His clothes were wrinkled, a reminder that he hadn’t intended to crash here last night—but exhaustion had won. He glanced over. Hideki was wearing a loose black T-shirt, legs stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankles. No shoes—good. At least something wasn’t a battle today.

  “You’re up early,” Mamoru muttered.

  Hideki shrugged. “Didn’t really sleep.”

  Mamoru’s jaw tightened. “And you didn’t wake me?”

  “What, so you could hover? Pass.” Hideki yawned, stretching. “Plus, you looked like you were about to drool yourself into a coma. Didn’t wanna ruin that.”

  Mamoru stood, stretching out the stiffness. His gaze flicked to the bedside table—two empty mugs. One his. One Hideki’s. Both probably cold now. He sighed, heading toward the kitchenette. “You need to hydrate.”

  “I need caffeine,” Hideki shot back.

  “You need decaf.”

  “That’s not coffee,” Hideki grumbled.

  Mamoru grabbed the kettle anyway, setting it on to boil. Hideki watched him from the bed, head tilted like a curious cat. “You really gonna play house right now? Didn’t know I signed up for the ‘Momoru’ experience.”

  Mamoru deadpanned. “Never call me that again.”

  “Too late, it’s out there.” Hideki’s grin widened.

  The kettle clicked off. Mamoru poured water into a mug, dropping a herbal tea bag in. “You’re drinking this.”

  “Unless that’s laced with whiskey, pass.”

  Mamoru walked back, thrusting the mug toward him. Hideki took it, sniffed it, and pulled a face. “This smells like sadness and grass.”

  “It’s calming,” Mamoru said.

  “So is vodka.”

  Mamoru sat back on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temple. Hideki sipped—grimaced—then drank anyway. A rare moment of compliance. “God, it tastes worse than it smells.”

  “Deal with it,” Mamoru muttered.

  Silence stretched between them. Outside, a car horn blared faintly. Tokyo was waking up.

  “You dream?” Hideki asked suddenly.

  Mamoru paused. Then: “Yeah.”

  “Bad?”

  Mamoru glanced at him. Hideki’s expression wasn’t teasing anymore—just quiet. Knowing.

  “It was about Aki,” Mamoru admitted.

  Hideki leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “Yeah… she’s been in my head lately too.”

  Mamoru didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

  “Hey,” Hideki said after a beat, “remember when she stole your math homework and replaced it with drawings of dicks?”

  Mamoru let out a snort despite himself. “Yeah. Got a zero on that assignment.”

  “Totally worth it,” Hideki grinned. “She drew them in ascending order of realism.”

  “You were the model for half of them.”

  Hideki burst out laughing. “God, she was a menace.”

  For a moment, the room felt lighter. Less suffocating.

  Then Mamoru glanced at the time. “Mimmi’s meeting is in an hour. Eat something before we go.”

  Hideki groaned. “Breakfast is for the weak.”

  Mamoru grabbed a protein bar from his pocket, tossed it at him. “Then stay weak but not dead.”

  “Wow. Poetry.” Hideki peeled the wrapper with exaggerated misery. “You’re a joy in the mornings.”

  “And you’re a nightmare,” Mamoru shot back.

  “But I’m your nightmare,” Hideki quipped.

  Mamoru sighed, standing again. “Come on. Shower. Clothes. No collapsing today.”

  Hideki saluted lazily. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Mamoru rolled his eyes—but his lips twitched upward, just barely.

  The penthouse conference room. Morning sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp lines across the polished table. Half-empty coffee cups and notebooks clutter the surface. The city hums far below, distant but relentless.

  Mimmi stands at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, and laptop open in front of her. Her energy is sharp—efficient. She’s already three steps ahead of everyone in the room, her gaze flicking from face to face as she checks her notes.

  Mamoru sits to her left, flipping through a packet of travel itineraries, a black pen tapping rhythmically against the table. Hideki is slouched back in his chair, legs stretched out, gaze unfocused. His coffee—decaf—is nearly empty. He spins the mug lazily with two fingers, eyes half-lidded. Takao sits further down, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed into his hair. He looks tired but alert—his gaze sharp when it needs to be, darting between the papers in front of him and Mimmi’s laptop screen.

  “Alright,” Mimmi starts, cutting through the murmurs. Her tone is brisk, no-nonsense. “We’re less than 48 hours out. This is your final briefing before Australia.”

  Hideki raises a hand like a student. “Question.”

  Mimmi doesn’t look up from her notes. “No.”

  “C’mon,” Hideki presses, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is there, or is there not, a chance we’ll get to pet kangaroos?”

  Mamoru doesn’t look up. “Focus.”

  Takao sighs under his breath. Children. I work with children.

  Mimmi finally glances at Hideki. “If you manage to survive the next month without collapsing, I’ll personally take you to a petting zoo. Until then, no.”

  Hideki leans back, satisfied. “See? That’s all I needed.”

  Mamoru mutters, “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

  Mimmi clicks to the next slide on her laptop. The projector flashes images of the venues, travel schedules, and crowd projections. “Four weeks in Australia. One week off. Then Hokkaido for two months of shows. Heat will be an issue, especially for outdoor venues, so stay hydrated.”

  Hideki mock-whispers to Takao, “Translation: no tequila shots before concerts.”

  Takao doesn’t bite. His gaze flickers to the next slide—travel logistics, hotel layouts, venue security. His brow furrows as he notices something odd. Expensive hotels, top-tier security detail… and then—an elaborate medical arrangement listed under Special Provisions. IV access points, portable monitoring equipment, emergency plans that seem overkill for a standard tour.

  Takao leans forward, tapping the screen. “Isn’t this… excessive?”

  Mimmi doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s protocol.”

  “For aplastic anemia?” Takao’s tone is casual, but something sharp edges his words. “I mean, this setup isn’t cheap.” He glances at Hideki, who spins his mug again, gaze distant, unreadable. “Seems like a lot for just fainting spells.”

  Mamoru’s pen stops tapping. The air tightens—just enough for anyone paying attention to feel it. Hideki lets the silence hang for a beat too long before flashing Takao a lazy grin. “Hey, I’m just that valuable.”

  Takao raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. Not here. Not yet. But something doesn’t add up.

