The Shinjuku night is always made of lies. Every time the signboard neon flickered, every time the drunken laughter of passersby echoed down the street, Kamiki Hikaru felt the coldness deepening in his chest. Black skinny jeans, a black V-neck long-sleeved shirt—dressed to melt his whole body into the darkness, he walked aimlessly through the crowds of Kabukicho. This was no place for a fourteen-year-old boy. He knew that. And yet, after his work in the entertainment world was done, this neon district was where he belonged. "Hey, big bro—we've got some nice girls!" A tout called out to him. Hikaru glanced at the man's face for just a moment and saw straight through the lie. Beneath the smile plastered to his mouth, those clouded eyes wanted only money. He could see it all. He'd spent years observing these streets. Unconsciously, his fingers traced the silver star-shaped pendant hanging at his neck. It wasn't a gift from anyone yet. Only the cold sensation remained at his fingertips. The recording had run long. It had ended just a short while ago. A drama job. *A boy who loses his parents learns to stand again*—that kind of story, the sort you could find anywhere. Shedding tears in front of the camera, receiving applause from the staff, the producer patting his head and saying, "That's our Hikaru-kun, as expected." Those adults knew his tears were an act. And yet, they all nodded with satisfaction. (*They all know. It's a lie, and they're pretending to be fooled.*) Hikaru let out a small breath. Even the breath he exhaled felt somehow like a lie. Everyone walking these streets was playing a part. The salarymen who looked like they were having fun, the hostesses who looked like they were having fun, the couples who looked like they were having fun—they were all just *pretending* to have fun. He headed east along Shokuan Street. The convenience store lights facing the street were painfully white, harsh on the eyes. The laughter of the young people loitering in front of the automatic doors grated on his ears. (*So noisy.*) The words surfaced in his mind. But he didn't voice them. There was no point. No one wanted to hear the truth anyway. His jet-black hair swayed softly in the night breeze. Beneath his bangs, eyes like obsidian holding a deep darkness coldly reflected the city lights. Emotionless eyes—the kind the adults at the TV station praised as "mature." That wasn't it. He wasn't mature. He was just cold. Suddenly, his feet stopped. A multi-tenant building tucked down a side street off Shokuan Street—the Tomizawa Building. On the wall of the old structure, easily thirty years old, hung a handwritten sign. *LIVE HOUSE PULSE BEAT B1F* Stairs leading underground. The paint on the walls was peeling, and one of the fluorescent lights was on the verge of dying. Its unstable, flickering glow eerily illuminated the stairway. (*Why... a place like this?*) He didn't understand it himself. A live house—he shouldn't have any interest. Music—he'd always thought it was all a sham. And yet, Hikaru's legs carried him down the stairs of their own accord. Underground. Further underground. He stood before a heavy iron door. A live schedule was posted on the wall. On today's date, a scribble in marker: *19:00~ Ai* Hikaru squeezed the iron ring on his left ring finger tightly. It was a strange habit, touching the ring he wore as a reminder to himself at a time like this. With a creak, he opened the door. A stuffy air hit his nostrils. A smell mingling cigarette smoke, sweat, and the mold of an old building. The ceiling was low, the soundproofing material on the walls left bare. The capacity couldn't have been more than thirty people. Pulse Beat—a small, unknown live house tucked away in a corner of Shinjuku. The first place Hikaru ever set foot in. The floor was dim. On the simple stage, a single girl was singing. She looked about his age. A slender frame, gripping a slightly outdated microphone. There were only two pin spots for lighting. The rest was cheap color LEDs, casting her figure in red and blue. The audience: five people. All of them were fiddling with their smartphones. Not a single one was looking at the stage. This underground idol, whose name seemed to be Ai, was still smiling. A smile that looked ready to break at any moment, but was desperately held together. Hikaru leaned against the wall and watched her. Reflexively, observation and analysis began inside his brain. (*Calculation—hypocrisy—self-performance—*) The metrics that always surfaced in his mind when he observed people in the entertainment industry. Most adults easily scored twenty, thirty points. The truly awful ones could hit ninety. But. (*Zero...?*) Hikaru furrowed his brow. (*Hypocrisy, zero? Calculation, zero?*) Impossible. His insight, honed by observing hundreds, thousands of people, had encountered an error for the first time. That smile held no lies. He couldn't sense the slightest trace of trying to make herself look good, or trying to deceive anyone. "What's that, an underground idol? So lame." Nearby, a guy who looked like a college student said to his friend. "Who'd even watch that?" Malicious laughter. A muscle twitched near Hikaru's temple. (*No.*) For some reason, he thought so. (*That's not it. That smile isn't what you think it is.