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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Mental Health Content Note
This chapter explores themes related to social anxiety and mental health. These portrayals are for narrative purposes and are not intended as diagnostic criteria or treatment recommendations.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, please reach out to a professional. You are not alone.
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Day one of the experiment. Yuri was on observation duty.
She sat on a bar stool, a fresh lollipop in her mouth, eyes scanning the entrance. Ren set a stopwatch in front of her, its plastic case yellowed with age, hairline cracks tracing across the digital display.
"Three minutes." Ren said. "Judge the type within three minutes of entry."
"Yeah, yeah." Yuri stuffed the stopwatch into her pocket. "But seriously, isn't this the kind of thing you just do by instinct?"
"Instinct is step one." Kanade stood behind the bar polishing glasses—he'd volunteered for the task because it offered the best vantage point. "Step two is verification. Watch his body language, his reaction when ordering, and..."
The door opened.
The wind chime rang once. The man who entered looked to be in his early thirties, wearing an oversized hoodie with the hood still up. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes fixed on the floor, his steps slow and deliberate, each one carefully calculated to make no sound.
Yuri's eyes narrowed.
The man stopped not far from the entrance. He looked up and swept a quick glance across the interior, his gaze snapping away the instant it touched anyone, as if burned. His right hand gripped his left wrist, knuckles white from the pressure.
"Social anxiety. Not mild." Kanade said under his breath.
"Shut up, I'm the observer today." Yuri slid off her stool and took two steps toward the man, then stopped. She didn't approach closer—just turned sideways, making her silhouette smaller.
"Welcome." Her voice was softer than usual. "Any seat you like. The window area is quieter."
The man's shoulders loosened—barely. He nodded without speaking and made his way to the cornermost sofa by the window. His footsteps were light, as if afraid of disturbing something.
Yuri turned to Kanade, keeping her voice low. "Avoidant type. Needs space. Don't approach. Who goes?"
Kanade was about to speak when a figure shot past him.
"Welcome welcome! I'm Kotaro Hoshino! First time here? You look so nervous! How about a hug?"
Kotaro spread his arms wide, his signature smile beaming, and lunged toward the man.
The man's face went pale as a sheet. He stumbled backward two steps, his back colliding with the corner vase stand. A ceramic piece wobbled, nearly toppling. His breathing turned ragged, his right hand digging into his left wrist with enough force to leave nail marks.
"N-no thanks..." The voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"It's fine! Hugs can—"
"Kotaro. Back up."
Kanade's voice came from behind the bar. Quiet, but clear.
Kotaro froze, turning his head. "Huh?"
"Back up. Three steps."
Kotaro, thoroughly confused, retreated three large paces. His outstretched arms slowly drooped, like a punctured balloon.
Kanade emerged from behind the bar, an empty glass and a clean napkin in his hands. He didn't walk toward the man. Instead, he took a wide arc, circling to a round table about two meters from the window sofa, and set the glass and napkin down.
Then he sat. He didn't look at the man. Didn't speak.
Thirty seconds passed. Kanade said nothing.
The man slowly straightened. He still gripped his wrist, but the pressure had eased slightly.
"He..." The man's voice was faint, not directed at anyone—just thinking aloud. But Kanade heard.
"Waiting for someone." Kanade replied, gaze still on the glass. "No rush."
The man's feet shifted. He half-stepped toward the round table, then stopped.
"I... I just wanted..."
"You don't have to talk." Kanade's voice was light, as if speaking to the air itself. "No one here will force you to talk. No one will force you to do anything."
The man's shoulders dropped another fraction. He stood in place, as if performing some invisible calculation. Risk assessment. Kanade recognized that posture—he'd seen it countless times at Kyoshin Group, except those people were assessing stocks and numbers. This man was calculating the safe distance for human contact.
Finally, he took that half-step. Then two more. And sat in the chair across from Kanade at the round table.
He was still hunched, hands on his thighs, fingers tangled together. But he was sitting. Less than a meter from Kanade.
Kanade didn't look at him. He simply slid the menu across the table in his direction. The movement was slow, like pushing a plank through water.
The man didn't touch the menu. But he spoke, his voice mosquito-small: "...I'm not good at places like this."
"I know."
"My coworker... said this place could help people relax." The man's fingers tangled tighter. "But every time I come to somewhere like this, I never know what to say. Then I get... really nervous. Then I say the wrong thing. Then I get even more nervous."
"You're not saying the wrong thing now."
