“Seinaa~ I’m dying, it's so cold!”

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the surveying balcony of the Ha:Yami acting as a landing strip for any inbound thoughts; its runway emptied not by a sweeper, but from the December chill intent on warning away any warm bodies in search of respite and instead enticing them to stay downstairs where it remains such.

Today was another day set aside for tuition. Mari stood behind me, loitering at the top of the step down into the balcony’s open plaza. Her arms hugged her body; the warmth she was looking for wasn’t absent; she was simply too focused on the cold to notice it.

“Concentrate on the heat instead of the cold. It’ll help you feel better.” I instructed, and though she placed little stock in my words, she still followed them.

“Ah-huh, I’m so gonna freeze to death.” She continued, playing up this act of frostbite.

Her skin danced with a shimmer from the gentle electric glow of the white light above, and her shivering was the cherry on top. It painted her over with the overbearing colour of pity; she was the damsel in distress just moments before being saved from this place by her hero.

But the damsel put herself in this position, so what right to distress does she hold?

“No, you won’t.” I replied, discarding her exaggeration with little else to spare.

She let out a huff, the biting cold fading as she stepped down onto the balcony towards me. Resting her arms beside me, she blew a string of her black hair out of her eyes before joining me in staring out over the ward of Shinjuku.

“Obviously,” Mari began, a late response to my reply, “It’s still cold though.” She finished, stretching her neck to the side, the movement revealing that her hair was partially tied up into two small buns that each sat on the back of her head.

It was the same style as last week; A uniform hairstyle that matched her outfit. It was cute, her whole appearance still retained that tomboyish tone, yet in a very girly way. So nothing like a tomboy, really.

“Pretty.” She involuntarily muttered, her eyes darting around in front of her, “Shinjuku looks so peaceful up here.” She woefully continued, most likely lamenting the usual hustle and bustle that overloaded the ward.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t wrong. Shinjuku was pretty, even if it was only on a surface level; It was still pretty.

The Ha:Yami wasn’t a skyscraper by any means, yet it was still tall enough to peek over the clustered and vacuum-packed buildings nearby. Each one tightly wound and constricted by narrow paths, red avenues, and cutting streets; a showcase of Shinjuku’s civil compliance, no space wasted, and every location used.

Yet there were no civil or discivil servants to be seen, and if there were, they were invisible among the masses below that passed along like energy through a high-voltage transformer. They were the lifeblood of the city, but one cut power line, and their spilling surge would become the cancer to this body we call Tokyo.

This is why Shinjuku is necessary; a soothe to a sore. The distraction from worries of the mounting stress that can only be washed away by the flash flood of a shot glass no different to how a garbage pile is flushed downstream by the rushing river.

Thankfully, the moment you move your focus away from the fear of it all, it becomes easier to witness the love of its beauty. It's similar to how if your focus is on the cold, you’ll never be able to feel the warmth.

You have to ignore one, to have the other.

“Are you still cold?”

“Ah? Now that you mention it, I’m not!” She giggled for the both of us, her dark-brown eyes meeting mine for a passing second before returning to the view, “I guess you were right.”

However, if you neglect it for too long, it’ll kill you. Avoidance might lessen the symptoms, but it doesn’t cure them. The cold remains even if you feel the heat.

I know this well.

“We’ve spent enough time not working. Let's get on with it.” I suddenly began, causing Mari to swirl her head away from the view and towards me, a questioning glint in her eyes.

“Oh, will Kiyoshi get mad at us if we don’t?”

“You’ve met him. What do you think?” I asked, stepping away from the glass railing and moving closer to the centre of the balcony.

She loudly exhaled. Her actions were a performance flawlessly in sync with an idol’s stage work at a concert, “Uugh, please tell me we aren’t mixing more drinks. They always get on my hands and make them sticky.”

“Yes, that’s why you shouldn’t spill them.” I responded calmly, with only a slight teasing hint to my words. I was being purposefully hypocritical here; I had been in the same boat almost every time I mixed drinks, but she didn’t need to know that.

Mari pushed herself away from the railings, crossed her arms, and tilted her head to the side, “Thank you for your stellar advice, Teacher. I will engrave it on my heart and always abide by it!” She declared without even attempting to hide her sarcasm.

The balcony was devoid of all furniture, save for a few outdoor chairs and tables. Said items were made primarily of wood except for the black steel frame that held them all together; and on top of one of these tables was a tray that kept drawing Mari’s eyes.

It was a simple stainless steel tray. Two glasses, a clear whisky bottle, and an ice bucket lay on it. I had prepared them beforehand, and judging from her stare, she had finally noticed them.

