Chapter 31: Standing Between Confessions and Goodbyes (III)

I had stopped counting how many times the teller had smiled at me like that.

That stiff, rehearsed smile that told me more than her words ever could. A quiet dismissal wrapped in politeness, delivered through glass too thick to hear my heartbeat thudding under my coat.

“Unfortunately, you do not meet the requirements for a student loan at this time. Please feel free to try again in the future.”

The same response…for the tenth time. Five banks. No loan granted.

There was no point arguing. No point explaining that my parents had long since vanished like smoke, that I ran a stall just to stay fed, or that the world seemed to deny my existence in all forms—legal and emotional.

Paperwork doesn’t pity people like me.

They’d probably think I was incapable of returning, an overly anxious individual or a minor trying to forge parental consent. Which—technically—wasn't entirely untrue.

So I gave a tight nod, bowed slightly, and left the bank lobby.

It was then that I saw her again.

“Asahina Miyu-san?” I muttered under my breath.

She leaned against a vending machine just outside the bank. Thin winter coat, red scarf undone like she barely cared about the cold, and a cigarette lazily resting between her fingers that never seemed to burn down.

Click.

A flash of camera went off towards my position, and I instinctively lifted one arm upward to cover my face.

“Nice pose, Shimizu-kun. Let’s try that again.”

“I’m on the verge of emotional collapse and you think I’m the perfect subject for an advertisement?”

“For a tragic movie poster, yeah?”

“Forget it. You’re insufferable.”

She hung the camera to her shoulder—an extension of her body, a part of her identity.

“The loan didn’t work out?” she asked, half-smiling.

I didn’t reply and just stared at her—examining those lilac toned eyes with a catlike gaze.

Asahina-san is a kind of woman who seemed like she always knew more than what she was saying, probably from interacting with different kinds of people for a decade and she became knowledgeable of their covert behaviors.

“You know,” she said, flicking her ashes into the wind, “there’s an easier way to make money, Itsuki-kun. You’ve already done three shoots for me. And those all went well, didn’t they?”

They did.

After that candid shoot, there were a few random product ads that followed, along with local clothing catalogs.

Then there’s one dumb ad for onigiri that somehow ended up with my face next to a salmon wrap in a convenience store I’ll never visit again.

Each job took less than an hour—but paid more than a week’s worth of dango net income.

“So why are you still trying to borrow from those corporate slaves when you have me? No extra papers, no contracts, just a simple yes and no obligation.”

“Can’t really pinpoint too.”

I’d checked her background. She was legitimate, at least on paper. Her professional portfolio included managing a few rising idols, shooting with real photographers with verified studio tags.

She even selfies with magazine clippings. She showed me her social media once. A verified account. It all checked out.

I should’ve stopped there.

But today on the afternoon of December 29th, she approached me with something different.

“One more shot, ” she said, pulling out her phone and showing me a message thread. “One hour of your time. Our male lead model backed out because of schedule conflicts and we need a substitute. No strings. No weird stuff. That’s it.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve got that gaze as him—that blend of detachment and warmth.”

“I really don’t think I can do anything right now after that.”

“Of course you can do anything for a hundred thousand yen.”

The number made my brain stop.

I couldn’t even imagine what a hundred thousand yen looked like stacked in bills.

That was rent.

That fills utilities.

That’s a month of groceries.

That’s the start of a future.

“It’s a little sudden,” she said, her voice slipping into something coaxing, “and the studio we usually use is under renovation. But I have a private space near Shinkaichi with clean lighting. Bring your student ID and maybe a simple button-up. That’s all.”

That blend.

I didn’t know if I should feel complimented or dissected.

I should have said no.

But she leaned in closer then, her voice low.

And then she dropped the real line—the gut punch that hit somewhere I didn’t know I’d left exposed.

“You want to give something to Kousaka-kun, don’t you? Something before she leaves?”

My heart stopped.

I always thought about it. Every night I can't even sleep a wink.

If I can’t stop her departure completely, at least I can give her something that is truly from me, and something of value that she’ll truly appreciate.

