Friday, June 13th.
I notice it the second I glance at my phone because the date is sitting there, bold and smug at the top of the screen, and my brain immediately supplies the obvious: Friday the thirteenth. Of course it is. Of course, the day I'm meant to meet Akio and pretend I'm normal, wanted, and fine is the day that comes with its own built-in superstition, like the universe is trying to be funny.
I don't even believe in that stuff. Not properly. I'm not the kind of person who sees a number and thinks it has teeth. My own building skips the fourth floor because nobody wants to tempt fate. But I try not to put too much stock in old beliefs.
It's been a week since Kai almost kissed me in the locker room, and between whatever the fuck it is that I'm doing, that's all I've been able to think about. The sensation of his lips brushing mine is still an itch that refuses to go away.
Yet, I'm doing everything I said I wouldn't. I said I wouldn't meet with someone from the dating app.
Maybe it's not the date. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's the fact that the plan is supposed to be simple and daylight-coded and safe, lunch and shopping, 1 PM in Dōgenzaka, like it's a normal little date where the worst thing that could happen is awkward conversation and buyer's remorse.
My phone is on my chest like I'm monitoring my own pulse. I tell myself I'm not waiting for messages, but my thumb still unlocks the screen before I've even sat up properly, eyes gritty, mouth dry, my ankle giving me a dull ache as a reminder that my body is still the kind of thing that can fail on me without warning.
LINE opens and Akio's name is already there.
The notification came in while I was asleep.
My chest tightens before I read it. I hate that about myself, the way my body reacts first, like it already knows what's coming.
Akio:
Morning. Sorry, something came up with work. Can we do tonight instead?
There's a quiet bar in Dōgenzaka I like. You'll like it too.
I can pick you up at Sendagi Station. 8 PM.
I stare at the messages until the words stop looking like words and start looking like decisions I didn't make.
A bar.
The word sits in my head like something cold. He says it so casually, like it's a normal substitution, like moving a date from lunchtime to late night and swapping a café for a bar is just an "upgrade," not a shift in power. It's a different kind of plan. It's a different kind of night.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and for a moment, I don't move because I can feel two parts of me arguing.
One part is quiet and sensible and unpleasantly aware of my own limits.
The other part is loud and cruel and sounds like my own voice when I'm trying to bully myself into being someone I'm not.
Don't be pathetic. Don't flinch. Don't make it a big deal. Don't admit you're scared of anything.
I type anyway.
Ace:
I'm 18. I can't drink.
His reply comes fast, like he was waiting for it.
Akio:
Don't worry about that. I know everyone there.
You won't need to think about it at all.
I read that line three times, and each time it feels less like reassurance and more like instruction. My role in this is simply to exist where he wants me to exist and let him handle the rest.
My throat feels tight. I swallow and it doesn't help.
I should say no. Not a polite no. Not an excuse. A real one. But the other voice in my head leans in, sharp as ever, and it points out everything I don't want to admit. If I say no now, it means I wasn't confident enough to go through with it. It means I wanted the attention but not the reality. It means I'm exactly what I'm terrified of being.
My thumb hovers over the send button. My stomach turns.
Friday the thirteenth.
I almost laugh at myself, humourless and quiet. Like the date is the problem, like superstition is what's making my skin prickle.
Ace:
Okay.
The message sends, and regret blooms in my chest so quickly it's almost physical, like a bruise forming under the skin.
I put the phone down and stare at my ceiling again, except now it feels like the ceiling is staring back, blank and indifferent, while my mind does what it always does when it's stressed: it starts dragging other things into the room.
Dōgenzaka. Shibuya.
The name in Kai's pocket. The name on that article.
Mizuno.
My chest tightens at the memory, and I force myself to push it down, because I can't afford to spiral first thing in the morning. I can't do that and still get through the day. I can't let myself be that fragile.
I have to keep talking myself down off the ledge that Kai is much more than I think he is.
Kai drove me home that day.
Kai couldn't have been there.
I repeat it until it almost sounds believable, then I sit up slowly, careful with my ankle, and try to act like I didn't just agree to something my body is already regretting.
I don't know how I'm going to act like I'm not waiting around all day for some guy. It's still so early, and I'm already buzzing under my skin with uncertainty. I don't want to kill time by going to lectures, I've been out for most of the week anyway, so I don't really see the point.
I decide to get my ears pierced as a stupid impulse I've been sitting on for weeks, one of those 'I'll do it when I feel brave' plans that never actually arrive as bravery, just as a moment when I'm tired of waiting. Today is Friday the 13th. Today I'm going out at night. Today I'm meant to meet someone who makes me feel seen in a way that also makes me feel managed. My brain wants something to latch onto that isn't dread.
So I go.
It's not dramatic. It's a clinic, clean and bright, with posters on the walls and that faint antiseptic smell that always makes my throat tighten. The receptionist speaks gently, like this is normal, and apparently it is. They ask what I want, explain aftercare, and show me the starter earrings in a little case, like I'm choosing a flavour. The whole thing takes less time than I expected, and the normality of it is almost surreal. They wipe my lobes, mark the placement, check it with me, and then there's a sharp, quick pressure that doesn't hurt too much but makes my eyes water even though I'm trying not to react.
When it's done, my ears feel warm and a little tender. The studs are small, plain, silver, the kind of thing that looks simple but intentional. I keep catching the reflection of them when I turn my head, a tiny flash of light that feels like proof I did something on purpose. The studs make me look a little bit older. That could work in my favour if I'm underage and going to a bar.
