Chapter 4: Car
The ghost costume hung forgotten on the rack. In its place, Yuna produced from her glittering closet an object of profound, frilly horror.
It was a maid outfit, but not the demure, traditional kind. This was a costume designed by someone who believed subtext was for cowards. The dress was a riot of black satin and white lace, the skirt a shocking bell of volume, layered with ruffles that seemed to defy gravity. The apron was stark white, trimmed with more lace, and she paired it with stockings that had a delicate, almost invisible clockwork pattern running up the sides. The shoes were block-heeled Mary Janes.
“Absolutely not,” Rena said, the word flat and final. He took a step back, his borrowed silk slippers whispering on the polished floor.
“The ghost look was for the concept photos. This is for the live audition tape. C4 has a gothic-maid aesthetic for their B-sides. It’s about contrast.” Yuna’s voice was that of a surgeon explaining a necessary amputation. “You’ll provide visual texture. Now, arms up.”
What followed was a clumsy, silent battle. The satin was cool and slippery. The waist cinched tighter than he expected, the boning in the bodice a foreign cage around his ribs. He felt the heavy weight of the skirt, the ridiculous swing of it as Yuna fastened the multitude of tiny hooks in the back. She stuffed his long hair under a headpiece—a lace-and-ribbon confection that pinned neatly into place. Finally, the shoes. He stood, feeling the unsteady lift of the heels, the world tilting a few centimeters into unfamiliarity.
Yuna grasped his shoulders and steered him towards the full-length mirror leaned against her neon-pink wall.
“Behold,” she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.
He looked.
And his brain simply… stuttered. The reflection was a total, devastating victory for Yuna. The makeup had been one thing—a mask. This was a transformation. The dress sculpted a shape that was undeniably, infuriatingly feminine. The line from the cinched waist to the flared hips, the way the stockings tapered his legs… The person in the mirror was a beautiful, sulky maid from some high-end anime café, all sharp green eyes and black silk.
A strange, hollow sound escaped him. It wasn’t a sob, not quite. It was the noise of ego dissolving. He was done. Truly, completely done. He’d been outmaneuvered, outfought, and now outfitted.
He stared, and felt his eyes grow hot. He let them. A single, perfect tear welled up and traced a path through the rose-gold blush on his cheek. It was, even in his despair, annoyingly aesthetic.
“I’m finished,” he whispered to his reflection. “I’m actually a girl now.” The statement was ridiculous, but in that moment, it felt terrifyingly factual.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” Yuna said, but she was grinning, her phone already up and capturing the moment—the tear, the devastated expression, the flawless outfit. “It’s just clothes. And you look cute. Devastatingly cute. Now, no more crying, you’ll ruin the setting spray. We’re late.”
The car ride was a blur of neon street signs and a profound, personal silence from the passenger seat. Rena sat stiffly, hands folded on the ruffled apron, staring out the window as Tokyo streamed by. Every bump in the road made the skirt rustle. Every glance at the darkened window showed him a pale, elegant ghost of a girl superimposed over the passing conbini and pachinko parlors.
Yuna hummed along to a C4 song on the radio, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Remember,” she said, as they pulled into a basement parking garage beneath a bland media building. “You’re Rena. You’re shy, a bit mysterious, my secret discovery. You don’t talk much. Just follow my lead.”
“I don’t talk much?” he echoed, the first words he’d spoken in twenty minutes. “A miracle.”
“See? You’re getting it.”
They got out. The garage was cold, smelling of concrete and exhaust. His heels clicked with a decisive, unfamiliar sound against the asphalt. The sound drew attention.
Near a service entrance, a group of three guys in their early twenties, likely junior staff or assistants for another studio, were taking a smoke break. Their conversation died mid-sentence.
Rena felt the weight of their stares like a physical pressure. He kept his eyes forward, following Yuna’s clicking heels, trying to shrink into himself. It was impossible. The dress was too loud.
One of the guys let out a low, appreciative whistle. It wasn’t malicious, just crude, automatic.
“Whoa, check out the new talent,” another muttered.
“Hey, sweetheart! You with C4? Need someone to carry your bag?” The first one called out, a lazy grin in his voice.
The words were like stones hitting him. ‘Sweetheart.’ He felt a jolt of something—anger, shame, a bizarre species of stage fright—clench in his stomach. His face, already made-up, burned hotter. He knew, with crystal clarity, that they weren’t seeing a man in a dress. They were seeing exactly what Yuna had intended: a cute girl.
Yuna didn’t break stride. She simply turned her head, her sharp bob swinging, and fixed the group with a smile so cold it could have frozen the puddles of oil on the ground. “Eyes on your own work, boys.” Her voice carried a dismissive, professional chill that silenced them instantly.
She didn’t speed up or slow down. She created a bubble of unassailable authority, and Rena clung to its periphery, his heart hammering against the boned bodice. The clicking of their heels echoed in the suddenly quiet garage.
They reached an elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in sterile, fluorescent light. Only then did Rena let out a shuddering breath, leaning back against the wall.
“See?” Yuna said, checking her reflection in the metallic doors. “Nothing to it. You passed the field test. You’re convincing.”
“They called me ‘sweetheart,’” Rena said, the word tasting foul.
“And?” Yuna glanced at him, a glint in her eye. “You are sweet. And you look like a heart. A very profitable, trendable heart. Now, game face. Or rather, idol face. We’re here.”
The elevator dinged. The doors opened onto a corridor of polished linoleum and the distant, thumping bassline of pop music.
A man was waiting for them. He was in his late thirties, with a sharp, sleepless look and a wireless headset tucked over one ear. He wore a black sweater and jeans, his eyes scanning a clipboard. This was Akira, the producer. His gaze lifted as they approached, sliding past Yuna and locking onto Rena.
The assessment was instant, professional, and total. Rena watched as Akira’s previously harried expression shifted, smoothed over by a spark of genuine, calculative interest. His eyes traced the line of the maid dress, the fall of the fake-hair, the made-up face.
“Yuna,” Akira said, but his attention was only half on her. “This is your emergency fill-in?”
“Akira, this is Rena,” Yuna said, placing a proprietorial hand on Rena’s shoulder. “She’s a bit nervous. Doesn’t say much. But she’s a perfect visual fit, and she learns fast.”
Akira stepped closer. Rena fought the urge to step back. The producer’s gaze was uncomfortably thorough. “Look up at me,” he said, his voice softer now.
Rena, remembering Yuna’s ‘shy’ directive, lifted his gaze slowly through the fake lashes, letting it meet Akira’s for a second before flitting away to the safety of the floor.
Akira made a satisfied, humming sound in the back of his throat. “The face is extraordinary. And you found this just… around?” He sounded pleasantly skeptical.
“I have a good eye,” Yuna said smoothly. “Is the studio ready? We should run her through the basic choreo for ‘Pixel Heart’ before the others arrive. See if she can keep up.”
“Of course.” Akira finally looked at Yuna, then back at Rena, that interested glint still there. “Right this way, Rena-chan. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He turned, leading them down the hallway toward the source of the music. The bass grew louder, vibrating up through the floor and into the soles of Rena’s ridiculous shoes. Each step felt heavier than the last. The producer’s lingering look, the echo of the garage whistle, the constricting embrace of the costume—it all coalesced into a single, screaming reality in his mind.
He was here. There was no turning back. The door to the studio, when Akira pushed it open, blazed with light. And from within, he could already hear the chattering, laughing voices of three other girls.