It took her longer than I originally thought it would. The tray was the only thing of note up here. But I suppose a winter’s cold and a Tokyo view have always had the effect of stealing people’s attention, so who could blame her?

Rather undramatically, she pointed at the tray and simply asked in a flat tone, “What are we doing with that?”

“Practising.” Came my sole reply.

“Why are your answers always so vague, Seinaa~” She complained with a pout and a roll of her eyes, clearly overdone to prove her point.

I paused for a moment, before deciding to clarify myself to satisfy her curiosity. She’d need to know anyway, so being vague was moot. “I’m going to teach you how to be a showhorse-”

“Yes!” Mari suddenly cried, “We aren’t mixing. Life is good!” She continued her every action bubbly and played up for a camera that did not exist.

“Hmm,” I started speaking again now the interruption had faded, “I want you to begin with a demonstration, I’ll be the client, you’ll be the showhorse. You can ask me any questions before we begin.”

Mari had a basic understanding of how the Ha:Yami Club worked. I had been teaching her for the past week, so it’d be unthinkable to have not picked up anything during that time. Thus, all the functions of the three roles were known to her, and as she more-or-less had the skills of a drinks jockey refined to an edge, it was time to move on to another role.

Naturally, the next logical step was the showhorse. Her previous role had been completed to an exceptionally high standard, there were barely any mishaps after the first day, so I was hopeful she’d maintain this streak of talent.

“Cool, so I take the tray, and bring it back to you?” Mari asked, her eyes wide and gleaming, “Is there any method I should follow, or…” She dragged out the last word as she looked at me expectantly.

“Do whatever you feel is right.”

She nodded, still a tad unsure of how to approach this, but drawing closer to an answer as she gathered herself. The tray was taken into her hands as I took my seat and crossed my legs. She gave me a final look before she turned on the spot and hid herself behind the double doors to the balcony.

A second passed, and then another. My finger began tapping at the armrest of the chair; the sound acted as my stopwatch as I recorded her slow pace. Truthfully, it shouldn’t take this long to turn around and open a door. Either her nerves have suddenly sprouted and she’s trying to compose herself, or I had made a severe mistake in leaving this performance up to her intuition.

Of course, the instant I was about to open my mouth to prompt her to get going, she threw the doors wide and entered. Her timing was so coincidental I found myself wondering if I was at Hanako Hall and a director was about to hop out and shout:

Action.

She strolled over to me, graced, proficient, and accommodating. As if she’d done this a thousand times over; her walk was equal to a lady being chaperoned by a man above her station. There was no lust or desire; the sole emotion was one of service, and even that felt vastly out of place here.

“Greetings Master,” Her voice was filled with domestic eagerness as the tray was tenderly placed onto the table with both hands, “Would you prefer your whisky on the rocks or neat?” She finished by picking up the tongs and clanking them together twice with a wide smile.

“Why are you a maid?”

There was little else I could say. It was a baffling choice. I know I left the method up to her, but this… I mean, in what world is the Ha:Yami a place for maids? I’m not even able to fully put into words how abnormal this is; the only saving grace is that she didn’t go and put a maid outfit on, though I have a feeling she would have if given the time.

“Ahahaha, what?” Mari said, her head awkwardly tilting to the side as two emotions mixed in as one, “I’m not a maid...”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

It was a lie so poorly done that it might have well been the truth. It was the equivalent of pointing to the colour red and claiming it was blue. So evidently proven false that I can’t begin to comprehend the thought process behind it.

“Ah, I’m sorry. It made sense in my head.” She quickly abandoned her lie, falling back on the familiar truth that suited her far better.

I let out a sigh. I understood Mari was rather… unconventional when it came to matters of the head. Nevertheless, it felt like she was pushing that even further than usual. She didn’t feel as if she were a real person, and I’m aware she’s an idol, or one in the making at the very least. So some things could be excused, but even then, this was excessive. If this is an idol’s act, why is she so stuck within it that she’s doing it all the time?

“Try again.” I ordered, and she jumped into action, taking the tray and slipping behind the double doors once more.

She was out and strutting towards me faster this time. No near-endless stalling to get into some idol’s act of a maid. I’m sure it’d sell well if she were to do the routine on a stage, considering the type of people who care about idols are usually those who find the idea of a maid cute or adorable. After all, if maid cafés weren’t so popular, then I wouldn’t have seen one in Akihabara.

Still, that hardly mattered here. Especially as her form was no more improved than last time. I couldn’t say it was worse, but there was no allure, no confidence, she didn’t tempt desire, or encourage spending, and there wasn’t a trace of a trophy to be seen in her.

