Hot Walkman

The quiet warmth of the pool didn’t last.

The door hissed open—just enough for a gust of cool air to slither across the surface—and then Hiroto’s voice burst into the room like a rocket-powered wind-up toy.

“Nii-san! Nii-san, emergency update!”

I jolted upright with a splash, arms scrambling for stability as the genius gremlin himself charged into the pool chamber—fully clothed, tablet under one arm, holding something in his other hand like it was a live grenade. A Walkman?

He skidded to a halt by the edge of the pool where Ryoji still rested against the stone lip. Calm as a cloud.

Hiro leaned down, thrusting the device toward him. “Surveillance sweep pinged just now. That Hotel address we gave out in the call to Wakkanai? Two untagged agents came by. Unsigned, no facial flags. Could be government. Could be black-ops. Or maybe just very bored civil servants with military-grade sunglasses.”

Ryoji didn’t flinch. Just reached up and took the Walkman in one hand, thumb brushing the side as he turned it over, weighty and old-school, black plastic and tape hiss ready for war.

“Thanks,” he said, tone neutral but… present. Like there was a heartbeat beneath it.

“Side A’s Thriller, side B’s Bad,” Hiro added proudly. “You know. As usual.”

What?

I blinked. Trying—failing—to make sense of what was happening. Hiro was half bouncing on his heels, his oversized coat sleeves flapping like wings. My brain tried to follow the trail and immediately tripped on every step:

Were we being tailed again?

Did Ryoji just started using to a waterproof Walkman like it was tactical gear?

Michael Jackson. Really?

And then Hiro muttered something else, just as he crouched by the edge of the pool, closer now. His tone softened. More somber.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her, nii-san.”

That hit strange. Like the silence after a siren.

Stop who—?

I turned.

And that’s when the door opened again.

A soft rustle. A step far too composed for someone invading a private bath.

Her.

Reika Yamada.

Not in a kimono this time. No. This time, it was something far more dangerous.

Hiro fell silent mid-bounce.

Ryoji didn’t turn. But I saw the faintest, shallowest exhale from his chest.

And me?

I suddenly had no idea if the water in this pool was warm or scalding. Because it felt like the entire temperature of the room had just shifted.

My fingers gripped the edge of the stone.

Oh no. Not now. Not here.

I wasn’t ready.

She descended anyway.

Like a model stepping onto the runway—or no, worse: like a goddess making a casual detour through mortal territory.

Her footsteps echoed softly off the stone tiles, each one perfectly measured, a rhythm of grace and command. And that was before she stepped into the light.

Reika was wearing a bikini. Of course she was.

Designer, obviously—minimalist black with indigo trim, something meant to whisper elegance while screaming centerfold. No ruffles, no tacky frills. Just clean lines, impeccable fabric, and geometry that made the word proportions feel like a joke.

She was the fantasy you’d cut from a fashion spread and tape to your wall.

And yet—she moved with that soft, unshakable calm. That tea-ceremony stillness. Every shift of her shoulders, every sway of her hips, was precise but unhurried, a cadence that made the room orbit her.

She wasn’t flaunting anything.

And still, she flaunted everything.

“Good evening,” she said, voice like silken wind. She bowed slightly, palms together—so formal, so refined, as if her presence weren’t currently making it hard for me to remember to float.

I gave a little nod back. Tight-lipped. Controlled.

She returned her gaze to Ryoji for a moment, nothing overt. No smirk, no possessiveness. Just a gentle smile.

One that said I belong here. That said, I belong next to you.

Then she moved toward the cold rinse shower at the corner of the room.

And that’s when the performance began.

She stepped under the stream without flinching. Water burst from above, cascading over her perfect frame—her back arching slightly as the chill struck, arms lifting to sweep her black hair up and back.

It wasn’t just a rinse. It was a sequence.

Like her body was choreographed by some divine architect. V-tapered torso. Defined shoulders that curved elegantly into arms neither too slim nor too muscled. Breasts high, full, with that impossible balance of natural grace and provocative symmetry.

Her waist narrowed like a sculptor’s dream. Hips flared with feminine ease, the bikini riding just low enough to suggest danger and just high enough to maintain that curated class.

And those legs—long, toned, sculpted for heels or horseback or high command. The kind of legs that had their own fan club. The kind that made me, for a second, forget I even had legs.

I stared. I wasn’t even trying not to.

Then I realized exactly what this was.

She wasn’t doing it for Ryoji.

She was doing it for me.

Another challenge, straight and silent.

