Tokyo's morning bustle felt like a parody of itself.
School felt distant. Hiroto sat in his usual seat near the window, but nothing about the day felt usual. The blackboard blurred, teachers' voices echoed in a muffled haze, and even Daiki's attempts at jokes sounded miles away.
His brain wouldn't let go of the poison Ryo had planted.
"You want people to know what she really does? Pay us fifty thousand yen by Friday."
That was only four days away.
At lunch, Daiki offered him half of his fried chicken bento and nudged him gently. "Hey, are you good? You've been spacing out since yesterday."
"I'm fine," Hiroto muttered, offering a weak smile. "Just tired. Stayed up studying."
Daiki raised an eyebrow. "You? Mr. Bedtime-at-Ten? Alright, man. But if you ever need to talk…"
"Thanks."
For a moment, Hiroto felt grateful. But that moment vanished when the familiar weight of dread returned.
Because they came again.
Ryo, Kenta, and Shun strolled into the hallway where Hiroto stood by the lockers, chatting with Daiki. Ryo leaned against a locker, arms crossed and that same smirk painted on his face.
"Tick-tock, Aizawa. Three days left."
Kenta gave a mocking whistle. "Hope Mommy dearest is having a good week at work."
Shun snickered. "Maybe she's got a full reservation list."
Daiki turned sharply. "What the hell are you guys—"
Hiroto grabbed his sleeve before he could finish. "It's nothing."
Ryo winked. "See you soon, prince."
They left. Their laughter hung in the air like smoke.
That night, like every night, he came home from cram school. The house smelled like curry. His mom was sitting at the table, in a clean apron, her short black hair tied loosely back. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, maybe from cooking or maybe from exhaustion.
"I already ate," she said with a smile. "But I left your portion on the stove."
"Thanks." Hiroto placed his bag down, trying not to look at her too closely. "Going to work tonight?"
"Mhm." She stood and moved to grab her handbag. "Same as always. Inventory until late. Don't wait up, okay?"
He nodded slowly. "Alright. Be careful."
"I will." She leaned in to kiss his forehead. "You're such a good boy."
She said it every time. And he used to believe it.
But this time, he didn't go to his room.
He waited until he heard the front door shut and waited until five minutes passed. Then he threw on a coat, grabbed his phone, and slipped into the cold night.
The last train to Shinjuku was nearly full. He spotted her two cars ahead. She stood silently, gripping the rail, her eyes on her reflection in the darkened window. Her coat was long and modest, just like every other night. There was nothing strange about her—until she stepped off at Shinjuku and began walking faster than he'd expected.
Hiroto followed.
She cut through side streets, where vending machines hummed and stray cats prowled the shadows. The further she walked, the more unfamiliar the territory became. Lights got dimmer. Signs are flashier. The safe city he'd known twisted into something darker.
Then she turned a corner and disappeared.
He rushed up, heart pounding. She'd entered a narrow alleyway nestled between two old buildings. A neon sign buzzed above the entrance, casting pink and purple hues on the wet pavement.
Club Yoru.
The name hit him like a punch to the gut.
He stood frozen, staring.
She'd gone down into the basement.
His hands trembled. He turned away and walked to a vending machine nearby. He bought a can of warm green tea, holding it tightly to his chest like it could shield him from the chill that wasn't just in the air.
His eyes remained on the entrance.
People came and went. Groups of men laughing, talking in low voices. Women in tight dresses and heavy makeup stepping out of cars and into others. Laughter mixed with engine revs. Cigarettes lit under flickering lamps.
He didn't cry. He couldn't.
He stood there, watching. Waiting. Trying to believe there was another explanation.
Then she appeared.
It was like time froze.
Misaki Aizawa stepped out of Club Yoru at around 2 AM, cradling a champagne bottle with a label Hiroto had seen only in magazines. She was laughing—an unfamiliar sound, playful and light. And then Hiroto saw her.
Really saw her.
She wore a revealing black one-piece dress that clung tightly to her body. Her cleavage was prominently exposed, and her stockings rose high up her thighs, visible beneath the short hemline. Her makeup was bold, her perfume unmistakable even from across the alley.
And beside her was a man.
Older. Fat. Balding. His suit stretched over his belly like it was two sizes too small. He laughed and slapped her backside, then pulled her into him. Their bodies pressed together, and they whispered things Hiroto never wanted to hear.
Then he walked off to the parking lot, and she glanced at her phone.
Hiroto couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
A black sedan pulled up. She smiled and entered the car.
He panicked.
Bolting down the street, he spotted a row of rental e-bikes and paid quickly through his phone. His fingers were numb, but adrenaline made them move.
He followed.
The city was cruel at night. Traffic lights, closed shops, late-night drunks stumbling across lanes. But the car got stuck at a few intersections, and Hiroto pedaled faster than he ever had.
Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to a love hotel in a quieter neighborhood.
A lavish sign blinked above the door. Velvet Heart.
He watched from behind a vending machine as his mother stepped out, laughing again. She adjusted her dress and held the man's arm. Then they disappeared into the hotel.
Time lost meaning.
He waited.
And waited.
Cold sank into his bones.
At 5 AM, the fat man came out, looking disheveled. Shirt wrinkled, tie dangling from one hand. He entered his car and drove off, humming to himself.
Hiroto's stomach turned.
Twenty minutes later, Misaki exited the hotel. She wore a long beige coat over her dress. Her makeup was faded, her lipstick slightly smudged. But her stockings and heels were still visible beneath the coat.
She lit a cigarette, her hand steady.
Hiroto's heart cracked again.
She smoked. She'd lied. About everything.
She made a call, talking softly. Then a black car arrived. She smiled, entered, and drove off.
He followed her again.
Back to Club Yoru.
An hour passed. When she emerged, she was wearing a modest outfit: a long skirt, a full-sleeved blouse, and her usual walking shoes. Like a mask being put back on.
He returned the e-bike, his limbs shaking.
Then he walked the familiar path home.
He arrived a few minutes after she did.
The lights were on. She was inside.
His phone buzzed.
Mom: "Where are you? I was getting worried."
He stared at the message for a long time before replying.
Me: "Just went out for a walk."
There was a pause.
Mom: "It's freezing. Come home soon. I made breakfast."
He stepped through the door moments later.
She stood in the kitchen, a warm smile on her face. She looked like the mother he always knew.
Like a stranger.
He smiled back.
But something inside him had changed forever.