Next, a haircut. I go to a place not too far from my building that takes walk-ins. The waiting area smells faintly of shampoo, hair product, and magazines. I haven't had my hair cut since my birthday in March. My bangs are long enough to cover my eyes now, and my ends are starting to look uneven in a way that only I seem to notice, which is exactly why it's bothering me. My hair is supposed to look messy on purpose.
The stylist tried to ask if I wanted to try something new, but I'd only let her trim the ends. But now I feel lighter, like I recognise myself again.
By the time I'm back home, the sky has deepened to a heavy summer blue. I take a long shower first. Too hot at the start, then cooler, because I want to come out feeling clean in a way that isn't just physical.
I shave everywhere, thoroughly but carefully, not rushing, because I don't want to nick myself and have it bleed and ruin the whole illusion. I do my skin routine like it's a ritual. Cleanser, toner, moisturiser, lip balm. For a minute, I can trick myself into feeling put together, like the outside of me is a container that can hold in all the chaos and uncertainty swirling beneath my skin.
I dry my hair properly and work product through it until it sits the way I want, the intentional kind of messy.
I lay several outfit options on my bed. Arranging each piece to craft options for what version of myself I want to be tonight.
In the end, I go with something that gives me sharp edges. Black skinny jeans, ripped for aesthetic, sitting snug around my thighs. I feel self-conscious when I wear clothes that show my exact body shape. I usually prefer baggy layers that I can hide behind, and I feel like I want to make an impression, not to Akio, but to myself. I smooth the fabric over my legs, trying not to dwell on how I appear to anyone else.
The shirt comes next: a matte-black button-down made of slightly heavy fabric. There are little metallic studs that climb up the sleeves and catch the light when I move, a subtle signal that softness isn't what I'm aiming for.
Then, the platform creepers to add a few inches to my short height.
I finally finished the look by painting my nails black for the first time in months. I try not to be overzealous with jewellery: silver rings, one on my pinkie, one on my ring finger.
"Fuck," I say out loud when I catch my reflection because that's when it hits me. I wish that this were all for Kai. I wish it were him picking me up tonight, not Akio. Kai wouldn't take me to a bar; he wouldn't have to try to impress me, wouldn't have to say anything special. He could wear that stupid smirk and just look at me with those mismatched eyes, and somehow that would be enough. He'd see right through the fact I'm trying too hard. But tonight, I'm left dressing up for someone else, pretending it matters, when all I really want is to be seen by him.
—
I'd been ready and pacing my apartment for hours before I actually left for Sendagi Station.
I check the time on my phone. 19:54.
I keep my phone in my hand so that I can look busy, maybe I can hide the fact that I'm shaking already. Maybe I can hide the fact that I'm out of my depth.
Now it's actually starting to sink in, I'm a little fish in the big pond. I don't do this, I don't go on dates with men nearly ten years older than me, and I definitely don't drink.
Akio said eight like it was nothing. Like "quiet bar" was a normal sentence. Like it didn't matter that he moved the whole plan from lunch to night and told me not to worry about being underage. My brain keeps trying to file that away under coincidence, under I'm overthinking, but something in me won't stop picking at it.
My phone buzzes and the cracked screen lights up.
Akio:
I'm here.
I think I see you.
My stomach lurches, my head snaps up from my phone, my eyes darting to see if I can spot him, but all I see is cars, traffic, the usual flow of Tokyo moving around me.
Then a car horn makes me jump. It's a silver Lexus, parked like it owns the curb. I actually roll my eyes, not even at the car, at myself, because it would seem as though I just have a knack for spending time with men who drive cars that look like they belong in a showroom. Maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe it's just my luck—either way, I'm starting to think Tokyo's public transport is wasted on me.
I start walking towards the car like I'm bracing for impact. I could still cancel, turn away, go home, behave. I could go back to chasing Kai like a little puppy, and he could go back to keeping his distance when it suits him. I have to do this. I tell myself that because I might end up believing it. Besides, I don't have to get crazy; it's just a few drinks, maybe Akio will try to kiss me, maybe I'll let him. I don't have to sleep with him to prove a point. Maybe Kai will feel something if he knows someone else touched me.
The passenger door opens as I approach, and I already catch the clean scent spilling from the interior. I slide in, and the door shuts with a heavy thud that seals out the noise of the station.
Up close, Akio looks smoother than his photos, less like a profile and more like a person who knows exactly what expression works on strangers. He looks a little older than me, with neatly styled dark hair, a crisp white shirt rolled up to show off his gold watch, which I recognise from his photos. He's already smoking, a cigarette between his fingers like it's part of his outfit.
Akio looks over me like he's assessing. His eyes land on my hands first, my black nail polish, the rings, then lift to my face, and I feel it like I'm being touched without permission.
"You look good," he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "You really went for it, didn't you?" He exhales the smoke towards me, not out of the window, towards me as if it's supposed to endear me to him. I lightly swat the smoke away, but Akio laughs and holds his cigarette pack out to me with the lid open. "Want one?"
I do smoke. That's not the issue. The issue is that everything about tonight already feels like a test, and I don't know what the correct answers are. I pull out my own brand of cigarettes from my pocket instead, and I hold the box up as if to prove that I don't actually need anything from him tonight.
"Cute," he says with a smirk. "Didn't expect that."
I don't reply. I just lift the cigarette to my lips and tuck the pack away before he can make it mean anything else. When I turn my head slightly, the movement catches the light, and Akio's gaze drops to my ears.
"You didn't have those in your pictures," he says.
