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 practiced his smile in the mirror.
It hung on the wall of the staff lounge, its frame rusted at the edges, a crack running diagonally across the glass that sliced straight through his left cheek. He tried curling the corners of his mouth upward. The reflection responded with something resembling facial paralysis.
"...That's not a smile. That's a neurological disorder," he told himself.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Kanade wiped his expression blank, turning just in time to nearly collide with the coat rack behind him. Today was Monday, the club's regular day off, but Ren had called a "meeting"—which meant Kanade would finally meet the legendary Yuri Tsukishiro.
He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
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Four people were already inside Private Room "Star."
Ren leaned against the corner, a pen spinning between his fingers. Kotaro sat cross-legged on the sofa, a freshly opened bag of cookies resting on his knees. Tsubasa occupied the farthest armchair, his suit jacket draped over the back, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing a forearm carved with sharp, precise lines. He was polishing a pair of glasses Kanade had never seen him wear.
The fourth person, Kanade had never seen before.
They lounged across the sofa arm, posture loose and unbounded, short hair sticking up in wild directions, an oversized denim jacket hanging off their shoulders, several silver chains looped around their neck. From this angle, Kanade couldn't determine their gender.
"Fresh meat's here," they said, voice low and lazily rough.
Kotaro sprang up. "Kanade! This is Yuri!"
"Skip the honorifics." Yuri waved a hand, gaze lingering on Kanade for exactly two seconds. "So you're the new blood who kept Tsubasa awake for three nights straight?"
Tsubasa's hands stilled.
"I wasn't awake." He shoved the glasses into his pocket, voice cold as a refrigerator interior. "I was resting with my eyes open."
"You sent a message at 3 AM complaining that 'that person's tie knot is an affront to civilization,'" Yuri said through a yawn. "If that's not insomnia, what is?"
Kanade instinctively touched his tie. He didn't know how to tie one. This one had been looped twice and stuffed into his shirt collar.
Ren's pen stopped mid-spin. "Sit."
Kanade chose the spot beside Kotaro. The sofa spring shrieked in protest.
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"Two items today." Ren's voice wasn't loud, but the room went silent anyway. "First, formal introduction of Kanade Kujo. Second, financial report."
The words "financial report" froze Kotaro's cookie halfway to his mouth.
Tsubasa fixed Kanade with a sharp look. "Before that, I want to confirm something."
"Go ahead."
"Why are you dressed like that for a meeting?" Tsubasa's eyes traveled from Kanade's tie to his shoes. "This isn't a board meeting, but it isn't a fish market either."
Kanade looked down at himself. Light gray shirt, black trousers—the most respectable outfit in his wardrobe.
"This is my only set of clothes."
"Lie." Tsubasa's smile was ice. "That shirt is a limited edition from Shirasagi Department Store—"
"Tsubasa." Ren's voice cut through the tension like a blade through taut wire. "Enough."
Tsubasa fell silent, but his eyes didn't retreat. He pulled a miniature nail clipper from his pocket and began trimming with surgical precision, each snip landing at exactly the same length.
"Tsubasa has OCD," Kotaro whispered in Kanade's ear. "And perfectionism. And probably several other diagnosable conditions. But his cookies are amazing!"
"I don't have OCD," Tsubasa said without looking up. "I simply can't tolerate mediocrity."
Kanade felt the words hit home. He opened his mouth to retort, but Kotaro pinched his thigh.
"Don't mind him," Kotaro's smile was bulletproof. "He treats everyone like that. Last week I wiped the counter against the wood grain, and he stared at me all night."
"Because you destroyed the table's grain pattern." Tsubasa finally looked up, eyes finding Kanade's. "This club is falling apart already. It doesn't need anyone accelerating its destruction."
Kanade's fingers tightened. The words stabbed straight into the self-doubt he'd been nursing for two days, precise and bleeding.
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"Look," Yuri's lazy voice sliced through the tension, "if you two want to wrestle, do it after hours. I'd like to get home before sunrise."
They slid off the sofa arm, crossing their legs on the cushion, pulling a cigarette pack from their jacket pocket and rolling it between their fingers without lighting it.
"Kanade Kujo, right?" Yuri's eyes met his, direct and judgment-free. "Ren told me. Rich kid from Hokusei, here to experience how the other half lives."
Kanade's spine turned to steel.
"But I don't care about that." The cigarette went back into the pocket. "I only care about one thing: can you play piano?"
"...What?"
"Piano." Yuri pointed toward the corner. "There's a broken one back there. Ren won't let anyone touch it. If you can play, maybe you can bring it back to life."
Kanade followed their finger. In the deepest shadows of the room, something stood beneath a dust cover, its silhouette barely visible.
