In the quiet sanctuary of the Hojo family home, within the privacy of her own bedroom, Hojo Suzune lay sprawled across her futon, her chest rising and falling in the aftermath of exertion.
"Hoo..."
As a long, winding breath escaped from her cherry lips—trembling and slow, like the final note of a melody fading into silence—the tension that had kept her slender waist arched and taut finally dissolved. Her body, which had been coiled like a drawn bowstring, relaxed completely into the soft embrace of the bedding.
Yet, even in release, a faint, tingling sensation continued to course through her veins, carried along by the rhythm of her blood. Her delicate, doll-like frame—small and finely crafted as a piece of porcelain art—trembled with the lingering aftershocks of sensation.
The exhilarating feeling that traveled from the tips of her curled toes all the way to her racing heart brought a dreamy, contented smile to the girl's face. Her eyes, still hazy and unfocused, narrowed into blissful crescents. A deep, rosy flush spread from the corners of her eyes, down her cheeks, all the way to the elegant slope of her neck—a bloom of color against her pale skin. In that unguarded moment, an unconscious, natural, almost dangerous charm radiated from her like heat from a hidden ember.
A wave of profound exhaustion washed over her small body. Hojo Suzune felt her eyelids grow impossibly heavy, weighted down as if tiny anchors had been attached to each lash. Even the simple act of blinking felt like a monumental effort. The world around her began to blur softly at the edges, beckoning her toward sleep.
Normally—on any ordinary night, following any ordinary day—this would be the moment she surrendered. She would roll onto her side, reach out with sleep-clumsy fingers, and pull Shiratori Seiya's jacket close against her chest. She would tuck his photograph—creased from being handled too often, kissed too many times—over her heart like a sacred talisman. Wrapped in the fading traces of his scent, she would drift off into a beautiful, dreamless sleep, a serene smile still lingering on her lips.
But not tonight. Not today.
Today was different. Today, she had to go to Tokyo.
Holding onto that singular, burning purpose, Hojo Suzune allowed herself a few more minutes of rest—just enough for the strength to seep back into her limbs, for her breathing to steady, for the flush on her skin to fade from crimson to a soft, residual pink. Then, with a small, determined grunt, she pushed herself upright. Her fair, slender arm rose, and she reached for the box of tissues on her nightstand, methodically wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her body. She glanced at her phone.
7:43 AM.
It was still quite early. Plenty of time. She had purchased a Shinkansen ticket for eleven in the morning—the Hikari service from Kyoto to Tokyo, which would spirit her across the country in roughly two hours. Efficient. Swift. The bullet train ate distance like a hungry dragon.
However, even with time to spare, she still needed to prepare herself properly. Thoroughly. Not a single detail could be overlooked.
She wasn't concerned about packing her luggage; her mother had handled that the previous night, carefully folding clothes and toiletries into her small traveling case with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had done this a hundred times before. No, her focus now was on something far more important: herself. She needed to doll herself up. To become the most polished, most radiant, most utterly irresistible version of Hojo Suzune possible.
After all, compared to her sister's grand, much-hyped concert... what she truly cared about was seeing him. Seeing Seiya. In Tokyo. In person. In the flesh.
Each meeting in this life is one less meeting. Each opportunity to stand in his presence, to hear his voice, to catch the scent of him on the air—it was precious. Finite. Not to be squandered. Especially with her current, complicated position in his life, the windows of opportunity to see Shiratori Seiya were few and painfully far between.
Ever since the incident—that disastrous encounter in the Kendo Club, the fallout, the way Seiya had looked at her sister with such cold, deliberate distance—Hojo Suzune had been cautious. She had rarely sent messages to Seiya in the weeks since. Not because she was afraid of his girlfriend, that Takahashi woman. She couldn't care less about her. No, what she feared was something far worse: his annoyance. His displeasure. The possibility that she might become a nuisance in his eyes.
