Shopping in Umeda

[IMG:1]

We arrived in Osaka under a sky draped in concrete, the air already warmer than Tokyo’s. Ryoji stayed close—not just walking beside me, but brushing fingertips against my wrist, leaning in to whisper in ways that sent heat down the side of my neck.

He was putting on a show. And I was in the front-row seat, having to remind my brain it was an act.

To anyone watching, we looked like a couple still figuring things out—flirty, clumsy, a little electric. I caught a few glances from strangers. Mostly approving. One woman smiled at me like she knew what kind of night I was about to have.

Ryoji tucked his hand around my waist as we descended into the labyrinth of Osaka’s underground shopping city.

I tilted my head toward him. “Are you actually enjoying this?”

“Just doing my job,” he murmured, lips near my ear.

I gave him a sideways glance. “You’re very thorough.”

He grinned without showing teeth. “Company policy.”

We passed rows of neon-lit storefronts—cosmetics, phone straps, tailored jackets I couldn’t afford. Ryoji kept up the act, hand at the small of my back, mouth brushing my temple like he was saying sweet nothings. In reality, it was: Two tails. Left. Brown coat. Umbrella bag.

“Let’s go in here,” I said, tugging his hand toward a boutique blaring eurobeat.

“I thought you hated fast fashion.”

“I do,” I said, tugging him in, “but if I’m being dragged through your spontaneous detour, I deserve something cute to wear while I suffer.”

He followed me in, still smirking. “Don’t forget to gasp dramatically when I pick out something with silk.”

“I’ll do it if you actually know what my size is.”

“I guessed last night.”

My mouth parted. “You—!”

“A tidy bit small for my tastes” he said, plucking a scarf from a rack and handing it to me. “Then again, I might have guessed wrong.”

I took it, heart thudding far louder than it should’ve been for fabric, trying to ignore the heat rising to my face.

“Keep this up and I’m suing you for emotional damage.”

We slipped into the rhythm of pretend: two young people dancing around something unsaid, trying on sunglasses, whispering code over nail polish displays, lips near ears, bodies close. For everyone else, we were just noise in the flow of Osaka.

For me?

I was starting to forget where the act ended.

[IMG:2]

We drifted deeper into the store—past logo-splattered hoodies and pastel miniskirts—Ryoji’s arm still loosely slung around my waist like we hadn’t a care in the world. But his eyes were scanning, always. Calculating exits, positions, angles.

And then he started shopping.

With surgical intent.

A plain cap. An oversized jacket. Cheap sunglasses. A shapeless pullover in a color I wouldn’t be caught dead in. None of it was random. There was a method here, buried under mock flirtation.

“Seriously?” I whispered, as he held up a pair of navy work pants against his hip.

He winked. “Get ready for a wardrobe montage.”

“You’re joking.”

“Never about pants.” He dropped them into my arms and nudged me forward. “C’mon. Let’s try these on.”

The tails were still trailing. One near the clearance shoes, pretending to inspect a rack of wallets. The other, hovering by the phone charms.

And now we were giving them a show.

I rolled my eyes for effect. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re still here.”

A young clerk glanced at us with vague suspicion—but not enough to stop us. Not when Ryoji leaned in with his lips brushing my temple, murmuring something private-sounding with just enough heat to make her blush and look away.

We rounded the final rack.

Changing booths ahead.

He pulled the curtain of the last one open, barely wide enough to slip through.

He looked at me—not with mischief. Not even urgency.

Something deeper.

And I stepped in after him.

The curtain whispered shut.

Silence.

Dim light. Four walls of scratchy beige fabric. And Ryoji, inches away.

The smile dropped off his face like a mask pulled free.

He straightened. Eyes sharpened. Hands checked the curtain seams in one fluid motion. The loose charm vanished—replaced by pure focus.

Operative mode.

The shift was instant, electric.

And I realized with a strange jolt: The boy who’d been flirting with me in public wasn’t pretending.

But this man?

This man was the real thing.

Inside the changing booth, the air was suddenly sharper, closer.

Ryoji’s voice came low, close to my ear—not flirty now, not teasing. Work-mode.

“Two tails. Operatives, not freelancers. One mirrored us from the coats. The other took post by the fitting corridor.”

My breath caught, but I didn’t move.

[IMG:3]

“We don’t vanish yet,” he murmured. “Too clean and they’ll know. We make them think they just lost us.”

He crouched, flipping tags and folding items fast, but not messily. Methodical. Every shirt, scarf, pair of pants—he wasn’t picking at random. These were components. A disguise in pieces.

I stared as he tucked them into one of the boutique’s thin black shopping bags, tags still attached.

“Clerk saw us,” he added, glancing up. “She thinks we’re about to cross a line in here. She’ll come drag us out soon.”

“And then?” I whispered.

“When she does, we stay in character. Let her scold us. We play flustered. Embarrassed. You look like you want to vanish into the floor.”

“I won’t have to act.”

His mouth twitched. Then: “We go straight to the register. Pay. No rush, but no lingering. From there—public toilets, left hall. You know where.”

“The women’s?”

“They’ll follow me in the men’s. You and I both go into the women’s. Keep your head down, lookout for me.”

I blinked. “This is… elaborate.”

He looked up at me again, and the look in his eyes was pure, focused steel. “We’re not losing them. We’re replacing the trail.”

Before I could reply, we heard the shuffle outside—the polite steps of a retail employee mustering courage.

Ryoji straightened.

“She’s here,” he whispered.

And then, with chilling precision, he stepped in behind me—his hands grazing the side of my neck, brushing my hair aside.

“What are you—”

The curtain whipped open.

The clerk gasped.

Ryoji leaned down like he was about to kiss me there, right at the curve between jaw and shoulder. My heart skipped so hard I almost missed my cue.

“Sumimasen!” the clerk barked, flustered and red-faced.

Ryoji spun toward her, all mock guilt and wide-eyed charm. I slapped a hand to my mouth, eyes going wide with manufactured shame. He stepped half in front of me, like a man trying to shield his girl from humiliation.

“We were just—uh—sorry,” I stammered.

“I’ll buy everything,” he said quickly, holding up the bundle of clothes like peace offerings.

The clerk huffed, gesturing toward the register.

And the scene played out just like he wanted. A ridiculous couple, too handsy, too loud, caught red-handed and now trying to save face with retail therapy.

Except we weren’t that.

Not really.

We were ghosts. About to disappear.

[IMG:4]