"Because I'm barely saying anything."
"That's good too."
The man blinked. He looked up, and for the first time, his gaze met Kanade's. Only half a second, then it darted away. But in that half second, Kanade saw an emotion he couldn't quite name. No fear in it—just the confusion of someone who'd been given permission they never knew existed.
"...What?"
"Silence is good too." Kanade rotated the empty glass another half turn. "Not every place needs conversation. This is one of them."
The man untangled his fingers. He drew a slow breath—deeper this time.
"You're... staff?"
"Mm."
"What's your name?"
"Kanade. Yours?"
"Kenta Tadokoro." After giving his name, he immediately added, "I'm a programmer. You know, the kind of... always staring at a computer kind of work."
"I know what a programmer is."
"Ah, sorry, I just tend to explain..." Kenta's ears turned red. "Because a lot of people don't know, so I get it out of the way first, but then if they ask I still can't explain it properly, so..."
"No need to explain."
Kenta fell silent. He looked at Kanade, confusion deepening in his eyes.
"You... really don't want to talk to me?"
"I do." Kanade finally looked up, meeting Kenta's gaze. "Just not now. Right now you can just sit here. No need to talk, no need to smile, no need to explain who you are. When you want to speak, I'll listen."
Kenta's Adam's apple bobbed.
After a long while, he said quietly: "...This is the first time I've ever heard someone say that."
"Say what?"
"'When you want to.'" Kenta's voice grew hoarse. "Everyone always says 'talk more,' 'don't be so introverted,' 'just relax.' No one's ever said... that not talking is okay."
Kanade didn't answer. He simply set down the glass he'd been rotating and sat quietly.
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At the bar, Kotaro watched this unfold, his expression shifting from confused to surprised to something inexplicably moved. He turned to Ren, lowering his voice: "Ren, Kanade's amazing..."
"Shut up." Ren said. "Watch."
Tsubasa stood in the kitchen doorway, a damp cloth in his hand. His gaze was locked on Kanade and Kenta, brows furrowed, but his lips weren't pressed into their usual downward line. This was as close to "not opposed" as his face ever got.
Yuri chewed her lollipop, the corner of her mouth tilting upward.
Time passed slowly. The round table remained quiet. Kenta didn't speak much more, and neither did Kanade. They simply sat, like two trees growing their own way, a meter of air between them, but rooted in the same soil.
Twenty minutes later, Kenta finally spoke. His voice was still small, but steadier than before.
"Do you have any... you know... low-alcohol drinks? I have terrible tolerance, one drink and I'll..."
"Virgin cocktail. Orange juice, soda water, a little mint."
"Okay."
Kanade stood and walked to the bar. Every eye in the room followed him.
"Orange juice, soda, mint." Ren already had the ingredients laid out on the counter. "Think you can manage?"
"I'll try."
Kanade poured orange juice into the shaker, his movements clumsy but careful. Ren watched from the side, not reaching in to help—only saying "stop" when Kanade was about to pour too much soda.
Kanade stopped. He glanced at the measurement and realized he'd nearly doubled it.
"Thanks."
"Pay attention yourself."
Kanade clapped the mint leaves between his palms to release the aroma, then dropped them into the glass. The liquid was pale orange, flecked with broken leaf fragments, like the canal at sunset.
He carried the glass back to the round table and set it in front of Kenta. The sound of glass meeting wood was soft.
Kenta looked down at the drink. After a long moment, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the glass. They paused briefly against the cool surface, then he lifted it and took a small sip.
"...It's good."
"Thank you."
Kenta took another sip, then set the glass down, gazing at the remaining liquid at the bottom.
"Coming to a place like this... it's actually kind of embarrassing." He spoke, voice still low but flowing more smoothly now. "Thirty-one years old, never had a girlfriend, sixteen hours a day in front of a computer, my only social life is online chat. My coworkers said I should get out more, recommended this place. But every time I walk in, I regret it immediately and find an excuse to run."
He paused.
"Today too. I stood outside the door for twenty minutes before coming in. After I got in and saw you all... so enthusiastic... I wanted to run."
"But you didn't run."
"Because you said... that not talking is okay." Kenta looked up, and this time his gaze didn't immediately flee. He looked into Kanade's eyes, voice growing hoarse. "Those words... made me feel like this might be a place where I could stay."
Kanade felt something expanding in his chest. It had nothing to do with pride—just an indescribable warmth, like Ren's Homecoming tea, rising slowly from his stomach to his throat.
