Chapter 1: Whatever...

The lights are blinding, but I smile anyway.

I’ve learned how to do it on command — not too wide, not too stiff, just enough to suggest effortless charm. My jaw aches, but the camera doesn’t care.

“Just one more, Saeki-san. A bit more energy, please.”

Energy. What a meaningless word when you’ve already spent the last of it pretending to be alive.

I straighten my back and tilt my chin to the right, the way I was taught years ago.

The hem of the cheap pink dress scratches my legs. The air conditioner hums weakly, mixing with the faint smell of makeup, sweat, and plastic flowers.

This commercial is for a drugstore cosmetic brand — the kind displayed near the register in convenience stores.

Five years ago, I was the face of a luxury perfume.

Now I’m a placeholder, a woman they hire because my name is still vaguely familiar, because I look “reliable” and “graceful,” words people use when they mean “safe” and “forgettable.”

The photographer claps his hands once.

“Good, that’s a wrap! Thank you, Saeki-san. We’ll be in touch.”

He says it with that polite detachment I know too well. We’ll be in touch means we probably won’t.

I bow slightly, thank the staff, and leave the studio.

No one looks up as I pass by.

Outside, the evening air of Shibuya feels heavier than usual.

Neon signs flicker on, loud and bright, announcing new idols, new dramas, new faces. Faces younger than mine, fresher, hungrier.

I watch them for a moment and feel something tighten in my chest — not jealousy exactly, but a kind of slow, grinding acceptance.

I used to believe talent and effort were enough.

Now I know luck has better timing than I ever did.

My manager stopped calling three months ago. I stopped asking why after the second week.

There’s no point in forcing someone to say what you already know.

I walk home, careful to keep my posture straight even when I’m alone.

Old habits don’t fade — the way you hold your shoulders, the way you make yourself look unbothered.

Some days I wonder if I even know how to walk like an ordinary person anymore.

My apartment smells faintly of coffee and hairspray.

I drop my bag on the counter, remove my shoes neatly by the door, and check my reflection in the mirror.

The light above it flickers slightly, cutting my face into fragments.

Fine lines, a fading tan line near my collarbone, lipstick that bleeds into the corners of my mouth.

I take a deep breath and whisper to no one, “You did fine, Airi.”

The words sound hollow, even to me.

The phone lies silent on the table.

No new messages.

There was a time it never stopped ringing — interviews, invitations, photographers who said they admired my presence.

Now it’s just a black rectangle reflecting my tired eyes.

I heat some instant miso soup.

It tastes like salt and resignation.

I scroll through social media, through the endless parade of flawless women with perfect lighting and empty captions.

Their smiles look just like mine. Maybe they learned from me once.

At 10 p.m., my phone finally buzzes.

The name on the screen makes me pause — Yumi Takahashi.

We modeled together years ago. She was reckless even then, always chasing quick money and faster thrills.

I hesitate before answering.

“Ah, Saeki-san,” she says in that sweet, teasing tone I remember. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I lie automatically. “Just busy as always.”

She laughs, the kind of laugh that means she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Well, listen. I might have… an opportunity for you. It’s not modeling exactly, but it pays well. Discreet, too.”

My stomach tightens.

“An opportunity?” I ask, keeping my voice polite, careful.

“Mm. A high-end host club in Roppongi is looking for women who can handle themselves — classy, elegant, someone like you. You’d make a fortune, Airi.”

Her voice lowers. “And don’t worry, they’ll keep your identity secret. Masks, aliases, the whole thing.”

I don’t answer right away.

She fills the silence. “It’s just work. Think about it. Better than sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring, right?”

Her words sting because they’re true.

After she hangs up, I sit there, phone still warm in my hand, staring at the dark window.

Outside, the city hums — constant, indifferent, alive.

I press my palm to the glass, feeling the vibration of distant traffic.

I used to think I’d rather starve than sell a version of myself I didn’t believe in.

Now I’m not sure where that version went.

Maybe this is what survival looks like —

not fighting, not winning,

just staying visible long enough to keep from disappearing entirely.

Days passed. I agreed. What else could I do against one onion and one fucking tomato in my fridge?

The car windows reflected my face back at me: too pale, too careful.

Roppongi always looked cleaner at night, like the rain had washed away its shame and left only neon. The driver didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. I knew why I was there.

Yumi’s words echoed in my head — “Just wear something elegant. Nothing too revealing. You’ll only be talking.”

Only talking.

I’d built a career on pretending; this was just another stage.

The club’s sign was a white orchid painted on black glass. A doorman bowed and led me down a staircase that smelled faintly of perfume and disinfectant.

The corridors were narrow, lined with velvet wallpaper that absorbed every sound. Somewhere above us, bass pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Inside, everything shimmered. Mirrors, sequins, light on crystal. Men laughed too loudly, their wrists heavy with watches. Women smiled with perfect timing.

It was a theater of warmth without heat.

A woman in a dark suit greeted me.

“Welcome, Saeki-san. Your name for tonight will be Rei.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She handed me a mask of thin lace. “Guests like a bit of mystery.”

I nodded. “Of course.” My voice came out steady. Years of training; I could perform through anything.

She led me to a dressing room crowded with girls half my age, powdered faces glowing blue under the fluorescent light.

They looked at me curiously, whispering behind manicured hands. I pretended not to notice.

I changed into the outfit they’d chosen — silk too bright, heels too tall. In the mirror, a stranger stared back. Not Saeki Airi, the actress. Not even Rei, the alias. Just a woman who had run out of options.

The first hour blurred.

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Compliments that sounded rehearsed even when they were true.

I could do this. Sit, listen, laugh. Pretend interest.

Then a man waved from a private booth. His suit was expensive, his smile the kind that assumes the world belongs to him.

“Rei-chan,” the manager murmured, “he requested you.”

Requested me. I didn’t remember giving anyone that chance.

Still, I bowed and walked toward him. My steps felt mechanical.

He talked. I listened. He leaned closer. I smiled.

His words became slurred, his hand heavier on my arm.

I tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground — weather, music, polite laughter — but he wasn’t listening anymore.

The room felt smaller.

My throat tightened. I looked for the manager, but she was gone. The noise from the hallway had faded; even the music seemed distant.

Then a voice, low and firm:

“That’s enough.”

The man froze. I turned.

A slender figure stood in the doorway, hair long, eyes sharp and unafraid. I didn’t recognize them at first — just saw the calm, the authority that didn’t need volume.

Everything happened too fast after that — movement, raised voices, the crash of a glass, the man shouting something I didn’t hear.

Then hands, steady and gentle, pulling me away from the table, leading me through the corridor, up the stairs, out into the rain-soaked street.

I could still hear my own heartbeat, loud and uneven.

The stranger turned to me under the awning.

“Are you all right?”

The voice was soft, familiar.

And then I saw — beneath the wet hair, the sharp jawline — eyes I knew from another life.