[Yamashita Tachibana's Apartment — Tokyo ]
"Madam— you look…" He caught himself. "You look really good in that."
The blush that spread across Yamashita Tachibana's face was instantaneous and nuclear. It climbed from her throat to the tips of her ears, visible even beneath the bangs. She pressed her thighs together and tugged the hem of the skirt down a centimeter — a futile gesture, since the costume had been designed to show leg.
"D-Don't call me 'Madam,'" she managed, fingers still pinching the fabric. "I'm only a few years older than you. Just use my name."
Riku knew the story — everyone in the neighborhood did. Her husband had died the night before their wedding ceremony. The paperwork had already been filed, the marriage legally registered, so the title stuck: Lady Yamashita, the widow. But that title was a technicality written in ink on bureaucratic paper. The marriage had never been consummated. Yamashita Tachibana, for all intents and purposes, had never been touched.
Which made the faint tremor in her fingertips, the way she kept shifting her weight from one heeled boot to the other, and the too-quick rhythm of her breathing all the more conspicuous.
This is my first time. My actual first time. Don't throw up. Don't you dare throw up, Tachibana.
"Alright — Yamashita… Tachibana." Riku nearly slipped into Madam again, the honorific halfway up his throat before he swallowed it back. He tapped the envelope. "Shall we get started?"
"Do we need to set up a scenario first?"
The question came out of nowhere, fired like a bottle rocket while Riku was still pulling the contract pages free.
"A scenario?" He blinked. "Oh — right, yes. Those kinds of details we can discuss after the signing. Casting choices, production schedules, content verticals—"
"If—" Tachibana cut him off, voice cracking on the consonant. She took two deep breaths, her chest rising and falling visibly inside the corset. "If it's my first time… can we not use one of those ojisan types?"
She said the word ojisan the way someone might say cockroach.
"I know they get views. I know the audience likes them. But I just—"
She stopped.
Inside Tachibana's skull, a full horror film was playing.
She imagined the scene: a dimly lit set dressed to look like a cheap business hotel. Herself pinned beneath a man three times her weight, his belly spilling over his belt, sweat rolling down the creased folds of his neck and dripping onto her collarbone. The sour stench of a body that hadn't seen a shower in two days — fermented, yeasty, like wet towels left to rot. His thick, tobacco-stained fingers yanking her blouse apart, buttons pinging off the mattress—
No.
And then the tongue. That bloated, discolored tongue forcing its way past her lips, tasting of cheap beer and konbini bento, pushing deeper while cameras rolled and the director said something about getting a good angle on her gagging reflex—
Tachibana's stomach lurched. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
Absolutely not. I will die before I let that happen.
The popular dramas airing lately had made rugged, silver-fox-type actors trendy — the Dandiest Dad archetype that had middle-aged women and college girls alike swooning. Riku assumed she was referring to casting preferences for whatever entertainment projects she'd star in.
"That's completely fine," he said, easy as anything. "We'd never force talent into something they're uncomfortable with. If you have preferences, we'll accommodate. You're one of our flagship signings."
Tachibana stared at him. Her lips parted.
"…I can choose?"
The question was barely a whisper.
She's really nervous about this, Riku thought. Must be her first time signing a major contract. Understandable.
"Of course you can choose," he said, leaning back in the chair. Its legs scraped lightly against the floor. "Tachibana — what kind of… type do you prefer?"
The question hit her like a truck.
He's asking me what type of man I want for my first scene.
She'd done research. Hours of it, in the blue-light glow of her phone at 3 AM, scrolling through forums she'd never admit to visiting. Every thread said the same thing: newcomers don't get to pick. You take what you're given — and what you're given is usually a heavyset man in his fifties with a combover and performance-enhancing medication keeping him functional for the four-hour shoot.
"I… I can really choose?" Her voice was so small it could've fit inside a thimble.
As long as it's not one of those greasy, disgusting, unwashed otaku-looking men pinning me down and grunting into my ear. As long as it's not that, I can survive. I think. Maybe.