Not a catfight. Not claws.

Just… physics.

Reika Yamada was built like Ryoji’s feminine counterpart—statuesque, unshakeable, born from the same rare, heroic mold. She looked like she belonged in a war chronicle—one of those timeless figures painted across history scrolls.

And me?

I was the ballerina. Lean. Trained. Precise.

Elegant in motion, yes—but soft where she was sharp; delicate where she was curved.

I didn’t need to compare bust sizes to feel the difference. Her body made gravity look optional. Mine made physics look polite.

But I couldn’t look away.

Because somewhere deep in my ribs—where the fire lived—I knew this wasn’t about beauty.

This was about presence.

About claiming a place in this space. In his space.

And I wasn’t going to let her steal the spotlight without a fight.

Not because I was jealous.

Because I belonged here too.

Reika’s voice was, as ever, smooth silk trimmed in ceremony.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, folding herself into a seated position by the edge of the pool, her legs pristine and deliberate in their arrangement. “I came to update you on the outcome of your performance. I thought it only right to do so in person.”

I met her gaze, wary but composed. “You didn’t have to.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed with a gentle incline of her head. “But it felt appropriate. The client response was beyond anything we anticipated. They were astounded by what the prototype captured—and by your performance in particular. It was art, and data, in perfect synthesis.”

Her hands, folded gracefully atop her lap, moved as she spoke—elegant, minimal gestures, like those of a woman raised in tea houses and boardrooms alike.

“You should know… they’ve decided to scale the tech for full integration into premium studio workflows. Major cinematic productions, likely within a year. And that would not have been possible without you.”

I bowed my head lightly. “I’m glad it helped.”

And I meant it. Somewhere beneath the ripple of nerves and suspicion, there was pride. I had danced with my whole being—and the tech had followed.

But even as I spoke, I kept my eyes on hers. Waiting.

Because I knew.

Reika Yamada did not descend a glass elevator and show up half-naked in a bathhouse just to deliver a memo.

The compliment was real. But it was only the opening move.

Ryoji, meanwhile, hadn’t so much as glanced at either of us.

He was leaned back against the curved tiles of the far wall, submerged to the collarbone, earbuds in, eyes closed. As though there wasn’t a walking dream of a woman showing off her warship body two meters to his right.

As though I didn’t exist at all.

Whatever was on that tape—side A or side B—it had all of him.

Of course.

That man could ignore a nuclear detonation if it wasn’t part of the mission.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to anchor my thoughts, but Reika was still looking at me.

Patiently. Kindly. Beautifully.

And I wanted to claw back.

Not cruelly. Not unfairly. But something in me needed to swing back—politely—just to remind myself I could.

Except… I couldn’t find the right thread to pull.

Not without sounding petty. Not without sounding like a girl half her size on the losing end of a beauty pageant.

And I hated that. I hated how easily she unbalanced me—how she danced circles in manners and mind games while I flailed for footing beneath the water.

And worst of all…

I couldn’t shake the way she looked at me.

Like she already knew the next ten moves. And she was giving me the courtesy of playing anyway.

Reika slid into the water with all the ceremony of a tea master pouring the final cup. Not a splash, not a ripple out of place. Just a smooth descent, up to her collarbone, the warmth glinting off her impossibly porcelain skin.

And just like that, we were three in the bath.

A strange symmetry pulled at the edges of my memory.

Three people. A warm pool. A conversation that wasn’t quite what it seemed.

And suddenly I was back in that rooftop pool in Tokyo.

Shizuka. Kyoshi. Me.

Three people pretending to be just friends. Pretending their silences didn’t mean something.

Now here I was again—different city, different danger, different triangle—and the shape of it still stung.

Reika had settled opposite me, one arm stretched gracefully along the tile rim, her posture relaxed but upright. She looked at me directly. Unblinking. Calm.

“Natsumi-san,” she began, voice as soft as ever, “I want to make something clear.”

I nodded, unsure of what was coming.

“I am not a member of my brother’s agency,” she said, “nor am I privy to any details of your case. I’ve been kept deliberately outside the loop—by Ryoji-kun, and by Hiroto as well.”

She folded her hands gently beneath the surface. “I am only the proprietor of the facility they’ve been using. A landlord, nothing more.”

A landlord who could shut down a floor of a corporate tower for an impromptu AR dance session and bathe in moonlight without creasing her eyeliner.

Sure.

“I assure you,” she added, “everything from your presence here to your personal matters has remained strictly confidential. Even from me. I wouldn’t compromise your trust.”

