The thunder of applause still clung to the air like smoke. Petals drifted across the stage, catching in the sweat on my skin, sticking to the damp fabric of my vest. Lights dimmed, shadows stretched, and yet the heat of a thousand eyes refused to fade.
The fans screamed my name like it was salvation.
Kaoru. Kaoru. KAORU.
I tilted my chin, the corner of my mouth curving into a smile sharp enough to cut glass. They thought it belonged to them. They thought this dance, this song, this broken-breath confession of lust was theirs to devour.
But I wasn't looking at them.
Front table. Center. That's where he sat.
Hiroshima… or something close, I'd heard the name roll off his brother's tongue, that brother with energy too much like mine.
Now? His head was bowed, forehead pressed against the table as if the wood could split open and swallow him whole. Chopsticks trembled between his fingers, porcelain rattling as he tried to suffocate nerves with stillness. His glass of water was half-empty, condensation bleeding rings into the cloth. He clutched it like a lifeline.
How long had it been since that night? Not long enough. Not long enough to forget the way his lips had tasted like hesitation, like temptation dressed in cowardice. Not long enough to forgive the insult of his departure.
He stumbled into me like a moth to fire—wide-eyed, drunk on the heat of it—then slipped away before the embers could scar. Left me hanging between hunger and rage.
He made me a fool.
And no one makes me a fool. Not just because men line up to buy my smile every single night, but because I am more than the mask I sell. And he will know it soon. He needs to know whom he rejected—with or without realizing it.
So I rewrote tonight's performance.
Twisted the song until it was a dagger. Every verse, every beat sharpened and aimed at him...
The Song....
Spotlights cut red and gold across the stage.
The opening verse spilled from my lips:
"君の影 (kimi no kage) …まだ離れない
Your shadow… still clings to me tonight.
Whispered touch, your breath in mine,
I can't escape this fire, inside."
The dancers tore ties loose with sharp snaps, fabric brushing across their lips, before strutting forward. They slid chairs into place; I sprawled across one lazily, hand draped across the backrest, scanning the crowd like a hunter.
But my eyes only hunted one prey.
The pre-chorus hit, hips rolling against the mic stand. Fans shrieked like they'd combust.
"I'm lost in your shape,
(lost in your shape…)
You fit perfectly, in my arms, on my bed.
Pulled into your flame,
(pulled in your flame…)
Can't run away, you're under my skin."
Glowsticks slashed neon arcs across the crowd. Dancers shed jackets, shoulders bared, pressing close like heat-magnets. The chorus boomed:
"In your shape, in your shape!
Dare me, break me, take me tonight.
In your shape, in your shape!
You're the reason I'm burning alive."
Fans thought it was art. Performance. A tease.
But when I pulled a dancer close, hand gripping his waist, dragging his wrist across my chest—I didn't see him. I saw Hiroshima.
When I licked the rim of a glass before drinking deep, it was taunting Hiroshima.
When I tilted stage-wine down my chin, soaking my vest until it clung to my skin, it wasn't for the crowd. My eyes never left his.
And then came my hijack verse.
"触れた腰の熱さ (fureta koshi no atsusa) …逃げた夜の影
The heat of your waist… the shadow of that night you ran."
"Your pulse beneath my hand, racing like a crime,
Candles burned your skin, but you left me with nothing… not even a line."
Gasps rippled through the audience. Too raw. Too pointed.
I grabbed a dancer's waist, exactly as I had once grabbed his, grinding slow. And Hiroshima? He gripped the table edge so hard his knuckles whitened. Nails dug crescents into his palms. His face burned scarlet as if the spotlight had betrayed him.
Perfect..the knife landed right into the heart..of my pray..
The bridge whispered out, seductive:
"I'll rewrite the song, just for you.
Every lyric, every move…
You know it's true, don't hide—
You're already mine tonight."
I ran my hand down my chest, pausing at my waist, tugging the belt—the exact place my hand had owned him once. My smirk cut like sin.
The final chorus thundered back in, dancers climbing tables, the crowd exploding into frenzy, confetti cannons firing.
"In your shape, in your shape!
Dare me, break me, take me tonight…"
But Hiroshima? He was choking on air.
And I was the reason...how entertaining, isn't it ? when you're the reason of someone's uneasiness..?
Aftermath
The curtain fell. Lights bled softer. My crew gestured—bows, fan service, the routine.
I ignored it.
Because while Hiroshi nudged him with laughter, while the girl at their table giggled and praised me sweetly, while fans screamed for more, all I saw was the ghost at the table. The boy who had dared to touch me once, then fled.
And I do not allow ghosts.
I bowed perfunctorily—my gaze locked only on him.
Then I moved.
The crowd thought I was striding toward them. Phones raised, autographs ready. But no—my boots angled sharp, straight toward Hiroshima.
He stiffened before I reached him. His head snapped up, eyes wide, lips parted in panic..like I was the nightmare which dodnt let him sleep last night .
Beautiful. Fragile. Better than memory, because now he owed.
I leaned against the table, stage-wine dripping down my chest, glistening under faint light. My smirk was deliberate—sharp, mocking, intimate.
"Well," I purred, low enough for him, yet loud enough for the nearest tables. "Did you enjoy the show?"
His brother elbowed him with a laugh. "He definitely did. Look at his face!"
The girl giggled behind him hand shared with me , eyes sparkling , cheeks flushed "Kaoru-san, you were amazing."
Their voices were static. Irrelevant. My focus never left him.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came. His throat bobbed. Chopsticks bent beneath his grip. He wanted to vanish..that was clear
I leaned closer. The scent of sweat, wine, and stage-fire wrapped him. His pulse thundered.
"You look thirsty," I whispered, eyes flicking to his glass. "Should.. I pour you something . stronger?"
My voice was silk laced with sin, made to wound.
Fans screamed, cameras flashed. But this wasn't theirs. It was mine. His. Ours. Our unfinished business.
His lips parted. To speak? To curse? I didn't care. I leaned closer, reckless, ready to drag him into my fire, damn the witnesses.
And then—
He bolted.
The chair screeched back. Startled gasps. His brother called after him several times, no answer.
The girl asked, concerned , Little brother,? where are you going without a word ? "
But that stubborn fool didn't stopped .
Past servers. Past the back exit. Toward the rooftop.
The crowd laughed, thinking it part of the act. Fans clamored for me. My crew blinked, baffled.
And me?
I laughed.
Low. Slow. Shameless.
Because finally—he was running from me.
And nothing thrilled me more than knowing he had nowhere left to hide.
I whispered after him, words only mine to say:
"Run if you want. I'll catch you anyway. Shadows can't outrun fire."
Then I chased him. The crowd dissolved into smoke, their faces lost to silence and confusion—none of it mattered.
Because the real dance had only just begun.
And in the next breath… the stage itself would burn.