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The transition from last night's neon-lit joy to this morning's cold reality was jarring. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, my reflection unrecognizable under layers of makeup and the expensive, shimmering costume.
"Sayaka, focus! You missed a beat in the rehearsal," my manager, Mr. Sato, barked from the side of the stage.
I blinked, the image of Arata's calm smile and the taste of the half-eaten chocolate still fresh in my mind. Here, the lights weren't soft or comforting; they were harsh, blinding, and judgmental.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sato. It won't happen again," I said, my voice slipping back into its practiced, polite tone.
"It better not. We have the live stream in an hour. Thousands are watching. You have to be perfect," he reminded me before walking away to check the monitors.
Perfect. That word again.
I took a deep breath, trying to find that sense of 'lightness' I felt at the game zone. But as the cameras turned on and the red lights flickered, the weight returned. I put on my mask—the wide, radiant smile that everyone loved—and began to dance.
The performance was a blur. My body moved on autopilot—spin, wave, smile, repeat. The roar of the crowd felt like it was coming from a different world. As soon as the final notes faded and the stage lights dimmed, I rushed backstage, ignoring the praise from the staff.
"Great job, Sayaka! You're trending everywhere right now!" Mr. Sato called out, staring at his tablet with excitement.
I didn't answer. I just wanted to get this costume off. I locked myself in the dressing room and leaned against the door, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed on the vanity. It was a notification from 'Ghost_Artist'.
I opened the link. It was a simple sketch of a neon-lit game zone, but in the corner of the frame, there was a silhouette of a girl jumping with a basketball in her hand. The caption read: "A ghost found her rhythm tonight."
I couldn't help but smile. Looking at the screen, despite the makeup and the costume, it felt like a real smile. He was thinking about it too.
Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door startled me. "Sayaka? Open up. We need to talk about your schedule. The publishers want a promotional shoot tomorrow morning," Mr. Sato's voice was firm.
Tomorrow morning? That was my only free time. I looked at the sketch on my phone, then at the heavy makeup on my face.
"I can't do it tomorrow, Mr. Sato," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
"I said, I can't do it tomorrow," I repeated, my grip tightening on my phone.
The door burst open. Mr. Sato stood there, his face red with disbelief. "You can't? Sayaka, do you realize how much money is on the line? You're the face of this project!"
"I am the face of it, but I am also a person," I stood up, looking him straight in the eyes. The heavy makeup felt like it was cracking, but for the first time, I didn't care at all about that. "I need one morning for myself. Just one."
Mr. Sato went quiet for a moment; my sudden defiance had left him speechless. He took a step back, looking at me as if I were a stranger. "You've changed, Sayaka. Ever since that festival... you've become completely unpredictable."
I didn't say anything. I just grabbed my bag and walked toward the door.
"If you skip this shoot, there will be consequences," he warned, his voice low.
"Then let there be consequences," I said without looking back.
I stepped onto the sidewalk, pulled my hoodie over my head, and headed to the subway station. My phone vibrated with a private message from an unlisted ID: "The moon looks better from the rooftop than the stage lights, doesn't it?"
My heart began to race. It was him. I reached the station and tapped my card at the gate with trembling fingers.
The train was nearly empty. I leaned my forehead against the cool, thick glass of the window, watching the city lights blur. For the first time in years, I wasn't sitting in the back of a blacked-out van; I was just another passenger in a midnight train.
As I reached my neighborhood, the tall gates of my apartment building felt different tonight—less like a suffocating gold cage and more like just a place to rest.
I slipped inside, the silence of the apartment greeting me. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked straight to the balcony. I took off the heavy costume, letting it fall to the floor like a discarded skin, and stood there in the dark.
I looked at the moon, then back at my phone. Tomorrow, everything might fall apart. Sato might call the agencies, the news might break, but as I closed my eyes, I didn't feel afraid.
I was finally home. And for the first time, I knew exactly what I was going to do when the sun came up.