She understood the situation with painful, crystalline clarity. Back when her sister had been his official girlfriend—when Hojo Shione was the one who held his hand and walked beside him in the daylight—Suzune had possessed a powerful, legitimate shield: the identity of a sister-in-law. Under that banner, she could act spoiled. She could cling to his arm. She could pout and demand his attention and make all manner of unreasonable requests. All of it was permissible. Cute, even. The adorable younger sister of his beloved.
But now? Now everything had changed. From the way Seiya had treated her sister during that last, fateful encounter, Suzune could tell with absolute certainty: Shiratori Seiya was actively, deliberately trying to distance himself from Hojo Shione. He was building walls. Drawing lines. And if Suzune, oblivious to these shifting tides, were to keep clinging to him like a clueless, snot-nosed child who couldn't read the atmosphere... she might very well incur his genuine displeasure. His irritation. The one outcome she could not bear.
Ultimately, all of this was her sister's fault. Her sister's lack of ambition. Her sister's failure to hold onto what mattered most.
Whenever this thought surfaced—and it surfaced often—Hojo Suzune would clench her small teeth so hard her jaw ached. Her fists would ball up in the fabric of her skirt. The frustration was almost unbearable. If I had been in her position... if I had been the one he loved first... I would never have let him go. Not for anything. Not for anyone.
But if she didn't contact him for too long, an even deeper fear took root: What if he forgets me? What if, in the silence, my existence fades from his memory like morning mist?
As the days accumulated and the silence stretched, the longing in her heart would overflow. It would build and build until it became unbearable, a pressure behind her ribs that threatened to crack her open. And at such moments, she could no longer restrain herself. She would reach for her phone and send him a message—simple, innocent words.
"Good morning, Seiya-nii."
"Good night. Sweet dreams."
And just receiving a reply—a brief "Morning" or "You too"—was enough to make her heart soar. Enough to make her happy for an entire day. If he were to ask about her recent situation, to show even a flicker of genuine curiosity about her life, and she were to share some amusing anecdote from school, something funny that had happened in class... just looking at that chat history afterward, scrolling up and down through their exchange, would be enough to keep her awake all night. Too giddy to sleep. Too full of fluttering, effervescent joy to close her eyes.
Still, she maintained strict, almost punishing control over the frequency of her messages. Discipline. Restraint. She couldn't afford to be a burden.
So, on the days when the longing became unbearable but she absolutely could not allow herself to message him, she had developed a secret ritual. She would open the location-tracking app—the one she'd installed months ago, the one she'd never told a single soul about—and check Seiya's daily route.
She would watch the little digital dot that represented his existence move through the streets of Tokyo. From his apartment to the university. From the university to the training institute. Back home again. Sometimes stopping at a convenience store. Sometimes lingering at a bookstore.
His route was so consistent, so predictable, that after a while she could practically trace it blindfolded. She knew which convenience store he preferred. She knew what time he usually left for campus. She knew when his training sessions with that Takahashi woman typically ended. Following his dot across the digital map of Tokyo, she felt almost as if she were right there beside him. Walking in his shadow. Breathing the same air.
It was, perhaps, a little creepy. She was self-aware enough to acknowledge this. But it was the only thing that kept the loneliness at bay.
Now, however, was not the time for digital shadows. Now was the time for action.
Restraining the electric excitement buzzing beneath her skin, Hojo Suzune carefully, meticulously washed up. She brushed her long, silken black hair until it gleamed like polished obsidian. She changed into the outfit she had agonized over for days—a delicate, feminine ensemble that walked the perfect line between cute and elegant, innocent and alluring. She studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that, and with a small, satisfied pursing of her lips, deemed herself ready.
After informing her parents that she was departing for Tokyo, she boarded the Shinkansen alone. Just her. Just her small backpack and her enormous, overflowing heart.
Yes, she was the only one making this journey. Her father, predictably, couldn't be bothered with such trivial matters as his eldest daughter's concert. He'd rather spend the time bragging to colleagues about his important business deals than sit through two hours of music he didn't understand. Her mother had genuinely wanted to come—had planned to take time off from the university—but an unexpected, non-negotiable inspection by the higher-ups had shattered that plan like a stone through glass.