  Mimmi continues like nothing happened, flipping to PR strategy. “Press release dropped this morning. W?F’s Australia tour is the biggest headline right now. Fans are hyped, media’s drooling. Stay on script during interviews—focus on the music. No comments on personal matters, no speculation on health rumors, and absolutely no mention of Anna.”

  Mamoru asks, “What if someone presses us?”

  “Smile. Nod. Change the subject,” Mimmi says crisply. “If you can’t deflect, I will.”

  Hideki smirks. “I could just wear a shirt that says No Comment. Save us all time.”

  Mimmi doesn’t dignify that with a response. She turns to Mamoru. “Flight departs Thursday morning, 9 AM. VIP terminal at Haneda. Security will be tight—don’t engage with fans outside designated meet-and-greets. No exceptions.”

  Hideki stretches, arms overhead. “How many shows again?”

  “Ten cities, twelve concerts. Expect grueling schedules and minimal downtime,” Mimmi answers. “Take care of yourselves.”

  Takao mutters, “Sure, just casually survive a marathon tour.”

  Mamoru’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen—a heart monitor notification—but dismisses it quickly. Takao notices, filing it away.

  “Any other questions?” Mimmi asks.

  Hideki raises his hand again. “Petting zoo still on the table?”

  “Only if you don’t die,” she deadpans.

  Takao leans back, drumming his fingers against the table. Too many cracks. Too many things left unsaid. He glances at Hideki, who seems unfazed by all of it—too unfazed.

  Mimmi starts gathering her papers. “Meeting adjourned. Pack light. Stay out of trouble. And—” her gaze sweeps over them, firm— “no surprises.”

  Hideki grins. “Can’t make promises I won’t keep.”

  Mamoru mutters, “God help us.”

  Takao just sits there a moment longer after everyone stands, staring at the itinerary on the table. His gaze flicks once more to the Special Provisions section, and the growing weight in his gut only deepens.

  What the hell are you hiding, Yano?

  .Quiet alley near Ebisu Station, late afternoon.

  The city hums beyond the narrow street, distant chatter and traffic echoing between buildings. Neon lights flicker to life as early evening descends. The air is warm, carrying faint scents of yakitori from nearby izakayas. Yuuki stands waiting, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the ground. Footsteps echo—Mamoru appears from around the corner, phone in hand, reading a message. He barely glances up.

  Mamoru: (curt) “This isn’t a good time.”

  Yuuki: (dryly) “It never is.”

  Mamoru stops a few feet away, shoving his phone into his pocket. He doesn’t speak first. Neither does Yuuki. The silence stretches between them—thick, charged.

  Yuuki finally breaks it, voice low. “They sent her a photo.”

  Mamoru’s gaze sharpens. “What?”

  Yuuki: “Aiko. Her father. In Paris. Drinking coffee like it’s just another day.” (Beat.) “It was a warning.”

  Mamoru exhales slowly. His face remains unreadable, but his shoulders tense. “We’re handling it.”

  Yuuki laughs—humorless. “Handling it? That’s what you’re calling this?” He steps closer, voice dropping. “They threatened her family, Mamoru.”

  Mamoru’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists at his sides. “We didn’t involve her—”

  Yuuki cuts him off. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.” He points back toward the station. “She’s spiraling. And you’re all acting like this is normal.”

  Mamoru glances away, his throat working as he swallows down something—anger, guilt, both. “Aiko knew what she was getting into.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Yuuki snaps. “She’s not one of you.”

  The words land hard. Mamoru flinches, barely. Yuuki presses on, softer now—but sharper. “You treat her like she is. Like she can take it. But she’s not a Yano, Mamoru.”

  Mamoru: (quietly) “She’s family.”

  Yuuki: (bitter laugh) “Then act like it.”

  Mamoru rubs a hand down his face, dragging in a shaky breath. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t wake up every day wondering when this whole thing’s gonna cave in?” He shakes his head. “We’re doing what we can.”

  Yuuki: “It’s not enough.” (Beat.) “And it sure as hell won’t be if Hideki—” He stops himself, jaw clenching.

  Mamoru’s eyes darken. “Say it.”

  Yuuki: (flat) “If Hideki drops dead on stage, none of this damage control will mean shit.”

  A tense pause.

  Mamoru: (low) “You think I don’t know that?”

  Yuuki’s shoulders sag. “Then why are you letting him—”

  Mamoru cuts him off, voice tight. “Because he’s going to do it anyway. Better we manage the fallout than pretend we can stop him.”

  Yuuki shakes his head, stepping back. “Jesus.”

  Mamoru’s phone buzzes again. He doesn’t check it. His gaze lingers on Yuuki for a moment longer—then he turns. “Stay out of it, Carter.”

  Yuuki: (quiet) “Too late for that.”

  Mamoru walks off, footsteps echoing. Yuuki stands there, staring at the empty space where he was.

  His phone buzzes—Aiko’s name flashing on the screen. He answers.

  Yuuki: “Hey—yeah, I talked to him. Didn’t go great.” (Pause.) “No, you were right to tell me.” (Beat.) “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. But… I’m not letting them drag you down with them.”

  He ends the call. The city hums on, oblivious.

  Takao’s hotel room in Roppongi Hills. Late afternoon. Warm summer light seeps through the thin curtains, painting soft amber streaks across the minimalist space. The air conditioning hums softly, battling the oppressive August heat outside. There’s a faint scent of coffee, wood polish, and fabric softener lingering in the air. The distant sounds of Tokyo—muted traffic, occasional horns, and the faint echo of bustling pedestrians—drift through the barely cracked window.

  Takao lies sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over his face, shirt slightly crumpled from hours of listless half-napping. His legs dangle off the edge, bare feet tapping a restless rhythm against the cool floor. A bass guitar leans against the far wall, strings slightly out of tune, untouched for days. A takeout coffee cup sits abandoned on the nightstand—lukewarm, half-finished.

  His phone rests on his chest. Silent. Dark.

  Until it isn’t.

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  He lets it vibrate. Once. Twice. Eyes stay closed.

  Third buzz.

  Takao sighs through his nose, jaw tightening. Without looking, he flips the phone over. Screen bright. Name glaring.