"You can stay until closing." Kanade said. "No need to talk, no need to order anything. Just sit."
The corner of Kenta's mouth moved. It was a faint smile—barely visible, but present.
"...Thank you."
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The following two hours were the quietest service process Kanade had ever witnessed.
Kenta didn't say much more—just occasional questions about trivial things: "Where did you get this glass?" "What are those colorful paper strips on the wall?" "Why do you have a piano that no one plays?"
Kanade answered each one, his tone always calm. Never overly warm, never deliberately caring—just a quiet presence that said I'm here, and you can say whatever you want.
Before leaving, Kenta had finished three orange juice sodas. His shoulders were no longer hunched, and though his gaze still rarely met anyone else's, at least his footsteps were no longer so light when he rose from the sofa.
He stopped at the door and turned around.
Everyone was watching him. Kotaro, Tsubasa, Yuri, Ren, Kanade.
Kenta took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a momentous decision. Then he spoke the words.
"Can I... come back next time?"
The shop went quiet.
Not the awkward kind of quiet—the kind where everyone is caught off guard. Kotaro's mouth hung open. Tsubasa's eyebrows lifted. Yuri's lollipop slipped halfway out of her mouth. Ren, leaning against the bar, froze with his glass mid-air.
Then—
"Of course you can!!"
Kotaro's shriek shattered the silence. He charged forward and wrapped Kenta in a bear hug, moving too fast for anyone to stop him.
Kenta's face went pale again.
"W-wait, um, I..."
"That's wonderful! You want to come back! You're always welcome here! I'll make sure we have orange juice ready!"
"Let him go."
Tsubasa's voice came from behind, cool but not angry. He walked over, peeled Kotaro off Kenta, and turned to Kenta himself.
"Next time, you can ask for me directly." Tsubasa said, his tone still that of a perfect idol, but with a few degrees less sharpness. "If you don't want to talk, I won't talk either. You can order a drink, sit in the corner, and no one will bother you."
Kenta looked blankly at Tsubasa, then at Kotaro, then at Kanade standing by the bar. His gaze finally landed on Ren.
Ren nodded. "You're welcome anytime."
Kenta's face reddened—the anxiety had faded, leaving only an indescribable warmth. He lowered his head, muttered a quick "thank you," then pushed the door open and ran out, like a snail that had finally dared to poke its head out into the sunlight.
The door closed. The wind chime gave a gentle ring.
Then the shop erupted in cheers.
"We did it!!" Kotaro jumped up, pumping his fists in the air. "Our categorization service worked!"
"Strictly speaking, the credit goes entirely to Kanade." Yuri leaned against the bar, though the upward curve of her lips was wider than usual. "But... yeah. It worked."
Tsubasa didn't cheer. He stood where he was, the damp cloth still in his hand, his expression complex as he looked at Kanade.
"One guest." He said. "Doesn't prove anything."
"I know." Kanade said.
Tsubasa fell silent. Then he tossed the cloth into the kitchen sink. It landed with a thud.
"But..." Tsubasa turned around, his back to everyone, "we continue tomorrow."
Those words, coming from Tsubasa's mouth, were practically an admission of I was wrong. Kanade felt the warmth in his chest expand a little more.
Ren poured a glass of water at the bar and set it in front of Kanade. The sound of the base meeting the wooden counter was steady and grounding.
"How'd you do it?" Ren asked.
"Didn't do much." Kanade lifted the glass. "Just sat with him."
"Why'd you know that would work?"
"Because..." Kanade thought about it. "People with social anxiety are most afraid of being forced to talk. When you tell them 'not talking is okay,' you're actually giving them a safety permit. With permission, they dare to speak."
Ren's gaze rested on Kanade's face for a moment. That all-seeing look, but this time with something different in it. No assessment this time—just acknowledgment.
"Is this the psychology you were talking about?"
"This is just the basics."
"For us, it's enough."
Kanade took a drink of water. The temperature was perfect—cool but not icy, sliding down his throat with a hint of sweetness. Maybe residual mint from earlier. Or maybe everything just tasted sweet right now.
The canal outside the window glittered with moonlight. Kanade watched the river and remembered something his mother had said: Use your gift to understand others—not to manipulate, but to let them know someone is listening.
Today, he'd finally done it.
He hadn't used tuning. Just one sentence, one glass of orange juice, and two hours of quiet companionship.
