The lights plunged into crimson and gold; smoke curled from hidden vents like lazy dragons. The first bass notes of In Your Shape thudded through the floorboards in time with my panicked heartbeat. I gripped my chopsticks like twin swords; my nails bit into my palms—I was armed and terrified.
Hiroshi lounged beside me, arms folded, that untouchable smirk glued to his face. He was clearly enjoying the show that was my imminent collapse. Of course he was.
Velours Tokyo—polished, famous, dangerous—felt too small for the spectacle and my humiliation. Every corner of the stage seemed to promise trouble: men in suits, spotlights slicing the darkness, an atmosphere thick with choreographed temptation. My chest tightened; my stomach flipped.
Then the dancers moved.
Sharp. Precise. Teasing. Ties snapped off mid-step, chairs slid with practiced sound, jackets flew. Every motion shouted dominance and practiced sin. The crowd roared; glowsticks painted the room in fevered color. My throat went dry.
"See? Just cosplay," Hiroshi murmured, smug as a cat. "Relax."
Relax? Sweat prickled my temples. My brain muttered the same three cursed syllables: Kaoru… Kaoru… Kaoru…
The room dimmed. The roar folded into a hush—and then he stepped into the light.
Kaoru. Hair tied back with careless perfection, a vest that fit exactly where it should, a smirk that felt like a blade. The spotlight found him and my drink wobbled like the floor had shifted. My knees almost betrayed me.
The opening verse slid out, soft and dangerous:
"君の影 (kimi no kage)…まだ離れない…
Your shadow… still clings to me tonight."
His presence replayed last night in public: slow, deliberate, intimate—fingers tracing air where only my skin remembered. His eyes swept the room and landed directly on me.
I dug my fingertips into the table. This is illegal. Someone call the authorities. Stop this.
Hiroshi, impossibly calm, murmured: "It's art, little brother. Performance."
Performance? This felt like a public execution.
Rei—the stage CEO in black—slammed a prop desk. The Desk Slam scene: the perfect trap. "Didn't I tell you? You belong to me, not to this company."
Ren stumbled, glasses teetering; the audience gasped. I wanted to die, to burrow into the floor and become part of the lacquer, to be mistaken for a dish. Hiroshi laughed—too bright, too pleased. "Classic," he said.
Then the Tie Grab. Ren tried to flee; Rei's gloved hand snatched him back. "No escape. You're already in my shape." I clenched my teeth. This was not in my life plan.
The Wedding Contract scene followed: the flourish, the confession, the contract torn under spotlights. The crowd roared. I hissed inside, Why in front of food? as if the universe owed me better than theatrical humiliation with a side of salmon.
For one reckless breath I told myself I was safe. I lied. The bottom role moved forward—not a stranger, not an understudy.
It was him...h..how ?! Do I stumble where he goes or..he ?
Kaoru..that same Kaoru Nishimi ! how the fuck the fate ended up trembling me up with him ??
Blue lights painted his face. A vest hugged all the right curves; his shirt was undone exactly where it would make a room combust. Glasses slid down his nose like a tease. He moved in a rhythm my memory recognized too well—hip tilt, shoulder roll, the small pause that used to be mine.
What the hell is wrong with me? I thought, frozen, furious and shaking.
My knuckles whitened on the table. My drink trembled and spilled. My dignity disappeared like smoke.
Hiroshi clapped my shoulder, satisfied. "Well? Surviving this yet?"
Surviving? My voice had abandoned me. My stomach did somersaults. He was staging my night into a public spectacle—and enjoying every second.
The chorus hit. Dancers circled and spun, bodies flashed in the spotlights. Kaoru prowled the stage like a predator; every staged touch was a memory played out for an audience. My lungs wanted to pack up and go home.
Then the bridge—worse than everything. Kaoru slid to the edge of the stage, fingers tracing his torso in a pattern that detonated parts of me I'd sworn sealed. He sang low. The lyrics landed like private missiles. My knees gave. Breath came short. I could not think, speak, or flee. I could only sink deeper into humiliating heat.
Hiroshi whooped. Emiko—soft, polished, utterly unaware—laughed at his side. The crowd screamed and waved glowsticks like a tide. Me? I mentally drafted lawsuits, revenge plots, and a ten-point plan to rebrand the mall so this song would be forever sterilized from existence.
The final chorus was catastrophic: confetti cannons thundered, red petals fell like stage blood, dancers climbed props, Kaoru raised the mic in triumph. Spotlights blinded. The audience lost its mind as if I were required prop.
Kaoru's bow cut across the chaos and landed dead on me. His smirk was personal. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Lights dimmed. The screaming faded to the usual hum of conversation. Hiroshi casually reached for a slice of salmon as if we'd just watched a garden party.
I was a corpse. My soul hovered above Tokyo watching my own rigid body. My hands shook; chopsticks clattered against porcelain. My chest felt as though I had run a marathon with no warm-up.
Emiko chirped, bright and oblivious: "That was fun, right, Hiroshima-kun?"
Fun? Fun? Somebody arrest this joy. Somebody bury me in a trench of dignity.
Hiroshi's grin widened like a prize revealed. "I'd say my little brother is… in shape."
I slammed my forehead on the table and made a sound that was probably not human.
He leaned in then, conspiratorial, eyes dancing. "That scene—Eternal Contract Wedding, right? The CEO who corners the intern in every damn room? Conference table, rooftop, altar… total classic."
"Shut. Up." My response came out thin and strangled.
He laughed, too pleased. "You watch reels at 2 a.m. Admit it."
"No—" I slapped the table to nail the lie. "I do not! That was market research. For the mall. Aesthetic references only. Genuine business."
Hiroshi snorted. "Market research, sure. So you watch reels and—what—hate-scroll through edits at midnight?"
I glared. "And you—don't pretend you're innocent! Maybe you watch hentai at two in the morning too! We're even, right?"
He choked on his tea, offended and delighted at once. "What? Me? Please—my tastes are refined. I don't stoop to—"
"Oh please," I cut in, grinning despite the trauma. "You and your 'refined tastes'—you've been caught liking things with no plot at all. Admit it."
We snapped at each other like cats and rats—fast, petty, and completely unhelpful. The banter scrubbed the edge of my panic for a moment, turning my humiliation into a ridiculous shared joke between siblings.
The room calmed. Waitstaff resumed their choreographed routes. Couples leaned into each other under the dying glow of the stage smoke. Inside me, though, something smoldered: an ember that would not die.
I will rename my mall. I will erase that song from every playlist. I will redesign our signage until not a single mimeographed lyric remains.
I will never, ever recover.