  Tamako Suzuki

  His stomach twists.

  “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.

  He doesn’t answer. Just watches the call icon pulse, each ring a jab in his ribs. It stops. Silence returns—thick, suffocating. He thinks that’s the end of it.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  But then—

  Bzzz. Another notification.

  Reluctantly, he unlocks the phone.

  Family wants to see you.

  A hollow laugh escapes him. Bitter. Humorless. “Now they do?” His thumb hovers over the keyboard. No response forms. No words feel right.

  He tosses the phone aside, hears it land with a soft thud on the mattress. Fingers rake through his hair, tugging briefly. The room feels too small, the air too heavy—even with the AC on full blast.

  His gaze drifts to the bass guitar. For a fleeting second, he considers picking it up. Distraction. Noise. Anything.

  But all that greets him is the weight in his chest—the past clawing its way back in. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

  Osaka, Three Years Ago

  It’s morning—humid, already sticky despite the early hour. The convenience store’s fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in that familiar too-bright, too-harsh glow. Shelves stocked with neatly aligned snacks and bottled drinks stretch endlessly. The faint beep of the register. The distant hum of a refrigerated aisle.

  Takao stands behind the counter, apron askew, hair longer back then—messy in that careless way only someone running on caffeine and insufficient sleep manages. He’s nursing a canned coffee, exhaustion dragging at his shoulders. The digital clock above the register reads 6:48 AM.

  “Let’s go, Suzuki,” comes the familiar voice. Gruff but warm. Tanemura-san. Late 50s, thick glasses slipping down his nose, salt-and-pepper hair peeking out from under the store’s uniform cap. His face carries the kind of lines that come from decades of hard work and genuine smiles. Clipboard tucked under his arm, he knocks the counter with his knuckles.

  “Don’t make me haul you by the collar. Morning meeting.”

  Takao grumbles, dragging himself from the register. “Yeah, yeah…” His voice back then—less guarded, but carrying that same undercurrent of sarcasm.

  They gather in the tiny staff area. Just three people—Takao, a college kid named Rina, and Tanemura.

  Tanemura clears his throat. “Alright, team. Usual deal—stock rotation’s priority, keep the shelves neat, and don’t let old man Saito sneak out with another onigiri. Kid’s got faster hands than me back in my prime.”

  Rina giggles. Takao rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure he’s eighty.”

  “Age is just a number, Suzuki. Yours is the attitude I’m worried about.” But Tanemura’s smirking. Ends the meeting with a pat on Takao’s shoulder that’s heavier than it needs to be—but never unwelcome.

  Later—mid-shift. Takao’s restocking bottled drinks, sweat dampening his back under the uniform. The door’s bell jingles intermittently as customers come and go. Tanemura approaches, cracking open a chilled can of black coffee and sliding it across the shelf.

  “Drink up. You look like death.”

  Takao raises an eyebrow but accepts it. Pops the tab, sips. Bitter. Perfect.

  Tanemura leans against the fridge, gaze thoughtful. “Heard about what happened back in Osaka,” he says after a pause. Voice quieter. Not prying—just… knowing.

  Takao stiffens. “That was none of your business.”

  “Maybe not. But I got ears, kid.” Tanemura lets the silence sit before adding, “You did what you had to.”

  Jaw clenches. The weight of past fights, screaming matches, fists meeting walls—flesh—flood back.

  “You don’t know shit,” Takao mutters.

  “I know what it’s like to have a bastard for a father.” The words land like a stone dropped in still water. “Mine drank enough to drown a goddamn whale. Beat us for breathing wrong.” He lets out a hollow chuckle. “Some nights, I wished I’d hit back harder.”

  Takao can’t meet his eyes. The world feels too sharp, too exposed.

  “Sometimes walking away’s the bravest thing,” Tanemura says, voice softer now. He pushes off the fridge, ruffles Takao’s hair—a gesture that earns a half-hearted swat—and walks off, leaving the bitter coffee and heavier thoughts behind.

  Next day.

  Takao shows up for the morning shift. Same flickering lights. Same stale air. But Tanemura isn’t there.

  He waits. Checks the back. Nothing. Rina’s fidgeting, eyes down. Manager arrives late—expression grim.

  “Heart attack,” she says. Like that’s supposed to sum up a whole person.

  Takao stands outside after his shift, leaning against the vending machine where Tanemura always bought his coffees. Sky painted with oranges and pinks, sun dipping below Osaka’s skyline. The can in his hand is warm now. Useless.

  He murmurs, voice barely a breath, “You weren’t supposed to just… go.”

  No reply. Just city sounds swallowing him whole.

  Back to Present

  Takao’s back on the hotel floor—Tokyo’s distant city hum a far cry from Osaka’s streets. His face is buried in his palms. Breath shudders out of him.

  Get it together.

  He pushes off the floor, runs a hand through his hair. Glances at the phone the screen lithe up with the words

  Takao. Don’t ignore us.

  You can’t run forever.

  He snorts. “Bet I can.”

  For a moment—just a sliver of one—he scrolls to her contact. Hesitates. Thumb hovers over the call button. His reflection stares back at him from the black screen. Tired eyes. Too much past packed into twenty-two years.

  Takao exhales. Locks the phone. Tosses it onto the bed.

  The bass guitar catches his eye again. Fingers itch—but playing feels like digging into an old wound. Instead, he moves to the window. Pulls the curtain aside. Tokyo sprawls below—endless. Unforgiving.

  He mutters to the empty room, “Gotta keep moving.”

  A knock at the door cuts through his thoughts.

  “Mamoru,” the voice calls. “Bus leaves in thirty.”

  “Got it,” Takao calls back. Watches as footsteps recede.

  He stays by the window another minute. Breathes. Pushes everything back down where it belongs.

  Later, he promises himself. Deal with it later.

  He grabs his phone, shoves it in his pocket, and walks out. The door clicks shut.

  The heat was oppressive.

  Even at this early hour, Tokyo’s summer clung to everything like a second skin—humid, suffocating, relentless. The black-tinted van rolled to a smooth stop at the VIP drop-off zone outside Haneda Airport, its glossy surface reflecting the sun’s sharp glare. Already, the air was thick with anticipation. A wall of fans, journalists, and flashing cameras awaited them beyond the cordoned barriers, their voices a cacophony of excitement, curiosity, and something hungrier beneath it all.

