Chapter 8: Moment
The silence after the stream wasn’t peaceful. It was the thick, buzzing quiet of adrenaline slowly draining onto the studio floor. Ren—Rena—sat perfectly still at Station Three, the phantom glow of the victory screen still dancing behind his eyes. His fingers, which had flown across the keyboard with vicious intent, now lay limp on his lap, half-hidden by the frilly apron. Inside, a storm of disbelief raged. They’d liked it. They’d subscribed.
He just stared at the dark monitor, seeing only the reflection of a pretty girl in a stupid outfit, a girl who had utterly failed to destroy herself.
“My stomach is making negotiations,” Mina announced to the room, breaking the spell. She slumped over her vanity, her twintails drooping. “Really serious, rumbling negotiations. They’re not going well for me.”
“I could eat,” Suki said softly, straightening her sheet music without looking up.
Hikaru clapped her hands together once, the sound crisp. “A celebration! It’s mandatory. Our Rena-chan’s debut stream was a historic event. We must commemorate it with calories.” She turned her brilliant, stage-perfect smile toward Yuna, who was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a sculptor surveying her living masterpiece. “Yuna-sensei, you’ll release our new star to us, won’t you? We promise to feed her.”
Yuna’s sharp eyes cut from Hikaru to the motionless form of her brother. She saw the rigid line of his shoulders, the deadened look in his downcast eyes. Good. He was in shock. He was pliable. Her red lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only triumphant calculation.
“But of course,” Yuna purred. “She’s all yours. Just make sure she’s back by ten. We have a fitting tomorrow at dawn.” She pushed off the doorframe. “Rena, darling. Come with me. You can’t go out in… that.”
Ren moved mechanically, a marionette following its master’s strings. He trailed Yuna out of the neon lounge, down a quieter hallway lined with posters of smiling idol groups, into a small, cluttered dressing room that smelled of floral perfume and desperation.
Yuna shut the door and leaned against it. For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she burst out laughing, a sharp, genuine sound that echoed off the racks of sequined clothing.
“A hand grenade!” she wheezed, wiping a non-existent tear from her perfectly lined eye. “He called you a hand grenade! Oh, Ren, you magnificent disaster. You tried to blow it up, and you made it bigger.”
“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice returning to its natural, lower register now they were alone. He reached for the ties of the apron. “This was your fault. This whole thing.”
“My fault?” Yuna stepped forward and slapped his hands away from the knot. “I didn’t tell you to call a fan a ‘potato-brain.’ That was all you, brother dearest. And it was perfect.” She worked the apron off him and tossed it onto a chair. From a garment bag, she produced a new dress. “Here. Wear this.”
It was red. A deep, velvet red, with a high neckline, long sleeves, and a skirt that fell just above the knee. It was deceptively simple, until he felt the weight of the fabric. It was expensive. It was also, undeniably, a dress.
“No,” Ren said, taking a step back. “I’m going home. I’ll wear my own clothes.”
“Your ‘own clothes’ are a gray hoodie and sweatpants with a sauce stain,” Yuna said flatly. “You are now Rena, the breakout star of C4’s streaming division. You will look the part. Put it on, or I’ll call Mina and Hikaru in here to help you. I’m sure Hikaru would be especially helpful.”
The threat landed with precision. The memory of Hikaru’s whisper—gamer-kun—sent a fresh jolt of panic through him. He couldn’t give her more ammunition, more opportunities to pry. Grinding his teeth, he snatched the dress from her.
“Turn around.”
“Prude,” Yuna sang, but she turned to examine her flawless reflection in the mirror.
Changing was a series of small humiliations. The slip of the cool fabric over his skin, the strange sensation of the skirt brushing against his legs, the way the cut of it subtly emphasized a waist he didn’t really have. He felt exposed, hyper-aware of his own body in a way he never was in baggy clothes. When he was done, he stood there, arms stiff at his sides.