All she was, and all she displayed herself as was a woman. Not an idol, or a hostess, but a girl trying to be something she’s not.

It made me pity her, but she’s put herself in this position, and I’m the one who has to teach her.

So teach her I will.

“Arms back, push your chest out. Straighten your back, lift your chin. Walk slower as if you don’t have anywhere to be, and place a hand on your hip to draw attention to your waist. Flash a teasing smile, too; it’ll help tie it all together.” I called out as she walked, watching as she rearranged limbs, posture, motion, and emotion.

At the bare minimum, it was an improvement. Was it by a lot? No, not really, but she was on the right track, so I turned her around and sent her to try again.

And more progress was made, a movement refined, reforged and repeated. Then she was turned around again and given another attempt. This time her face came pre-made, a testing smile encouraging not spending but teasing. It was another advancement, so she was told to go a third time, and then a fourth soon after came the fifth, and by the sixth. We had reached the limit of what she could enhance via repetition.

“How are you feeling?” I prompted. Her face held a rosy tint, and droplets of sweat were hidden behind her fringe. This wasn’t just physical exhaustion, but mental; Mari was truly putting her all into this.

“I- I can keep going.” She stammered the words out of her mouth, tripping over the vocal inflexions as she did. Her mind had rallied so thoroughly to learn my teachings, that it was balancing on the knife’s edge of crashing.

However, even with all this teaching, she was still lacking. This was about our limit for today; having her continue to run around repeating this would earn no more results. But I don’t want to leave her aimless, she needs something to strive towards, to steal inspiration from. So, with that in mind, I suppose it's time for me to lead by example to chart the path she should follow.

The showcase of a hostess.

“Swap places with me,” I spoke hastily, and she obliged, trading her tray for my seat. Our roles reversed without delay, “I’ll be the hostess, and you’ll be the client.”

“Ah-huh, I’m ready.” Mari replied with zero understanding that her role was not the one that required preparation, but she prepared all the same. The change of positions acted as nutrients to her brain, rejuvenating her and forcing a small part of her exhaustion to bed.

I vanished behind the door. The familiar feeling of a hostess overtook my body. I wasn’t Seina- No, I never would be again. But I was close, hovering on this event horizon, the pit of the void that lays half-filled within me, where two is now one.

It didn’t last long. The feeling came and went like a summer’s breeze. Soon after, it turned to autumn, and leaves took flight and sailed across homes with no runway in sight, yet they were unable to stop till winter arrived and forced them down with heavy snow and hopeful chances.

And so it arrived, as expected as it always was.

The change of myself. Not from anything to anyone, never now or tomorrow. I am Seina, the same as I was, but I am also an actress, and this actress is playing a hostess.

The door weighed no less than a hair. It parted with a warm gale, unable to offer even the barest of resistance. A barrier of paper senselessly designed to hold back the river, it disintegrated as human will to a goddess; the chance of disobedience futile since the beginning.

There was no spotlight to illuminate my form, yet it shined regardless. The ground beneath my feet transformed into a model’s runway the instant I appeared on it, my motions smoothed, no waste of movement as allure became the bedrock to support this statue of perfection.

Desire came and went as a tick in a check box. Already agreed upon before anything else, the men in the meeting room confirmed it with instinct; there was no need to discuss it. This was the default option.

Confidence was seemingly absent, but that’s because it has to be. Because once noticed it becomes arrogance, and arrogance is a ward unnecessary among the prey looking to tempt the predator into foolish actions of donated wealth.

The finale arrives as a trophy. A hostess's posture is refined, her chest thrust forwards, her back straightened as a pole, all to display her body as if it were the artwork in a museum of one piece. Covetous greed; that need to control, to exhibit, to find comfort in the idea of their superiority.

Because they believe the trophy is only given to the winner, and of course, they have to be the winner.

“Hey,” My words were a purr, a tempting trap of honey to the bear, and Mari was lost within the maze of my eyes before she had even realised there was a maze to get lost in.

She never stood a chance.

“Is this seat taken?” It was a casual statement. An opening so commonly used no matter who you were. But from a hostess, it carried an implication, one that didn’t need to be stated to be understood.

She didn’t offer the seat. She should have, but she didn’t. So I didn’t take it, instead, my eyes locked with hers, the tray was placed on the table between us, and I poured a glass of whisky. It was a vile, bitter-tasting drink. Whisky has always been a man’s drink in my mind, and I’ve never enjoyed the taste.

Nevertheless, I was used to this poison, even if it wasn’t the type most familiar to me. I took a sip, bringing the glass up to my lips, then with repeated mimicry, I pressed the same glass to her lips, and while she accepted it eagerly, the moment the whisky hit her tongue, she coughed and spat it out.

