Knock. Knock. Knock-knock-knock.
The sound pierced through Yoichi's consciousness like a drill.
His eyes cracked open, brain foggy with the remnants of the first decent sleep he'd had in weeks. For a blissful moment, he thought he was back in his cramped Osaka apartment, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, the familiar sounds of the neighborhood floating through his window.
"Right," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. "The penthouse."
Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.
The knocking continued, more insistent this time. Yoichi rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.
"I'm coming," he grumbled, the words muffled against the cotton. "For fuck's sake."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, running a hand through his disheveled black hair. A quick glance down confirmed he was wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants riding low on his hips.
Whatever.
It wasn't like he was expecting visitors at—he squinted at the clock—12:17 PM.
The knocking started again just as he reached the door.
"I said I'm com—" The words died in his throat as he yanked the door open.
Standing in the hallway was the short-haired sister, her face bright with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Yoichi's brain, still half-asleep, took a second to process.
Not Yotsuba. No ribbon. That gleam in her eyes like a cat watching a mouse.
"Ichika," he said flatly.
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she looked up at him, her gaze traveling from his face down to his bare chest and abs. For a split second, her carefully crafted mask slipped, revealing genuine surprise.
The moment passed quickly. Her smile grew wider, more predatory.
"Good afternoon, sleepyhead!" She placed her hands on her hips, her head tilting to one side. "Did we sleep well? You know what they say about early birds getting worms."
Yoichi leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's the weekend. Some people like to sleep in."
"Some people didn't lose a bet," Ichika countered, her voice musical with suppressed laughter. She reached out and poked his chest with one manicured finger. "Don't look so gloomy. You're making me think you don't want to spend quality time with your favorite new sister."
"You're not my sister," Yoichi said automatically.
"Step-sister," she corrected, her smile never faltering. "Now, are you ready for your first task?"
Yoichi's stomach sank. "So that's really happening."
"Did you think I'd forget?" Ichika laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "A bet is a bet, Yoichi-kun. Your weekend belongs to me now."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "Can I at least get dressed first?"
"No time!" She grabbed his hand, her fingers curling around his. Her skin felt soft against his callused palm. "We have things to do, places to go, rooms to clean..."
"Wait, what was that last one?" Yoichi asked as she tugged him into the hallway.
"You'll see," Ichika sang, pulling him along.
Yoichi had no choice but to follow, his bare feet padding against the cool hardwood floor. His gaze drifted downward, taking in Ichika's outfit for the first time. She wore an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, revealing a smooth patch of skin. Below that...
His breath caught slightly. She wore a pair of black shorts so small and tight they barely qualified as clothing. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, toned and smooth.
Then the image of the sterile penthouse slammed back into his mind. This wasn't just a girl.
This was a Nakano. Part of his world.
These sisters aren't the enemy, he reminded himself. They didn't ask for this either. This isn't their fault.
It's his.
Maruo Nakano. The man who abandoned his mother. Who left them to struggle while he built himself a new family in a gleaming penthouse.
If he'd stayed... if Mom had access to even a fraction of this wealth... she might still be alive.
A soft hand touched his cheek, startling him back to reality. Ichika stood before him, her playful smile replaced with genuine curiosity.
"Hey. Where'd you go just now?" Her voice was softer than before. "You looked like you were a million miles away."
Yoichi blinked, forcing his mind back to the present. "Just not a morning person."
Her smile returned, though something in her eyes suggested she didn't quite believe him. "Good thing it's afternoon, then."
"Where is everyone else?" Yoichi asked, glancing around the empty hallway.
"Out living their lives," Ichika replied, waving her hand dismissively. "Yotsuba has track practice. Nino and Itsuki are shopping. Miku's still here, but she might as well be on another planet when she's in her room with those headphones on." Her smile turned mischievous.
"Which means we have the place mostly to ourselves."
She let the implication hang in the air, clearly enjoying the slight widening of Yoichi's eyes before she continued.
"For your first task!" She spun around dramatically and pushed open the door beside her. "Ta-da!"
Yoichi peered past her into what he assumed was her bedroom. What he saw made him physically recoil.
The room looked like a clothing store had exploded inside it. Clothes covered every available surface—draped over chairs, piled on the bed, strewn across the floor. Scripts and magazines formed precarious towers on her desk, surrounded by a graveyard of empty coffee cups and snack wrappers. A laptop sat open on the bed, balanced atop what appeared to be another pile of clothes.
"What... happened in here?" Yoichi asked, unable to keep the horror from his voice.
