“Bitter Truth”

Ignoring her mother’s plea to stay inside ("It's not safe, dear!) Airi pulled on a pair of dark sunglasses and walked out. She didn't have a plan, only a desperate need for a slice of her old life—the simple comfort of her favorite, unpretentious local café where she used to write, unnoticed.

The walk was tense. Every passing car felt like a potential threat, every lingering glance from a pedestrian felt like recognition. Her fame was a cruel joke—she was famous only for the worst moment of her life.

She rounded the corner onto the main shopping street, the familiar red awning of the café finally in sight. A faint sense of hope, the promise of a quiet cup of coffee, lifted her spirits momentarily.

And then, the trap sprung.

A sudden, aggressive flash of light exploded directly in front of her.

"There she is! The Archiving Analyst!"

Airi gasped, instantly freezing. She pulled her sunglasses down, but the assault was already underway. A pack of journalists and paparazzi seemed to materialize from the alleyway next to the café, surrounding her in a tight, rapidly constricting circle.

"Komatsu-san! Why did you wait so long to confirm the relationship with Ren-san?"

"Is the relationship still ongoing after your termination from the Corp?"

"Did Ren-san pressure you to leave your job to focus on the album?"

The questions were shouted, overlapping, invasive, and cruel. Flashes went off relentlessly, blinding her, turning the daytime street into a strobing, chaotic nightmare. They pressed in close, shoving microphones and recording devices toward her face, their elbows jabbing her ribs. The adrenaline hit Airi like a physical blow, replacing her resentment with pure, paralyzing fear. She was cornered, exposed, and entirely alone.

“"Rumors says you are suing Ren. Well, is it true?”

"Are you planning a tell-all book?"

Airi shielded her face with her arm, trying to back away, but the crowd was too dense. She felt a wave of nausea, the panic of the break-in returning with full force. She was nothing to these people; she was just content, a commodity to be consumed.

Just as the panic threatened to swallow her whole, a new force entered the fray.

A strong, familiar hand grabbed her wrist with an iron grip. A deep voice, muffled but unmistakable, cut through the noise with startling authority.

"Get back! Give her space!"

Airi was yanked backward, then sideways, the strong arm cutting a swath through the human wall. She stumbled, her world a dizzying mess of light and noise, but the hand held fast, dragging her relentlessly away from the suffocating center of the chaos.

They moved at a terrifying speed, weaving through pedestrians. Airi only registered the dark, expensive fabric of the coat beside her and the determined set of the jaw belonging to her rescuer.

Ren.

He didn't slow down until they had darted into the cool, quiet safety of a small, dimly lit vintage clothing store two blocks away. Ren pulled her between a rack of embroidered kimonos and a display of antique jewelry, effectively hiding them from the street view. The noise of the street—the shouting reporters faded immediately. They were safe, sheltered by silk and velvet, breathing the dry, musty air of the store.

Ren let go of her wrist, turning to face her. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wide and worried. He looked genuinely distressed, his immaculate composure shattered by the emergency.

"Airi, are you alright?" Ren asked, his voice low and ragged. He reached out to gently touch her arm, brushing away a speck of lint, his thumb lingering. "I saw them from the car. I've been looking for you since yesterday. Junpei wouldn't tell me where you were, so I—"

Airi pulled her arm away sharply, the sudden, physical rejection stunning him into silence. The fear was gone, replaced by a surge of molten, furious clarity. She looked at him—the idol, the collaborator, the man who had just saved her from a media frenzy, and felt nothing but bitter resentment.

"You've been looking for me?" Airi’s voice was dangerously quiet, but laced with a lethal amount of sarcasm. "You've been looking for me? For three days, Ren? Three days since I was fired because of your negligence? Three days since some paparazzi broke into my home and scared my cat out onto the street? You haven't sent a single text. You haven't called. Don't insult me with the pretense of worry."

Ren’s face fell, his expression shifting from concern to pained shock. "Airi, listen—Junpei confiscated my phone. He insisted on a total blackout to manage the PR fallout from my side. He said any contact would be a liability, and I had to trust his expertise. I didn't know about your apartment—"

"I don't care what Junpei said!" Airi cut him off, her voice cracking with the strain of holding back tears. "That is the core of the problem, isn't it? You outsourced the care factor! You got what you wanted, Ren! You got the chaotic energy, you got the urgent, defiant music, and you got a composer who was willing to risk everything for a moment of genuine connection!"

She stepped closer, her anger finally unleashed. "And what did I get? I got humiliated, I lost my job, I lost my friend because I wrongly accused her in a panic, and I had to move back in with my parents because I'm a safety risk! I am completely ruined!"

Airi gestured widely at the expensive, tailored jacket he wore—a stark contrast to her own rumpled clothes. "You are insulated! You are the idol! You get to have a 'scandal'—a fleeting moment of bad press that your team manages! You'll issue a polite statement, and you'll have a triumphant comeback. That's your life! That's the narrative you sell!"

“Airi, please—”

"I'm not a star, Ren! I'm an archivist! Girls like me don't get to have a triumphant comeback! When we fall, we fall hard. I'm not a phoenix, Ren. I'm just nothing now." Her voice trembled with the final, crushing truth.

The silence in the small store was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic. Ren stood still, his expression shattered, the full weight of the consequences finally sinking in.

"Airi, please," Ren whispered, reaching for her hand again, his voice hoarse with genuine distress. "I was an idiot. I should have found a way to call you. I should have defied Junpei. I am so sorry for what this has cost you. I didn't realize how badly this would affect your life outside the studio. We will fix this, I promise. I will talk to Junpei about compensation—"

Airi pulled her hand away, shaking her head slowly, the last vestiges of their shared magic dissolving into the bitter reality.

"Don't," she commanded, the word slicing through his apology. "Don't try to buy me out. I don't want your money, and I don't want your manager's involvement. You wanted honesty in the music? Fine. The cost of that honesty was my life. Pay for it in songs, Ren."

She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her eyes cold and resolved. She looked past him, toward the door, toward the future—a future that was now utterly unknown, but one she had to face alone.

"I'm leaving," Airi said, her voice completely drained of emotion. "Don't follow me. You'll only attract your crazy fans. Go back to your manager. Go manage your career."

She walked past him without another word, her stride purposeful. She pushed open the glass door and stepped back out onto the sunlit street, ignoring the remaining, lurking journalists.

Ren Ichijō was left standing alone between the racks of silent, vintage clothes, the noise of the city a distant roar, the sudden, profound emptiness a sharper pain than any tabloid headline could inflict. He looked utterly lost, the idol finally stripped bare of his defenses, realizing the true cost of his pursuit of chaos.