The song was a resounding success.
Daeun feat. Forsaken — Inside My Skin. The song exploded almost overnight. In the first week after its release on Neonlights Media's YouTube channel, the track racked up a record-breaking 2.5 million views. That was nearly what my song with V€xxx managed in its first two months before eventually climbing past 3 million.
I was impossible to ignore any longer.
Because I was becoming marketable.
People were stunned. Everywhere I went, I heard the same question repeated in different forms:
How the fuck did Forsaken end up making a song with a Korean girl—and fly all the way to Seoul to shoot a music video?
I was turning into a myth.
The underground rapper who made waves by dissing a popular idol. The idiot who rejected a record deal just to carve his own path. The artist who stepped outside Japanese rap with an American crossover collaboration—only to prove he could still ride the same commercial wave, this time alongside a Korean pop artist instead of a Japanese one.
Them suckers were eating it up.
And in mid-November, just as the clock was running out on that wager, I finally did it. I signed a distribution deal with a label—Black Lotus Records.
It wasn't a huge contract or anything flashy. Just a start. But a promising one.
We settled on a simple deal: the label would take ten percent of the earnings from every mixtape or major track I released.
Not bad, all things considered. And more importantly… it meant I won the bet.
And so, I headed straight to the bar.
The new girl, Sayori, was working the counter today. Morning shift, apparently. The second I heard her name, a cold little shiver crawled up my spine.
Sayori.
Yeah. Like that Sayori.
That fucked-up visual novel ruined that name forever.
Anyway, the moment she spotted me, her face lit up in that annoyingly cheerful way some girls mastered naturally. She leaned over the counter a little and tilted her head.
"Takumi? Whoa, you're early today," she said, blinking at me. "Did the world end or something?"
I rubbed the back of my neck and tightened my grip on the folded paper in my hand.
"I gotta see the manager," I muttered.
"Ohhh." She dragged the word out softly, like she was already curious. "Boss is in the back dealing with a delivery right now."
Good. Saved me the trouble of wandering around this dump looking for him.
"Thanks," I said, already turning away. "Hang in there, Sayori."
She puffed her cheeks a little. "That sounds weirdly depressing when you say it like that."
I didn't answer.
I made my way to the back, and found the manager dealing with a fresh delivery—crates of alcohol stacked near the open truck outside.
I walked in after him.
"Need a hand with that?" I asked flatly, glancing at the truck with its back doors wide open.
The manager didn't even look at me at first. He just dragged a crate off the truck and set it down with a dull thud.
"Eh?" he grunted, wiping his hands on his apron.
Then he glanced over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow rising slowly.
"Well look who showed up early," he said, voice rough and amused. "What's the matter, kid? Finally decided to work a little harder before you run off chasing that rap dream?"
He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly lighting up his tired grin.
"Or you just here to tell me something interesting?"
I shrugged.
Guess he could tell.
"I'll tell you after we unload this truck. I need your full attention for it anyway," I said, grabbing a crate and setting it carefully on the ground.
He gave a grunt, smirk crossing his mouth.
"Suit yourself. Unloading this'll be faster if we both work," he said, cracking his knuckles.
We fell into rhythm fast. Crate after crate, the two of us moving in sync—me tossing, him stacking.
The cold November air bit at our hands through the rough gloves, but neither of us complained.
Occasionally, he'd grunt or mutter something about "these damn deliveries" or "kids these days," but mostly it was silent work.
After the last crate hit the floor with a dull thump, we stepped back, breathing a little heavier than usual.
"Not bad, kid," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Faster than I expected."
I shrugged, brushing dust from my sleeves. "Just don't expect me to make a habit of it."
He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. "Yeah, yeah. I'll take what I can get."
We made our way back to the counter. I took a seat on the other side while the manager stepped behind it, already reaching for a glass and a rag.
"So," he said, raising an eyebrow as he wiped the glass in slow circles, "what's this big thing you wanted to tell me, kid?"
I smirked.
"I won the bet, manager."
