Through a gap between the cameramen, Dou Tang caught sight of the people being filmed— and froze.
At the center of the crowd, surrounded by production lights and microphones, sat Kume Chinatsu.
Today she looked nothing like the timid girl from school. She wore a fluffy pink top with short sleeves, paired with hotpants. But what drew every eye were her accessories—
a diamond-studded baseball cap tilted rakishly to one side, spiral gold earrings that shimmered with every tilt of her head, and layered jewelry that flashed under the studio lights.
Simple clothes, but under those embellishments, she radiated youthful, stage-ready confidence.
Two others sat with her.
One was a tall girl—nothing like Lu Zizhen's natural, unpolished heroism. This one carried danger.
Short black hair, smoky black-purple eyeshadow, black lipstick.
A cropped jacket of leather ribbons—half decorative, half armor—showed glimpses of her toned arms beneath.
Underneath, a vivid purple tee; ripped denim, knee-high boots. Every detail screamed
delinquent couture.
Her arm rested casually around Chinatsu's shoulders, gaze coldly fixed on the third at the table. From Chinatsu's expression, it was obvious they knew each other well.
And that third person—Dou Tang thought immediately: host-club material.
A white suit embroidered with ornate silver patterns. A crimson shirt open just enough to seem deliberate.
Long golden hair brushing his shoulders, every gesture oozing practiced charm.
"Flamboyant" didn't even begin to cover it. He was the type of man Ikebukuro's nightlife adored—too bright, too confident, too aware of his own reflection.
Before them sat a glittering spread of desserts. The "host" spoke animatedly, laughter smooth as syrup. Kume Chinatsu responded with polite smiles, while the cool girl glared, silent but watchful, her arm protectively draped across Chinatsu's shoulders.
Dou Tang hesitated. Then the cool girl's gaze flicked up—and met his. Those half-lidded eyes sharpened in instant recognition.
He ignored her and tugged Huaiyin toward the counter.
"Brother, it's my first time seeing a variety show crew in person!" Huaiyin whispered, eyes bright. "Do you think they'll interview the café staff?"
Dou Tang shrugged.
"No idea. Doesn't concern us.
So—what do you want? Croissant and milk tea?" "Mm, okay."
After ordering, they found a seat near the back. Aside from the film crew, the café was nearly empty. Even the crowd outside hadn't stepped in—a detail Dou Tang found quietly strange.
Their order arrived soon after.
Dou Tang had coffee, while Huaiyin received a festival—croissant, tart, cake, pudding—enough to bury half the table.
"Brother, this is way too much!" Huaiyin gasped.
"It's fine," Dou Tang said, taking a sip. "You rarely go out. Eat as much as you want. A girl's dessert stomach isn't the same as her meal stomach."
Huaiyin giggled, secretly delighted, though she still protested. "But it'll go to waste! Even dessert stomachs have limits!" "Then we'll pack it. I'll carry it while we shop."
Huaiyin looked at the array of sweets, her heart swelling. If only he could always take me out like this, she thought. As long as he doesn't talk about those things, he really is the best brother in the world.
She took a bite of croissant—and suddenly remembered that dream. Could it have been his past?
What happened to his sister after that?
And that place—Jiefang Street Elementary?
Then that archway—ancient and solemn, like a torii but far older, more mysterious. It felt like him: weathered, beautiful, filled with unspoken stories.
The croissant was sweet.
She chewed slowly, watching the man before her—so calm, so detached, as though nothing in this world could move him.
Bathed in the café's golden light, Dou Tang—dressed all in black—looked like an island of shadow against the pale décor.
He noticed her gaze, smiled faintly, and tilted his head. "What is it? You're staring at me."
"You're sitting right in front of me," Huaiyin said softly. "How could I not look?" He smiled again, saying nothing, taking another slow sip of coffee.
A shadow fell across their table.
Dou Tang looked up—surprised to see the same cool girl from the shoot.
Her eyes swept him once, then narrowed.
Her voice, low and husky, carried a sharp undertone. "Where'd you buy that vest?"
Dou Tang didn't answer right away. He glanced back at the set—
the host and Chinatsu chatting on-camera, desserts untouched, clearly just props. Then he turned back to the girl.
"A friend gave it to me. Why?" She frowned.
"I designed it."
Before he could react, she grabbed the pocket at his chest and tugged down.
The vest's front folded open—its inner layer unfolding like origami into a small platform, two thin side straps holding it in place.
"Each pocket's functional," she said, tone matter-of-fact. "This one works as a phone stand."
Dou Tang blinked. "Huh. That's… actually impressive." "What's your friend's name? Maybe I know them."
"Lu Zizhen."
The girl's frown deepened. "You're Lu Zizhen's friend?"
He nodded.
"…Iwaya Mei," she introduced curtly.
The cold beauty—Iwaya Mei—patted his shoulder once, briskly.
The gesture was oddly masculine, mechanical—like a soldier checking gear.
Weird woman, Dou Tang thought. Do all of Lu Zizhen's acquaintances act like this?
"I've got to get back. Talk later," Mei said, turning away.
As she returned to the set, Kume Chinatsu finally spotted Dou Tang and Huaiyin. Her eyes widened, smile breaking unconsciously. She started to rise—
—but the host-type man caught her wrist, forcing her back down with an easy, proprietary smirk.
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face.
Then Mei swept back in, grabbed the man's hand off Chinatsu's shoulder, pushed Chinatsu gently aside, and dropped into the seat between them.
Her expression was pure provocation—cold, unreadable, dangerous. The cameras started rolling again.
And through the lens, for just a second, the light behind Iwaya Mei's shoulder warped— as though something invisible had brushed the frame.
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