But none of that mattered. Not really. Although she was physically alone, the urgent, burning desire to see Shiratori Seiya had completely overwritten any worries or fears in her heart. Anxiety had been transmuted into anticipation. Loneliness into electric expectation.
Watching the trees and telephone poles flash by outside the bullet train's window in a continuous, blurry stream, Hojo Suzune felt as though she had transformed into the wind itself—carrying all her accumulated longing, all her unspoken words, all her desperate, devoted love—flying at impossible speed toward his side.
The road to see him, no matter how far, never felt tiring. Even if she had to walk it ten thousand times, she would never grow weary. Even if it stretched across the entire length of Japan, she would cross it without complaint.
Lost in her daydreams, her mind filled with vivid, elaborate fantasies of her upcoming encounter with Shiratori Seiya—how she would greet him, how he would smile, what she would say, how she might "accidentally" brush her hand against his—time passed with surreal swiftness. Before she even realized it, the train was announcing their arrival.
Kanagawa. Yokohama Station.
She gathered her belongings and stepped off the train onto the bustling platform, her heart hammering with anticipation. Her hand was already reaching into her pocket for her phone, ready to check Shiratori Seiya's current location, to see exactly how close she was, to calculate the precise remaining distance between her and her beloved—
But the moment her phone screen lit up, a new message notification from Hojo Shione glared at her like a stop sign.
"Suzune! I've already asked Fukada-san to come pick you up at the station. Just follow her directly once you exit the gates, okay? Don't wander off! ♪"
Her beautifully constructed plan—the one where she would "coincidentally" run into Seiya before the concert, where she would have him all to herself for a few precious, uninterrupted hours—crumbled to dust between her fingers.
Hojo Suzune's delicate lips formed into a pronounced pout, her cheeks puffing out with childish frustration. Why. Why does she always have to interfere at the worst possible moment?
Still, there was nothing to be done. Dragging her small suitcase behind her with considerably less enthusiasm than before, she made her way toward the station exit.
As soon as she emerged through the ticket gates, she spotted her immediately: a woman in a crisp, professional business suit, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, her posture radiating efficiency. Fukada Fuyuna. The manager.
Suzune recognized the woman instantly—she'd met her several times before, during previous visits to her sister's agency. Suppressing the surge of displeasure that threatened to curdle her expression, she carefully arranged her features into a mask of polite, sweet-natured innocence. She approached with the demure, obedient demeanor of a well-raised young lady.
"Hello, Fukada-nee-san. Thank you so much for coming to pick me up."
"Mm."
Fukada Fuyuna nodded with professional warmth, already reaching for the luggage handle. "You must be tired from the journey. Shione has already arranged everything for your stay. Shall we head to the hotel first? You can rest and freshen up."
"Okay~! I'll follow whatever Fukada-nee-san thinks is best."
Hojo Suzune's textbook-perfect, obedient demeanor put Fukada immediately at ease. What a sweet, well-mannered child. So different from some of the entitled family members she'd had to deal with in this industry.
After a short drive, they arrived at the hotel. Fukada settled the girl into the room directly adjacent to Hojo Shione's suite—close enough for sisterly bonding, separate enough for privacy. She helped organize the luggage, hanging up dresses and arranging toiletries, before turning to the young girl with a questioning expression.
"Shione is currently in the middle of rehearsals at the venue. Suzune-chan, would you prefer to rest here at the hotel for a while, or would you like to come watch the rehearsal? I can take you to the venue if you're interested."
Hojo Suzune's first instinct was to claim exhaustion. To say she wanted to rest. To use the hotel room as a base from which she could execute a stealth operation to locate Shiratori Seiya's exact whereabouts. But a quick, discreet glance at her phone revealed the cruel truth: Seiya's location dot was still firmly planted in Tokyo. He hadn't left yet. He probably wouldn't arrive for hours.
She blinked her wide, innocent eyes and tilted her head with picture-perfect curiosity.