  Hideki was the first to step out.

  The moment his foot hit the pavement, the crowd surged. Screams erupted—“HIDEKI-SAMA!” “W?F! OVER HERE!”—the sound so loud it vibrated through the asphalt. Hideki paused, head tilted slightly, letting the roar wash over him. His sunglasses reflected the sea of faces, the waving banners, the glint of phones raised high above heads.

  Someone held up a sign: MARRY ME, HIDEKI!

  He grinned, lifted his hand, and gave a lazy wave. “Buy me dinner first!” His voice, casual and teasing, sent the crowd into hysterics.

  Mamoru was behind him in an instant, a hand closing firmly around Hideki’s arm. “Focus,” he muttered under his breath, steering him forward.

  The rest of the band followed. Takao kept his head down, a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses shielding the rest. The noise grated on him—not just the sheer volume, but the energy of it all, like a current buzzing just under his skin. He wasn’t used to this. Not really. Not this level of insanity. He glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the van’s window: jaw tight, posture stiff. Calm on the outside. Churning underneath.

  Mimmi walked ahead, heels clicking against the pavement with sharp precision. Her phone was already out, fingers swiping through messages, voice clipped as she barked orders to the security team in her earpiece. “Keep them moving. No stops. No comments. I don’t care who shoves a mic in their face—no slip-ups today.”

  A journalist pushed against the barrier, microphone outstretched. “HIDEKI! ANY WORD ON NACHI YAMAOKA? IS HE—”

  Mimmi cut in without missing a beat, voice slicing through the chaos. “No comments at this time. Thank you.” Polite enough to pass as professional. Firm enough to end the conversation.

  It didn’t stop them. Cameras flashed—rapid, blinding bursts that painted afterimages behind closed eyelids. Another shout from the crowd: “IS ANNA JOINING THE TOUR?!” Hideki’s smirk faltered just for a heartbeat, the question slicing closer than he expected.

  Mamoru noticed. His grip tightened. “Don’t,” he warned.

  Hideki just shrugged it off, face smoothing back into that trademark grin. “You’re so uptight,” he murmured.

  The air inside the terminal was a blessed relief—cool, crisp, the sharp tang of industrial-strength air conditioning cutting through the heat that still clung to their clothes. The glass doors sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss, muffling the crowd to a distant hum.

  Takao exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Better. Almost normal in here. Except for the staff sneaking glances, the airport employees half-whispering as they passed. Celebrity never turned off.

  They moved toward the VIP check-in counter, flanked by security. Hideki, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, leaned casually on the counter. “Think if I flash a smile, they’ll upgrade us to a private jet?” His grin widened at the receptionist’s flustered expression.

  Mamoru’s response was immediate. “We already have a private jet. We are also ambassadors for finair so Shut up.”

  Hideki sighed dramatically, sliding his sunglasses up onto his head. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Mimmi, typing furiously on her phone, didn’t even glance up. “We’re on a tight schedule. Adventure is getting there without another PR disaster.”

  Takao watched the exchange from a step back, one hand shoved into his pocket. This is normal for them, he thought, not for the first time. The chaos, the banter, the media circus—it was all just another day. For him, it still felt like standing on a ledge, waiting to see if the ground would hold or crumble beneath him.

  The check-in process was quick—money and influence smoothed the way—but security was another story. Belts off, shoes into trays, pockets emptied. Hideki made a show of it, throwing his arms up dramatically in the scanner. “What’s next? Strip search?”

  The TSA agent didn’t crack a smile.

  Takao muttered under his breath, “One day they’re actually gonna take you up on that, and I’m not bailing you out.”

  Hideki winked. “You say that now.”

  Mamoru passed through smoothly, already pulling his phone back out the moment he cleared the checkpoint. His gaze flicked to the vitals app—pulse steady, oxygen levels normal. Good. Keep it that way.

  The VIP lounge was another world entirely. Plush leather seats, warm ambient lighting, and the faint scent of fresh coffee and lemon-scented polish. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the tarmac stretched out in a sun-bleached expanse, planes gliding lazily across it like metal whales breaching the horizon.

  Hideki sprawled across a couch, kicking off his shoes and stretching out like he owned the place. “Now this I can get used to,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

  Mamoru stood nearby, still too wired to sit. His gaze never strayed far from his brother, watching for signs—too pale, breathing off, anything. The app was fine. That didn’t mean he trusted it. Machines can lag. People miss things.

  Takao claimed a seat off to the side, pulling out his phone. Notifications flooded his screen—PR reminders, setlists, hotel confirmations. He swiped them away, thumb hesitating over an unread message. Tamako. Family wants to see you. His jaw tightened. He hit ignore.

  Mimmi dropped into a chair, crossing her legs as she flicked through her emails. “Press release is live. Social’s going nuts.” She glanced up at the group. “Remember the talking points: Focus on the music. No comments on Nachi. Smile and wave, boys.”

  Hideki yawned. “I plan on sleeping through the whole flight.”

  Mamoru shot him a look. “If you snore, I’m smothering you with a pillow.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Time blurred after that. Boarding was called. The final wave of cameras hit them at the gate—reporters firing off last-minute questions, fans screaming their names. Mimmi’s voice cut through the noise: “No comments. Thank you for understanding.”

  The plane itself was quiet, a sanctuary of soft leather seats and calming overhead lights. Hideki collapsed into his seat, pulling the window shade halfway down. “Wake me when we land,” he mumbled, voice already slurring with exhaustion.

  Mamoru settled beside him, scrolling once more through the vitals app. Steady. Good. His muscles, taut with tension for hours, didn’t relax. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Takao slid into the row behind them, sinking back against the headrest. His phone buzzed—another message. He didn’t check it. Not now. Not with everything swirling around them like a storm gathering just out of sight.

  The engines roared to life beneath them—a deep, guttural hum that vibrated through the floor and up into their bones. Hideki opened one eye, smirking as the plane began to taxi. “Think kangaroos like rock music?” he drawled.