"I don't—"
"He can't." Ren's voice interrupted. "Now isn't the time."
Kanade blinked. He could play piano, actually. Hadn't touched one in ten years, but still. Why had Ren said "now isn't the time"?
Ren's eyes swept over him, pale brown irises offering no explanation—only the unmistakable message: Shut up. We'll discuss this later.
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"Okay okay!" Kotaro clapped his hands loud enough to make everyone flinch. "Now that we're all acquainted, let's do the New Member Welcome Ceremony!"
"There is no such thing." Ren and Tsubasa spoke in unison.
"Of course there is!" Kotaro was already launching himself at Kanade, arms spread wide. "Kanade! Welcome to Starry Night! Group hug!"
"Wait—"
The embrace hit like a freight train of warmth and enthusiasm, the force nearly driving Kanade into the sofa cushions. The scent of milk candy enveloped him, along with a body temperature that ran several degrees too hot for a human being.
"Kotaro." Kanade's voice was muffled against a shoulder.
"Hmm?"
"I can't breathe."
"Oh! Sorry!" Kotaro released him but didn't retreat fully, staying close enough that Kanade could count his eyelashes. "Did you feel it? Your stress levels decreased by exactly twenty-three percent!"
"I felt twenty-three percent of my ribs crack."
Kotaro laughed, and it was the sound of a music box with its lid thrown open—completely unguarded, almost painfully bright. Kanade looked at that face and suddenly remembered.
"You said you came here because you wanted to hug more people."
"Yup!"
"But you also said nobody ever hugged you when you were little."
Kotaro's smile flickered. A fluorescent bulb with a loose wire, the dimming so slight you could almost miss it.
"That's exactly why I hug people," his voice softened. "So they don't have to feel... the way I did. So cold."
Kanade said nothing.
This nineteen-year-old boy prescribing hugs like medicine, treating others and himself with the same clumsy courage. It was the most awkward, bravest therapy Kanade had ever witnessed.
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"Enough." Ren set his pen on the table with a sharp click. "Financial report."
He pulled a single sheet from his folder and laid it in the center of the table.
The numbers were small. The red negative signs were enormous.
"This month's revenue," Ren's voice was steady as a weather report, "down forty percent year over year. Down fifteen percent from last month. Fixed expenses include rent, utilities, miscellaneous—"
"Ren," Kotaro's voice trembled, "can you just tell us the bottom line?"
Ren looked at him, something softening in his eyes for exactly one second.
"We have one month of operating funds left."
The room went quiet.
Not the quiet of shock—the quiet of people who already knew. Kanade studied each face: Tsubasa staring at his fingers, Kotaro biting his lip, Yuri studying the ceiling, Ren's expression carved from stone.
They'd known. This wasn't news. This was a countdown.
"How..." Kanade's voice caught in his throat.
"Repaired the refrigerator last month. Cost fifty thousand." Ren ticked off items like he was reading a shopping list. "Month before that, Tsubasa's uniform needed replacing—"
"I paid for that myself." Tsubasa cut in.
"I know." Ren nodded. "But everything costs money. We have no new customers. Regulars are coming less frequently. Tsubasa's best client moved to Osaka last week. Kotaro's reserved customer came in once this month."
"So... what do we do?" Kanade asked.
"That's why we're having this meeting." Ren looked at each person in turn. "There's another serious issue to address."
He flipped the folder over, revealing a sticky note on the back with five names written in neat characters:
Ren Himuro. Tsubasa Ichinose. Kotaro Hoshino. Yuri Tsukishiro. Kanade Kujo.
Each name followed by a percentage.
"Wait." Kanade's pupils contracted. "This is..."
"Equity structure." Tsubasa's voice had regained its clinical edge. "Ren, thirty-five percent. Me, twenty. Kotaro, fifteen. Yuri, ten."
"And the remaining twenty percent," Ren's eyes found Kanade's, "is reserved for the next full employee. That's you."
Kanade's mind went blank for five full seconds.
"You... all of you are shareholders?"
"Employee-owned." Yuri finally spoke, the laziness gone from their tone. "Ren's mother—the previous owner—set it up this way twenty years ago. Everyone who joins formally gets equity."
"So I'm not here applying for a job," Kanade's voice felt disconnected from his body, floating somewhere near the ceiling. "I'm here to become a business partner?"
"Not yet." Tsubasa said. "One-month probation. Pass the vote, you get the twenty percent."
"Vote?"
"Unanimous decision." Ren explained. "Four people. Three votes to approve, you stay. Three votes against, you leave."
Kanade looked at Kotaro. An emphatic nod, eyes screaming I'm voting yes, obviously.
