Chapter 11: Sku
Sleep was a foreign country. Ren lay rigid in the borrowed bed in his room room, the neon glow from a ramen shop sign across the street painting slow arcs of pink and blue across the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again: the quick, dry pressure of Hikaru’s lips on his cheek. It wasn’t the kiss itself. It was the declaration that came with it. The knowledge, held so casually in her hands, that could unravel everything.
He kicked the duvet off. It was too warm. The silk pajamas Yuna insisted on—"Rena’s skin needs to breathe, even in private!"—slid against his skin like a stranger’s touch.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. 3:17 AM. The familiar, comforting void of online gaming called to him. He padded silently into the main living area, a space that looked less like an apartment and more like a magazine shoot about millennial anxiety. He booted up his custom-built PC, its rainbow LEDs cutting defiantly through the tasteful, minimalist gloom.
The headset was a welcome weight. The login screen a homecoming.
“Yo, Ren! Where you been, man? Your rank’s gonna tank.” It was Daichi, his voice crackling through the Discord channel.
“Stuff,” Ren grunted, his fingers already dancing across the mechanical keyboard, the clicks loud and satisfying in the quiet room. This was his voice. This movement, this precision. Not the hesitant shuffle in heels.
“Yeah, ‘stuff.’ You sound just like my ex. Hey, you see that idol group? C4? There’s this one new member, Rena. My sister’s obsessed. She’s, like, weirdly relatable or something.”
Ren’s character on screen stumbled. He fumbled a keybind. “Uh. No. Haven’t seen.”
Another friend, Koji, chimed in. “Oh my god, yes. Rena. She’s got this crazy green-eyed stare. Looks totally lost sometimes. It’s kinda hot.”
“Dude, she’s an idol. They’re all airbrushed to hell.”
“Nah, man, there’s a clip where she trips on mid session, goes bright red, and does this little bow. The internet melted. It’s the hottest thing I’ve seen all week.”
Ren felt a slow, creeping heat crawl up his neck and flood his face. He was grateful for the darkness of the room. He took a savage pleasure in headshotting Koji’s avatar in the game a moment later.
“Whoa, toxic! Why’d you frag me?”
“Your taste is bad,” Ren muttered, the ghost of his trash-talking persona rising. “And your positioning was worse. You were standing there like a starstruck fanboy.”
They played for another hour. The conversation drifted from idols to game meta to complaints about work. Every mention of ‘Rena’ was a small, private electric shock. They were talking about his hair, his (heavily made-up) eyes, his clumsiness. They were constructing a fantasy girl out of his profound discomfort, and they found her compelling. It was the most bizarre out-of-body experience of his life.
When the first grey light of dawn bled through the blinds, he signed off. His body ached with a weird, hybrid exhaustion—the tiredness from a sleepless night layered over the psychic fatigue of being dissected by his own friends.
He must have dozed on the couch. The next thing he knew, the smell of burning toast and expensive coffee yanked him back. Yuna stood over him, already dressed in a structural blouse that looked like origami. She held a phone two inches from his nose.
“Rise and shine, masterpiece. You’re trending.”
He blinked, groggy. The screen was a blur of kanji and glossy photos. One of the photos was of him probably after yesterday’s practice, a candid shot where he’d been mid-yawn, eyes slightly wet. The caption was something about ‘morning freshness.’
“What?”
“The ‘Upcoming Star Poll.’ Industry insiders, fan clubs. Rena,” she said, tapping the screen with a polished fingernail, “placed seventh. Seventh. As a debutante. Do you understand how much is that from just one day?” Her eyes were blazing with triumph. “The ‘clumsy, relatable’ angle is pure gold. They’re calling it ‘awkward charm.’ They want to protect it.”
Ren pushed himself upright, the silk pajamas twisting around his legs. He felt exposed, even here. The memory of Koji’s voice—“It’s kinda hot”—echoed in his head, mingling with Hikaru’s knowing smirk.
“They want to protect it?” he repeated, his voice rough with sleep.
“Yes. They think you’re a fragile, pure-hearted girl who needs encouragement.” Yuna’s smile was a sharp, brilliant thing. She scrolled, showing him more comments. ‘Rena-chan, do your best!’ ‘Her shyness is so real!’ ‘I want to see her smile more!’ “It’s a perfect narrative. We’re leaning into it. Hard.”
She finally put the phone down and handed him a plate of marginally charred toast. “So today, at practice, you be perfectly, painfully you. The you that trips over nothing. The you that forgets to smile. The you that looks at the other members like they’re speaking a different language. Just turn the volume up a little.”
Ren took the plate. The toast was a blackened rectangle. He felt similarly scorched. He was a construct, a character being optimized based on market feedback. His greatest failures—his discomfort, his alienation—were being packaged and sold as his most endearing traits.
And Hikaru knew. Hikaru knew the machine behind the curtain. She was out there somewhere, probably already awake, practicing a smile in her mirror, holding his secret like a live wire. Waiting to see what he’d do next.
He took a bite of the toast. It tasted like ashes and the bizarre, saccharine sweetness of his own rising fame.