The storm had passed.
Not entirely. Not publicly. The photo still circulated, the gossip still hummed beneath tweets and message boards—but Kaito stopped checking. Ren had made him tea that morning instead of asking questions, and somehow, that silence had steadied him.
"Come with me," Kaito said as they left the café that evening.
Ren blinked. "Where?"
Kaito didn't answer. He just walked, and Ren followed.
They turned off the main road and slipped into quieter streets—past closed shops and shuttered windows, until they stopped in front of a narrow building with ivy climbing one side. Kaito pulled out a key and opened the door.
Inside was a small, third-floor studio.
Warm light. A low ceiling. Hardwood floors scattered with rugs. Racks of wigs and fabric along one wall. A vintage vanity with dim bulbs. A piano beneath the window. And in the center, a wide mirror—unframed, leaned against the wall like it had been watching quietly for years.
Kaito closed the door behind them and stood in the soft silence.
"This is where I become Kane," he said.
Ren walked slowly through the room, taking it in. "It feels like you, too."
Kaito gave a half-smile. "Both of me live here."
He went to the piano and sat, fingers brushing the keys. Then, without looking up, he said, "There's a song I've never finished. Want to hear it?"
Ren nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor.
Kaito began to play.
The melody was gentle—melancholy, like something remembered from a dream. It rose and fell with subtle ache, like the feeling of holding back tears. Then he sang. Softly. Not like Kane. Not like a performer. Just… himself.
"I wear a name they'll never know
Paint smiles where shadows go
But you see me when I'm still
Quiet, trembling, standing still…"
Ren closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.
When the last note faded, neither of them spoke for a long time.
Finally, Kaito looked up. "I want to finish it. With you."
Ren swallowed. "Okay."
Kaito stood and moved toward the corner where a familiar leather-bound sketchbook lay open. Ren followed him, heart quiet but full.
"Did you ever finish that portrait?" Kaito asked.
Ren reached into his bag and pulled out a folded sheet.
He unfolded it carefully.
Kaito stared.
It wasn't Kane on the page. Not fully. And not just the quiet man from the café either. It was a perfect blend: glitter dusted over natural skin, eyes bold yet uncertain, vulnerability in the tilt of the mouth.
Kaito's reflection—finally whole.
Ren held it out to him. "This is you."
Kaito didn't speak. He reached out and took it with both hands, holding it like something sacred.
And then he looked at Ren—not as Kane, not as Kaito, but as someone finally ready to be seen.
"You make me feel real," he whispered.
"You are real," Ren said. "You don't need a stage to exist."
Kaito stepped closer. And in the stillness of that tiny studio, surrounded by forgotten wigs and unfinished songs, he leaned forward.
Ren met him halfway.
The kiss was soft. No spotlights. No noise. Just the quiet exhale of breath and the warmth of two people finally, finally letting go of fear.