"Hm?" Then my finger pinches my lobe, still tender from the piercing. "Oh. I got them done today," I admit, and it comes out too honest, like I'm explaining myself to a teacher.
Akio's smile sharpens with approval. "Impulsive," he says. "I like that."
He pulls away from the curb before I can decide how I feel about that, merging into traffic with ease. He clicks the button to roll down my window and holds his lighter up to my cigarette.
The flame flares warm against the night air, and I lean in without thinking, cigarette between my lips, letting him light it like it's intimate. The first drag hits my throat and settles in my lungs like something familiar, something I can pretend is calming even when it isn't. Akio watches me inhale as if it's the most interesting thing in the world, then turns his attention back to the road like he's already won whatever point he was trying to make.
Sendagi slips away behind us in a blur of streetlights and narrow roads. The inside of the Lexus feels too clean and too quiet. This kind of quiet makes me aware of every little sound my body makes—the click of my ring against the window button, the slight hitch in my breath when the car speeds up, and the soft rustle of my shirt when I shift in my seat. Akio drives as if he has done this a thousand times. One hand is on the wheel, while the other is relaxed, holding a cigarette between his fingers without ash falling, as if even that is under control.
He keeps glancing at me at red lights. Not even in a subtle way, like he wants to be caught looking. His eyes linger too long, like he's cataloguing me; it's not flattering. It feels like being appraised.
We get onto the expressway, the road widening, the lights lining up into a rhythm. We get through the first toll gate and Akio glances over at me again.
"So, you're eighteen." He says it like a statement, like he's reminding himself now that we're past the toll gate and the commitment has already been made. We're already too far to pretend this is just a quick, awkward pickup.
"Yeah," I say. "I turned eighteen in March."
Akio hums satisfied and takes another drag of his cigarette. "Good."
My grip tightens on my own cigarette without meaning to. "I can't drink," I add, because I have to. Because if I don't say it out loud, it's like I'm agreeing to something.
He smiles, eyes back on the road. "I told you, you won't have to worry about that. You smoke, don't you? So I know you're not past being a little rebellious. You seem mature anyway, for someone your age, at least."
There it is again. That same phrasing from his messages, like it's supposed to soothe me. Like the problem is my anxiety, not the fact that he's taking an underage student to some 'quiet bar' in Shibuya on a Friday night.
I flick ash out of the window and watch it vanish. My cracked phone digs into my pocket when I shift, a small, irritating pressure that keeps reminding me that I'm not as put together as I look.
Shibuya sits somewhere ahead like a destination and a dare.
I can tell we're getting closer, even before the signs change, even before the density of Shibuya's lights flicker across the windshield.
Dōgenzaka.
When I see the sign, something clenches in my chest, like a thread being tugged. I keep my breathing even, keep my eyes forward, as if I'm just watching the lights.
Akio drives with one hand on the wheel, calm and assured. I sit beside him, trying to act like my body isn't already bracing, trying to act like being pulled deeper into Shibuya by a man who keeps deciding things for me is still the same thing as choosing.
He parks where the street is narrower, where the traffic noise becomes more of a constant hiss than a roar. Akio rounds the car and opens the passenger side door, and the heat hits me immediately, humid summer air clinging to my skin.
"Come on," Akio says, taking my hand with certainty, as if testing the space was never an option, like he's already decided, and it would be awkward for me to embarrass him by pulling away.
Dōgenzaka at night is a neon-lit wonderland. The main road spits us out into a mess of light and bodies, and then it fractures into side alleys that look too narrow to be real, tiny lanes that kink left and right like they're trying to lose you. Signs stack on top of signs, and music leaks out of buildings: bass from one place, laughter from another, the clink of glasses somewhere close enough to hear.
Akio leads me through it like he knows the route blindfolded. He just steers me with a firm grip, guiding me past groups of men outside bars, past couples pressed too close together, past a tout who opens his mouth and closes it again the second he clocks Akio's face.
I try to keep track of where we're going, but it's hopeless. Every alley looks like it leads to another, and even the spaces between buildings feel like they're shifting.
I glance back once and the street we came from is already swallowed by a crowd of people. Akio's grip tightens slightly, just a reminder that I'm not navigating tonight, he is.
"Not far," he says, as if distance is the only thing that matters.
I let him pull me deeper into the maze, telling myself it's fine because we're still outside, because there are people everywhere, because Dōgenzaka is loud enough that nothing truly bad can happen in a place this bright. But the narrowness keeps closing in, the turns keep stacking until we reach another alley where lights don't reach as well. The air smells sharper—stale smoke trapped between walls, damp concrete, metallic rust.
We stop next to a door, it's so plain and unassuming that I almost miss it, like it's meant to be overlooked. No sign, no menu, no neon telling you you're in the right place.
Akio smirks at me, then knocks on the door like he's announcing himself. It opens immediately, and warm air spills out, thick with alcohol, smoke, and something sweet and syrupy layered over it like an attempt at charm.
A doorman stands by like he's part of the building. His eyes flick to me first, quick and measuring, then to Akio. "Another one?" he says it quietly to Akio, like it wasn't meant for me, but I hear it anyway, clear as glass.
Akio just smiles like it's an inside joke and leads me up a narrow stairwell, still holding my hand, and I follow because there isn't really room to do anything else. My creepers land heavily on each step, and it makes me feel exposed, like every footfall is announcing that I don't belong.
Halfway up, I hear the muffled pulse of music, voices bleeding through the ceiling. Akio doesn't look back. At the top, he pushes through another plain door, and the bar's heat spills over me like a wave.