I met her gaze.

Steady. Perfectly composed.

And yet… I couldn’t find anything to grab onto.

There was no tell. No hesitation. No hairline crack in her tone.

Reika Yamada was, maddeningly, either the most genuine woman I’d ever met—or the most dangerously good liar.

I didn’t know which I feared more.

And then…

From across the pool—

“Dun-dun… dun-dun… duuun-dun.”

The faintest whisper of a beat.

A breathy, nearly soundless hum.

I turned.

Ryoji.

Still leaned back, half-lidded, utterly tranquil—up to the shoulders in steam and silence.

Except…

Was he humming?

I tilted my head slightly.

Yes.

Oh my god.

He was humming Michael Jackson.

Under his breath. Sub-audible. But there it was.

“‘Thriller.’ Side A,” I thought.

I stared at him.

This man. This absolute storm of secrets and scars… was humming Thriller in the middle of a covert bathhouse standoff.

My brain short-circuited somewhere between laughter and exasperation.

Because of course he was.

Of course he would be the calmest person here. As if nothing happening between Reika and me even remotely required his attention.

Or maybe…

Maybe it was the opposite.

Maybe he was listening to everything.

And choosing to stay quiet.

As always.

Reika brushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture elegant in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed—just… ingrained. She turned slightly toward me, the steam curling between us like a veil.

“So,” she said, her voice light, entirely conversational. “How were your days with Ryoji-kun?”

My brain jolted.

She asked it so simply. So casually. As if inquiring about a travel itinerary.

“You’ve spent, what… almost a week together now?” she added. “From what I gathered.”

There was no edge in her tone. No subtext. Just polite curiosity. But I felt something tighten in my core.

Reika smiled faintly. “You don’t need to worry, Natsumi-san. I’m not part of the agency, remember? Your answers stay between us. Strictly off the record.”

My mouth opened slightly, then closed again. I had to think.

Let’s see…

We took off from Venice early in the morning—just four days ago.

Then the whole day flying, arriving in Tokyo late at night. The hotel, the rooftop… that moment I’ll never forget.

The next day, the visit to my old home. Sorting out the paperwork. Trying to make peace with the past.

Then the detour to Osaka.

Amerikamura, disguises, Yamada Building, the rehearsal. The rooftop. The call.

And now this.

Four days.

“It hasn’t even been a week,” I said softly. “Only four days.”

Reika tilted her head, visibly surprised. “Only?”

I nodded. “Yes. But…”

The words formed before I could stop them.

“These have been the most intense four days of my life.”

Something flickered behind her eyes—interest, maybe.

“He’s been with me the entire time,” I added. “Not just physically present, but… there. In every moment. I think I’ve started to forget what it feels like to not have someone watching your back. Or your front. Or the door. Or the ceiling vent.”

She laughed gently. “That does sound like Ryoji.”

“It’s surreal,” I said, brushing condensation from my arms. “Having a bodyguard. I thought it would be intimidating—or suffocating—but he’s just… there. Quiet. Focused. Unmovable.”

“And always in your line of sight?”

“Always,” I admitted, lowering my gaze. “Even when I don’t notice him. I end up turning and he’s already looking.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “After all, you made it.”

I blinked.

Was this still about the job?

No, this wasn’t business. Not strictly.

There was something else in her tone now—something curious but still genuinely kind. She wasn’t testing me.

She really wanted to know.

But before she could go on, I spoke first—almost reflexively.

“You knew Shizuka, didn’t you?”

Reika blinked once, the faintest smile flickering across her lips. She inclined her head with a graceful nod. “I did.”

“How?” I asked quietly. “How do you know her?”

Reika glanced up toward the ceiling, as if pulling something from a memory not often touched.

“You stood up for her,” she said, “back at the arcade. That first night you arrived. When Chika was speaking poorly of her, and you… stepped in.”

I felt a little warmth bloom in my chest. I remembered that moment—how easily it had come to me, that impulse to protect Shizuka’s name.

Reika continued, “I knew her from back when she used to ride with her biker group. She was still in high school. A little wild. A little reckless. But even then, she had presence.”

I couldn’t hide the surprise from my face. “You knew her as a biker girl?”

Reika’s voice was calm. “I wasn’t always part of the circle, but I led them from time to time. The roads… can be very liberating. Especially when you’re trying to stay off the radar.”

I knew, yet it still floored me.

The idea of Reika Yamada—heiress to one of the most powerful corporate dynasties in Japan—wearing leather gloves and revving an engine under Tokyo’s city lights.

