Chapter 4: Congratulations, You’ve Unlocked Crybaby Mode

The neon sign above the door flickered like it was struggling to remember its own name: Tanigawa’s, one letter stubbornly dark. A sad little beacon for a sad little business. Three men loitered by the entrance, each the sort of human who made you reassess your faith in genetic selection.

“Have you seen that blonde? Jesus, what a pair,” one jeered, laughter like gravel.

“I like the brunettes—so much fresher, the younger the better!” another crowed, their chuckles too loud in the quiet street.

The last one nodded slow, eyes greasy. “I prefer Mariko-chan. She’s got that angel face—priceless.” They all laughed like they owned the place.

Hearing them made my stomach twist. Mariko. My mother. Those were the men who made me seriously consider that maybe heterosexuality was optional. Nice people. Real role models. I stayed a few steps back under my hood and let the words wash over me like a bad smell.

Before I could even push the door, one of them reached out and grabbed my shoulder rough enough to bruise. “Hey kid, where do you think you’re going? The place is booked tonight. Beat it, runt.”

Every part of me wanted to sock him so hard his ancestors felt it, but trouble was trouble and trouble cost money and, frankly, I didn’t feel like dealing with drama right now. So I did what I did best in public: I performed.

I pulled the hood back and let my smile go on—full, warm, saccharine, the one I’d practiced a thousand times. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I crooned, voice soft as steamed milk. “I’m Nagisa—Mariko’s daughter. I’m just coming to help out for a bit.” I tilted my head like an obedient icon of wholesome family duty.

Their faces did a weird thing—melt, then reform into grins so quick I wondered if they rehearsed those in the mirror. “Ooooh!” they chorused in unison. “A schoolgirl serving drinks? Mariko’s little girl? This is a dream.” One of them actually offered me his arm like a lunatic proposing at a funeral.

Scum, I thought, smelling their cheap aftershave. I let the smile stay on, all honey and church bells. Better to lead them into leaning so far forward they choked on their own arrogance.

Inside, the bar was a dim, sticky cave of cigarette smoke and cheap laughter. The counter was cluttered with mismatched glasses; a low TV played some wrestling match on mute, the images flickering like a bad memory. The regulars’ faces turned toward me, hungry and unrefined.

Two women I recognized were perched on either side of separate tables, pouring drinks and fake-laughing at jokes that didn’t deserve air. Their smiles were painted on, their eyes elsewhere. Business as usual.

Behind the counter, a slender figure with dyed chestnut hair and heavy eyeliner caught sight of me. Nene-chan. She raised her brows, then nearly dropped the glass she was drying. “Nagisa-chan? What are you doing here at this hour?”

I slipped off my hoodie and draped it over a chair, flashing the smile that always worked like a key in a rusty lock. “I came to help,” I said smoothly. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full tonight, Nene-chan. Where’s Mariko?”

Nene hesitated, glancing toward the back room, lips pursing. “She’s in the private section. Some customers… requested her specifically.” The way she said it told me enough.

“I see.” I forced my smile brighter, tucking stray hair behind my ear like I was in a goddamn commercial. “Then let me cover the bar. You handle the floor. The sooner we finish, the sooner everyone can go home happy, right?”

Her frown deepened, and for a second I thought she’d refuse. “Nagisa-chan… you know Mariko-san doesn’t like you being here. She wants you focused on school. You’re too young for this.”

Too young. Too fragile. Too perfect. I wanted to laugh in her face, but instead I leaned forward slightly, letting my angel voice sing. “I can’t focus if my mother works herself to exhaustion every night. Please, Nene-chan. Let me help. Just a few drinks, a few dishes, then I’ll be gone. I promise.”

Nene finally gave up with a long sigh. She slid the apron over my head, then straightened the strap with a delicate tug. She really was stunning—early thirties, slim figure, the kind of woman who could drive a sane man to ruin. The tiny mole by her painted red lips only made her smile sharper. “If you get sleepy, Nagisa-chan, call me back, okay?” she said, voice soft like silk.

“Mm,” I hummed without looking, already tying the strings. Sleepy? Please. I could run this place better than half of you with my eyes closed.

The bar swallowed me in routine. Glasses clinked, warm bottles hissed as caps popped, and my hands moved without thought—washing, drying, setting down fresh cups when the women called out for them. The customers were drunk enough to barely register my presence; in this dim light, I was just another shadow keeping their glasses full.