Kotaro was still bouncing around. Tsubasa was pretending to be busy in the kitchen, though the relaxation at the corners of his mouth was unmistakable. Yuri had reclaimed her bar stool and unwrapped a fresh lollipop. Ren washed glasses behind the bar, his movements slower than usual, as if savoring the night.
Kanade set down his glass and looked at his reflection in the water. It was still his face, but something in the eyes had changed. The old contours were fading. The escapee from Kyoshin Group, the lost young master who'd stood by the canal asking Mother, what should I do—they were receding into the background.
He was becoming someone who'd found his place.
Tomorrow, there were still six days left. Six days to prove this method wasn't just luck. But right now, in this night filled with laughter and the scent of mint, Kanade allowed himself to enjoy this one hour of victory.
He turned to the bar and said to Ren: "Ren. I want to learn how to mix drinks."
Ren set the last glass upside down on the drying rack, not turning around. "Why?"
"Because next time Kenta comes, I want to make him something better myself."
Ren's silhouette paused. Then, a very soft voice drifted over.
"Come early tomorrow. I'll teach you."
Kanade smiled. This time he didn't hide it, didn't make excuses.
He just smiled.
He closed his notebook and stood up.
The rain outside had stopped at some point.
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Chapter 8 Continued: Reflections Online
A few days later, in the afternoon. The shop hadn't opened yet.
Kotaro sat cross-legged on the sofa, fingers flying across the screen, muttering under his breath.
"What's up?" Kanade walked over with a cup of coffee.
"Kanade, look at this." Kotaro turned the tablet around, his brows knitted together.
The screen showed Myaku search results.
The keyword at the top read "Starry Night."
The first post had only three likes. Zero reposts.
The author was Sayuri.
> "Starry Night saved my life. Not an exaggeration. There really are people willing to listen to me instead of rushing to give advice."
The second post had over four hundred likes, more than a hundred reposts, and the comment count was ticking upward.
The author was an anonymous account called "Dawn's Blade."
> "Starry Night is a cage of hypocritical gentleness. Those male hosts use 'hugs' and 'listening' to manipulate emotions, making female customers dependent. This isn't healing. This is domestication."
Kanade stared at the screen, saying nothing.
"This post is from three days ago." Kotaro's voice dropped lower. "I recognize this account. Dawn's Blade. They've posted similar stuff under other topics before, specifically targeting men in service industries who interact with women."
He scrolled to the comments section.
"Finally someone said it."
"These hosts are disgusting."
"Women who go to places like that are degrading themselves."
"You have to pay just to be hugged? Laughable."
"Recommend shutting it down."
Kotaro scrolled down. More comments flooded out.
"My mom got scammed by a host too. Places like this should all go under."
"Above poster, your mom's generation called them hostess clubs. They're different, okay."
"What's the difference, they all sell fake tenderness to rip people off."
"Above poster, shut up, have you even been there before running your mouth."
"I can't comment if I haven't been? Free speech, ever heard of it."
The numbers on the screen kept ticking.
Every time it refreshed, more likes appeared.
"There's worse." Kotaro's fingers kept scrolling. "The second case."
The account name was "Male Awakening Alliance," its avatar a burning sword.
> "Starry Night makes men grovel before women like dogs, and they call themselves 'hosts'? Men should stand up! Don't be women's emotional trash cans! Real men don't need to bow and scrape to 'listen.' We need to awaken!"
Two hundred seventy-three likes.
The comment section was full of applause.
"Well said!"
"Men, stand up!"
"Those hosts aren't real men at all."
Kanade's gaze fixed on the words "Male Awakening Alliance."
He remembered something.
A news clip he'd seen online before.
The "Extreme Male Awakeners" organization.
That group preaching on forums that "men shouldn't perform emotional labor for women."
So they had already set their sights on Starry Night.
"And this." Kotaro's voice was barely squeezed through clenched teeth. "The third post."
The account claimed to be a "former Starry Night employee," but no such person had ever worked at the shop.
> "Insider reveal. They pick and choose good-looking customers to serve, and ugly ones get ignored. Customers think they're being valued, but it's really just because they're pretty or they order expensive drinks. Internal competition is fierce, there's a monthly performance ranking, and whoever's at the bottom gets ostracized. The shop manager seems gentle on the surface, but he's actually very skilled at manipulating people."
Five hundred sixty-two likes.
Three hundred fifteen reposts.
Comments: "Knew it all along," "Figures," "Thanks for the reveal," "Never going back."
