“You best be idle in your room, girl—if you know what’s good for you.”

  The voice had the precision of a razor—calm, but with a threat folded beneath every sylble.

  “Before I get your mother to straighten that frail little attitude of yours.”

  Yuzuki stood at the edge of the entranceway, the weight of her suitcase against her leg. Her father, tall and always dressed in tailored silence, stood between the double columns of their estate foyer. His gsses glinted under the chandelier light.

  “No daughter of mine is going to humiliate this family by parading around like some glittered puppet in front of low-css spectators. Do you hear me, Yuzuki?”

  She said nothing. She had already decided.

  He added with a sip of tea, “remember who you are. You’re not a singer, not a spectacle, not some frolicking storefront mannequin to be dispyed for society’s second-rate approval.”

  She said nothing. Her gaze dropped slightly—not out of submission, but restraint.

  “You’re a Hoshino,” he continued, pacing now. “That name means something. You’re the inheritor of a vast corporate trust. You were raised to lead divisions, not dance beneath stage lights.”

  He stopped walking.

  “You think the world’s waiting to cp for your little frolic of a dream? This household isn’t raising idols. You are meant to inherit an empire—not entertain the masses like some underpaid commodity.”

  He paused, jaw locked, voice colder than the marble floor she stood on.

  “We don’t raise performers. We raise successors.”

  Yuzuki bowed politely. Not in agreement—but in goodbye.

  “Don’t throw away a legacy for a… phase.”

  She straightened her back, her hands tightening around the leather handle of her suitcase.

  “I’m not throwing it away,” she said softly. “I’m choosing a different one.”

  Her father’s eyes narrowed behind his gold-rimmed gsses. “Dreams are for those who can afford to be failures. You were born to win.”

  She stepped forward. Past him. Toward the doors.

  As she turned and walked past the tall wooden doors, he called out one st time.

  “You’ll come crawling back when reality breaks you, little girl. And if I see your name on any of those stages… you best make sure it’s not tied to this family.”

  She didn’t look back.

  Only gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter.

  ?

  1

  The train station was cold.

  Not in the way winter chills seep into the bones, but in a way that made Yuzuki feel unseen, unnoticed, like she was just another shadow flitting through the neon-lit streets of Tokyo. The city was always alive, always moving, but in that moment, all she could hear was the rhythmic hum of the train departing behind her, leaving her in a pce she had no pn for.

  She clutched the small duffel bag against her chest, her fingers gripping the straps so tightly they turned white. This was it. No turning back. The scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and the distant, metallic tang of the city’s underground vents. She pulled her hood lower over her face, feeling the weight of her decision settle into her chest like a stone.

  The streets were alive with the usual Tokyo nightlife—sarymen stumbling out of izakayas, girls in too-short skirts pretending not to notice the leering eyes of older men, the ever-present hum of life pulsating under artificial lights. She had always thought freedom would feel different.

  Less lonely.

  But that was the price of chasing a dream, wasn’t it?

  She reminded herself why she was here. Idols didn’t cry. Idols didn’t doubt themselves.

  She was going to be a star, a name people would chant, a face people would adore. And even if her father refused to believe in her, even if her mother barely gnced at her as she walked out that front door for the st time, she believed in herself. That was enough.

  Or at least, it had to be.

  ?

  2

  Okubo Park wasn’t where she imagined she’d end up on her first night away from home.

  It was far from the glittering stages of Akihabara, far from the well-lit agency offices that had posters of smiling girls pstered over their doors. Instead, it was dimly lit, the kind of pce where shadows moved even when there was no wind, where the benches were occupied by people who looked like they had nowhere else to go.

  A group of girls sat near the old vending machine at the park’s entrance. They were ughing, but it was the kind of ughter that felt too hollow, too forced. One of them, a tall girl with dyed blonde hair, flicked a cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under her heel.

  Yuzuki didn’t belong here. She knew that instantly.

  But where else was she supposed to go?

  She had just enough money for a few nights in a capsule hotel, but then what? Agencies didn’t accept auditions overnight, and she had no connections, no manager, no pn beyond “make it.”

  A voice cut through her thoughts.

  “Hey, new girl. You lost?”

  Yuzuki turned to see the blonde girl watching her. The others had stopped talking, their eyes scanning her with something between curiosity and amusement.

  “I’m not lost,” she lied.

  The girl smirked. “Then you’re either stupid or desperate.”

  Yuzuki bit her lip. She didn’t want to admit how right that was.

  The girl waved her over. “Come sit. You’re too clean to be one of us, so I’m guessing you just ran away.”

  Yuzuki hesitated, but her feet moved on their own. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she was scared of being alone.

  Maybe it was because she already was.

  ?

  3

  That night, she learned the truth.

  Tokyo had two faces.

  The one she had always known was the face of perfection, the city she had grown up in with its pristine gss buildings, polite smiles, and structured order. But this side—the side she was in now—was different.

  Girls disappeared.

  Not all at once, not dramatically. They just faded, like their existence had been nothing more than a temporary flicker in the neon lights of the city. One day, they’d be sitting on a park bench, talking about their dreams, and the next, they’d be gone. No one asked where they went.

  And Yuzuki understood why.

  Because the ones who asked were next.

  She had always thought she was strong-willed, but it only took three nights of sleeping in the streets to realize she wasn’t.

  She had money, but money ran out fast. She had food, but food wasn’t free. And the offers… the men who stopped her outside convenience stores, the older women who whispered about “easy work”—they were getting harder to ignore.

  Her dream was still there.

  But so was hunger.

  So was exhaustion.

  So was fear.

  ?

  4

  A day had passed. The night she met Naseru, it was raining.

  Not the gentle kind of rain, but the kind that hit the pavement hard, soaked through clothes, made the city feel even colder than usual.

  He was pying basketball in the park, the ball bouncing against the wet pavement in rhythmic beats. She almost didn’t notice him at first—he was just another silhouette in the city’s ever-moving scenery. But there was something about the way he pyed.

  Something angry. Something lonely.

  She stood under the bus stop’s awning, arms wrapped around herself, watching.

  He noticed.

  He stopped mid-dribble, spinning the ball in his hands before tossing it at her feet.

  “You py?”

  She blinked at him. “No.”

  He shrugged. “You look like you need to.”

  Yuzuki gnced down at the ball. Her fingers twitched. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did need to.

  Maybe she needed something to remind her she was still here.

  She picked up the ball.

  And for the first time in days, she felt real again.

  ?

  5

  They didn’t talk much.

  Not that night. Not the next. But there was an understanding.

  He gave her some money once, not a lot, but enough to keep her from making a mistake she couldn’t undo. He didn’t ask why she was there, and she didn’t ask him either.

  Maybe they both already knew.

  But the difference was, Naseru didn’t stay near the park.

  And Yuzuki?

  She didn’t have the luxury of leaving.

  So when her money finally ran out, when the agencies told her she was “too raw,” when the recruiters became harder to avoid and the hunger became harder to fight, she found herself standing at the crossroads of her own choices.

  She had always dreamed of being seen, of standing in the spotlight, of hearing her name on the lips of thousands.

  But now, standing in the cold, she wondered if being invisible was safer.

  She thought about Reina.

  Reina had been her friend, the one who warned her. The one who told her there were worse things than being hungry, worse things than failing.

  Reina had been trying to protect her.

  And now, Reina was gone.

  Idols didn’t cry.

  But that night, Yuzuki did.

  ?

  To be continued…