Then I slid the contract across the counter.
He picked it up, scanning the paper in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the header. His thumb tapped the page once, thoughtfully.
"Congrats, Takumi," he said, using my first name on purpose. "As promised—twenty grand, and you can walk away from the job tomorrow."
Then his grin slowly spread, sharp and a little too pleased with itself.
"Now…" he added, tapping the contract on the counter.
"Let's wait for Maestro and talk about those debt percentages."
Now the real negotiations would begin. Freedom always comes with a price.
Let's see how expensive mine would be.
Ten percent already belonged to the label.
Maestro and Tetsu showed up much later.
Maestro stepped inside like he owned the place, sunglasses catching the dim bar lights as he glanced at the contract on the counter.
"I'll be honest with you, kid," he said calmly. "If that little wager had gone sideways, I would've signed you to my label myself. That was the backup plan."
He shrugged lightly, like it had never been a big deal.
"But you managed to land your own distribution. Good. Shows you've got some spine."
He leaned against the counter, tapping a finger on the contract.
"Now let's talk numbers."
A slow smile crept across his face.
"I'd say 28 percent is fair." He gestured lazily between himself and the manager. "Fourteen for me, fourteen for the old man."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like a shark circling its meal.
"That still leaves you with over 60 percent of the earnings."
A pause.
"Not bad for a kid who walked in here drowning in debt."
The manager let out a low hum, clearly pleased with the numbers.
"Yeah… that's a fair deal," he said, nodding slowly as he wiped the counter with a rag.
Then he looked up at me, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
"Enjoy your career, kid."
He tapped the bar twice with his knuckles.
"And don't forget where you started, yeah? Drop by once in a while. I wouldn't mind having an extra pair of hands when the trucks roll in."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Besides… I wanna see how big you get."
Eh. All in all, I'd finally gotten my free time back. No more bar shifts, no more late nights behind the counter.
But then again… if I hadn't worked here, maybe I wouldn't have learned what it actually means to grind for your money.
"Sure will," I said simply. "And… thanks. For the lessons, manager."
The manager snorted, like the idea of him giving "lessons" amused him.
"Tch. Don't get sentimental on me, kid," he grumbled, lighting a cigarette.
He took a slow drag, eyeing me through the smoke.
"All I did was make you work. The rest—that's on you. Now go on. Don't waste that momentum. Guys like you either make it big… or come crawling back."
A small grin danced on his lips.
"We'll see which one you are."
Tetsu laughed, leaning back against the counter.
"Man… it's gonna feel weird without you pouring my whiskey," he said with a grin.
Then his brows furrowed slightly.
"And I don't get anything out of this either, huh? Guess that's what being the handler means."
"Oh, shut your mouth," Maestro snapped with a frown.
I glanced at Tetsu.
"You get to be my manager," I said flatly.
Tetsu raised an eyebrow at me.
"You sure about that, kid?"
Maestro let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair.
"If he's too dumb to figure it out, I can teach him the ropes."
Tetsu shot him a glare.
"I think I can handle it just fine, thanks," he snapped. "Asshole."
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing over my chest.
"Yeah… I see no one better," I shrugged, voice flat.
Tetsu smirked, tossing his hands up like he didn't even care.
"Ha! Finally, some respect around here. Don't worry, kid—I won't let you look like an idiot… too much."
Hopefully… not at all.
Anyway, today was my last day at the bar. That was the deal—I'd be free starting tomorrow.
I let my gaze drift around the room, lingering on the bottles lining the shelves, the coffee machine in the corner, the worn wooden counter.
It felt… like an era was ending.
Seven months. Seven months ago, when I first stepped through these doors, it was nothing short of an accident.
It started with a wrong turn in Matsumoto. I'd been wandering the backstreets after turning down the label offer that came my way after the Ai‑chan diss track. Maybe some part-time work would help me fund my career.
The alleys narrowed, neon lights shining red, the smell of cheap whiskey hitting me before I even saw the place.