She was a woman, after all, and women clients are so different from men, a tad more entitled, and perhaps a little too obsessed with the colour red and authoritarian creativity.

Though, that final bit only applies to one woman.

Mari pushed the drink away from me, her face covered in a red blush as she hurriedly tried to get rid of the taste of the whisky, another cough, and another failed attempt at composure, and she spoke, “In-indire-ect kiss!?”

The words were said with a stutter as her blush deepened. I felt stunned, my brows furrowed, and my confusion grew as Mari appeared to slip back into her make-believe idol’s act.

“Are you okay?” I asked, returning the glass to its tray. That seemed to calm her down, though not by much; it was enough to get her brain working.

“Ahahaha, what? I’m fine, that was a normal reaction-” Mari paused, realising that her lies weren’t even believable to herself. She had consistently proven herself to be one of the worst liars I have ever seen, and her personality looked as if it was on the edge of sincerity, one inch away from cracking.

So then it cracked.

“I’m sorry, I’m not very good at talking to people.” She began, the sudden admission causing me to recoil, yet also falling completely in line with what I expected. “I used to be a hikikomori… you- you know what that is?”

I did. It’s a term that has been thrown around quite a bit online and on the news. A hikikomori describes someone in extreme isolation, a type of social withdrawal where all they do every day is hide up in their rooms, usually watching anime, reading manga, or playing games. It's a cultural phenomenon that often affects the younger generations. They end up afraid of the world and find comfort in their bedrooms, living off their parents even as they age into adulthood; the judgement they receive ends up further fueling their loneliness as they bar themselves off from others.

It's a trapped cycle that perpetuates itself more and more as they remain within it. After all, it becomes pointless to interact with the world as the creeping realisation seeps in that you’ve already wasted your best years, and everything after that will end up worse.

So for Mari to have broken out of the cycle was something to be praised, even if she’s ended up as strange as she is.

I nodded and answered. My words came out kindly, and a small trace of her tension eased from her body at the sound of them as she carried on. “You do? Ah, that makes this easier…”

She spent another second thinking her words through, then began, “I- I was bullied in middle school.” The sentence was spoken with such a haste the words almost took flight, “It wasn’t nice, b-but I tried to be nice to them. I hoped that if I was nice, they would one day change their minds and stop. But people were never kind to me. My niceness didn’t make a difference to them.”

We were both seated now, Mari slowly putting together the puzzle pieces that built up the person she is, all that made her this way, and all that defined her.

“My parents complained, but without proof, the school wouldn’t do anything.” She continued, and there was little else for me to do but listen, “Ahahaha, it's dumb, but I stopped going to school because of it. It was easier to be a shut-in and lock myself in my room with my manga and anime… Y’know, it was safer in my room, and I found myself happier there than anywhere else.”

She scratched her head and turned to the side, clearly embarrassed or perhaps fearful of judgement after providing this explanation.

“I grew up in that room. The anime I watched was like my window into the outside world. Looking back on it, I know it’s kinda weird, but those characters were the only people I saw other than my parents, obviously.” Another pause as she took a moment to gather herself. This was a topic that was always going to hurt a bit, “It kinda messed up my perspective…”

A soft pop sounded out from down on the street below as a series of cone-shaped party poppers were pulled and let loose for a celebration we weren’t privy to. It caused a stall in our conversation, granting Mari the breathing space she needed to change the gears and switch towards a road bound for brighter pastures.

“But I’m cured now!” Mari announced, her voice certain of herself, little doubt or half-heartedness to be found anywhere.

“I read this really cool idol manga, the characters, the trials they went through- oh, and the songs and friendships. It was so good, it’s why I want to become an idol! To found S7M: Rollover!” She finished, declaring her group’s name with all the usual bravado.

And that explained it. Her strange personality that felt as if it saddled the borderline between an idol’s act and the act of fantasy. It was why she spoke as if her every action was animated and showcased, and why she wanted to be an idol.

Her performance wasn’t just her interpretation of how an idol should act, but also how the ideal person should act.

Because she never had any other example to follow.

“Thank you for trusting me.” I began, a hopefully warming smile on my face, “I know you’ll become an idol. You’d be good at it.” I finished; the same words he once said to me.

I think… I was proud of her?

For overcoming everything she has, for escaping her hospital bed of a room.

She was still painted over in that colour of pity, though it had faded with the heat. Maybe not quite the damsel in distress anymore, the hero unneeded as she’s already saved herself.

So who cares if the damsel put herself in that position, she’s already safe and on her way, the distress long cast into the fire and with no replacement in sight.

Yes… I am proud of her.