Chapter 3: A Gremlin in a Doll Cosplay

The breeze on the rooftop toyed with Sora’s hair, making silver threads wink in the dying sun. The sky was smeared in orange, and that color—goddamn it—hung in her eyes like little warning lights. She was really pretty. Like unfairly pretty. Like “stop existing or I’ll sue you for stealing my aesthetic” pretty.

But that was not the point. The point was that she might have seen me. She might have seen me. I had to play this right. Cards on the table, Nagisa. Don’t fold.

Sora just kept staring, mouth slightly open all day like she’d caught a particularly interesting fly. It made the back of my neck itch. She was making me nervous in a way that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with recognition. Stay calm, I told myself. Breathe. Smile. Be the angel. Do the thing you do where people think you can bake cupcakes with your GPA.

“Um—so?” I said aloud, all sweetness and school-lunch sunshine. “Anything I can—help you with, Amamiya-san?” I managed to sound like someone who absolutely had her life together and whose calendar consisted exclusively of doing good deeds and receiving bouquets.

Sora tapped a finger to her chin, like she was auditioning for a rom-com thought montage. “Uhhhmmm,” she said, slow and thoughtful. She tilted her head, and the tilt made my brain short-circuit in a very undignified way. Of course you’re tilting your head. Of course you’re making that face. Of course you’re an extra in my personal nightmare.

Inside my head, a whole civilization of panic erupted. Calm down, you lunatic. Don’t punch her. Don’t confess to anything. Do not—under any circumstance—let her know you are the hooded psychopath who redecorated Ishikawa’s face with his own blood. Smile like you’re handing out diplomas to the city of Nice People.

I felt my hands go numb with the effort of restraining the urge to behave like a real-life grenade. If she recognized me we are doomed. If she recognized me and tells anyone, I will have to... relocate. To another country. Or to the moon. Preferably the moon. Do they have good universities on the moon?

Then, like a soft meteor striking the center of my anxiety, Sora said two words.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The world paused. I thought it had been cut from some cheap melodrama and someone was running late on the props. She said thank you? A dozen lethal possibilities unspooled. She could be thanking me for saving her. She could be thanking me for... breathing? She could be a sociopath who thanked random strangers for sport. None of those options were remotely comforting.

“W-what for?” I asked, because that’s what sensible people ask when confronted with a potential admission that will ruin everything.

Sora’s lips curled into something I didn’t like. A smile. Not the sweet doll-like smile everyone at school swooned over—no. This was a malicious, knowing smile plastered on the porcelain face of a devil in disguise. She tilted her head just a fraction, like a cat deciding whether or not to kill the mouse it’s toying with.

“Who knows?” she said, her voice dripping with false innocence, shoulders rising in a delicate shrug as she wiggled her fingers in mock ignorance.

Inside, my brain short-circuited into pure static. She’s messing with me. She’s messing with me. This little gremlin in doll cosplay is straight up mocking me. HOW DARE SHE. I should punt her off this rooftop. No, no, no, Nagisa, breathe. You’re not a rooftop-punter. You’re an angel. You’re soft. You bake metaphoric cookies of kindness. CALM. DOWN.

I plastered on a serene smile, the kind that screamed “Oh my, you silly goose, I have no idea what you mean.” Meanwhile, internally, I was writing her name on my personal blacklist in glittery bold letters. Sora Amamiya. Public menace. Enemy of the state. First name: Satan, last name: With-Cat-Eyes.

And then—oh, the audacity—she brushed past me. Her steps were light, playful, like she was dancing her way out of my sanity. She reached the rooftop door, her fingers daintily curling around the handle.

She turned just before slipping through, glancing over her shoulder with that same devil-doll smile. “Ah, by the way, Tanigawa-san,” she said sweetly, like she was complimenting my new pencil case. “Even dressed as a boy, you were still just as pretty.”

And then—wink.

WINK.

The door shut behind her.

I stood frozen in place, completely derailed, staring at the spot where she had disappeared like a malfunctioning robot. My face? Blank. My soul? In the fetal position. My pride? Flattened on the floor, run over by a metaphorical eighteen-wheeler.

Did she just—? She DID. SHE DID. How the hell did she—? No. No, no, no, no, no. This is impossible. She’s bluffing. She has to be bluffing. There’s no way she knows. Except maybe she does. Except maybe she just dismantled my entire double life in under thirty seconds. That brat. That smug little gremlin. I will NOT let some silver-haired gremlin topple the empire of Nagisa Tanigawa. Over my dead, perfectly manicured body.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a long sigh. From the outside, I probably looked like a saintly class representative reflecting on how to better tutor her peers. Inside? I was ready to schedule Sora Amamiya’s “accidental disappearance” via carefully orchestrated piano drop.

