Sharks

The restaurant was on the forty-second floor of a glass tower in Roppongi, offering a panoramic view of Tokyo stretching out like an ocean of glittering lights.
The interior was quietly elegant—dark wood paneling, dim lighting, and soft jazz drifting through the air like smoke.

Ayaka sat near the bay window, watching the city unfold beneath her. From this height, Tokyo looked like a giant circuit board, millions of lives reduced to glowing dots.

“Sorry I’m late!”

Kimura appeared, slightly out of breath, clutching her handbag. Short bobbed hair, and that endlessly energetic smile typical of people who hadn’t yet been crushed by the industry.

Not yet.

“No problem,” Ayaka said with a smile. “I was admiring the view.”

Kimura sat down across from her and quickly ordered a cocktail from the discreetly waiting waiter.

“Seriously, you must be the only person in Tokyo who shows up early,” she teased.

“Old habit. My manager hates it when I’m late.”

“Sato-san hates a lot of things,” Kimura muttered, rolling her eyes.

They laughed—that easy, complicit laughter born from months of endless shoots, cramped dressing rooms, and long van rides across the city.

Kimura was her assistant. Officially. But somewhere between the hundredth coffee brought and the fiftieth crisis avoided, she had become… what?

The closest thing to a friend I have, Ayaka thought.

In this industry, true friendship was rare. People were contacts, connections, opportunities. But Kimura…

Kimura felt different. Sincere. Human.

The waiter returned with Kimura’s cocktail and a glass of white wine for Ayaka. They ordered—grilled salmon for one, mushroom risotto for the other—then found themselves alone again, wrapped in jazz and the soft murmur of other diners.

“So,” Kimura began after a sip of her drink. “How are you?”

Ayaka smiled. “Better.”

“Better?” Kimura raised an eyebrow. “Last time we saw each other—what, two weeks ago?—you looked like a zombie. And now…” She studied her. “You look… rested. Almost happy.”

Ayaka felt her cheeks warm slightly.

“The sessions with the consultant are helping.”

“The guy in Setagaya? What a pain.”

“It’s not a pain. He… listens to me. It’s different.”

Kimura leaned forward, intrigued. “Tell me.”

Ayaka hesitated. Part of her wanted to keep it private—that house with blue shutters, those Thursday afternoons, Hana and her drawings, Takumi and his calm presence.

But another part—the part that desperately needed to share—overflowed.

“His house is… normal,” she said softly. “Not like our cold, empty luxury apartments. It’s small, warm. There are photos everywhere. Kids’ drawings on the fridge. A bit messy.”

“He has kids?”

“A daughter. Hana. Eight years old.” Ayaka smiled despite herself. “She’s adorable. She draws all the time and gives me her drawings. The other day, we cooked together—her, him, and me.”

Kimura smiled, but something in her eyes shifted almost imperceptibly.

“That sounds… nice.”

“It is.” Ayaka took a sip of wine. “For the first time in… I don’t even know how long… I’m breathing. Really breathing. I haven’t taken any anxiety meds in two weeks.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She laughed softly. “Last Thursday, Hana asked me if I could stay for dinner and sleep over. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“And what did you say?”

“No. Of course. I had… obligations.”
The word sounded hollow even to her.

The waiter brought their food. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the jazz filling the space between them.

Then Kimura set down her fork.

“Ayaka.”

Something in her tone made Ayaka look up.

“Yeah?”

“I’m saying this as your friend, okay?” Kimura leaned forward, voice low but serious. “You need to be careful.”

“Careful about what?”

“About this. This… situation.” She gestured vaguely. “Do you realize what you’re doing?”

“I go to coaching sessions. That’s all.”

“No. It’s not all.” Kimura shook her head. “You talk about cooking with him. About family dinners. About his daughter giving you drawings. Ayaka, you’re getting attached.”

“So what?”

“So it’s dangerous.” Kimura lowered her voice. “For your career. You’re on a slippery slope.”

Something tightened in Ayaka’s chest.

“My career has nothing to do with—”

“Everything has to do with your career,” Kimura cut in firmly. “You’re Ayaka-chan, the genki idol everyone loves. Your image is everything. And if the agency finds out you spend your Thursdays playing family with some unknown guy and his kid—”

“It’s not like that,” Ayaka protested, anger rising.

“Maybe not for you. But for them?” Kimura’s gaze was intense. “The agency is protective. Almost possessive. You know that. They don’t tolerate their talents stepping out of line, straying from the script.”

