Disaster of Spilled Chocolates

It used to be that a ‘people's gossip lasted only 75 days,’ but if I showed our ancestors the speed at which information flew online these days, they would certainly slash their expected duration. The media outlets would surely forget us within two weeks, but those two weeks were precious. I was on a time limit here!

I was back at home, my family’s store, which kept its shutters down at an unusual hour to repel the video cameras. This necklace and those close to me were telling me, “Run now, and survival is possible.” But because sensationalism ran the world, their assertion made it clear: “You are too late.”

The reputational damage was irreparable. This was devastating.

It became dishearteningly clear that there was no way I could easily associate with the legacy of my family. The ‘Shinohara’ part of my identity was billowing in flames.

Meanwhile, the secret MidnightChef part of me was untouched.

Even if the MidnightChef rose like a phoenix from the ashes of the Shinohara name, that was exactly what would remain as I ascended, the ashes of those whom I loved.

I remained barred from associating with my own self-made brand, despite my desires. Rather than an exercise of freedoms, it was now imperative that I conceal my face in my videos. I would also halt the acceptance of extra clients, though I remained tentative about making this specific hasty decision. The reason: the number of current clients reaching out for return work would surely decrease for a while. The NDAs they had signed were my saving grace.

I was non-exposable, and yet, I was restricted from exposing myself to anyone without an interlinked contract.

“Are you good, bro?” My big brother rushed by me.

“I’m having a full-blown identity crisis.” I moaned into the couch pillow.

“I get it. We can talk later. Go have your identity crisis behind the counter. Store’s closed, but we need to move fast. I have a shipment to pick up.” He left with the rattling of keys. My family’s store was on the verge of bankruptcy. Only money could reinstate it.

I got my hands busy. It was better to exercise at times like these to clear the mind. This allowed me to focus solely on solutions.

My ventures as a private chef were raking in more money than these chocolates. Still, when I initially enrolled in the Academy, I chose my family business to represent me. My MidnightChef channel barely exceeded 100k subscribers at the time.

Publicly, my appearance, my whole being as a student, had my family name and history behind it, shielded from my identity as the MidnightChef.

If I transferred out of the Academy, it would, of course, invite more scrutiny. Oppositely, if I managed to stay enrolled, it would be celebrated. The problem was that investors and customers shunned any association with a failing brand.

I had to distinguish how to designate these twenty-one remaining days, fifteen school days, before Golden Week, between the two sources of income. Would I put all my effort into saving the family shop, despite its current collapse? Or would I decide to fully divest my heart and soul into becoming a private chef?

The longer I thought, if our disgraced shop remained unable to recover revenue, the most optimal decision appeared to be transferring out and then transferring back during the second trimester with my online clout. In the grand scheme of things, even if it meant saving my family’s shop, preserving the anonymity of MidnightChef outweighed the potential gains, especially regarding reputation and revenue.

Then, would I support my family with my own earnings? What about my big brother, set to inherit this shop? And my parents? How could our family stay afloat in these trying times without a massive donation from a sponsor? And surely doxers would possess the means to find that the sponsor was me, exposing me as the MidnightChef. Surely doxers would identify the sponsor as a different classmate, inviting scrutiny upon them.

Of all the possible choices that came to mind, every one was difficult, but they were all valid.

My smartphone kept going off. I had a missed call from Yui and Kotone, along with a long array of texts.

I was deciding who to call when Aki’s name took over the screen.

I begrudgingly answered.

Not because I hated Aki. I held Aki in high regard. In fact, I found her inability to remain wholly professional in my presence quite endearing. My hesitation stemmed from the future, a future where I was connected to the girl who greedily consumed the past, present, and future of all.

Wakami’s advice sang lullabies to my brain.

“The most optimal strategy is placing the restaurant under new management, an agency that includes your services as the MidnightChef under an NDA. That way, the revenue remains private, shared only with the Academy and for taxing purposes.”

“Quit pulling my leg. That means changing my representative business when I signed up at the Academy. I’d have to transfer out, then reapply for the second trimester.”

“By that time, the reputation damage to your family’s shop could already be final, yes? True, it lessens the genius behind merging under new management. Why did you call me? Why did you answer Aki while ignoring me? Why keep the line active? Do you like me? Did you really think I’d give you a perfect solution? I want to see you struggle, MidnightChef-san. How about throwing away your family name into the abyss?”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. You’re that type of person. …No answer? What a rut. Well, I still love you more when you’re facing reality head-on. Too bad it had to be shoved in your face this time. Isn’t there a more imperative problem to face? Doing so might open more answers.”

“I know that.”

“I know you know that. How about you get moving? How about you get running? Ah, not from yourself this time.”

What an ass.

“So, how about you don’t answer Aki’s call and call them instead?”

I couldn’t say I completely hated Wakami. She was right, after all.

“Wakami-san, you’re wrong in the head.”

“That’s what happens when you know too much about the world. I’ll be waiting for my dessert!”

I ended the call with a heavy sigh.

I didn’t know what to choose. For now, all I could feel was hurt. I didn’t want to leave my family name. I wanted to do my best for those I cared about.

“Senpai, you’re all over the news!” Kotone exclaimed as I returned her call. “You’re taking up all the programming slots. My hot new pictures for the hotel debut won’t be seen! The algorithm’s taken with your family’s sob story!”

“Thanks for reaching out. Are we on for tonight?”

“Wow. No ‘sorry Kotone-san for stealing the limelight,’ not even a little shame-guilt flirt? Surely you should be helping around the shop?”

“I am. This is my way of helping. Besides, I’ve been thinking about what you told me before the ceremony. I’m as curious as our vice-president.”

Kotone’s laugh purred, like honey sliding down. “Oh, so you were listening. You really are dangerous when you’re cornered. I like that. I really do.”

“So, it’s true. Stay on the line. I’m coming.”

“Don’t,” she said, quickly. “What if she finds out?”

“I don’t care what she says.”

“You should,” she countered bitterly. “She’s your biggest customer. It’s never been my money, it’s her idol agency.”

“Tell me where you are.”

“Senpai, it’s okay, really. Just come at the time we planned. Please.”

“Kotone–”

“You’ll look like a runaway boyfriend sprinting across Tokyo because his girlfriend got a boo-boo.”

“Are you seriously joking right now?”

“I’m serious. I just want dinner. I want the food you promised. I’ll be beautiful again by then, so you won’t have to pity me. Don’t come early, I need the time to… pull myself together. Please.”

“Understood. I’ll wait as long as you need, and I’ll be ready when you are. I won’t pity you. I maintain my desire to come, but I’ll honor your request.”

Closing our conversation, I gave a long look at Yui’s call and messages and, after much deliberation, decided to call.

“Rintarō-kun!” Yui burst through the speaker like sprinkling sunlight. “How are you? I heard about everything, and I wasn’t sure if I should text more or if that’d just annoy you or if you wanted–”

“I’ve been busy.” I cut in, blunter than I’d meant to. “Let’s talk later. At school.”

“…Okay,” she said, softer now. “I’ll bring melon pan. You always cheer up when you eat melon pan.”

“And, um,” I fumbled like an idiot, “thank you.”

“Yeah.” Her smile came through, unshaken. “No need to thank me. I want to do more. Bye-bye, Rintarō-kun.”