“You told me before, remember?” she said, smiling faintly. “That she was flying out before New Year’s. Continuing these little gigs could cover a whole trip to France someday if you’re consistent. Don’t waste it.”

I know damn well that I’m logical and measured in every decision that I am making. Paying those loan sharks before that didn’t bother asking me for my age before taking everything made me understand them.

Money isn’t just a piece of paper. It’s a monument for power that intensifies each time one sees more zeroes in their accounts.

And now, it claws in my brain—-suddenly, that cold, hard logic started to fray.

“Fine.”

I'm caught in it, aren't I? Part of me knows I'm spiraling, that I'm not the man I used to be, the one who prided himself on his clear head. But the other part…the part that craves that next big score, that next level of comfort, it just keeps pushing. It's a constant battle, and frankly, I'm not sure which side is winning anymore.

And that’s the truly terrifying thought.

***

And I kept thinking of that as I stood in front of the mirror in an empty restroom two stations away from home, trying to fix the collar of my shirt. The cheap fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead. I tugged at my sleeves and exhaled through my nose.

This was just another job.

Another photoshoot. Another quick money. Another favor to a woman who smiled too often and wore her lipstick too red.

I've met Asahina-san five times now. And with each encounter, she somehow peeled back a layer of the invisible armor I thought I wore so well.

The hotel was too quiet, quiet enough to make me think that wrong things could happen.

I should’ve walked away when I saw that red neon sign. I should’ve turned back when I passed the curtain that led to the dim hallway, or when the receptionist barely glanced at me.

I couldn’t.

Because 100,000 yen was three months of rent. It would be my heat during the winter. It was a ticket to Kousaka-san someday.

I stepped into the room.

The curtains were drawn over the windows. A white backdrop hung from a makeshift rod near the wall.

My stomach knotted immediately.

Asahina-san was already there, leaning over her camera bag, humming to herself.

She shut the door shut behind me with a muted thud. Her movements were soft and considerate.

But it didn’t really ground me.

I’m bothered by this kind of silence the room offered.

I can’t hear anything outside—this must’ve been a recording studio rather than ones used for photography.

My shoes made no sound on the plush carpet. The whole room had been curated—overly clean, scentless, not a speck of dust out of place. Everything was just one shade too polished, like a set waiting for the script to start.

White sheets on a king-size bed. A chair placed under diffuse light. A makeup tray by the dresser. And in the corner, a low tripod and two softboxes aimed toward the wall.

Asahina Miyu stood by the camera. She was doing something with the lens cap, but I couldn’t see clearly. My eyes were too busy scanning the room.

Something was off.

“Go ahead and sit,” she said, not even looking up. “Let’s loosen up the shoulders. You’re always a little stiff in front of the camera, Itsuki-kun.”

That tone was cute and harmless. And yet—my chest wouldn’t relax.

"Open your collar a little. Casual but romantic.”

My tongue caught on the word.

“…Romantic?”

She finally turned, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“Just loosen the top buttons. No need to overthink. The client wants a dreamy feel—like a love confession. You know, raw emotion.”

There was nothing dreamy about this place. Nothing romantic about the chill crawling up my spine.

I glanced at the bed again.

She noticed.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, rolling her eyes with a smile too sharp. “That’s just part of the room. We’re not using it.”

But her words felt wrong.

I have been so cautious in my life that I can perceive if a response was rehearsed or not. She might have said it too many times before.

I stepped forward, but I didn’t sit.

Instead, I stared at the chair, then the light angled too low.

And then I noticed it: a mirror behind the light stand.

The reflective kind used in makeup rooms.

Why would that be facing me?

Was I being filmed from behind the camera and the mirror?

No—wait. That wasn’t a mirror. It was a two-way panel.

For a second, I couldn't breathe.

I turned toward Asahina.

“You said this was a modeling shoot for an energy drink ad,” I said quietly.

She blinked. “It is.”

I nodded slowly.

“Then where’s the brand rep?”

The question hung in the air.