  Takao, voice dry, shot back, “Probably more than I like you.”

  Mimmi didn’t even glance up from her phone. “If you two fight on this flight, I swear to God—”

  The wheels left the tarmac. The city shrank below them—Tokyo sprawling out in a glittering mosaic, roads like veins pulsing through its heart.

  Above it all, in that thin strip of sky between ground and clouds, there was only the quiet thrum of engines and the weight of everything left unsaid.

  Sydney, Australia – Coastal arena, opening night of the tour)

  The air was thick with the scent of salt and sweat, the Sydney breeze carrying a faint hint of the ocean. Despite the cooling evening sky, the humidity clung to the skin like a second layer. The stadium loomed overhead—massive, alive with energy. Inside, tens of thousands of fans buzzed in anticipation, their voices merging into a constant, humming undercurrent that seemed to pulse with the beat of distant pre-show bass.

  Backstage, it was organized chaos. Roadies shouted instructions over the din, cables snaked across the floor, and equipment cases lined the walls like steel coffins. The air tasted like metal and adrenaline.

  The Australian summer night hung heavy with humidity, wrapping the open-air stadium in a blanket of warmth. The scent of salt drifted in from the harbor, blending with the metallic tang of pyrotechnics and the electricity of anticipation. Fans packed the stands, bodies swaying under the glowing stage lights. The chants had started long before the band even took the stage—“W?F! W?F! W?F!”—a relentless, pounding heartbeat that reverberated through the arena floor.

  Mamoru adjusted the earpiece tucked beneath his tousled hair as he settled at his keyboard rig. His setup was sleek, monitors angled precisely, every cable taped down with military precision. His Tom Ford glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he pushed them back up with a practiced gesture. His gaze shifted toward center stage—toward Hideki.

  Hideki stood under the stage lights, a silhouette against a backdrop of roaring fans. His black tank top clung to his frame, drenched in sweat, the red tips of his spiked hair catching the spotlights like embers. He bounced on his heels, energy thrumming through his veins as the crowd’s anticipation peaked.

  Takao stood stage left, bass strapped across his chest. He plucked a few warm-up notes, fingers flexing as he glanced toward Hideki, his brow creased with something between focus and worry. Hideki caught his gaze and grinned, giving a mock salute.

  “Let’s make this count, huh?” Hideki mouthed.

  Takao rolled his eyes but smirked back. “Just don’t die on me,” he shot back under his breath.

  The house lights dropped. A thunderous roar exploded from the audience.

  Here we go. Mamoru inhaled slowly, his fingers hovering above the keys as the opening synth reverberated through the arena. The beat hit—deep, pulsing—and the stage came alive.

  Hideki’s voice tore through the speakers. “SYDNEY! ARE YOU READY?!”

  The response was seismic—phones flashed like stars, hands shot into the air. Hideki prowled across the stage, commanding the space like it was built for him alone. His voice was sharp, slicing through the humid air, riding the wave of the crowd’s energy.

  Mamoru played with mechanical precision, ears tuned to every note, every beat—but his peripheral vision never left his brother. He noticed the way Hideki’s chest rose just a bit too fast between lyrics. The way he paused longer at the mic stand. Heart rate elevated. Adrenaline or something more?

  Second song in, Hideki peeled off his sweat-soaked jacket and flung it toward the crowd, smirking as fans lunged for it. His shirt clung to his skin, veins prominent along his arms as he gripped the mic. “Hotter than hell out here,” he panted between verses. “But I hear you’re louder than the heat. Prove me wrong!”

  The crowd responded with an ear-splitting cheer, but Mamoru’s jaw tightened. His fingers moved flawlessly over the keys, but his mind calculated the signs: dehydration, elevated exertion, minimal rest between sets. It’s too much, Hide… slow down.

  Takao, mid-song, shot Mamoru a glance from across the stage. He’s pushing it, his eyes seemed to say. Mamoru gave the faintest nod back—but the show didn’t stop.

  Third song—Hideki hit a note, held it, then stumbled. It was subtle, masked by a spin that turned into a dramatic knee slide. The crowd ate it up, oblivious. Mamoru’s stomach dropped. That wasn’t part of the act.

  Takao’s playing faltered for half a beat—enough that Mamoru’s fingers clenched the keys harder to fill the space. Hideki shot them both a wink as he righted himself, as if to say, Relax. I’ve got this.

  Except Mamoru knew that grin. It was the same one Hideki wore when he lied through his teeth.

  The final chorus of the fourth song swelled—lights blinding, pyros exploding in synchronized bursts. Hideki threw his arms wide, basking in the deafening roar, sweat dripping from his jawline. His breaths came fast—too fast. His posture, off for a split second—then steady again.

  Mamoru’s heart pounded in sync with the bass. Stay up. Stay conscious.

  The last note hit. Confetti rained down. Hideki dropped to one knee, grinning like a man who’d conquered the world. The crowd screamed his name.

  But Mamoru’s fingers lingered on the final chord, gaze locked on his twin’s chest—watching for the rise and fall. Breathe… breathe, damn it.

  Takao’s bass faded out. His jaw clenched as he pulled out his in-ear monitors, eyes darting toward Hideki.

  Hideki rose, slow but smooth. He grabbed the mic, breathless but beaming. “Sydney—you are INSANE!” he shouted. “Thank you for tonight!”

  The stadium erupted. Cameras flashed. Hideki turned away, letting the spotlight catch his profile—a grin stretched across his face, sweat glistening under the lights.

  Mamoru let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Backstage – Moments Later

  The noise was still echoing through the arena as they exited. Hideki wiped a towel across his face, hair damp, shoulders heaving. Takao trailed behind him, unstrapping his bass.

  “You good?” Takao asked, voice low. Concern edged every word.

  Hideki smirked. “Peachy.”

  “Didn’t look peachy when you almost ate shit on stage,” Takao shot back.

  Mamoru caught up, shoving a bottle of water into Hideki’s chest. “Drink. All of it.”

  Hideki rolled his eyes but obliged, downing half. “Relax, Mother Superior.”

  Takao sighed, pulling off his sweat-soaked shirt. “You scared the crap out of us.”

  “It’s a show,” Hideki said, waving them off. “Crowd expects energy.”