“I’m not straying. I’m just… human.”

“And that’s exactly the problem.” Kimura sighed. “Ayaka, I’m not saying this to be cruel. I’m worried. For you. But also for him. And for his daughter.”

Ayaka froze.

“What do you mean?”

“If the agency thinks this… relationship, or whatever this is, threatens your image or your availability…” Kimura let the sentence trail off, but the threat was clear. “They can be… persuasive. To ‘protect’ you.”

Ayaka’s blood ran cold.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No!” Kimura reached across the table and took Ayaka’s hand. “I’m warning you. There’s a difference. I know how this industry works. We’ve both been in it long enough. They’re sharks, Ayaka. All of them. And if you show them a weakness—an attachment, a vulnerability—they’ll use it.”

Ayaka pulled her hand back, anger and hurt mixing in her chest.

“So what? I’m supposed to stay alone? Isolated? Smile for cameras and rot inside?”

“I’m just saying you need to be careful. Protect what matters.” Kimura looked at her with something like pity. “If you really care about him—and his daughter—then you need to think about what’s best for them. Not just for you.”

The words hit Ayaka like a slap.

Because they echoed a truth she didn’t want to face.

She thought of Hana asking innocently if she could stay over. Of Takumi saying carefully that she had “obligations.” Of that warm house that was starting to feel dangerously like a refuge.

What if I hurt them by staying?

Silence stretched. The jazz kept playing—a melancholy saxophone that seemed to soundtrack the collapse of her illusions.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Kimura said softly at last. “But someone had to tell you.”

Ayaka nodded mechanically, staring at her plate without really seeing it.

“You’re right. Of course. I… I was just imagining things.”

She forced a smile—that automatic, well-oiled smile that meant nothing.

“You’re too serious, Kimura-chan. Everything’s fine. They’re just coaching sessions. Nothing more.”

Kimura looked relieved. “Okay. As long as you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

They finished dinner in a lighter atmosphere—Kimura gossiping about the agency, about some actor dating a singer, about a producer fired for harassment.

Ayaka laughed at the right moments, nodded, asked questions.

But inside, something had cracked.

***

When they parted in front of the restaurant—Kimura hailing a taxi, Ayaka walking toward the subway—Ayaka turned back one last time.

Kimura waved cheerfully before getting into the cab.

My friend, Ayaka thought bitterly.

But the word felt empty now.

Because she had understood something that evening, sitting in that luxurious restaurant overlooking Tokyo.

In this industry, friendship didn’t really exist.
Only temporary alliances. Useful connections. People who supported you as long as it suited them.

They’re all sharks.

Kimura had said it herself.

And sharks—even the nice ones—bite when they smell blood in the water.

Ayaka descended into the subway, letting herself be swallowed by the anonymous crowd of Tokyo at night.

She took out her phone and checked her unread messages.

Manager Sato: Important meeting tomorrow 9 a.m. Don’t be late.
Label: Need to confirm promo tour dates for next month.
Mom: Did you send the money this month? Your father has more debts again.

She locked the screen without replying.

In the reflection of the subway window, she saw her face—tired despite the makeup, empty eyes behind the smile.

Who am I, really?

Ayaka the idol, smiling for cameras?

Or the woman who cooked in a modest house and laughed with an eight-year-old girl?

She didn’t know anymore.

And that was the most terrifying part.

***

That night, in her cold, empty apartment despite its luxury furniture, Ayaka stood by the bay window, watching Tokyo glitter below.

Somewhere in this city, in a quiet residential neighborhood, there was a house with blue shutters.

A house where a little girl slept clutching a rabbit plush.
A house where a man might also be standing by a window, wondering the same things she was.

Ayaka pressed her hand against the cold glass.

I want to go back there.
I want to be in that house, not in this apartment.
I want Hana to show me her drawings. I want to cook with him. I just want to… be.

But Kimura’s words echoed like a warning.

If you really care about them, think about what’s best for them.

Ayaka closed her eyes, throat tight.

What if what’s best for them… is that I disappear?

She didn’t want to think about it.
Not tonight.

Thursday was in three days.

She still had three days to pretend everything would be fine.
Three days before she’d have to decide whether she was ready to endanger the two people who finally made her feel alive.

Outside, Tokyo kept shining, indifferent.

And Ayaka, standing in her glass tower, felt more alone than ever.