Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and settings are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The psychological concepts referenced in this story are for narrative purposes only and do not constitute professional mental health advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress, please reach out to a qualified professional.
This story opposes all illegal activities and violence. Nothing in this novel should be interpreted as endorsement or encouragement of unlawful behavior.
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Kanade woke to the smell of rust.
It took him three seconds to remember where he was. The ceiling paint had peeled in the shape of a map, the corner mold glowed deep brown in the morning light, and the air carried the scent of a towel forgotten in a drawer.
This was the second floor of a four-story apartment building in the southern wards. Last night he'd paid cash for a month's rent upfront. The landlady was a woman of few words — she'd taken one look at him and tossed him the keys.
Kanade lay in his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling. Then it hit him: today was his first day of work.
The realization launched him upright so fast his vision swam. The half-empty water bottle from yesterday left a metallic pipe taste in his mouth. The bread was a convenience store discount special — a little dry on the bite.
He chose the less wrinkled of his two shirts — light gray — and straightened his collar before a mirror cracked in a spiderweb pattern. The reflection showed heavier dark circles under his eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright.
"...Let's do this."
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Four PM in Ryusawa was a different world from the small hours of the morning.
The shops along the canal flickered to life. Izakaya doors swung open, releasing the clatter of spatulas. Street vendors appeared, and the air became a mixture of cooking oil and soy sauce. Kanade threaded through the crowd and found himself walking at the wrong speed. Hokusei's pace was unhurried; here, everyone moved like they were racing the clock.
The building that housed Starry Night looked even more decrepit in daylight. Several exterior tiles had fallen off. The ground floor was a defunct video rental shop, its metal shutter covered in graffiti. The second floor displayed a sign for "Tarot Fortune Telling," its window thick with dust.
Climbing the seventeen stairs, Kanade hit the twelfth step and heard an ominous creak. For a moment he was certain his foot would go straight through the wood.
The deep red wooden door stood ajar.
He pushed it open. The wind chime gave its familiar hollow greeting.
"...Oh."
That was the only word he managed.
Last night, under dim lighting, he hadn't seen the full picture. Now the afternoon sunlight flooded in through the canal-facing windows, exposing every flaw without mercy.
The deep red sofa set had velvet worn to a sheen, the cushions so sunken they'd clearly been crushed by countless nights. The ceiling chandelier was missing several crystals, and the remaining ones clinked softly in the draft, producing wind-chime sounds of their own. The stage floor had lost most of its paint, revealing aged wood grain underneath.
But what stunned Kanade most was the mirror behind the bar. Last night he'd thought it was covered in sticky notes and photos. Now he saw clearly: they were customer mood cards, colorful paper slips densely packed across the entire mirror surface — a riot of color.
"Seen enough?"
Ren's voice came from behind the bar. Today he wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, poring over a thick ledger.
"...Even more," Kanade searched for the right word, "character than I noticed last night."
"You mean 'dilapidated.'" Ren closed the ledger. "This club was the hottest host spot on this street twenty years ago. Now it's the oldest. My mother's era."
He gestured at the mood cards.
"Added those three years ago. Tried to give the place some character. Customers thought we'd switched to counseling instead."
Kanade opened his mouth to reply, but footsteps approached from behind, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic bag.
"Ren! I got discount pudding from the conbini —"
The voice cut off abruptly.
Kanade turned to see a milk-tea-colored head poking through the doorway. Its owner had wide doe eyes that locked onto Kanade's face for three seconds before erupting into a syllable that shook the entire club:
"Wow!"
A young man in an oversized hoodie burst inside, plastic bag still swinging. He looked no older than twenty, not particularly tall, with naturally wavy tips to his hair and pale skin that suggested he'd never seen sunlight. He charged right up to Kanade, close enough that Kanade could smell the faint milk candy scent on him.
"You're the guy from yesterday! Ren said a newbie was coming!" Every sentence from him seemed to end in an exclamation mark. "You're so handsome! Even more handsome than you looked from outside! I'm Kotaro! Kotaro Hoshino!"
"...Kanade Kujo." The energy wave caught him off guard. "Just Kanade is fine."
"Kanade!" Kotaro latched on immediately. "How old are you? Where are you from? What's your favorite color?"
"Enough." Ren's voice cut in. "Kotaro, put the pudding in the fridge, then go wipe the tables."
"Okaaay~" Kotaro drew out the syllable, but his feet didn't move. "Kanade, you wanna wipe tables with me later?"
"...Sure."
Kotaro dashed toward the kitchen.
Ren watched Kanade's expression, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"He's nineteen. Showed up three months ago wanting to apply. His reason was that he 'wanted to hug more people.' Hugs heal the heart, so he came here to practice. His exact words." Ren pulled a folder from under the bar. "Kotaro says the same thing to everyone. No secrets."