"This account was created two days ago." Kotaro tapped open the profile page. "Only this one post. No followers, no interaction history. Completely a sock puppet."
He pressed the lock button hard. The screen went black.
"What do we do?" He looked up at Kanade.
Kanade didn't answer immediately.
He picked up Kotaro's tablet, unlocked it again, and opened Sayuri's post.
Three likes.
One of them was Kotaro's own.
The other two came from blank-avatar accounts that looked like bot followers.
He placed the two posts side by side on the screen.
On the left, genuine gratitude that no one saw.
On the right, fabricated hatred spreading like wildfire.
"Why?" Kotaro asked. "We haven't done anything bad."
Kanade set down the tablet, walked behind the bar, and took out his notebook.
"Not because of anything we did." He said. "It's because of the algorithm."
"The algorithm?" Kotaro tilted his head.
"Myaku's recommendation system." Kanade opened his notebook and started writing. "It doesn't care whether the content is true or false. It only cares about one thing—how long users stay on a post."
"Anger makes people stay roughly three to five times longer than happiness."
He wrote a line, then pointed it out to Kotaro.
"Think about it. When you see Sayuri say 'Starry Night saved my life,' what do you do?"
"I feel happy, then I scroll past."
"Right. Happiness is a light emotion. It comes fast, and it leaves fast."
"But when you see 'Starry Night is a cage of hypocritical gentleness'?"
Kotaro fell silent for a moment.
"I'd want to tap in and read the comments."
"Then you'd see people cursing us out, and get even angrier."
"Then you'd want to argue back, so you'd start typing."
"Typing counts as dwell time too."
"Conversely, if someone agrees with the attack post, they'll leave comments showing support too."
"Whether they're cursing us out or defending us—"
"Every single comment makes the algorithm think this post is 'valuable.'"
"Valuable posts get pushed to more people."
"More people see it, more comments appear."
"A loop."
Kanade drew an upward spiral arrow in his notebook.
"Controversial content sparks comment wars. Every comment is fuel."
"Hate speech gets pushed because it triggers humans' fight response."
"Makes people unable to look away."
"The algorithm itself is a hate amplifier."
Kotaro stared at the spiral arrow, his face growing paler.
"So even if we do nothing, the hate will keep growing?"
"If we do nothing, yes."
"But if we respond the wrong way—"
"Like arguing back, fighting, creating more controversy—"
"That's just adding fuel to the fire."
Kotaro collapsed onto the sofa, covering his face with both hands.
"Then what are we supposed to do?"
Just then, a voice came from behind the bar.
"We have customers."
Ren was standing there, somehow, wiping a glass.
He'd heard everything, but his face showed nothing.
"Open the door first." He said. "We'll talk about this after closing."
Eleven p.m. The last customer left.
Kotaro locked the door and pulled down the shutter.
Tsubasa and Yuri were already gathered around the sofa.
Kotaro set the tablet in the center of the coffee table, the screen still showing those posts.
He recounted everything from the beginning.
When he got to Sayuri's three likes, Tsubasa bit his lip.
When he got to the Male Awakening Alliance, Tsubasa cursed under his breath.
When he got to the fake employee reveal, Yuri raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting." She said. "This person's writing is pretty vivid. It's just that the picture looks nothing like our shop."
"That's exactly why it's dangerous." Kanade said.
"Fiction often feels more real because it matches what people already imagine."
"People already think host clubs are like this." Tsubasa picked up, his voice low. "No matter what we actually do, they'll force it into that framework."
The room was quiet for a while.
"So." Ren spoke. "You want to discuss how to respond."
Kotaro raised his hand. "I have an idea. No, half an idea."
"Speak."
"I've been studying how Myaku works. I found a pattern—the same content with different titles gets wildly different reach."
He opened his phone and pulled up two screenshots.
"This post says 'Today's customer was really happy.' Two hundred people saw it."
"This one says 'Today's customer said something that left our whole team speechless.' Two thousand people saw it."
"The content is basically the same. Both are about a customer saying something grateful."
"But the second one used a suspenseful title like 'left our whole team speechless,' and the reach increased tenfold."
Tsubasa rolled his eyes. "Isn't that just clickbait."
"It's not the same!" Kotaro got agitated. "The content is real. The customer really did say something that moved us, and we really were all silent for a moment. I'm not lying, I'm just saying it a different way."
