One day, Papa stepped into my workplace like a ghost dragging winter behind him.
The familiar jingle of the bell above the door rang out like a warning siren, but no one else seemed to hear it. The sound hit me square in the chest, and suddenly I couldn't move. My breath stalled in my throat. I stood still behind the counter, frozen mid-clean, my rag clutched like a lifeline.
He smiled.
It was the same smile that used to cradle me in comfort, the same one that once made me believe in something like love. But now—now, it was something else entirely. A mask. Polished. Predatory.
I said nothing.
"Daichi," he said, voice low, coaxing. "I know you're mad at me… but could you give me one more chance?"
My hand trembled faintly. I gripped the edge of the counter tighter.
"A chance for what?" The question left my lips before I could stop it.
"To go back to how we used to be."
That was when time folded in on itself.
I saw everything at once—the night he slammed the door on Mama. The back of his hand across my face after Mio died. His hands. His whispers. His camera lens. Every version of him bled together like ink spilled in water.
I wasn't his son. Not truly. Not to him.
I was a prop. A role, a thing.
And the way he said it—"how we used to be"—wasn't nostalgia. It was desire. A hunger cloaked in soft tones and old memories.
I stared at him, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. If I were to sleep with him again—if we kissed, touched, even just sat too close—it would never be seen as unnatural to anyone who didn't know our history. Except that I was still technically a minor. And even then, the law would care more than the world ever had.
The idea made bile rise in my throat. His very presence made my skin crawl.
There was no going back. No way, it's impossible.
From that day forward, I did everything I could to disappear from his radar. No eye contact. No small talk. No reaction. But like a moth drawn to its own demise, Papa's interest only grew the colder I became. His obsession grew so bold it began to haunt my daily life.
"You should report him."
"Did you tell your mother?"
"It's dangerous…"
My coworkers' voices were soft but insistent. I had tried to keep them at arm's length, and still, they reached in. Their concern didn't feel performative. It felt real. And that made it worse. Because I didn't believe I deserved it.
After everything I'd done—what I'd become—how could I ask for protection?
I chose this path. I sold my body to men like Matsuoka for money. For escape. I turned myself into something disposable. So how could I now ask anyone to step in? What right did I have to safety, when I'd willingly stepped into the fire?
So I said nothing. I would fight this alone, even if it meant losing.
But Hasegawa... he didn't let go.
He clung to the edges of my wreckage like someone trying to anchor a capsizing ship. He believed, fiercely, that Papa should've been the one shielding me. That Maki's crusade wasn't just emotional, but righteous.
Even when his belief in me began to crack.
A rumour started. I'd been spotted entering a hotel with a middle-aged man.
It wasn't the first time. But this time, it had a witness. One who had every reason to want my downfall.
Maki.
She had followed me. Or perhaps she just happened to be there. Either way, her silence was loaded. And the rumour spread like gasoline on dry grass.
Hasegawa cornered me after school, fire burning behind his eyes... or concern.
"Don't just keep quiet, senpai," he said. "If you didn't do it, fight them all."
His voice was firm. Almost pleading. But there was something else in it, too. Doubt.
And that hurt more than any slap, any headline, any leering comment online.
I didn't answer. I simply looked away.
Whether the incident with Maki was a misunderstanding or a trap, I didn't clarify. I didn't defend myself. And when I saw Hasegawa's shoulders fall slightly, when I saw the hope in his eyes dim, I accepted it.
Because what good would it do? In the court of whispers and screenshots, truth is irrelevant.
Even if I shouted the truth until my throat bled, it wouldn't stop them. It wouldn't stop Papa. Or Maki. Or the next customer waiting in a hotel lobby with too much cologne and a wad of cash.