A sign swung in the wind: "Konohana." Smoke curled from inside, loud bass blasting from the speakers.
Men in dark suits leaned over the counter, laughing like they owned the block. One of them—calm, sharp-eyed—spotted me immediately. That was the manager.
"You lost, kid?" he asked, voice rough.
"Uh… just looking," I said, too nervous to lie.
I met his gaze. "I'm an aspiring rapper. I was looking for a job… to fund my career," I blurted out.
The manager let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing as he studied me like a cat sizing up a mouse.
"An aspiring rapper, huh?" he muttered, voice rough, half-amused. "Looking for cash to chase dreams in this city… bold, kid."
He dragged a crate closer, letting it drop against the floor with a loud thud. "Here's the deal. You work here—pour drinks, move stock, keep your mouth shut—and I'll give you a paycheck. Enough to fund your little music career, maybe teach you what it means to actually earn something."
He leaned back against the counter, one eye on me, the other scanning the smoke-filled room.
"Think you can handle it, or are you just another kid with dreams too big for his boots?"
"I can handle it!," I blurted out, too fast, too messy.
And that... was how it all began.
A voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and teasing.
"Hey, rapper boy~," she purred, tilting her head with that lazy, dangerous smirk only Kurumi could pull off. "Why the long face? Brooding again or just missing me?"
Her red hair caught the light, falling over one eye like a warning.
"Hey, Rumin," I said, trying to keep it casual. "It's just… today's my last day working here."
Kurumi tilted her head, letting the light catch her hair, her smirk softening just a little.
"Huh… you're actually leaving?" she murmured, quietly impressed. "I guess I'll… miss you pouring my drinks, you know."
She leaned back, crossing her arms, eyes flicking to mine with something like pride.
"But… I get it. You're bigger than this, Takumi. Bigger than pouring drinks in some shady little bar. I'm… proud of you, idiot."
I couldn't help the smile that crossed my lips.
"Thanks, babe," I said, my voice carrying just a hint of warmth.
Without thinking, I leaned forward, sliding my arms around her back over the counter.
She stiffened, caught completely off guard.
Kurumi blinked, then slowly wrapped her arms around me in return, her smirk returning despite herself.
"This… is ridiculous," she muttered, pressing close over the counter. "Hugging you over this thing… how did you even come up with that idea?"
Her voice had that teasing edge, but there was a softness beneath it that only she let slip when she felt comfortable.
"Sorry," I rubbed the back of my head, a little embarrassed.
Kurumi let out a low laugh, tilting her head.
"You? Sorry? That's new," she teased, nudging me with her shoulder. "Don't get used to it, rapper boy. I might start expecting hugs like this all the time."
"It'd be… okay. From time to time," I muttered, shrugging.
She laughed—loud, infectious, like it was echoing right in my ear.
I grabbed a mojito and slid it toward her, then poured myself some whiskey with cola.
The manager said I could drink as much as I wanted today. My last day. Might as well make the most of it.
"Hey… if you want, maybe we could collab on a track," she said, taking a slow sip of her mojito. "My agency probably wouldn't think it's a good idea, but… Uncle could make it happen."
Yeah. No kidding.
Even the stiffest execs would tremble before Maestro.
"Sure, why not?" I shrugged. "Ku‑chan x Forsaken? That'll break the internet."
And, honestly… it'd give me the push I needed to finally break into the mainstream.
Kurumi grinned, leaning back in her chair, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Ha! Finally admitting we're gonna make waves, huh? I like it."
She tapped her mojito against the edge of the counter.
"But hey… we can't just start dropping bangers without celebrating first. Your label deal deserves a proper toast."
She leaned closer, voice playful but serious.
"Come to my place tonight. Drinks, music, the works. We'll make it a night to remember."
I grinned.
"You know it, babe."
And just like that, my last day at the bar slipped by. Later, I climbed into an Uber headed for Kurumi's place.
I stole one last look at the bar as we drove off.
Next time I step through those doors, it won't be as a bartender.