  Mamoru’s eyes sharpened. “Not at the cost of you collapsing.”

  Hideki grinned, leaning back against a wall. “Guess that’s what keeps things exciting, huh?”

  Takao muttered under his breath. “Or fucking suicidal.”

  Mamoru’s phone buzzed—vitals stabilizing now, but still too high for comfort. He’s burning through reserves too fast.

  Hideki’s gaze flicked toward him. “Stop worrying. We’ve got, what, three more shows this week? I’ll pace myself.”

  Mamoru didn’t respond, jaw tight. You said that last tour. Look where it got us.

  Takao shook his head. “If you drop dead mid-set, I’m not carrying your dramatic ass offstage.”

  Hideki grinned. “Yeah you will. You love me.”

  “Debatable,” Takao shot back—but his expression softened, just a little.

  Somewhere in the distance, the crowd still chanted for an encore. Hideki tilted his head, listening. W?F! W?F! W?F!

  It was addictive—the noise, the attention. Hard to let go.

  But as Mamoru watched him—the sweat-drenched, grinning mess of a man leaning against the wall—he couldn’t shake the knot in his gut.One day,Hideki his brother, he won’t walk off that stage.

  Beachside villa in Sydney, late evening.

  The villa’s open terrace overlooked the glimmering coastline, where city lights danced across the dark waves. The salty breeze drifted through the air, carrying faint echoes of distant street performers and the hum of nightlife beyond the gated property. Warm amber lights bathed the villa’s wooden deck, casting elongated shadows across the lounge chairs and sleek outdoor dining set.

  Takao leaned against the railing, nursing a bottle of ginger beer while the ocean breeze tousled his hair. He’d grabbed takeout earlier—a gourmet wagyu burger with truffle fries—because if he was going to eat junk food, it might as well be good. He plucked a fry from the carton, savoring the crispy exterior and earthy truffle salt coating.

  Mamoru sat at the outdoor table nearby, posture perfect even in relaxation. A colorful salad with grilled chicken, quinoa, and avocado sat before him, paired with a cup of green tea still steaming gently. He speared a piece of lettuce with clinical precision, eating without a word.

  On the edge of the patio, Hideki slouched in a lounge chair, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower after the concert. His smartwatch glowed faintly on his wrist. In front of him: a container of grilled fish with steamed vegetables and brown rice—boring but approved. His face twisted at the blandness after one bite.

  Takao glanced at the meal and quirked a brow. “That’s what you’re eating? Looks depressing.”

  “It’s fine,” Hideki muttered, stirring the rice around.

  Takao smirked and took a massive bite of his burger, juices running down his hand. “I thought people with, uh—” He waved the burger vaguely. “—aplastic anemia didn’t have food restrictions?”

  Mamoru’s gaze flicked to Takao, sharp. Hideki, on the other hand, paused for half a second—then scowled. Without warning, he snatched Takao’s burger, ignoring the protest. “You know what? Screw this.”

  And with that, he took a huge bite, sauce smearing at the corner of his mouth.

  Mamoru’s expression flatlined. “Hide—”

  “What?” Hideki mumbled through a mouthful of beef and brioche. “Gonna lecture me now? One bite won’t kill me.”

  Takao, stunned at first, leaned back with a grin. “Wow. Guess you’re not that disciplined after all.”

  Mamoru sighed, setting his fork down with the kind of exhaustion only an older sibling could muster. “It’s not about discipline—it’s about not being an idiot.”

  Hideki licked his fingers. “Well, being an idiot tastes great.”

  Takao chuckled, grabbing another fry. “If you collapse because of that, I’m not carrying your ass to the hospital.”

  “Noted,” Hideki drawled. “I’ll die dramatically right here.”

  Mamoru shot him a withering look but didn’t push further. The salty breeze ruffled their hair, the only sound between them the distant crash of waves and the occasional clink of Takao’s bottle against the railing.

  Silence stretched out—comfortable in its own strange way.

  Takao finally broke it, eyes flicking toward Hideki’s smartwatch. “You checking that thing every five minutes is ironic for someone who claims to not give a shit.”

  Hideki shrugged. “I like the graphs. Pretty lines.”

  Mamoru’s gaze softened, just slightly, before he drained the last of his tea. “Let’s not stay out too late.”

  Takao rolled his eyes. “What are we, ten?”

  Hideki grinned. “Speak for yourself. I’m eternal.”

  Mamoru stood, gathering his empty dishes. “Eternal dumbass.”

  Takao laughed under his breath as Hideki stuck out his tongue, grease and sarcasm blending perfectly under the starlit Australian sky.

  The morning sun poured over Tokyo, casting a soft amber hue over the sprawling cityscape. Up on the 20th floor of the Aoyama Grand Hotel, the rooftop restaurant, The Top, was already bustling with early patrons enjoying their breakfasts against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling windows. The panoramic view stretched across Shibuya, with Tokyo Tower peeking through the haze in the distance.

  Aiko sat across from Takeichi at a small round table tucked into a corner by the glass, away from prying eyes but close enough for the warmth of the morning light to bathe her face. She absently stirred her latte, the foam art of a leaf long since swirled into a mess. The table between them held an elegant spread—soft scrambled eggs, freshly baked croissants, avocado toast garnished with radishes, and a small fruit parfait glistening with fresh berries.

  It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

  Aiko glanced at Takeichi, who was calmly buttering his toast, completely at ease in the luxurious setting. His dark hair was still damp from a morning shower, the crisp white dress shirt he wore slightly rolled at the sleeves. There was an effortless charm about him—refined yet laid-back—the kind of man who could seamlessly fit into both boardrooms and bohemian cafés.

  But beneath that polished exterior, she knew there was more. There always was.

  “I still don’t understand why you invited me here,” Aiko finally said, breaking the silence. Her tone was light, teasing even, but there was an edge of curiosity she couldn’t mask. “What, treating me to breakfast so I’ll forgive you for being cryptic all the time?”

  Takeichi chuckled softly, setting his knife down. “Maybe I just wanted to enjoy a nice morning with you. Is that so hard to believe?”