But even as the thought formed, something heavy and cold settled in her chest.
My first time. I'm really going to sell it, aren't I?
Her gaze drifted — slowly, inevitably — toward Riku.
He sat with one arm resting on the table, the contract fanned out in front of him, his jaw defined beneath the apartment's warm light. His black hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that only worked on people who were genuinely attractive. The fitted dark shirt he wore traced the line of his shoulders — broad but not bulky, the kind of frame that suggested muscle without advertising it. His forearms, exposed where he'd rolled his sleeves, were lean and corded.
If it were Riku-kun…
If he were the one…
Then I wouldn't have any regrets.
The thought was so clear, so immediate, that it frightened her. She felt heat pooling low in her belly — not arousal, exactly, or not only arousal, but something tangled up with relief and desperation and the simple, animal recognition that this man smelled like clean cotton and cedar cologne instead of sweat-soaked polyester.
He's kind. He stopped me from making that mistake before. He's offering me a hundred million yen. And he's—
Her eyes traced the shape of his mouth.
—beautiful.
Tachibana inhaled. Long, shuddering, deliberate. She gathered every scrap of courage she had left, balled it into a fist inside her ribcage, and raised one trembling hand.
Her index finger pointed directly at Riku.
"If it's… Riku-kun," she said, voice cracking at the seam, "then I can do it."
Silence.
Then, panicking at her own boldness, she waved both hands frantically.
"N-No, no, I mean — just the first time! After that I can accept— I'll manage— I can handle—"
The last three words came out through gritted teeth, each syllable bitten off and swallowed like bitter medicine.
I've already asked for too much. I'm making demands before I've even signed. He's going to tear up the contract. He's going to leave. A hundred million yen, gone, because I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut—
Riku, for his part, felt the gears in his brain seize.
Me? She wants me to act in a situational drama with her?
He'd never trained as an actor. He didn't even watch dramas. The last time he'd attempted anything resembling performance was a fifth-grade school play where he'd been cast as a tree.
She must be really anxious about her debut, he concluded. Wanting a familiar face on set. That's sweet, actually.
"Mada— Tachibana-san." He caught the slip a syllable too late. "Here's how it works. Whatever your needs are — within reason or without — we'll accommodate. The moment you sign, the hundred million yen hits your account. Everything else, we figure out together. You don't need to worry."
Tachibana's eyes widened.
So that's why so many girls end up in this industry. The money really is instantaneous.
But something nagged at her. Before Riku had intervened and stopped her from signing with that back-alley agency, her "debut shoot" had offered a flat rate of ten thousand yen. Ten thousand. The rest would've come from residuals tied to sales volume — if it sold at all. She'd even been told she might need to pay the male talent's nutrition fee out of pocket.
Nutrition fee. Industry jargon for the money the actress pays the male performer. A transaction dressed in euphemism.
She'd nearly paid a stranger to take her virginity on camera.
"So," Tachibana said carefully, "how much is the nutrition fee per session?"
Riku's eyebrows furrowed.
Nutrition fee?
He turned the phrase over in his head.
Must be some kind of performer welfare stipend. A per-shoot bonus. Tachibana's clearly done her homework — she's negotiating benefits before even signing. Professional.
This woman is going to bankrupt me with her thoroughness.
"No less than a hundred thousand yen per session," Riku declared. Magnanimous. Decisive. A CEO naming his price.
In his mind, the math was clean: if a single documentary or short film generated tens of millions in revenue, kicking back a hundred thousand per shoot to the lead talent was pocket change. Generous pocket change.
Tachibana's hand flew to her mouth.
"T-Ten— a hundred thousand?!"
What kind of man charges a hundred thousand yen just to show up and—
"That's— that's way too much!"
"It's not," Riku said, entirely sincere. "And depending on your performance, that number goes up."
"It goes UP?!"