Kanade looked toward the kitchen. Kotaro was stuffing pudding into a battered refrigerator, humming an off-key tune.
"Two more people," Ren slid the folder across. "Tsubasa Ichinose and Yuri Tsukishiro. Tsubasa arrives at seven. Yuri's schedule is irregular. Fill this out first."
Inside the folder was an employment form, the paper yellowed with age.
"This paper..."
"From four years ago. Never got new ones." Ren stood. "I'm going out for coffee beans. When you're done, have Kotaro show you around."
"Wait, host clubs don't sell alcohol, they sell time. Drinks are just props."
The door closed. The wind chime dinged.
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Kotaro's "tour" was more physically demanding than Kanade had anticipated.
"This is the sofa area! Four sets total, the leftmost one has a broken spring, you'll sink right in, but some customers like that! This is the stage area! They used to dance here, not anymore! This is the bar! Ren makes amazing drinks, but he rarely does because ingredients are expensive! This is the kitchen! We have a microwave and a hot water kettle, and also this —"
Kotaro opened the refrigerator, revealing shelves packed with discount convenience store food.
"This is our food supply! Today's specials are pudding and rice balls! Kanade, you hungry?"
"Not really." Kanade's attention had been caught by something else. A handwritten shift schedule was posted on the kitchen wall, showing only three names: Ren Himuro, Kotaro Hoshino, and Tsubasa Ichinose. Yuri Tsukishiro's name appeared beside "irregular" in parentheses.
"...Only four people?"
"Used to be five!" Kotaro's voice came muffled from inside the fridge. "But Shin quit last month to get some certification. Before that, Hiro got poached for better pay. Now with you, Kanade, we're five again!"
He pressed a pudding cup into Kanade's hand, the plastic cold against his palm.
"Kanade, why'd you come here?"
Kanade looked down at the pudding.
"I... wanted a change of scenery."
"Change from where?"
"Up north."
Kotaro tilted his head, processing this answer. Then he smiled — a smile without a single impurity in it.
"Up north is nice! The bento boxes are better there! But it's warmer here," he spread his arms wide, "because everyone's here!"
Kanade had no idea how to respond to this kind of straightforward warmth. He peeled open the pudding lid, and caramel sweetness wafted up.
"Kotaro."
"Hmm?"
"When you said you wanted to hug more people — did you mean it?"
"Of course!" Kotaro's eyes lit up. "Hugs can reduce a person's stress hormones by twenty-three percent! I read that in a book! And..."
His voice dropped suddenly.
"And when I was little, nobody ever hugged me. So I know how lonely it is — not being hugged."
Kanade's pudding spoon halted mid-air.
Kotaro's smile didn't change, but Kanade felt it. The emotional frequency radiating from this young man was like a background track played at minimum volume — a sad song, masked by faster speech and bigger gestures.
"Kotaro."
"Hmm!"
"You can hug me."
Kotaro froze. Three seconds later, a warm body crashed into Kanade's chest with enough force to nearly knock him off the bar stool.
"Kanade smells nice!" Kotaro's voice was muffled against his shoulder. "Like laundry detergent!"
"...Discount brand from the convenience store."
Kanade held his hands stiffly in the air, unsure where to put them. His upbringing had not included a module on "being hugged by nineteen-year-old boys." But Kotaro's body was warm, his grip tight — tight enough that Kanade could feel the pressure against his ribcage.
Strangely, he didn't hate the feeling.
The door pushed open again.
"...I'm already regretting coming in today."
The voice was low and precise, each syllable enunciated like a news broadcaster. Kanade turned to see a tall man standing in the doorway. He wore a tailored dark suit, tie perfectly knotted, hair set in a flawless side part with styling gel. His features could have graced a magazine cover, but his expression suggested he'd smelled something unpleasant.
Kotaro lifted his head from Kanade's shoulder. "Tsubasa! This is Kanade! The new guy!"
Tsubasa Ichinose stepped inside, leather shoes silent against the carpet. He stopped two meters from Kanade and looked him up and down with the eyes of someone evaluating merchandise.
"Young master," he said, no question mark in his tone, "do you know what kind of place this is?"
Kanade felt the hostility radiating from him. This wasn't a misunderstanding — it was a deep-rooted rejection.
"I do. I'm here to work."
"Work?" Tsubasa's mouth twitched — not a smile. "Your type knows nothing about work. Those shoes of yours cost more than this place makes in a month."
Kanade looked down at his shoes. It was true, and he couldn't deny it.
"Tsubasa." Ren's voice came from the doorway, a bag of coffee beans in hand, his expression calm. "Don't bully the new hire on day one."
"I'm not bullying him." Tsubasa turned toward the changing room. "I'm stating facts."
