Day 15, September 1, 2015
Account Balance:¥3,093,000.
1:43 a.m.
She sat at the edge of the love hotel's cheap bed, fingers still resting on the wireless mouse, though her gaze was no longer there.
She'd made ¥480,000 today.
To be precise, ¥479,820, but she couldn't be bothered.
Her account now showed ¥3,093,000.
She wasn't particularly happy.
Or rather, she no longer had the energy to feel happy.
Aria hadn't slept in three days.
Not the "trader-pulled-an-all-nighter" kind of no sleep, but the complete, unbroken, eyes-open-for-seventy-two-hours kind.
Her skin had gone pale, her lips were peeling, and her stare looked like a corpse had latched onto the system.
The curtains were half open.
Neon from Kabukicho leaked in through the gap, casting a red stain across the shadows under her eyes.
The TV was still on, the volume low—just enough for her to hear the artificial laughter from a variety show.
[Message Notification Sound]
A text from Julian:
"Did you quit?"
She blinked.
Her eyes refocused.
Then, lazily, she typed a reply:
"I live in Kabukicho now. You can come hang out if you want.
It's lively at night. It's lively in the daytime too."
Julian stood in the kitchen of his Yoyogi-Uehara apartment, staring at the screen.
2:15 a.m.
He frowned slightly, didn't reply right away.
She really said that.
The tone was light, like inviting an old friend to wander through a night market.
He took a sip of overly chilled tap water, then ordered a cab.
When the driver heard the destination was Kabukicho, he didn't say much.
Just started the car like it was muscle memory.
After all, at 2 a.m. in Tokyo, there's only one place people go.
Julian leaned against the window, eyes drifting to the lights outside.
Convenience stores were still open.
A girl touched up her makeup in front of a 24-hour drugstore.
A couple walked shoulder to shoulder into a ramen shop, steam rising behind them.
Tokyo never stops breathing.
Kabukicho is just in its most chaotic mode.
The taxi pulled up beneath the big red gate of Ichiban-gai.
Julian got out.
The air had that distinct cocktail—perfume, cigarettes, asphalt, fried food, sweat.
As he crossed a side alley, a few hosts in suits were out scouting.
Some handed out cards.
Some pretended not to notice him.
From the direction of Don Quijote, three Japanese girls bounced toward him, giggling, holding sparkling wine from the convenience store and translucent plastic bags.
One of them squealed:
"Daaamn, he's hot!"
Another leaned in:
"Eh? Which host club are you from? Got a business card?"
The third grinned with narrowed eyes:
"Are you from Club Leo? Or AI?"
Julian stopped.
Said nothing.
Kabukicho is a stage.
Gender is performance.
Jobs are commodities.
Life is customer service.
Everyone here sells fantasy with pretty faces, curated voices, alcohol content, and a price chart for how long affection lasts.
He didn't belong here.
"…No."
He said, voice low and deliberate.
No explanation. No smile. Just a shake of the head.
The girls only got more excited.
"Ooh—so you're from one of those secret VIP-only clubs?"
"Give us your LINE~"
"Or at least a selfie. Come on, handsome~"
Julian reached into his pocket and handed them something.
A McDonald's discount coupon.
They froze for three seconds.
Then burst into laughter and bounced away in the other direction.
He kept walking toward the love hotel.
The sign outside was still pink. One of the upstairs windows glowed with a light that shouldn't still be on.
He pressed the elevator button.
The door wasn't locked. She had told him to come up.
Julian stepped into the hallway outside the room.
The door was ajar. When he gently pushed it open, it creaked just enough to be noticed.
A dense mix of smells met him at the entrance: smoke, alcohol, cheap perfume, and the stale air of an unventilated room.
He stood at the threshold for a few seconds, confirming she was really inside.
Aria was sitting by the window. The TV was playing some late-night comedy show, volume turned low. She didn't look at him—just said, flatly:
"Come in."