Ichika beamed at him, the picture of innocence. "This is my creative space!"
"It looks like a crime scene."
"Harsh," she pouted, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Well, guess what? Your first task is to clean it!"
Yoichi stared at her, his expression flat but his eyes conveying volumes of silent suffering. "You can't be serious."
"Dead serious," Ichika replied cheerfully. She reached up and patted his cheek. "Every inch of it. And I'm very particular about how my things are organized."
Yoichi stepped carefully into the room, surveying the chaos with growing dread. "This will take hours."
"Then you'd better get started." Ichika leaned against the doorframe, crossing her legs at the ankle. The movement drew his eyes back to those shorts. "Unless you want to forfeit our bet?"
"And what happens if I forfeit?" Yoichi asked, already knowing the answer.
"Then instead of serving me for the weekend, you'll serve me for the whole week." Her smile was sweet as honey and twice as dangerous. "Your choice."
Yoichi sighed deeply, resignation settling over him like a heavy cloak. "Where do you want me to start?"
"Hmm." Ichika tapped her chin thoughtfully. "The floor would be nice. I think I lost a script under those shirts by the window."
Yoichi bent to pick up a silky blouse from the floor. "Do you know what's clean and what's dirty?"
"Nope!" Ichika replied brightly. "That's part of the challenge. You'll have to use your judgment."
"Great," Yoichi muttered, tossing the blouse onto the bed. "And where do you want the clean clothes?"
"Hanging in the closet or folded in the drawers, obviously." She watched him with undisguised amusement. "Don't worry, they're labeled."
Yoichi moved toward the closet and pulled it open, revealing a space as chaotic as the rest of the room. Clothes hung haphazardly from hangers, some having fallen to collect in a pile at the bottom.
"Labeled?" He raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the mess.
"Theoretically labeled," Ichika amended. "There were labels at some point."
Yoichi pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is impossible."
"Not impossible," Ichika corrected. "Just extremely time-consuming." She pushed herself away from the doorframe. "I have some lines to practice for an audition. I'll leave you to it."
"Wait," Yoichi called as she turned to leave. "How will you know if I've done it right?"
Ichika looked back over her shoulder, a smile playing on her lips that sent a warning signal straight to Yoichi's brain.
"Oh, I'll inspect your work very thoroughly when you're done." She winked. "Consider this a test of your attention to detail. I'll be downstairs if you need me."
With that, she sauntered away, leaving Yoichi alone in the disaster zone that was her bedroom.
He stood motionless for a long moment, taking in the full scope of the task before him. Then, with a resigned sigh, he bent down and began picking up clothes from the floor.
"This woman," he muttered to himself, holding up a lacy bra with two fingers before hastily dropping it into what he decided would be the "definitely dirty" pile, "is the actual devil."
As he sorted through the chaos, he couldn't help but notice the small details that made up Ichika's life. Scripts for various roles—mostly supporting characters in TV dramas. Fashion magazines with pages marked by sticky notes. A well-worn copy of "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavski on her nightstand, the only clear space in the room.
Yoichi paused, holding a t-shirt with an unfamiliar drama logo. He glanced from the pile of scripts to the well-worn acting textbook on the nightstand. The only clean space in the entire room.
"Still doesn't excuse this disaster," he grumbled, turning back to the insurmountable task at hand.
From somewhere downstairs came the sound of Ichika's laughter, bright and carefree, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Yoichi glared at the ceiling. It was going to be a very long weekend.
===
Downstairs, Ichika settled onto the couch with her script, but her mind kept wandering back to the boy cleaning her room.
She hadn't expected him to be so... well-built. The loose clothes he'd worn yesterday had hidden a surprisingly defined physique. Not bulky like a bodybuilder, but lean and powerful, like a swimmer.
And those eyes. When he'd spaced out in the hallway, something dark and painful had flickered across his face. For a brief moment, his carefully constructed mask of indifference had slipped, revealing something raw underneath.
What happened to you, Yoichi Tanigawa? she wondered, idly flipping a page of her script without reading it.
She was an actress, after all. She recognized a performance when she saw one. And everything about Yoichi screamed that he was playing a role. It was a good act, convincing even.
But Ichika had spent years perfecting the art of becoming someone else.
She knew the signs.
A loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by muffled cursing.
Ichika smiled to herself. Perhaps this weekend would be more interesting than she'd anticipated.
"Let's see what you're made of, step-bro," she murmured, turning her attention back to her script.
"The real you, not the version you want us to see."