We step in, and it's dim enough that my eyes take a second to adjust. The lighting is deliberate: low lamps, amber glow, everything softened around the edges. The kind of place designed to make you feel anonymous. The floorboards are dark, the tables are close together, and the bar itself sits like a spine along one wall, bottles lined up in a way that looks expensive until you realise it's just for display. There are curtains further back, a hallway that disappears around a corner.
The bartender looks up, and his face changes with acknowledgement the second he sees Akio.
"He's with me," Akio says, easy.
The bartender's eyes flick over me, and then he nods once like that's enough. No questions, no hesitation, no mention of my age, my face, the fact that I look like a student playing dress-up in black.
Akio squeezes my hand lightly, like reassurance, like he's proud of how smoothly everything is going, and guides me toward a table tucked in the far corner.
He doesn't release my hand until I sit, his fingers finally loosen and slide away like he wasn't trying to imprint himself into my skin.
Akio leans back into his chair and pulls a new cigarette from his pack. "See?" he says, smiling like he's already familiar. "Quiet."
But it isn't quiet. It's just private enough that nobody would notice if it stopped being quiet.
"You drink cocktails?" he asks.
"I don't really drink," I try to sound firm, but the words come out too stiff, like I'm reciting something I've already told him.
Akio's smile doesn't falter. "That's fine. Cocktails don't really count, they're basically juice."
He flags the bartender with two fingers, like calling over a dog that already knows him. Akio whispers something into the bartender's ear, and he nods along. Akio doesn't ask what I want; he just decides.
The drinks arrive quickly, two glasses set down with a soft clink, pale and garnished, the kind of pretty drink that someone would post on their story.
Akio pushes one of the glasses toward me.
"Try it."
I take a cautious sip. It tastes good, like a dessert someone turned into a liquid. It doesn't taste like alcohol at all, which should be more of a warning than a comfort.
Akio watches my reaction like he's waiting for the confirmation.
"It's nice." I sound way too polite for a date.
I take a bigger sip this time because I don't want him to think I'm childish, because some stubborn part of me wants to prove I can keep up. The sweetness hits the back of my throat, the heat follows like someone striking a match inside my chest.
Akio drinks his own quickly with an ease that makes him look harmless, then holds his cigarette to his lips before lighting it.
"Um—are we allowed to smoke inside?" I mutter stupidly, and Akio laughs like I'm naïve.
"Look around, no need to be so tense around me, nobody minds in here." Then he places a finger under the glass in my hand and guides it toward my mouth. "Finish your drink, have a cigarette. It'll loosen you up."
I do as he says, letting him guide the glass to my lips, and finish the drink in a few quick swallows. The sweetness and burn blur together, and for a moment I forget how tense my shoulders are, how carefully I'm trying to keep my hands from shaking. I light a cigarette, just to have something to do, and try to convince myself I'm relaxing, even as I can feel his eyes on me, measuring how well I'm playing along.
The room is starting to feel softer around the edges. My limbs feel slightly delayed, and there's a warmth in my cheeks that spreads down my arms.
And I guess Akio somehow notices. "Good," he says like he's pleased. "It suits you."
He's already ordering another round before I can decide if I want any more.
Two drinks turn into five. Each one is going down easier than the last. My body feels warmer than it should.
Akio keeps control of the pace, and the conversation keeps moving, so I don't have space to think too hard. He compliments my outfit. He says I look older than I actually am.
He shifts his chair closer to mine as if he's trying to lean into the conversation, lighting another cigarette for me. Another round from the bartender.
"I like how bold you are, Anri," he murmurs too close to my ear. "It's cute how you pretend to be nervous around me."
"Not nervous—" I lie, and the words don't even feel real coming out of my mouth. I keep realising that I'm taking absent-minded sips of my drink because it doesn't even taste like something that's progressively clouding my judgement.
Then, through the haze, the main door opens, and it startles me. The lights feel dim and smeared, and a figure steps into the bar, pausing in the doorway like he's letting his eyes adjust. Black cap, black face mask, black long-sleeved shirt.
My focus snaps on the shape of him, the way his shoulders sit, the way he's holding himself. He turns slightly as he walks past, and I only catch the back of his head, the curve of his neck above the collar.
He crosses to the other side of the room and sits down at a table with an older gentleman who'd been there since I came in.
Akio notices my attention drift and follows it with his gaze, just for a second.
"See someone you know?" he asks, voice too casual.
"No," I say too fast, and then I hate myself for sounding like I'm lying.
Because I don't know. I can't know. I only saw the back of him. I only saw a silhouette and a posture, and my own brain doing that thing it does—filling in blanks because it wants an explanation.
I take another sip to shut myself up.
The sweetness coats my tongue. The warmth blooms again behind my eyes. And across the room, the man in black sits with his head slightly angled toward the older man, like he's listening, like he's waiting, as if he belongs here in a way I don't.
Akio finishes his drink like it's nothing, sets the glass down with a soft clink, and stands.
"I'm going to grab another," he says, already moving.
He adjusts his watch as he walks, cigarette between his fingers, and heads for the bar with the same easy familiarity he had with the doorman. The bartender looks up as Akio approaches. Their conversation is too quiet for me to hear, but I can see the shape of it anyway—Akio leaning in, the bartender nodding like he's taking instructions, not an order.
The second Akio's back is to me, the corner of the bar feels colder.
The curtain near the back shifts again. Men keep slipping through, disappearing behind the curtain and coming back out later with their collars adjusted, like whatever happens back there isn't worth reacting to.