"If they're rehearsing... is it really okay for me to be there watching? I don't want to be a bother to you or any of the staff. I know everyone is working so hard..."
Upon hearing this, Fukada Fuyuna shook her head firmly. A warm, almost maternal smile—the kind an older sister might wear when indulging a beloved younger sibling—spread across her capable features.
"Of course it's okay. Absolutely. Suzune-chan is family, after all. That comes with special privileges. Besides, I'm sure Shione would be delighted to see you there supporting her."
"That's wonderful, then! I haven't seen my sister in so long, I've really missed her."
The words slipped out with perfect, practiced sincerity. Because, after all, when outsiders were watching—when the manager was observing, when impressions were being formed—she needed to present the picture of a harmonious, loving family. Any hint of discord might spark gossip. And gossip was the last thing her sister's carefully managed public image needed. Suzune understood this much, at least.
Following Fukada Fuyuna back to the car, they drove through the streets of Yokohama toward the concert venue. And as the building came into view—looming larger and larger through the passenger window—Hojo Suzune felt her breath catch in her throat.
Even before the car had fully stopped, she could see it. A massive promotional banner, draped from the venue's facade like a royal tapestry. It depicted her sister—Hojo Shione—in all her radiant, larger-than-life glory. Hair flowing like liquid starlight. Eyes gazing confidently into the distance. The words "Hojo Shione: First Solo Live Tour" emblazoned in elegant, shimmering gold lettering.
And it wasn't just the banner. Stretching from the venue entrance all the way down half the length of the street were stalls. Merchandise stalls selling official T-shirts and limited-edition acrylic stands. Record stalls hawking CDs and special-edition vinyl pressings. Food stalls. Busy staff members rushing back and forth with clipboards and headsets.
Fans—even now, hours before the concert—already beginning to gather. Some in coordinated outfits. Some clutching handmade uchiwa fans with Shione's face printed on them.
The scale of it. The sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the operation.
Hojo Suzune's mouth fell open. She couldn't help it. Genuine, unfiltered surprise bloomed in her wide eyes.
Fukada Fuyuna, having just pulled into the VIP parking area, unbuckled her seatbelt and noticed the girl's utterly stunned, adorably dumbfounded expression. A soft, proud chuckle escaped her.
"How is it? Quite impressive, right? You probably didn't expect such a grand scale, did you?"
Hojo Suzune pursed her lips. Slowly, silently, she nodded. There were no words.
Fukada's voice took on a nostalgic, almost emotional timbre as she gazed up at the venue herself.
"You know... at the beginning of this year, I honestly never imagined Shione would reach this point. Especially not back then—when her condition wasn't good, when everything seemed uncertain. There were moments I was genuinely worried. But her... Shione just keeps bringing miracles. Time and time again. Defying every expectation."
A smile broke across the manager's face. A genuine, hopeful, almost fiercely proud smile. Anticipation gleamed in her eyes, bright as a freshly polished gemstone.
"However..." She turned to look at Suzune directly. "For Shione, this venue, this concert—it's probably nothing more than a stepping stone. A launchpad. She's going to fly much, much higher in the future. Further than any of us can imagine. There's no limit to how high she can soar."
The words landed. Settled. And something dark and thorny twisted in Hojo Suzune's chest.
She frowned. Her small teeth found her lower lip, biting down just hard enough to sting. The question rose in her throat like bile—unstoppable. She didn't want to ask it. She knew she shouldn't ask it. Not here. Not now. Not to this woman.
But it slipped out anyway. Low. Quiet. Sharp as a blade hidden in silk.
"Even without Seiya... will she still be able to fly further?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Fukada Fuyuna froze. Her head turned sharply toward the girl in the passenger seat, her mouth opening—to respond, to deflect, to ask what on earth she meant by that—
But Hojo Suzune didn't wait for an answer. She didn't want to hear whatever diplomatic, polished, carefully-nuanced response the manager would manufacture. She had already said too much.
Without another word, she pulled the car door handle and stepped out into the crisp Kanagawa air, her small figure disappearing toward the venue's backstage entrance.