Chapter 3: S
Ten minutes.
That’s how long it took for the digital silence to become a physical scream. Ten minutes of frantic phone-toggling, router-resetting, and one pathetic attempt to hijack the neighbor’s WiFi that failed because Ren, in his years of mooching, had never bothered to learn which neighbor was which. The red ‘X’ glared from every screen, a unanimous verdict. He was a phantom in the system, ghosted by his own infrastructure.
With the morale of a defeated general, he unlocked his door and shuffled out. His hand was already up, palm out, in a gesture of weary surrender before he even saw her.
Yuna was waiting in the gaming den. She hadn’t moved, it seemed. She was perched on the edge of his racing chair, scrolling calmly through her phone, one leg crossed over the other. The neon IDOL MODE sign painted her platinum bob in strips of lurid color.
She looked up. Her expression was one of pleasant expectation, as if he’d simply gone to fetch a soda.
“Signal’s pretty weak in here, isn’t it?” she said, her voice all innocent concern.
“Cut the crap, Yuna.” His own voice was flat, drained. “Turn it back on.”
“Turn what on?” She blinked, a picture of confusion. Then she smiled. It was a sunny, terrible thing. “Oh, the WiFi! We can discuss that. After.”
Ren opened his mouth to argue, to snarl, but the emptiness of his offline PC was a weight in his gut. He deflated, his raised hand slumping to his side. “Fine. Whatever. Just… do your worst.”
In a flash of silk and expensive perfume, she was on him. She didn’t just hug him; she launched herself, wrapping her arms around his neck with a force that nearly toppled them both. “I knew you’d see reason! This is going to be iconic! You’re going to thank me, I promise!”
He stood stiffly, arms at his sides, face a mask of profound annoyance as she squeezed him. “Unhand me, you maniac. And my gratitude is permanently offline.”
She released him, clasping her hands together. “To the studio! No time to waste. The algorithm waits for no one.”
The studio felt different this time. Less like a museum of madness, more like a operating theater. The ring light was on, casting a sterile, shadowless brilliance onto a stool placed in the center of the room. Yuna guided him to it with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sit. Don’t touch your face.”
He sat, shoulders hunched. She wheeled over a towering, surgical-looking trolley layered with trays of cosmetics. The air grew thick with the chalky scent of powder, the waxy smell of lipsticks, and the sharp, clean odor of alcohol wipes.
“First, a clean canvas,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Cold liquid cleanser soaked into a cotton pad, swiping over his forehead, cheeks, jaw. He grimaced at the temperature and the intimacy of it. Her touch was businesslike, efficient. Then came a primer, smoothed over his skin with her fingertips. It felt like vanishing.
“You know, in some cultures, this is considered torture,” Ren muttered, staring fixedly at a poster of a severe-looking model wearing what appeared to be live electrical wires.
“In all cultures, this is considered a skincare routine. Hold still.” A sponge dabbed at his face, applying a foundation that matched his skin tone with unnerving accuracy. She worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft taps of brushes against ceramic palettes. Then, contour. Dark shades hollowed his cheeks, light ones highlighted his brow bone and the bridge of his nose. His androgynous features, already soft, began to shift under her hands—not erased, but redirected. Sharpened and softened in new places.
“You’re breathing too loud,” she said.
“I’m actively participating in my own humiliation, let me breathe.”
Eyes next. He squeezed them shut as she dusted his lids with something neutral. “Relax your eyelid. I’m not using a branding iron.” He forced them still. A pencil traced his lash line, a subtle elongation. Mascara. Each swipe felt like a tiny, tickling spider leg. He fought the urge to blink violently.
Then, lipstick. She chose a shade not quite pink, not quite peach—a “my lips but better” color that was somehow more unsettling than something garish. She applied it with a brush, outlining his cupid’s bow with precise, artist’s strokes.
Finally, she stepped back. She surveyed her work, head tilted. She picked up a wide, soft brush, dusted something shimmering across his cheekbones, and then gave a single, satisfied nod.
“Okay,” she said. Her voice had lost its theatrical edge. It was quiet, almost reverent. “Look.”
She took him by the shoulders—gently this time—and swiveled the stool towards the large, lit mirror mounted on the wall.
Ren looked.
A stranger looked back.
The person in the mirror had his eyes, his nose, his mouth, but they had been curated, composed. The subtle contouring made his face seem more delicate, more… intentional. His skin was flawless, poreless, glowing. His eyes, always his most striking feature, now looked larger, darker-lashed, luminous. The lip color made his mouth look softer, fuller. His long black hair, still tied back, now seemed less like a lazy habit and more like a deliberate style choice.
He wasn’t a man in makeup. He wasn’t even a man trying to look like a woman. He was just… beautiful. In a way that was entirely genderless and utterly devastating.
A hot, shameful flush crept up his neck, burning the edges of the foundation. The reflection blushed prettily. He saw the flush and felt a dizzying disconnect. The embarrassment was his, a raw, internal sear of protest. The visual result was a charming, demure pinkening of the cheeks.
He looked down, breaking the mirror’s hold.
“See?” Yuna whispered, triumphant. “The canvas was always there. I just removed the dust.”
“Shut up,” he mumbled, but it lacked force. He was still reeling.
“Now,” Yuna said, clapping her hands together, the moment of reverence over. “The persona. We need a name. Something catchy, but with depth. Marketable.”
She started pacing, ticking off names on her fingers. “Hikari? Too common. Aoi? Too blue. Riko? Cute, but maybe not the right vibe…” She glanced at him, a wicked gleam in her eye. “How about… Renko? A little play on your old name, a new twist.”
He glared at her. “That’s stupid. It sounds like a off-brand robot.”
“Mitsuki? No, too seasonal…”
“This is painful,” he groaned, putting his head in his hands, then immediately pulling them away, remembering the makeup.
“Yume? Maybe too abstract…”
He just wanted her to stop. He wanted to crawl back into his offline cave. The fastest way to end this, he reasoned, was to give her something she’d accept. Something that wouldn’t make him cringe every time he heard it. Something simple.
“Rena.” The word left his mouth before he could overthink it. It was just his name, minus one letter. A capitulation, but a small, private one. “Just… call me Rena. It’s close enough. It’s fine.”
Yuna stopped pacing. She looked at him, her sharp eyes widening a fraction. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, one that held less manipulation and something closer to real delight.
“Rena,” she repeated, testing the sound. It was soft, two syllables, unassuming. “Rena.” She nodded, once, decisively. “Perfect. It’s relatable. It’s authentic. It has a quiet elegance.” She beamed at him. “See? You’re a natural. You’ve already named your avatar.”
Ren—Rena—. He looked back at the mirror. The person there, flushed and elegant and named, stared back with his own green eyes, full of a quiet, building terror. The door to his old life hadn’t just been locked. It had been painted over, repurposed, and turned into the backdrop for a photoshoot. And the WiFi password was now the most valuable currency in the world.
Yuna was already tapping furiously on her phone, doubtless drafting a social media blueprint. “Rena it is. Welcome to the industry. Now, let’s talk about your first outfit. I’m thinking the ‘Bubblegum Punk.’ A trial by pastel fire.”, Or even Maid!"
Rena closed her eyes, but the afterimage of the reflection remained etched on the inside of his lids.