Time slipped. Hours bled together until the neon outside flickered weakly against the windows. I glanced at the clock. Nearly five in the morning. My back ached, my fingers smelled of citrus cleanser and old beer, and still the chatter rolled on.

Then came the sound of the back door sliding open.

The men from the private room spilled out in a staggered line, heavy with booze and laughter, their voices booming like they owned the night. My mother followed.

Mariko.

Her smile was perfect—measured, pleasant, the kind that could disarm a drunken idiot and keep him tipping—but her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it. She guided the men toward the entrance with little bows and soft words, ushering them out into the early morning like they were children leaving a sleepover.

I stayed behind the bar, hands clenched around the towel I’d been using. My eyes wanted to meet hers, but she didn’t give me the chance. She saw me—of course she did—but she looked away as if I weren’t there, as if I were invisible.

Professional. Always.

It was her way of protecting me. Don’t engage. Don’t let me be part of their world. Don’t let me be seen.

The laughter and heavy footsteps shuffled toward the door. The neon sign buzzed as they left, the stale air closing in around us. For the first time that night, the bar was quiet.

And yet, the silence felt louder than anything else.

The moment the last glass clinked and the door shut behind the drunk regulars, my mother clapped her hands together with that radiant, fake smile she used like armor. “Thank you so much for your hard work tonight, girls. You’re all wonderful. Please, go change and head home. I’ll take care of closing up.”

The girls—Nene included—bowed, exhausted dolls with smeared lipstick and tired eyes. They filed toward the dressing room, leaving only me and her.

I stayed behind the counter, frozen like a child caught with stolen candy.

My mother turned. Her face dropped the smile. “Nagisa.” Her voice was sharp, serious.

I lowered my gaze immediately, guilt pooling in my stomach.

“We’ve talked about this,” she pressed, each word heavier than the last.

I snapped. My fist slammed against the bar before I realized it, pain shooting up my arm. Something cracked—maybe the wood, maybe my bones, didn’t care. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “Yes, we’ve talked about this, mother! And didn’t we agree? If I stayed number one at school, I could do what I wanted? Well, this is what I want, damn it!”

Her sigh was heavier than any slap. She looked away, muttering under her breath, almost too quiet: “Why did she have to turn out so much like me…”

Then louder, forcing gentleness she didn’t feel: “Fine. Don’t be angry, Nagisa-chan. I’ll close. Go home, get some rest. Himari and Yuzuki are alone, and you need to prepare for school. But remember this: if you ever fall from the top—if you stop being number one—I will put an end to this. I’ll be strict. I mean it.”

I clenched my teeth until my jaw hurt. Couldn’t answer. Couldn’t scream. Respect—love—was choking me. I washed my hands, set the apron down, grabbed my tracksuit, and left.

Outside, the morning sun cut across my face, its warmth nothing but mockery to how cold I felt inside. My whole body ached. I tilted my head up, letting the breeze stroke my cheeks, pretending it could dry the tears I refused to let fall. Don’t cry. Don’t give in. You’re stronger than this.

I exhaled, shaky. Took a step forward—

And then I froze.

There. A few meters away. Sitting casually on a rusted street rail like it was her throne. Amamiya Sora.

She looked…impossible. Angelic. A doll carved in heaven. That stupid flowing pink dress, that cherry-red beret perched on her silver hair, those amber eyes glowing in the sunrise. Watching me. Smiling. Always smiling.

I slapped my forehead with my palm. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned aloud, exasperated.

“Tanigawa-san!” Her voice rang out like a church bell at dawn.

And then—“Catch!” Something flew through the air toward me.

Instinct caught it before thought. A round bun, soft and warm in my palms.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

“Good work,” she said simply, hopping down with that graceful, mocking sway of hers, like she was dancing on my nerves.

I stood there, clutching the anpan like it might explode. I wanted to scream, laugh, collapse—all at once.

She didn’t linger. Didn’t gloat. Just turned and walked away, not even sparing me a second glance.

And me? Perfect Nagisa? The flawless idol of the school?

I broke.

The tears came hot and heavy, pouring without permission. My chest shook, and I bit into the anpan, sobbing around the sweet bean paste.

Five in the morning. Alone on the street. Crying like an idiot, chewing bread thrown by a girl who knew too much.