His figure disappeared down the corridor, leaving a faint trail of cologne.
Kotaro whispered in Kanade's ear: "Tsubasa's a really good person! He just... doesn't like rich people."
"I noticed."
"And you're so handsome, he feels threatened!"
Kanade watched the direction Tsubasa had gone, then looked down at his shoes again. He was beginning to understand that in this world, everything he'd once been proud of had become a liability.
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The staff meeting began at six PM.
It took place in the innermost private room, a door bearing a plaque that read "Star." Inside was a round table with five chairs, one of which had leather so worn it exposed the foam underneath.
Ren sat at the head, a glass of water before him. Kanade was on his left, Kotaro squeezed in beside him. Tsubasa sat across, now changed into the club's work uniform — black shirt with a dark vest, collar unbuttoned one notch. Even the club uniform looked like haute couture on him.
"Everyone's here." Ren said.
"Yuri's not here yet." Kotaro pointed out.
"She said she's not coming." Ren pulled a sheet from his folder. "Today's topic: next month's revenue target."
He laid the paper on the table. Kanade leaned in. It showed a column of numbers, the bottom total circled in red.
"This number," Ren's voice held no inflection, "is last month's actual revenue. Down fifteen percent from the month before. Twenty percent the month before that."
Kanade looked at the figure. He'd studied financial analysis in Hokusei. This number was so small it would have been rounded out of existence on a Kyoshin Group report.
"Reasons." Ren said.
"No new customers." Tsubasa's voice was flat. "Regulars are coming less frequently. A competing club on this street ran a promotion last month — two-hour all-you-can-drink."
"We can't do that?" Kanade asked.
Tsubasa glanced at him, eyes telegraphing you really don't get it.
"We don't have drinks to offer all-you-can-drink. Even our cheapest inventory costs more per bottle than their retail price."
"Why?"
"Because our supplier cut us off three years ago." Ren said. "We're running on stockpiles and whatever we buy from convenience stores."
Kanade opened his mouth, then closed it.
This was worse than he'd expected. He'd thought Starry Night was merely a poorly managed old club. The reality was: this place wasn't being "managed" at all. No supply chain. No marketing. No customer acquisition strategy. It was a ship slowly sinking, and the people aboard were still pretending everything was fine.
"When was the last new customer?" he asked.
"Three months ago." Kotaro's voice had gone small. "It was a lost tourist. Came in asking for the bathroom, left after using it."
The room went quiet.
Kanade looked around. Ren's expression hadn't changed. Tsubasa stared at the tabletop. Kotaro's fingers twisted together.
Three months without a new customer.
What did that mean? It meant the club was surviving on the dwindling loyalty of a handful of regulars who would, inevitably, stop coming. It meant that without change, Starry Night would become another cautionary tale on a street full of closed storefronts.
"Anything else?" Ren asked.
Nobody spoke.
"Meeting adjourned."
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After the meeting, Kanade stayed in the room.
He stared at the revenue report on the table, his mind automatically running the numbers: declining trend, customer churn rate, fixed cost structure. In Hokusei's conference rooms, these had been cold abstractions. Now they represented Ren's twenty years of wiping glasses, Kotaro's discount pudding purchases, Tsubasa's impeccably pressed suits.
"Not leaving?"
Tsubasa's voice came from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
"Thinking."
"About how to save this place?" Tsubasa's tone carried a note of mockery. "Don't bother, young master. This isn't one of your charity projects. Once you've seen enough of how the other half lives, you'll go back to your mansion."
Kanade looked up.
"I don't have a mansion to go back to."
Tsubasa raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Also," Kanade stood, "I'm not here for charity. I'm here to work. You said this club hasn't had a new customer in three months. That's a fact. But you don't seem interested in changing it."
Something flickered in Tsubasa's eyes. He pocketed the cigarette and turned to leave.
"One month," he called down the corridor. "I give you one month before you quit."
His footsteps faded.
Kanade stood alone in the private room, neon light from outside seeping through the curtain gap to carve a thin red line across the table.
He thought of his father's words at the board meeting: "You know what this means." At the time, he'd thought he understood. Now he was only beginning to.
Not the difficulty of "giving everything up" — but the loneliness of "starting from zero."
Yet strangely, mixed into that loneliness was something unfamiliar. Like a seed buried in the crevice of rubble, not knowing whether it could sprout.
Kanade stepped out of the room and heard Kotaro humming in the kitchen, Ren's ledger pages turning behind the bar. These sounds were ordinary. Ordinary enough that he could almost pretend this was a normal workplace.
But no customers would come tonight. That fact sat in his stomach like a stone.
"Kanade!" Kotaro poked his head out from the kitchen. "Wanna learn how to make coffee? Ren says we need to know how when customers come!"
Kanade looked at that smile.
"...Sure."
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