He turned to Ren. "Boss, we can't rely only on word of mouth anymore. People are slandering us online. If we don't speak up at all, people will only see those fake things."
Ren set down the glass he'd been half-wiping. "You want to run a social media account."
"Yes. But I promise, no fabrications, no exaggerations. Just learning to use 'title language'—without changing the essence, making more people willing to click in and read."
"After they click in, the content is still our real everyday life."
"Let real voices be heard by the people who truly need them."
Yuri yawned, but her eyes were open. "Doesn't sound bad. But have you thought about what happens if you get cursed out?"
"You can't guarantee everyone who clicks in will like us."
"What if it attracts even more attacks?"
Kotaro opened his mouth, but had no answer.
"I have an idea." Kanade said.
All eyes turned to him.
He opened his notebook and flipped to the latest page.
On it was a simple coordinate graph.
The horizontal axis was "content type."
The vertical axis was "engagement volume."
"For the past two days, I ran a small experiment. Using Kotaro's account, I posted six different styles of posts."
"First, sharing a happy customer story. Low reach, but most comments were positive."
"Second, responding to an attack comment. Reach exploded, but the comment section was a battleground."
"Third, sharing our daily work routine—like how to brew a cup of tea, how to set up a private room. Medium reach, but comments were curious and inquiring."
"Fourth, sharing a small customer story, but not revealing the ending, just saying 'continued tomorrow.' High reach, and some people actually came back the next day to see."
"Fifth, directly criticizing online prejudice. High reach, but attracted massive attacks."
"Sixth, sharing one of our shop's small rules—'We don't comment on customers' choices.' Medium reach, but the highest repost rate, with many people saying 'this rule is great.'"
He drew several points on the graph with his pen.
"The conclusion is—"
"Anger definitely brings traffic. But curiosity, warmth, and resonance can bring traffic too."
"The key is finding the line between 'sparking curiosity' rather than 'sparking anger.'"
"I call it an 'emotion map.'"
"Recording what kinds of real stories make people want to stay, want to repost, without needing to manufacture conflict."
Kotaro's eyes lit up. "Kanade, when did you do this experiment? How did I not know?"
"While you were scrolling on your phone."
Tsubasa leaned in to look at the notebook, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You have to turn everything into data."
"Because that's what gives us a foundation." Kanade said.
"We don't need to argue based on feelings about 'what internet users like.'"
"We can use data to prove—warmth can spread too."
Ren looked at the coordinate graph for a while.
Then he said:
"Bottom line."
All four fell quiet.
"We can let more people see us."
"But we can't lie just to be seen."
"We can't manufacture controversy to trade for traffic."
"We can't respond to malicious attacks, because that's exactly what they want."
He looked at Kotaro. "You can learn title language, but you can't become clickbait."
He looked at Kanade. "You can make an emotion map, but you can't treat customers as data points."
He looked at everyone. "We keep doing what we're already doing."
"Only now, we'll do it online too."
"Choose to be found by the people who truly need us."
"Rather than forcing everyone to see us."
Kotaro nodded vigorously.
Tsubasa crossed his arms, let out a hmph, but didn't object.
Yuri stretched. "Then who's writing the posts?"
"Kotaro." Ren said. "He knows the internet best."
"Kanade helps him with data analysis."
"Tsubasa and Yuri, if you have stories you think are worth sharing, tell Kotaro."
"But remember—"
"Anything a customer said, you need their permission before posting."
"Protecting customer privacy is more important than any traffic."
"That's Starry Night's rule. Online and offline, the same."
Kotaro opened his phone and started typing excitedly. "Then what's the first post going to be?"
Kanade thought about it. "Post a screenshot of Sayuri's post."
"What?"
"She wrote genuine feelings, but only got three likes."
"We don't need to refute those who attack us."
"We just need to turn those three likes into thirty, into three hundred."
"Let the people we've truly helped know—their voices are being heard."
Kotaro stopped his fingers and looked at Kanade.
Then he smiled. "Kanade, you can actually say cool things sometimes."
Kanade didn't answer.
He simply lowered his head and wrote a new line in his notebook.
"The Shape of Voices—Some voices are small, but they deserve to be heard."
Outside the window, the night was deep.
But countless screens still glowed in the city.
Someone was scrolling, searching for a place where they could speak safely.
Starry Night's new account would post its first message tomorrow morning at eight.
No controversy. No provocation.
Just a simple sentence.
"Tonight, we've prepared tea as well. Waiting for you, who needs to be heard."
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