  Aiko raised an eyebrow. “Considering you called me at seven and told me to ‘be ready in twenty minutes’ with no explanation? Yeah, a little.”

  “Impromptu plans keep life exciting,” he said, sipping his black coffee.

  She shook her head but smiled, gaze drifting back to the view. Below, Tokyo bustled with life—commuters darting to stations, taxis weaving through narrow streets. It was hard to believe that just beneath that everyday normalcy, her world was a minefield of secrets and danger.

  Her smile faded. The questions swirling in her head became too heavy to ignore.

  “Takeichi…” she began, hesitating. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her plate, nails tapping a quiet rhythm. “I have to ask—how bad is it? With Hideki, I mean.”

  Takeichi’s easy demeanor faltered for just a second. He leaned back in his chair, gaze shifting to the skyline as if the answer lay somewhere out there, between the rooftops and clouds.

  “You know I can’t talk about that,” he said finally, voice softer.

  “I know,” she sighed, frustrated. “But I—”

  “He’s managing,” Takeichi offered, cutting her off gently. “That’s all I can say.”

  Aiko pressed her lips into a thin line. Managing. That word felt like a bandage slapped over a bullet wound.

  She thought back to that night—the chaos, Anna’s bloodied hands, the rushed whispers, and Yuuki’s strained face as he tried to keep her away from it all. The memory made her chest tighten.

  “You stopped me from going to him that night,” she said quietly. “When Anna—when everything happened… Why?”

  Takeichi didn’t answer right away. He picked up his coffee, swirling it absently. His silence stretched long enough that Aiko almost regretted asking—almost.

  “You weren’t going to help by being there,” he said at last. “Sometimes… proximity just makes things worse.”

  Her brows knit together. “But I—”

  “You care. I know.” His gaze met hers, steady and warm. “But caring isn’t always enough.”

  Aiko swallowed. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter.

  “And the photo,” she blurted. “They sent me a picture of my dad. Just sitting at a café in Paris like it was nothing. Like it was… a threat. How do you even know about that?”

  Takeichi’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened. “Yuuki told me.”

  Of course he did.

  She let out a shaky breath, anger flaring. “Why is everyone trying to push me out of this? I can handle it—”

  “Can you?” Takeichi’s voice was calm but firm. “This isn’t just a game, Aiko. People like us… we don’t get to walk away without scars.”

  “I never asked to be involved,” she shot back. “But I am.”

  There was a beat of silence. The clinking of cutlery from other tables, soft jazz playing through hidden speakers—the world outside their conversation was too normal. Too detached from the chaos that had consumed her life.

  Takeichi set down his coffee cup with a soft clink, leaning forward just enough that his words fell between them like a secret.

  “Yuuki’s trying to protect you because he’s in love with you,” he said.

  Aiko’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, lips parting in disbelief. “What—?”

  “He didn’t say it outright,” Takeichi continued, shrugging one shoulder. “But it’s obvious. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. Neither do I.”

  She sat back, stunned. Her mind reeled, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

  “And what about you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you care so much?”

  Takeichi smiled, but it wasn’t his usual teasing grin. It was softer. Warmer.

  “Aren’t you tired of being an Osawa?” His words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

  Her breath caught. The weight of his question hit harder than she expected. Was she tired? God—maybe. Tired of the constant danger, the whispers, the feeling of always being one step away from falling apart.

  He reached across the table, his hand resting near hers—not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth.

  “I know what it’s like to carry a name that feels more like a burden than a gift,” he said. “You deserve better than that.”

  Aiko looked away, blinking against the sudden burn in her eyes.

  The city stretched out beyond the glass, sprawling and endless. And for the first time in a long while… she wasn’t sure where she fit in it anymore.

  The server approached with the bill, placing it discreetly on the table. Takeichi glanced at it, then back at her.

  “Breakfast’s on me,” he said. “Consider it a bribe to think about what I said.”

  Aiko let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You’re impossible.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  And as they stood to leave, the world outside kept spinning—oblivious to choices being weighed, hearts quietly shifting, and futures slowly being rewritten.

  The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet.

  Yuuki sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, phone dangling loosely between his fingers. His scrubs, still faintly wrinkled from the day’s backstage rounds, felt stifling against his skin. The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:04 PM, casting a soft light across the room, bathing the walls in a dull amber hue.

  Outside, Sydney’s cityscape stretched beyond the window—glittering high-rises, distant car headlights snaking along the roads, and the faint hum of nightlife still carrying through the glass. The ocean breeze, even filtered through sealed windows and air conditioning, lingered with a salty trace in the air.

  Yuuki sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. His body ached from the constant back-and-forth of monitoring Hideki’s vitals during the concert, staying alert for signs of exhaustion or worse. Aplastic anemia, they said. Manageable. Nothing life-threatening if carefully treated.

  And yet—

  His eyes drifted to the phone again. The last text from Aiko was days ago—something sarcastic about him being an “overworked grandpa.” He could hear her voice in his head, light, teasing.

  You need to eat more vegetables, Carter. You’re not thirty anymore.

  He chuckled under his breath. Twenty-nine, he wanted to argue with the phantom of her voice. Still counts as twenties.

  His thumb hovered over her contact. Staring. Debating.

  What would he even say? Hey, miss you? Too forward. How’s Tokyo? Pointless. He was the one on another continent, after all.

  He leaned back, head tipping against the cool wall. The silence pressed in again, the distant hum of the minibar fridge and the faint rattle of air vents filling the void. His gaze drifted to the ceiling.

  God, why was this so complicated?

  Aiko wasn’t just some passing person in his life—she was a constant. Childhood memories tangled with recent ones—her laughter echoing through old streets back in Tokyo, the way she’d flick his forehead when he got too serious.

  And then there was the photo incident.

  Yuuki’s jaw tightened. Her father, casually sipping coffee in France—the kind of subtle threat that sent his pulse spiking the second he saw it. He had warned her to stay away from the chaos surrounding Well of Fortune, but Aiko… she never listened. And that terrified him.

  You don’t belong in this mess, he wanted to text. Stay out of it.

  But he knew she’d fire back with a “Says you,” followed by some flippant comment about “loyalty” or “choosing family.”