I let out a breath I didn't realise I'd been holding and reach for my phone. The cracked screen catches the light in broken lines. My hands don't feel like mine. My fingers are a half-second behind what I'm telling them to do, and the keypad swims slightly when I tilt the phone.
Yuujin first. That's the sensible choice. The normal choice. The choice that doesn't feel like swallowing glass.
I open LINE and stare at his chat, the last messages sitting there like a lifeline I don't deserve to pull on. My thumbs hover.
Ace:
ibn shibuya toniht
hes being kinda fowarfd
I hit send, then read it back and it looks ridiculous.
Ace:
forward*
sorry i dindt text
The message goes through, and for a second, I just stare at it, waiting for my phone to do something else—buzz back, make this feel real, make me feel less alone in the corner of this bar with my drink sweating on the table.
The other chat sits right there under Yuujin's. Kai. His name is like a bruise I keep pressing, then complaining that it hurts. I've never even messaged him on LINE; it was always on Instagram.
I tell myself not to. I tell myself it's humiliating. I tell myself he's probably busy, probably doesn't care, probably didn't even notice I'm gone. That same familiar loop.
I open Kai's chat before I can stop myself. My thumbs hover. Nothing I type looks right. Everything looks like an accusation or a confession.
All I feel is sorry. I'm sorry I did this. I'm sorry I'm here in this weird fucking bar, I'm not home, I'm not behaving. I'm sorry for thinking that I could get Kai's attention by proving a stupid point that I'm untouchable, just like he is. But I've never felt more vulnerable, more exposed, more out of my own skin than I do right now.
My thumbs are clumsy, but I type and send before Akio can threaten to return from the bar.
Ace:
Kai
are oyu up
you didnbt say anyhting
i shouve told you how i feel
i really miss you
Akio's laugh snaps through the room, and I type the last message before he turns back to our table.
Ace:
im sorry
Akio comes back looking pleased with himself, like he's just won something small. He sets a fresh glass down in front of me with a soft thud, and it doesn't look like the pretty cocktails anymore. It's darker, amber, the ice catching the light in slow, lazy flashes.
He slides into his seat and leans in a little, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret.
"Okay," he says, all gentle confidence, "this one's not juice. This one's for grown-ups."
I blink at the glass. The smell hits before I even lift it. Smoky, sharp, something that makes my throat tighten in anticipation.
"I don't—" I start, because that sentence has been living in my mouth all night.
Akio cuts across it with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. "You're doing fine. You've been doing so well." He taps the side of the glass with his fingertip, a tiny clink. "Trust me. One gulp. Then you'll stop thinking so much."
He says it like my thoughts are the problem. Like he's doing me a kindness.
I hesitate, and he watches me hesitate, and I can feel the weight of it—him waiting, me being measured. He tilts his head, amused.
"Don't tell me you're going to bail now," he murmurs. "After all that effort? Nails, piercings… You didn't do all that to sit here acting shy."
Heat crawls up my neck, sharp and humiliating. My fingers close around the glass because my pride is apparently louder than my survival instincts.
Akio's smile widens, satisfied. "That's it."
I bring it to my mouth and try to take a sensible sip, but Akio laughs softly like I'm adorable.
"No, no," he says, reaching over to guide the bottom of the glass up with two fingers—too familiar, too sure. "Like this. Just down it. I want to see."
The whiskey burns immediately, a clean, vicious line down my throat. My eyes water. I cough once, barely holding it back, and the room tips a fraction as the heat hits my stomach like a flare.
Akio watches my reaction like it's entertainment, like he's proud.
"Good boy," he says under his breath, and the words land wrong, sticky and patronising, even through the haze.
I set the glass down too hard, and the ice clinks loudly. My mouth tastes like smoke and honey and something extremely bitter I can't name. I blink, trying to steady my vision, trying to pretend I'm still in control of my own body.
Akio leans in close enough for his lips to brush my ear, pleased like the night has shifted another inch in his favour.
"Let's go somewhere quieter."
Akio doesn't say it like a question.
He's been smiling at me all night, sweet in that way that's meant to make me feel chosen, meant to make me forget that he changed the plan, that he brought me somewhere I didn't pick, that he's been deciding the pace of my breathing with every glass he slides toward me. When he leans in and says, "Let's go somewhere quieter," it sounds like he's offering me a favour. Like I should be grateful. Like my discomfort is something he can smooth out with the right room.
I blink at him, trying to pin the words down, but they wobble the second I touch them. My head is thick and buzzing, my tongue feels too big for my mouth, and I can't tell if the heat on my face is from alcohol or embarrassment or the simple fact that I don't trust what I look like right now.
"I can't—" I start, because my brain is still clinging to the one sensible thing I've repeated all night. Eighteen. I'm eighteen. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to be drinking. I'm not supposed to be doing any of this.
Akio's hand slides over my knee, just above it, his fingers pressing like he's testing how much I'll let him have. There's nothing rough about it. That's what makes it worse, the way he touches me like it's already agreed upon, like I've already signed something without reading it.
"You're fine," he says softly. "You're with me."
I look toward the bar out of instinct, toward the bartender, even toward the guy that looks like a shadow on the other side of the room; on his phone completely unaware that I'm screaming on the inside, I try to look toward anything that might make me feel less alone in my own skin, and the place looks the same as it did an hour ago. Warm light. Too many bottles. The hum of conversation. A laugh that sounds too loud and then dies too quickly. Nothing here looks like a crime.
But the hallway behind the bar looks different the longer I stare at it.