I pointed toward the vanity tray. “Whose blush is that?”

Still no answer.

“And this hotel,” I said, glancing around. “It’s too quiet. The receptionist didn’t even greet me—as if she was expecting my arrival.” I nodded toward the walls. “And with this pattern, it has soundproof padding. Are we even in a studio or a recording room?”

She looked up. Her face had frozen in that same half-smile.

“Is there a problem, Itsuki-kun?”

“Yes,” I said. “There is.”

My eyes went to the bed.

Perfectly tucked. But the folds had the subtle imprint of weight. Someone had laid down there recently.

I turned back to the lighting setup. The umbrella reflector was angled wrong—too far to the left. She never missed those things…unless she wanted me looking somewhere else.

This wasn’t a shoot.

It was a stage.

And seeing her out of her usual coat and scarf, nameplate missing, just escalated my skepticism.

She never exposed anything except her face, now, she’s halfway from being bare.

She stepped forward, hands slightly raised. “Look—maybe I got a little too creative with the setup. But I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

I took a half-step back. “What is this really?”

She hesitated. Her eyes sharpened—just for a split second.

And that second was all I needed.

Everything clicked.

The high pay.

The vague contract.

The urgent tone.

The fact that she never mentioned the brand name.

And the vibe—romantic? Who uses that word for a beverage ad?

This wasn’t for a drink commercial. It wasn’t for a catalog. It wasn’t for any product.

This was a trap.

And I walked right into it.

Slowly, I reached for the strap of my bag. My fingers shook slightly—but I kept my grip firm. Asahina noticed the motion.

Her gaze flicked once toward the door.

I saw it then.

She was calculating and carefully measuring her odds.

How fast could she intercept me?

How loud could I scream, if I did?

How badly would this go if I tried to run?

“You’re not going to get hurt, Itsuki-kun,” she said finally. “I’m not like that.”

“No,” I said. “You’re worse.”

The words came before I realized I'd spoken them.

She flinched.

I took another step toward the door. Every movement was deliberate. My hand already slid into my pocket, brushing the cold surface of my phone.

If she reached for me, I’d run.

If she tried to explain again, I wouldn’t listen.

Because I’d already made up my mind.

This wasn’t a photography session.

It was exploitation, concealed behind perfume and soft smiles.

A lie with lipstick.

And I was done believing it.

“Stop lying!”

My voice sounded louder than I intended. It echoed in the low-lit room.

I turned on my heel and bolted toward the door.

I didn’t look back.

She was calling me, but I didn’t dare register.

My feet carried me down the carpeted hallway, past doors too silent for the middle of the day, through the lobby, out into the street, desperate for air that might cleanse me.

Asahina was still following me.

I only came for the money. To give Kousaka-san something before she left. But now—

She was here.

Kousaka-san.

She stood across the street, a ghost in the harsh winter light, her breath a jagged white vapor against the icy air.

Our gazes locked, and in that agonizing second, the universe held its breath.

Her blue eyes—God, I'll carry the image of that look to my grave.

It wasn't just shock; it was the utter demolition of everything she believed that were and can be for us. In that instant, my entire world didn't just shatter.

It imploded.

Her face, a canvas of raw, gut-wrenching betrayal, painted itself onto the frozen air between us, suffocating me.

I tried to open my mouth, desperate to scream her name, to claw back the truth, to explain away this nightmare.

But all that escaped was a pathetic gasp.

What could I even say? "It's not what it looks like"? The tired, rotten lie of a scumbag in a cheap, desperate drama?

She flinched back as if I'd stabbed her. Her lips, usually so firm, trembled, parting just barely, a silent, wounded gasp.

Then, she turned. And she ran.

My voice, when it finally tore from my throat, was a strangled, useless cry.

"Kousaka-san—!"

But it was too late. She was gone.

Just the cruel, vanishing line of her back, swallowed by the indifferent crowd, as if erasing me from her sight could somehow, miraculously, undo the horrific truth she'd just witnessed.

And I was left there, frozen in front of a love hotel, the ultimate monument to my disgrace.