  His phone buzzed. His heart jumped—but it was just a notification from the tour’s medical group chat. Bloodwork updates for Hideki Yano attached.

  Yuuki exhaled sharply, letting the phone fall onto the bed. He was too exhausted to deal with that now. The guy had been fine during the concert—pushing boundaries, sure, but nothing alarming. Not yet.

  He stood, padding barefoot across the plush carpet to the window. Crossing his arms, he leaned his forehead against the cool glass, eyes tracing the distant twinkling lights. Somewhere out there—time zones away—Aiko was probably asleep. Or painting. Or—God help him—arguing with someone because she couldn’t not get involved.

  His reflection stared back at him—a tired doctor who’d taken this gig thinking it’d be straightforward. Tour, monitor vitals, keep things stable. Easy.

  Instead, it was layers of lies. Secrets. Worry gnawing at him from the inside out.

  His phone buzzed again. He glanced back—another message from the group chat.

  Yuuki muttered to himself, “Yeah, yeah… tomorrow.” He’d deal with medical reports in the morning.

  For now—he let himself sink into the moment. Just a man in a hotel room, 11 PM in Sydney, thinking about someone a world away.

  And wishing—for just a second—that things could be simpler.

  : Hotel bar, Australia – warm lighting, low music hum, and a scattering of post-concert guests. Outside, the night air is thick with heat, and the salty breeze wafts through the open patio doors.

  Yuuki Carter swirled the ice in his glass of soda water, the condensation sliding down onto his fingers. His shift had ended hours ago, yet here he sat, shoulders tense, mind miles away.

  Aiko.

  The name was an unwelcome echo. He sighed and sipped his drink, telling himself that thinking about her was pointless. She was in Tokyo, living her life, and he was—

  “Oi, Carter!”

  Yuuki’s head snapped up just as Mimmi Honda dropped onto the barstool beside him, nearly missing the seat. Her designer blouse was slightly askew, and her hair—usually perfectly styled—hung messily over one eye. The bartender, familiar with the scene, quietly set a glass of water in front of her, which she ignored in favor of slamming back what remained of her gin.

  Yuuki blinked. “…Jesus, how much have you had?”

  Mimmi grinned, lips glossy with smudged lipstick. “Only three vodka somethings… and four gin ones. Or five?” She glanced at her empty glass, squinting as if it might reveal the truth. “Lost count after the second Australian dude tried to hit on me. Told him to fuck off—I’ve got standards, you know.”

  “Standards?” Yuuki muttered. “You’re slurring, Honda.”

  “It’s Mimmi,” she corrected, drawing out the syllables like a lazy cat stretching. She waved at the bartender. “Tequila—two shots!”

  Yuuki caught the bartender’s gaze, shaking his head sharply. “No tequila.”

  “Aw, come on, Carter.” Mimmi leaned in, breath warm with the smell of alcohol and lingering perfume. “Don’t be such a prude. Loosen up. Ever think about having some fun for once?”

  “This is me having fun,” he deadpanned.

  Her laugh—low and throaty—caught the attention of a nearby couple. “God, you’re no fun at all.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, eyes sparkling mischievously. “You do have a face, though. Bet under that grumpy exterior you’re wild.”

  Yuuki exhaled. “Mimmi—”

  “Wanna spend some quality time in my room?” she teased, lips quirking into a lopsided grin. “I’m great company. You’re cute. Could use someone who doesn’t bullshit me.”

  He stared. “You’re wasted.”

  “Not that wasted.” She tried to smirk, but her head lolled slightly, betraying the claim.

  “Right.” Yuuki tossed back the rest of his soda, rising to his feet. “Let’s get you upstairs before you faceplant.”

  “I never—”

  She slipped off the stool, knees buckling. He caught her mid-fall, arms wrapping around her to keep her upright. “Whoa—”

  “See?” Yuuki muttered. “Proof of how not wasted you are.”

  Her head lolled against his shoulder, laughter softening. “You smell nice. Doctors always do. Like antiseptic and boring.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly, adjusting his grip. She wasn’t heavy, but carrying a full-grown woman in heels through a hotel lobby wasn’t on his to-do list tonight. Her arm flopped around his neck as he maneuvered her toward the elevators.

  “Hey, Carter…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re nicer than you let on.”

  “Not really,” he muttered.

  The elevator dinged. He shuffled them inside, one arm under her knees as he held her bridal style. Mimmi blinked blearily at the mirrored walls. “God, I look like a trainwreck. Wait—this angle makes my cheekbones look great, though.”

  Yuuki rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Yup.” Her head rested against his chest. “Hideki’s probably laughing his ass off somewhere, huh? Bet he’d love this—me, wasted, dragged upstairs by Doctor No-Fun…” Her words trailed off, voice thick with something other than alcohol. “Shit’s falling apart, y’know…”

  Yuuki’s jaw tightened. The elevator doors opened. He readjusted her weight as they stumbled toward her suite. “Keys?”

  “Bag,” she mumbled.

  He fished them out, managing to unlock the door without dropping her. Inside, the room smelled faintly of floral perfume and the leftover remains of room service. Gently, he set her down on the bed.

  “Water,” he said, grabbing the complimentary bottle. “Drink. No arguing.”

  Mimmi grinned, taking it with uncoordinated fingers. “Doctor’s orders?”

  “Yeah.” He turned, intending to leave.

  “…Hey, Carter?”

  Yuuki paused.

  Mimmi’s gaze, half-lidded, wasn’t entirely drunken. There was something raw beneath the surface. “They’re gonna let him die, y’know…” Her voice cracked, words slurred but the meaning unmistakable. “That’s what fiancées are for—knowing when the end’s coming.”

  Yuuki froze. “…What?”

  But Mimmi’s head flopped back onto the pillows, eyes sliding shut. “Forget it,” she muttered, the alcohol pulling her under.

  He stood there, pulse thudding. Hideki’s… fiancé? What the hell—

  Click.

  Yuuki’s head snapped toward the door—too late. Someone down the hall, out of sight, had just snapped a photo.

  “Shit.”

  He shut the door, heart pounding. Outside, the hall remained empty. No footsteps, no signs of who had been there.

  Running a hand through his hair, Yuuki cursed under his breath. “I knew this tour was cursed…”