The way people keep disappearing behind it feels too easy. Nobody hesitates. Nobody asks where they're going. Nobody looks afraid. That's the part that makes my stomach roll, because if you're scared, you look around, you look for an exit, you look for someone to meet your eyes and confirm you're not imagining things.
Nobody in this place is looking for confirmation.
Akio stands, still smiling, and when he reaches for my elbow, his grip is gentle enough that I could technically pull away. The word technically flashes through my mind like a joke, because my limbs feel sluggish and heavy, and pulling away would mean admitting I'm not in control of myself. Pulling away would mean causing a scene. Pulling away would mean making him angry.
I hate that I care about any of that.
"I don't…," I say, but the sentence drifts off, because I can't even find the right reason. I can't say, I don't trust you. I can't say, I think you're lying. I can't say, I feel like prey. My mouth can't shape those words without choking on them.
Akio laughs like I'm being cute. "Come on. It's loud out here."
His fingers tighten on my elbow. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he's holding me. The stool scrapes lightly under me when I try to stand, and I sway immediately, the room tilting in a slow, sick arc. Akio steadies me with a hand at my waist, too familiar, too confident, as if my body belongs to him now that he's watched me drink.
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw. My skin prickles.
As we start moving, I catch sight of them again.
The men in the back.
They've been there the whole night, and I told myself they were just customers. Just strangers. Just another group of people laughing too loudly in a place that sells permission in tiny glasses.
But when Akio leads me toward the corridor, their attention shifts like a flock turning all at once. It's subtle, the way heads angle, the way conversation dips, the way one of them sets his drink down as if he's been waiting for that exact cue. It's the coordination that makes my stomach drop. Not a word spoken, but everyone understanding the same thing.
My heart stutters.
Akio's hand stays firm at my waist, guiding me through the crowd like he's escorting me somewhere important.
I try to slow down. It's pathetic, the way I do it, a tiny drag of my feet, as if my body can protest even when my mouth can't. Akio doesn't even look at my feet. He feels it immediately, and he leans closer, his lips near my ear.
"Don't overthink it," he murmurs, like he's soothing me. Like he's not the reason my chest feels tight.
I blink hard and the room swims. The music thumps through my ribs, but it's already fading the closer we get to the hallway, and the change in sound is like stepping underwater.
"Akio," I say, and hearing his name come out of my mouth makes my stomach twist because it feels like I'm calling for help from the person holding the knife.
He hums. "Yeah?"
"I want to go home."
The words are slurred. I hate myself for that. I hate that I can't even sound firm when I finally say the thing that matters.
Akio's smile doesn't move. His hand on my waist tightens a fraction. "You're tired. That's all. We'll sit down somewhere quiet for a bit. You'll feel better."
The corridor is narrow, and the light is colder back here. Not bright, just different, like the warmth of the main room was designed to make you forget you're somewhere you shouldn't be. The walls are close enough that my shoulder brushes them when I sway, and I can smell something sharp under the alcohol and smoke. Cleaning product. Disinfectant. Something trying to erase evidence.
My mouth goes dry again. I swallow and it doesn't help.
Behind us, I hear footsteps.
Not just ours.
A low chuckle. A voice murmuring something I can't make out. The sound of someone following with no urgency, because urgency would imply there's a risk of being stopped.
Akio reaches the door and knocks once, like he's polite. Like this is an appointment. Then he pushes it open without waiting.
The room beyond is dim, smaller than I expected, lit by a low lamp that makes everything look soft around the edges. A couch. A table. A half-empty bottle. It could almost look harmless if you didn't know.
If you didn't feel it.
If you didn't see the way the men drift in behind us like smoke slipping through a crack.
My brain tries to take inventory, tries to make sense of it logically, tries to insist that I'm exaggerating, that I'm paranoid, that I'm drunk and dramatic and making something out of nothing.
But my body knows.
My body knows because the air feels wrong the second I step over the threshold. It's like my skin tightens, like my stomach hollows out, like every nerve suddenly wakes up and starts screaming at once.
There are too many of them.
That's the first clear thought I have.
Too many.
The second thought is worse, because it isn't a thought; it's a realisation, sharp and sudden, and it lands so hard it blurs my vision.
This isn't a private room for talking.
This is a room for not being able to say no.
My breath catches. My hands go cold.
I try to step back, but Akio's hand is still on my waist, still steering, still deciding. His fingers press into me as if he can push me deeper into the room by touch alone.
"Come on," he says, still gentle, still smiling, as if he's coaxing me toward a surprise party. "Sit."
The men behind us don't speak at first. They don't need to. One of them closes the door with a soft click that should be quiet, but it sounds huge in my ears, like a final punctuation mark.
My heart slams.
I stare at the door. I stare at the handle. I stare at the way it looks ordinary. A door in a bar. A door in Tokyo. A door in a city full of doors.
And suddenly I understand why this place doesn't care about my age. I understand why Akio told me not to worry. I understand why he kept ordering drinks and smiling at me, as if he were doing me a kindness.
Because rules don't exist in here.
Not the rules that would protect me.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat feels locked. The room is spinning slowly, and I can't tell if I'm going to throw up or cry or both.
Akio leans in, his voice softening in that fake intimate way, like we're sharing a secret. "You're okay."
I shake my head, small and helpless. "I'm not."
He laughs under his breath, almost affectionate. "Don't be like that."
One of the men behind him speaks finally, low and amused. "He's cute."
The word makes my stomach flip so violently that I almost gag.