Now I could see it.

The same quiet confidence.

The way her poise wasn’t just learned, but lived.

Shizuka had that too.

Or maybe—maybe it was the other way around.

Maybe Shizuka had learned it. From her.

I felt something tremble inside me.

That tilt of the head. That gaze that made you feel both vulnerable and seen. That quiet way of drawing gravity toward her without even trying.

Reika had all of it. Effortlessly.

And suddenly, it made too much sense.

Shizuka hadn’t just grown into a beautiful, elusive, unpredictable woman on her own.

She had a blueprint.

A source.

And she was sitting across from me now, up to her collarbone in warm water, her breath calm and her tone unthreatening—but it didn’t matter.

Because I could see the through-line.

Reika had been part of Shizuka’s awakening. Her evolution. That sense of mystique, of dominance without cruelty, of orbiting just beyond reach—it had come from here.

And I—

I had spent years chasing Shizuka’s light. Competing with it. Being burned by it.

But I’d never understood where it came from.

Until now.

My chest tightened.

Because if Shizuka had learned how to become her—

Then maybe…

Maybe that’s how I lost.

That’s why Kyoshi’s heart bent toward her, without him ever realizing it.

Not because she stole it.

But because Reika had taught her how to shine.

And now, here I was—floating beside the source of it all. The original. The gravity well.

The woman whose ripple had once reached all the way into my life and cracked it apart.

I sat there in the water, trying not to show what I was feeling. But the realization… it landed hard.

It shook me.

Reika Yamada might never have known it.

But I had lost something—maybe everything—because once upon a time, she’d taken a girl with too much fire and too much sadness and showed her how to turn it into magnetism.

And it had worked.

It had worked perfectly.

“Shizuka told me,” Reika began softly, “that you were a dear friend. The one who wanted to become a dancer. The cheery one. She actually looked up to you.”

My eyes lifted—reflex, disbelief.

“She said she admired the way you could communicate emotions to others,” Reika went on. “That you didn’t need words to be understood. Something… she always struggled with.”

I felt something catch in my throat.

A small tremor, somewhere in my core.

I didn’t know if it was the heat of the water rising around me, or the quiet, almost impossible affirmation that had just been offered like a gift.

Reika was trying to… what?

Cheer me up?

Boost my confidence?

On any other day, the thought would’ve made me laugh. Not now. Not after everything.

Because somehow—without pretense or performance—this woman, with her aura of iron and silk, reminded me that even Shizuka had once looked up to me.

And suddenly, the last few days crashed over me: the pool with Shizuka, the closure I hadn’t known I needed, letting go of that teenage triangle, finally facing the cracks in myself—heartbreak, selfishness, the desperate need to be chosen. I admitted them. Owned them.

And Ryoji—

Ryoji had been by my side.

Not as a knight in shining armor, not as some shadowy protector—but as something else.

He wasn’t just my bodyguard anymore. I could feel that.

We didn’t talk about it, didn’t name it—but it was.

In his silences, in his dry humor, in the way he’d look at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. In the way I saw him watching me dance.

He was brooding, closed off, scarred in ways I couldn’t yet understand.

And I… I had always been the cheery one, right?

But that was just my mask. My role. Beneath it—I had cracks, too. Wounds I hadn’t dared press on until this trip began.

We weren’t opposites.

We were mirrors.

And somehow, that realization settled everything.

I didn’t need to fight Reika.

Not even symbolically.

Not for Shizuka. Not for Ryoji. Not for anyone. I was done chasing shadows.

I turned to her, calm now, and met her gaze. She smiled—gentle, almost conspiratorial.

Then she asked—“What do you think of Ryoji, then?”

The question hit like a stone in a pond.

I opened my mouth—half a breath—and then—

Crack.

A hiss. A spark. The pool’s surface shuddered as if a wire had shorted.

Reika’s eyes widened. I turned just as Ryoji sat straighter at the pool’s edge, lifting the old Walkman from his lap. The headphones dangled loose, a thin wisp of steam curling from the cassette slot.

“Waterproof no more,” he said flatly.

He popped the case open. A faint curl of plastic smell drifted through the humid air.

And then I saw it.

The black wristband on his left arm—long, always there—was now shrunken and discolored. Warped, like a strip of scorched rubber. It clung to his wrist oddly, like it had melted in places.

My heart picked up.

What was that…?

A fashion accessory? A brace?

Or something else entirely?

Ryoji didn’t seem fazed.

But I couldn’t look away.