He looked at Tsubasa. Tsubasa turned away, focusing on trimming nails that couldn't possibly get any shorter.
He looked at Yuri. A tilted head, a look that said show me what you've got.
He looked at Ren. Ren's face was unreadable, but in those pale brown eyes, something flickered that Kanade couldn't name.
"So," Kanade cleared his throat, "I don't just have to prove I can be a host. I have to prove I'm worthy of being a shareholder?"
"In simple terms," Ren nodded. "Yes."
Kanade leaned back against the sofa, feeling the sweat soaking through his shirt. One month of operating funds. A unanimous vote. Shareholder responsibilities.
He'd thought he was here for a temporary gig to keep food on the table. Reality had just slapped him hard across the face.
"Can I ask one question?"
"Ask."
"Why me?" Kanade looked at Ren. "You could have found anyone. Why give me this opportunity?"
Ren was silent for a long time. Long enough for the air conditioner's hum to become deafening.
"Because when you snapped that black card," Ren finally spoke, "you didn't hesitate."
Kanade's heart skipped a beat.
Tsubasa's nail clipper froze. Kotaro gasped. Yuri raised an eyebrow.
"How did you—"
"There are no secrets on this street." Ren's tone held no triumph, only fact. "The ATM camera caught it. The security guard knows me."
Kanade's fingers drifted to his wallet, touching the fabric that hid the two halves inside. The broken black card. A wound that hadn't started healing.
"But I'm not doing this out of sympathy for your grand gesture." Ren stood up. "Here, only results matter. You have three weeks."
"I thought it was one month?"
"One month is when the operating funds run out." Ren walked toward the door. "That's not the same as time you can afford to waste."
The door closed.
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Tsubasa was the first to leave. He paused beside Kanade, voice dropping to a murmur: "I don't care if you're the Kujo family heir or a homeless vagrant. If you destroy this place—"
"I'll take responsibility." Kanade looked up at him.
Something shifted in Tsubasa's eyes. Not just hostility—something buried deeper, something so twisted by time you could barely recognize its original shape.
"You don't understand what responsibility means." He finished, pushing through the door.
Yuri stretched, arms reaching toward the ceiling. "I'm out too. See you tomorrow night, rookie."
"How will you vote?" Kanade asked.
"Depends on my mood." Yuri waved, disappearing down the hallway.
Kotaro remained, the cookie bag now empty.
"Kanade."
"Yeah."
"You're going to stay." Kotaro's voice held the certainty of someone stating an established fact rather than making a prediction. "I can feel it."
"Feel it?"
"Yeah. Because when you looked at me just now, you didn't pity me." Kotaro smiled, smaller than before but more real. "You didn't say 'that's so sad.' You just listened. That kind of person—Starry Night only has one. Ren. Now there's you."
Kanade opened his mouth, found no words waiting.
Kotaro sprang up, dusting cookie crumbs from his pants. "Come on! I'll teach you how to make coffee! Mine's not as good as Ren's, but way better than Tsubasa's. He makes coffee like he's conducting a chemistry experiment—measuring temperature, timing everything!"
He ran toward the door, then turned back.
"Kanade, that twenty-three percent statistic... I completely made that up. But hugs really do make people warmer. You should try hugging someone sometime!"
"...I'll consider it."
"When?"
"I'll consider never."
Kotaro's laughter echoed down the hallway.
Kanade sat alone in the private room, staring at the equity sheet on the table. Five names, five percentages. He'd never imagined that after leaving the Kujo family, he'd find himself becoming part of another "family" entirely.
Except this family had one month left to live.
He folded the paper, slipped it into his pocket, and headed for the door.
From somewhere down the hallway came the sound of piano keys, discordant and searching—a few broken notes, someone's fingers remembering how to move in the darkness. Kanade stopped, listened for a few seconds, then followed the sound.
Behind the bar, Ren stood with his back to him, fingers suspended in midair, tracing playing motions against nothing.
"Manager."
Ren's hands dropped. He turned, expression smooth as untouched water.
"Something else?"
"No." Kanade said. "Just... thank you. For the opportunity."
Ren looked at him. Looked for a long time.
"Don't thank me." He finally said. "If you mess this up, I'll throw you out personally."
"I know."
"Good." Ren turned back to wiping glasses. "Go sleep. Tomorrow we have customers."
Kanade walked toward the other end of the hallway, glancing back at the corner. Ren still stood behind the bar, silhouette lean and solitary—a lighthouse that had been watching the horizon for too long.
He thought of the dust-covered piano in the private room, and what Yuri had said.
Everyone in this club carried a melody they didn't want touched.
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