I take a step back again, and this time I try to pull away properly, but my body doesn't listen fast enough. My limbs feel delayed, like there's a second of lag between thought and movement, and the panic in me spikes because I realise that even if I scream, even if I fight, even if I do everything right, I'm not sharp enough right now to win.
That's what the alcohol was for.
That's what it was always for.
Akio's hand slides from my waist to my wrist, and it's still not rough. Still not bruising. Just firm enough to keep me where he wants me.
I look at his face, at his smile, at the calm confidence in his eyes, and something in me breaks open, because there is nothing date-like about him anymore. There is nothing considerate. There is nothing soft.
He looks pleased.
Like he got what he wanted.
Akio leans in like he's about to say something funny, and instead, his fingers land on my collar.
"This is done up so tight," he murmurs, almost fond. "You're sweating."
His thumb slips under the top button and pops it open with practised ease, then the next. The tiny snaps make soft sounds that feel way too loud in my ears. Cool air hits the skin at my throat, and it should be a relief, but it isn't—it feels like being opened. Like I'm being unwrapped in front of people I can't see properly. I try to lift my hand to stop him, and my fingers don't cooperate fast enough; they hover, useless, then bump his wrist without force. Akio lightly catches my hand, not hard or bruising, just firm enough to make it clear that my protests are a nuisance.
My voice finally comes back, thin and cracked. "Akio. Stop."
For a second, his eyes flicker, irritation flashing through, quick and ugly, and then the charm drops back into place as if he's practised it.
"Shh," he says. "Don't make it weird."
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. My hands shake. The room swims.
I think of my bed. I think of my door. I think of how safe my apartment felt a few hours ago. I think of how stupid I was, how desperate I was to prove something, how badly I needed to feel wanted, that I let myself be led like this.
My eyes sting. I can't breathe properly.
I turn toward the door again, and that's when I see it, the final detail that sends the fear through me like electricity.
The men aren't watching Akio.
They're watching me.
Not like strangers watch a scene in a bar. Not curious, not surprised, not uncertain.
They're watching like they're waiting for their turn.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like falling.
And in that exact moment, right on the brink of losing myself to panic, right when I finally understand what kind of room this is, the air shifts.
Not the temperature. The atmosphere.
The kind of shift you feel when someone enters a space, and everyone else instinctively recalculates.
Akio's grip on my wrist tightens.
His smile falters for the first time, just for a fraction of a second, like something in him recognises a threat before his mouth does.
I don't even have time to turn my head fully.
I just hear a voice from the doorway, calm and level and sharp enough to cut through everything in the room.
"Let go."
It comes from the doorway with a calm that doesn't fit the room, like someone speaking from a different set of rules, and every nerve in my body reacts before my brain can place the sound properly. My head is still spinning, my stomach still hollowed out with fear, but the second that voice cuts through the air my chest tightens in a different way, like something inside me has recognised it as real before I've even turned to look.
Akio's hand is still wrapped around my wrist. The men behind him are close enough that I can feel their presence like heat at my back, my throat is locked, and I can't breathe properly.
The black-clad guy from the bar is standing in the doorway. Black cap and face mask obscuring most of his face.
He isn't angry in any obvious way, not that I can even tell through his mask. There's no dramatic glare, no raised voice, no tension that reads as panic. It's worse than that. He looks controlled. Clean. Like he has already decided how this ends, and the only thing left is for the room to catch up.
His eyes flick over me first, and it's so quick and precise it feels like being assessed, like he's taking inventory in a way that makes my skin prickle. Then his gaze settles on Akio's hand around my wrist.
Then I catch it. Those mismatched eyes.
"Let go," he repeats, same tone, same levelness, as if he's asking someone to put a glass down.
For a fraction of a second, Akio's smile holds, still trying to make the room look harmless, still trying to keep it in the shape of a joke. He turns his head slightly, glancing back with the expression of someone who thinks charm will smooth anything out.
"Kai," Akio says lightly, like they're friends who've run into each other by accident. "Relax. We're just talking."
Kai doesn't answer that. He doesn't dignify it with a response. His attention stays on the grip on my wrist as if Akio's voice is background noise.
Akio laughs again, soft, breathy, as if this is amusing. "He's fine. He's with me."
My stomach drops all over again at the way he says it, like I'm an object he can claim ownership of with one sentence, and I hate myself for the tremor that runs through me because I can't tell if it's fear or the simple fact that someone is finally looking directly at what's happening.
Kai takes one step into the room.
It isn't a big movement, but the entire atmosphere shifts around it, and I swear I feel the men behind me adjust, the way bodies do when they're recalculating distance, the way a pack reacts when something unfamiliar enters their radius. Nobody laughs anymore. Nobody speaks. The silence thickens, not because anyone is scared of getting caught, but because the social temperature has dropped, and everyone can feel it.
Kai stops close enough that I can see the faint mess in his hair under his cap, the crease in his shirt, the shadow under his eyes that makes him look older than he is, and then I see his hands.
Steady.
Not clenched.
Not shaking.
It should be comforting. It's terrifying because it tells me he's not improvising. He's just doing what he does.
"Move," Kai says to Akio, and there's no heat in it, no threat in the words themselves, but the way he says it makes my skin tighten like it's bracing for impact.
Akio's smile slips for the first time, not fully, but enough that I see something irritated flash through, quick and ugly, before he smooths it back into place.
"You're making this weird," Akio murmurs, and he squeezes my wrist a fraction harder, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me he can.
Kai's eyes flick to the squeeze, and it's the first time something sharp shows on his face. Not rage, not jealousy, just a thin, cold impatience, like someone delaying an inevitable outcome.