*) At that moment—a memory flashed back, unbidden. Five years ago. Hikaru was still nine. The headquarters of Nichiei Television in Akasaka, Minato Ward. A massive building, eighteen floors above ground, three below. Back then, he frequently went in and out as a child actor for dramas. An access pass hanging from his neck, walking the underground corridor to the dressing rooms. A dim hallway. A musty smell. That day, left alone between shoots, Hikaru hadn't gotten lost. He was simply walking out of curiosity. Deep into the deserted corridor. That's where he saw it. "One shot of this, and it all gets easier." A middle-aged man known as a big-shot producer was handing a syringe to a young actress. The actress's hands were trembling. But the light in her eyes was already completely clouded—and she offered her arm willingly. The producer's laughter. "Good girl. Now work will be easy again." And then she collapsed to the floor. Vacant eyes. A mouth left hanging open. The nine-year-old Hikaru could only stand there, frozen. A few days later. He heard that the actress had "withdrawn due to poor health." The producer went on to handle his next program as if nothing had happened. No one said anything. No one was punished. That was the entertainment world. From that day, something inside Hikaru had changed decisively. The flashback ended. Before his eyes, Ai was still singing. (*...Why?*) Hikaru bit his lip. (*Why is someone like you smiling in a place like this?*) The live performance ended. None of the audience applauded; they quickly headed for the exit. Three of the five customers had left midway through. The remaining two also walked out without even glancing at Ai's face. Even so, she bowed deeply. "[gentle]Thank you very much." Her voice trembled slightly. But her smile didn't break. At the merchandise corner near the exit—though it was just a folding table with a few CDs laid out—Ai stood there alone. A marker pen in her hand. She seemed to have it ready, just in case someone bought something. Unconsciously, Hikaru walked toward her. "[surprised]Ah..." Ai let out a small sound. She seemed surprised that a customer had remained. Hikaru stopped in front of the table. He picked up a CD jacket. A cheap design, like something an amateur had shot. Turning it over, he saw her handwritten message printed on the back. *I'll do my best.* Just that one phrase. (*That must be her true feelings.*) No calculation, no hypocrisy, no self-performance. Just the simple phrase "I'll do my best"—how could it resonate so directly? "[gentle]If you'd like, how about one... oh, wait, you're younger than me... right?" Ai tilted her head. She reflexively started her sales pitch when a customer came, but realizing he was a younger boy, she hurriedly cut herself off. Hikaru silently held out the CD. "[surprised]You'll buy it?" "...Yeah." He placed a thousand-yen note on the table. Ai hastily picked up her marker. "[excited]Thank you! I'll write a signature! What's your name?" "Hikaru." "Hikaru-kun. That's a nice name." Ai wrote her signature on the CD with practiced movements. Her smile never wavered the whole time. Even though the audience today had been small, even though no one had listened, for the one customer right in front of her at this very moment—she seemed genuinely, deeply happy. He took the signed CD. Her handwriting was round and somewhat childish. "[gentle]Thank you so much for today. It was lonely with so few people, but just having someone come makes me really happy." Something creaked deep in Hikaru's chest. The words of all the adults he'd seen until now—hypocrisy for numbers, for money, for nothing but self-preservation—this resonated completely differently. "...Your..." The words slipped out. "Your smile... is beautiful." Ai's movements stopped. For an instant, as if time itself had frozen. Her large eyes stared at Hikaru in surprise. And then, the next moment—those eyes rapidly grew moist. "[whispers]No one's ever... said that to me before." Her voice trembled. She desperately tried to turn the tears threatening to spill into a smile. But she couldn't manage it. Her lips quivered, the tip of her nose turned red—and she covered her face with both hands. "[crying]Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry." Hikaru didn't understand what he had done. But. (*I have to protect this smile.*) An obsessive conviction without reason. His heart—something deep in his chest pulsed violently. It was as if emotions frozen for so long were cracking and crumbling away with audible snaps. アイアイアイKamiki Hikaru "...That's not true." Hikaru shook his head. アイKamiki Hikaru "But your smile is different. From any smile I've ever seen." For the first time, he told someone about the fragments of corruption he had witnessed. The scene he'd seen in the TV station basement. The fact that no one was ever punished. That everything was made of lies. Ai listened in silence. And as the conversation flowed, he drew out information about the agency she belonged to. "It's called Propstar. It's in an apartment room in Shibuya." アイアイアイアイKamiki Hikaru "...Let's go." Murmuring quietly, Hikaru began walking toward his home in Yotsuya. The night wind softly swayed his black hair. It was the end of October, with the scent of winter drawing near.