Yuna turned. Her critical gaze swept over him. She adjusted the collar, smoothed the shoulders. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated artistic satisfaction. “Yes. The color is fierce against your black hair. The cut gives you a silhouette. You look… volatile. Beautiful, but like you might bite. It’s exactly the brand we’re building.”
“I hate it,” he said, the words hollow.
“I know,” she said, smiling brightly. “That’s why it’s perfect. Now, go eat. Be sullen. Be quiet. Let them project whatever they want onto you. Just don’t pick a fight with the waiter.”
The restaurant was an izakaya a few blocks away, one frequented by industry folks who knew how to look the other way. The air was hazy with grill smoke and loud with the clatter of plates and overlapping conversations. They were led to a corner booth, semi-private.
Ren slid in first, wanting to be against the wall. The velvet of the dress caught on the vinyl seat. Mina and Suki sat across from him, and Hikaru, with a graceful slide, settled right beside him, her long pink hair brushing his shoulder. He inched toward the wall. There was nowhere to go.
“So!” Mina said, grabbing a menu. “Rena-chan! You were so cool and scary! Like a little gaming yokai! What’s your rank for real? You have to be, like, celestial or something.”
Ren stared at the laminated menu. “I don’t play ranked,” he lied, his voice carefully softened back into ‘Rena’s’ range. It sounded strained.
“Liar,” Hikaru said pleasantly, pouring herself a cup of barley tea. She didn’t look at him. “Your micro-control during the boss fight was top-tier. You play like someone with thousands of hours of salt in their veins.” She took a sip, then finally turned her head. Her doe eyes, up close, were sharp and knowing. “It’s fascinating.”
“I just got lucky,” he mumbled, focusing on the pictures of fried chicken.
The food arrived—plates of karaage, gyoza, edamame, a sizzling platter of beef tongue. As the others chattered about schedule conflicts and a new choreographer, Ren focused on eating. It was a safe activity. He could be quiet and eat.
But the dress was a constant distraction. Every time he reached for a plate, he felt the sleeve pull. When he leaned forward, he was conscious of the neckline. He felt like a neon sign blinking ‘FAKE’ in the cozy, masculine atmosphere of the izakaya.
Hikaru, meanwhile, was a study in casual torment. She “accidentally” bumped his knee with hers under the table. She asked him to pass the soy sauce, and when their fingers brushed, she didn’t pull away immediately. She’d comment on the food—“The karaage is good, but it’s a bit greasy, don’t you think?”—forcing him to nod or make a non-committal noise.
“You’re very quiet, Rena-chan,” Suki observed softly from across the table, a single edamame pod held delicately in her fingers.
“She’s tired,” Hikaru answered for him, her arm pressing against his as she reached for her tea. “Performing that kind of character takes a lot out of you. Wasn’t it exhausting, Rena-chan? Keeping up that ‘ice queen’ act?”
It was a trap. He could feel it. If he agreed, he admitted it was an act. If he disagreed, he had to explain himself. He shoved a gyoza in his mouth to buy time.
Mina saved him, unintentionally. “I thought it was super real! That’s what made it awesome! It wasn’t an act, Hikaru-chan, that’s just her! Right, Rena-chan?”
He chewed slowly, swallowing the dumpling and his pride. “…I guess.”
Hikaru’s smile could have cut glass. “I see.”
The meal wound down. As they were putting on their coats, Hikaru leaned in close, her voice a whisper meant only for his ear. The scent of peaches and izakaya smoke enveloped him.
“You want out so badly it’s pathetic,” she breathed, her words no longer playful. They were cool, analytical. “You tried to sabotage yourself on stream. A clumsy, obvious move. Amateur hour.”
Ren froze, his hand clenched around the sleeve of the lightweight coat Yuna had forced on him.
"Rena" straightened up, and the Hikaru was back, linking her arm with Mina’s.
He had no play. No strategy. For the first time, the god of gaming was completely, utterly out of his depth, and the only player offering to show him the rules was the one who had already called his bluff.