Akio opens his mouth again, probably to say something about misunderstanding, probably to keep the performance going, and Kai speaks over him without raising his voice.
"Let go," he says a third time, quieter somehow, and that makes it worse, because quiet like that isn't pleading. It isn't negotiating. It's a final instruction.
Akio holds on for a heartbeat too long.
Then he releases me.
It's not graceful. It's not generous. It's the kind of letting go that happens when you realise holding on will cost you more than you're willing to pay.
The moment his fingers slide off my skin, my arm feels wrong, like it's still being held even though it isn't, and my body sways because I didn't realise how much I'd been bracing against his grip.
Kai's hand comes to my elbow immediately, catching me before I can tip. The touch is brief, practical, nothing soft about it, but it steadies me so fast my vision clears for half a second.
"Can you walk?" he asks, and his eyes are on my face as if he's measuring my answer before I speak.
I want to say yes. I want to sound normal. I want to be the version of myself who never ended up in this room.
My mouth opens and what comes out is a breath that shudders.
Kai doesn't react to the weakness. He doesn't look disgusted. He doesn't look amused. He just nods once, as if that's information, as if he's filed it away.
"Come here," he says, and his hand shifts from my elbow to my wrist, not gripping, not dragging, just positioning me, guiding me closer to him so he can put his body between me and everyone else in the room.
The men behind me don't move, but I can feel them watching, and that's what makes nausea rise again, because now that I've clocked what they were waiting for, I can't un-know it. Their eyes feel like weight on my skin.
Akio tries one last time, voice still smooth, still trying to keep it casual. "You're seriously going to do this over nothing? You're always making it weird, Takato."
Kai doesn't look at him when he answers.
"It wasn't nothing, it's never nothing," he says simply.
That's all. No lecture. No scene. Just a statement that makes the room feel even colder, because it's the first time someone has named the reality of it without dressing it up.
Kai reaches behind him and pushes the door open wider, and for a second the corridor light spills in, harsh and pale compared to the dim room, and I realise how trapped I felt the moment that door clicked shut. How quickly the air changed. How fast a place can become dangerous just because it's private.
Kai guides me toward the doorway, and my legs move like they belong to someone else. My balance is still off. My head still swims. My pride is somewhere on the floor behind me.
I make it two steps and my knees threaten to fold.
Kai's grip tightens just enough to keep me upright, and he leans in slightly, close enough that his voice lands against my ear without anyone else catching it.
"Breathe," he says, still calm. "Look at me."
I try. I really try. My eyes sting. My throat aches. I feel too aware of everything, the smell of disinfectant, the low lamp, the couch, the bottle, the men who haven't moved because they don't need to, because they've done this before, because of course they have.
I meet Kai's eyes, and the panic surges because being looked at like that makes me feel seen, and being seen right now is unbearable.
"I'm sorry," is all I can manage.
Kai doesn't soften. He doesn't lie. He doesn't tell me it's okay in a way that would make me feel stupid later.
He just says, "I'm taking you home."
The certainty of it hits me harder than anything else. My chest tightens. I swallow and it scrapes.
We step into the corridor, and the sound changes instantly. The thump of music is muffled now, like it's behind glass, and the air back here is colder, cleaner, wrong in a different way.
Behind us, I hear Akio's voice again, lower, sharper now that the charm is cracking.
Kai keeps walking.
He doesn't turn around. He doesn't acknowledge him. The silence is its own answer, and it feels like the worst kind, because it tells me Kai doesn't need to argue to win.
My shoulder brushes the wall when I sway, and I flinch at the contact. Kai adjusts his grip without thinking, moving me slightly away from the edge as if he's already mapped how unsteady I am.
We pass the curtain, the doorway back into the main bar, and the noise hits me like a wave again. Laughter. Music. Glasses clinking. The illusion of normal life continuing around us.
I can't reconcile it. I can't reconcile the fact that two metres away there's a room where rules don't exist, and out here people are smiling like nothing is wrong.
My stomach lurches. My hand flies to my mouth, and Kai reacts instantly, steering me toward the side, away from the crowd, as if he's done this before too, just in a different way. He pushes the balcony door open, letting in a rush of night air, and it's so cold against my skin that I gasp.
I lean over the railing and retch, dry and humiliating, my whole body shaking with it, and I hate myself so much I can barely see straight. Then it comes up, hot and bitter, whiskey and syrup. Too much sweetness turned sour in my throat.
Kai stays beside me, not touching my back, not rubbing my shoulders like someone trying to comfort me in a normal way, but close enough that I feel his presence like a barrier. Like nobody can come behind me without going through him first.
When it passes, I spit, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall, but do anyway.
"I'm sorry," I whisper again, because the shame is automatic, because I don't know how to exist in this kind of vulnerability without apologising for taking up space.
Kai's gaze cuts to me.
"Stop," he says, not unkindly, just firm. "You don't apologise for that. I'm the one who should be sorry. If I had known Akio was here tonight, I wouldn't have let it get that far, especially to you."
I blink at him, my throat feels tight. I want to ask a hundred questions. Why were you here? How did you know? How long have you been watching?
Instead, I just stand there shaking, the night air cooling the sweat on my skin, and the reality of what almost happened creeping up my spine like ice. I try to straighten up, but the spin hits fast, and the night air catches in my throat like a punishment. I glance back at the bar through the door—lights smudged, faces smudged—and everything trails when I blink, like my body's a second behind the world.
I cling to Kai's sleeve. Everything sounds far away, like I'm underwater, and the only clear thing is Kai saying my name.