Chapter 22: Stars
The Kyoto air held a chill that Tokyo’s constant engine hum had always fought off. It seeped into the bones, carrying whispers of old wood and damp stone. The local affiliate, a relentlessly cheerful woman named Aiko, chattered about scheduled ‘ambient photoshoots’ and ‘cultural immersion content’ as their town car wound through narrow streets.
“Your resort is a very traditional ryokan,” Aiko explained. “It will provide a perfect, authentic backdrop. Very soothing for Suki-chan when she joins you!”
“When being the operative word,” Yuna murmured, her eyes scanning the passing laneways, already calculating angles and lighting.
The ryokan was a picture of serene oppression. Latticed wood, silent sand gardens, and the profound, hushed quiet that made every footstep feel like a transgression. At the discreet check-in, the manager, an elderly man with a bow so deep it seemed painful, presented two room keys.
“We have prepared the ‘Matsui’ suite for two, and the ‘Kiku’ suite for two,” he intoned.
Yuna plucked one key. “Mina, you’re with me. We’ll strategize content. Rena, Hikaru, you’re together. Try not to bicker where the patrons can hear.”
Ren’s head, still throbbing dully from the train, snapped up. “What? No. That’s—I can room with my—with Yuna.”
“Needs of the group,” Yuna said, her voice a velvet blade. “Mina needs direct guidance. You and Hikaru are our frontline investigators. It’s efficient.” Her gaze fixed on him, silently transmitting a command: Don’t you dare blow this.
Hikaru took the other key, her fingers brushing Ren’s as she did. A spark of something—static, or panic—jumped between them. “Scared?” she asked, her stage-bright smile not quite reaching her observant eyes.
“Of you? Please,” Ren scoffed, the ‘Rena’ voice slipping into a lower, more natural register for a split second. He covered it with a cough.
The ‘Kiku’ room was a masterpiece of minimalist tension. Tatami mats, two neatly laid futons a polite but undeniable meter apart, a low table, and a scroll painting of a lonely crane. The silence here was even deeper, broken only by the distant trickle of a garden stream.
Hikaru slid the paper door shut with a final shhhhk. The sound felt like a lock engaging.
“Home sweet home,” she said, dropping her bag gracefully. She began to unpack with methodical precision, placing skincare bottles in a neat line. “You know, for siblings, you and Yuna have a fascinating dynamic. More like a CEO and a disgruntled intern.”
Ren’s heart hammered against his ribs. He kept his back to her, unzipping his own weekend bag. “She’s just… driven. And I’m drive-adjacent.”
He peered into the bag. And his blood ran cold.
There was no trace of his own clothes. No comfortable hoodies, no soft sweatpants, not even his own underwear. Instead, folded with military precision, was an array of ‘Rena’ outfits. Lacy blouses, a pleated skirt, soft cashmere cardigans, floral-print pajamas, and inevitably, frill-trimmed undergarments. A note in Yuna’s precise handwriting lay on top: ‘Authenticity is a 24/7 commitment. -Y’
A wave of pure, undiluted horror washed over him. He was trapped. No off-hours. No return to Ren. For the duration of this misadventure, he was Rena. Completely.
“You good over there?” Hikaru’s voice cut through his spiraling dread. “You’ve been staring into that bag like it betrayed you.”
“It has,” he whispered, the words choked.
He needed air. He needed to not be in this perfumed, feminine prison. The phantom itch of the lace collar was already creeping up his neck. The only escape, however temporary, was the shower.
With stiff, robotic movements, he grabbed the innately girlish pajamas and a towel from the stack. “Shower,” he grunted, and fled for the ensuite bathroom.
It was a wet room of slate tiles and bamboo. He locked the door and leaned against it, shutting his eyes. The steam would help. The water would wash away the train sickness and the feeling of Yuna’s strings tangling around him. He stripped quickly, ignoring the delicate fabrics as they pooled on the floor, and stepped under the near-scalding spray.
For ten minutes, he was just Ren. A guy in a shower, muscles aching from being clenched for hours. He let the water pound the tension from his shoulders.
Then, the cold reality dripped back in. He had to put those clothes back on. He dried himself with a sigh that was almost a growl, wrapping the towel around his waist. He’d just have to make a quick, dignified dash to his futon and cover up.
He slid the bathroom door open, a plume of steam preceding him.
Hikaru was sitting on the edge of her futon, now changed into sleek black satin shorts and a camisole, her pink hair cascading down her back. She was examining her phone but looked up as he emerged.
Ren froze. The towel was secure, but it felt flimsy as rice paper. His hair, damp and jet black, clung to his shoulders and the nape of his neck. The room’s cool air hit his bare skin, and he saw her gaze track the motion of a single water droplet tracing the line of his collarbone.
There was a long, silent beat. The only sound was the distant drip-drip from the showerhead.
“Better?” Hikaru asked. Her voice was oddly neutral.
“Marginally.” He moved, a quick and awkward shuffle towards his own futon, where his bag—the treasonous bag—awaited.
“You have a tattoo,” she said.
He stopped. Shit. The small, pixelated 8-bit heart, a drunken pact with an online friend from his early streaming days, was just visible on his left hip, peeking above the towel. It was undeniably, irrevocably not something a pure, traditional idol would have.
“It’s… temporary,” he blurted out, the lie weak even to his own ears. “From a photo shoot. Stick-on.” He yanked the pajama top from his bag—a soft, rose-colored thing with tiny embroidered sparrows.
Hikaru hummed, a non-committal sound that held a universe of doubt. “Yuna picks interesting concepts.” She watched him clutch the clothes to his chest, his knuckles white. “You two really are a mystery. She packs your bag. She dictates your room. She looks at you like you’re a complicated piece of software she’s debugging.”
Ren stood there, trapped between the bathroom and the bed, half-naked and entirely exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the towel. The casual authority in her observation was more invasive than any direct question.
“It’s not like that,” he said, but the protest was hollow.
“Isn’t it?” Hikaru set her phone down. Her eyes, in the soft lamplight, were no longer the doe-like pools of the stage. They were sharp, analytical lenses. “You freak out over a bag of clothes. You have a gamer’s reflexes and a hidden tattoo. You trash-talk like a pro in Street Fighter but vomit at the slightest sway of a train.” She tilted her head. “Who are you, Rena? Really?”
The sound of his alias in that context, in that quiet, probing tone, was a shock to his system. He felt the ‘Ren’ inside him coil tightly, a defensive animal backed into a corner.
“I’m the person who’s going to find Suki,” he said finally, his voice dropping, all pretense of a cute, shy idol gone. It was flat, determined, and utterly masculine. “The rest is just… cosmetic.”
He saw it then—a flicker in Hikaru’s expression. Not shock, but a kind of satisfied confirmation. She had heard that raw tone before, in glimpses. She was collecting the pieces.
“Well,” she said, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Better put your cosmetics on then. We have a crane to find in the morning.” She lay back on her futon, turning away from him, granting a semblance of privacy.
Ren stood in the middle of the room, the chill finally reaching him. The walls of the beautiful, traditional room felt as thin as the paper of its doors. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that his most dangerous opponent on this rescue mission wasn’t Suki’s family, or the media, or even Kyoto itself.
It was the girl lying three feet away, who was patiently, cleverly, putting the puzzle of him together.