And yet. And YET. My chest tightened with something that wasn’t just rage. Her words had slipped under my skin, clung to me like burrs. Even dressed as a boy, you were still just as pretty.

God damn it. She was mocking me. Right? …Right?!

After the rooftop fiasco, I dragged myself home like a soldier retreating from the front lines—minus the glory, plus the humiliation. My feet felt heavier with every step, and by the time I reached the front gate of our house, I let out the kind of sigh that belonged in a tragic theater play. Exhausted. Drained. Spiritually mauled by a silver-haired gremlin. Truly, what a day.

The moment I slid the door open— bam—two little missiles launched at me.

“Nagisaaaa!” Himari squealed, her tiny arms locking around my waist.

“Welcome back, onee-chan!” Yuzuki chimed in, climbing onto me like I was an oversized jungle gym.

My mask, my fake smiles, all of it just… melted. With them, I didn’t have to pretend. I crouched down to their level, ruffling their hair with genuine fondness. “Hey, my angels,” I murmured, pressing quick kisses to their foreheads. “Were you good today?”

“Yes!” they chorused, which in their language probably meant, we destroyed the living room but in a very creative way. I didn’t care. With them, I never did.

First order of business: my transformation sequence. Out went the pristine uniform of the perfect class rep. In came my true self—the black tracksuit jacket with the hood, loose sweatpants, a plain white T-shirt, and my beat-up sneakers. Instant downgrade from “beloved school idol” to “suspicious guy who might sell you dodgy DVDs in an alley.” And honestly? I preferred it that way.

Dinner was the usual routine. I whipped something simple together while the twins sat at the table, chattering non-stop about school, cartoons, and their very serious debate about which stuffed animal should sleep closest to the bed’s edge. I listened, adding a comment here and there, laughing when they tried to get me to pick sides. They didn’t know it, but those little mundane moments were the only thing keeping me from completely losing it.

After dinner came bath time, then the great “pajama parade,” and finally, bedtime. The twins clung to me, demanding “just one more story.” I gave in, reading them a silly picture book, and when they finally drifted off, I lingered a while longer, brushing hair off their peaceful faces. My real softness, my only weakness, was right there.

Once I was sure they were asleep, I retreated to the kitchen. It was late, but I stayed up, a textbook open in front of me. Because even if my day had been a catastrophe, one thing couldn’t slip: I was Nagisa Tanigawa, number one in the year. And though my brain worked fast enough to coast through classes, I refused to let anyone think I didn’t earn it. So I studied, pen scratching, eyes focused, while waiting for the sound of the front door.

Mom would be home soon today.

The pages of my textbook blurred into each other, formulas and kanji lines blending until my eyelids burned. I blinked, rubbed my face, and when I glanced at the clock, my stomach dropped—past two in the morning. Shit. Time had sprinted past me while I was buried in useless numbers.

And still… no sign of Mom.

Normally, I’d hear the quiet shuffle of her key in the lock, the tired groan as she slipped her shoes off. But the house stayed silent, except for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional snore from Himari and Yuzuki’s shared bedroom.

This wasn’t the first time. Sometimes, she came home late—later than even my patience stretched. But still, the emptiness of the kitchen, the untouched chair at the table, the dark hallway… it made my chest tighten.

Fine, I thought, shoving my chair back. I’ll go get her. Better that than her dragging herself back here alone at this hour.

I grabbed my jacket, slipped on my sneakers, and pulled the hood low. My sisters wouldn’t even notice I’d left; they were deep in dreamland.

I was headed to the kind of place people told their kids not to go.

Tanigawa’s.

Calling it a “restaurant” was like calling me “sweet and innocent.” Technically true if you squinted hard enough, but a complete lie underneath. Twenty minutes on foot. Close enough for convenience, too far for comfort.

It had been in the family for years—my father’s legacy, if you could call it that. Grandpa passed it down to him, and what did dear old Dad do? Let it rot. Debt piled up like dirty dishes, and when it all came crashing down, he bolted. I was ten, the twins barely out of diapers.

And Mom? She didn’t have the luxury of running away. She tightened her jaw, rolled up her sleeves, and took the place over. The food was cheap, greasy, forgettable—but that wasn’t what the regulars came for anymore. Slowly, inevitably, it turned into something else: a dim-lit pit where lonely men drowned their paychecks in cheap booze and cheaper companionship.

Mom was the face of the bar now. She cooked, she managed, and she hired two or three women at a time to… entertain. They rotated like shifts on a broken clock, none of them lasting long. And every night, Mom wore herself thinner trying to hold the mess together.

I hated that place. I hated what it smelled like, the way the regulars looked at her, the way the debt still clung to our throats like smoke. But it was ours. It kept the lights on. It kept food on the table.

I kept walking through the night, hoodie up, hands in my pockets, pretending I didn’t care.