She wore a faded T-shirt and a pair of men's lounge pants. Her hair was greasy, like she'd just escaped a long night shift, only to be trapped again in this neon pink haze.
Her face was pale, but her expression was oddly calm.
The kind of calm that comes after you've burned through everything.
She still had a wireless mouse in her hand. The trading interface was glowing on the screen.
She waved lazily. "Come on. Let me show you the chart—I made a decent haul tonight."
Julian didn't move right away.
He stood by the door, eyes fixed on her face.
"How long have you not slept?" he asked.
Aria shrugged. "Less than three days. I'm fine."
Julian glanced at her screen numbers he no longer cared about.
Then he glanced around the room: small, gaudy, a wall mirror with glittery star stickers, and pink LED tubing running across a faux-velvet headboard.
The air was thick. There was an AC unit, but she hadn't turned it on.
Finally, he said, quietly:
"You're not fine."
He didn't scold her. He didn't offer comfort. He just walked over and sat down at the edge of the bed, on the far corner, his movement so gentle, it was like he was afraid to disturb something fragile.
"Are you living here now?" he asked.
She nodded. "It's not bad. Cheap, noisy… and you can still see people trying to stay alive."
Julian's eyes landed on the gaudy mirror on the wall.
It reflected the two of them perfectly, him sitting at the edge of the bed, her half-curled by the window.
From the next room, there were sounds. Faint, but audible. Rhythmic. Intermittent.
Julian didn't turn around.
"Why are you here?" he finally asked.
She didn't answer right away.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the trading chart, the blue light flickering in her pupils, like she was still tracking the market.
After a few seconds, she said:
"Because I don't want to go home anymore."
Then paused, and added:
"Not that I have one."
Silence filled the room.
The canned laughter from the TV rolled on, but neither of them laughed.
Julian looked down at his hands.
He didn't know what he came here to say—and now, even less so.
"You know someone just died around here a few days ago, right?"
His voice was flat, like asking about the weather.
Aria nodded. "Yeah. A lot of people do."
She paused. "There's always someone coming in. Not everyone leaves."
He looked at the side of her face. "So you're one of the ones not planning to leave?"
Aria let out a soft laugh.
She didn't answer.
The laugh was quiet, but chilling—like someone holding onto the last sliver of sanity just to pretend they're still fine.
She leaned against the edge of the bed, looking like she could collapse any second.
Her gaze had gone vacant, dark circles sinking like spilled ink beneath her eyes. Her lips were cracked. Her skin, pale to the point of translucency.
The comedy show continued on the TV, like some echo from another reality.
Julian said nothing.
He didn't move closer either.
He simply stayed there, exactly one meter away, watching her. His gaze was calm, restrained, almost tender in a way that defied language.
In the mirror, their reflections lingered.
One looked like a flickering lightbulb about to die.
The other was a ghost that hadn't spoken all night.
Aria whispered, "I think I'm going insane."
Julian didn't deny it.
He just leaned forward and picked up a neatly folded blanket from beside her.
Unfolded it. Carefully. Then laid it over her legs, gently.
"Get some sleep," he said. "It's okay. I'm here."
She didn't answer.
Julian added, his voice light, with a trace of dry humor:
"Just sleep. I won't move. You don't have to, either."
It sounded like a rule. The kind made by people who've been hurting for a long time and got used to the weight of it.
Aria smiled.
Softly. Like wind passing through a cracked window.
She said, "Alright. I'll sleep first."
Then she let herself fall sideways, curling up, face buried into the pillow.
Julian didn't move.
He lay beside her, a full arm's length away.
Not closer. Not further.
The lights stayed on. The TV kept playing. Outside, neon lights blinked in and out.
The camera pulls back.
On a stranger's love hotel bed, two exhausted people—one with eyes closed, one still awake.
No one said a word. No one reached out.
Kabukicho was still awake.
The room wasn't soundproof, but for a moment, the world felt like it had been muted.