Tachibana's composure shattered. Her knees wobbled in the heeled boots. She gripped the back of the nearest chair for balance, the Gwen wig sliding an inch to the left.
So if I resist — if I struggle or show any hesitation during the scene — they charge me MORE? What kind of predatory, exploitative—
But a hundred million yen. Deposited immediately.
I owe more than I can repay in three lifetimes. The interest alone is—
She swallowed. Hard. Her throat clicked audibly.
Think about it rationally, Tachibana. A hundred thousand per session is terrible, but a hundred million yen wipes the slate clean. Forever. You'll never have to work a hostess bar again. You'll never have to count coins for groceries again.
"The nutrition fee is only part of it," Riku continued, oblivious to the nuclear meltdown occurring behind her eyes. "There are other benefits — insurance, scheduling flexibility, creative input. I can add those to the contract right now if it'd put your mind at ease."
Tachibana went very still.
Wait.
Give me? He said 'give me' the nutrition fee?
"…Give me the nutrition fee?" she repeated, each word enunciated with surgical precision.
"Of course." Riku tilted his head. "Who else would it go to?"
They stared at each other across the small table.
Something clicked in Yamashita Tachibana's mind — a tumbler falling into place, a lock turning, a door swinging open onto a corridor she hadn't known existed.
He stopped me from signing with that agency. He offered me a hundred million yen. He's paying ME the nutrition fee instead of making me pay it. And he wants to be my first.
He's not building a roster.
He's buying me. Exclusively.
Riku-kun wants me — all of me — for himself.
The blush that consumed her face this time wasn't nuclear. It was thermonuclear. It started at her sternum and rose like a tide, turning her chest blotchy and pink above the Gwen corset's neckline, flooding her cheeks, scorching the shells of her ears until they practically glowed. She could feel her own pulse in her fingertips, in her throat, between her thighs.
His personal— his private— he wants me to satisfy his—
She couldn't finish the thought.
But it's Riku-kun. It's only Riku-kun. If it's him, then I…
"Riku-kun." Her voice was steady. Barely. A tightrope walker's balance — one gust from collapse. "Let's sign the contract."
I can't run from this anymore. The debt will eat me alive. And if it has to be someone — if someone has to have me — then let it be the man who smells like cedar and looks at me like I'm a person instead of a product.
"Great!" Riku's face lit up. He spread the contract pages across the table, producing a pen from his breast pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit.
His excitement was genuine and barely contained.
Another signed contract. That's another three billion back from the system. At this rate, the returns are—
Tachibana watched his eyes sparkle, watched his fingers drum the tabletop in eager, boyish rhythm, watched his whole body hum with anticipation — and drew her own conclusion.
He's that excited. About me. About… having me.
She felt her stomach flip. Not with nausea this time.
Okay. Okay. If he's this eager, then maybe I should—
She parted her lips. Drew one final breath. The apartment smelled of green tea and fabric softener and the faint, woodsy trace of his cologne, closer now than it had been a minute ago.
"Riku-kun."
He looked up from the contract.
"If you're in a hurry…" Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, her eyes lowering to the table, then drifting — with visible, agonizing effort — toward his lap. "…I can use my mouth."
Riku's pen froze mid-air.
His brain stopped.
Rebooted.
Stopped again.
Riku: ???!
The narrator, who had thus far maintained professional composure, set down their coffee and stared directly through the fourth wall.
Narrator: 「…???!」
Tachibana stood in the warm lamplight of her tiny apartment, fingers knotted in the lace trim of her Gwen skirt, cheeks burning so fiercely that the blush had started creeping down her neck and across her exposed décolletage. One stocking had a new wrinkle at the knee from where she'd been clenching her legs together. She looked like a girl who'd just detonated her own dignity and was watching the mushroom cloud rise in slow motion, unable to look away.
Riku lowered his pen to the table with the careful, mechanical precision of a man whose higher brain functions had temporarily vacated the premises, and the contract sat between them — unsigned, untouched, and suddenly the least interesting document in the room.