✧ 01. I have nothing.

I was not always a cat. I don’t remember where I was born, but I know I have a name: Arima Nakuru. At least, that’s the name I always remembered hearing. My memory’s poor from this point, but I remember that I was crying in an alley after a fight at home when, for the first time, someone came to check on me. It was a young girl, maybe within a few years of my age, wearing a thick wool sweater covered in polka dots. I heard that when an unknown girl approaches you, it’s likely she’s fishing to drag you into a brothel to either make you a new client or to turn you into one of her kind. However, I wasn’t aware of that yet, so I had taken her hand and gotten up from my daze. It was likely the first time anyone had shown me kindness in a long time. That feeling of confusion, which I had felt in meeting her, still burns in me today. She had downturned eyes, the bags under them red and puffy as if she were constantly crying. Her lips were beaten and pink, giving the impression she bit her lips to self-soothe, coating them in a blood that acted as a temporary lipstick. She breathed an intoxicating smoke with each exhale, which I felt troubled by, but she later told me it was just tobacco she was given by her ‘friend.’ This nature of smoking, taking in things that are poisonous, felt troubling to me.

For some time, that strange girl and I just walked. The world around us was cold, dim, and hazy, only street lamps and the occasional TV screen lighting up the world. However, I began to feel a weight crash down on me. A terrible sickness, like the world itself was falling upon me. My eyes struggled to stay open, and before I knew it, my head hit the pavement and I heard the gasp of that girl. I then only saw darkness, and I’m sure someone came to rescue me, but I cannot remember a single thing that happened after falling.

By the time I regained my consciousness, the girl was gone. I once had parents, but now they were nowhere to be seen. They weren’t that great of family anyways, but perhaps bad company is better than none at all. Even my favorite belonging, a stuffed fish fashioned like a salmon, had disappeared. And now I found myself in a different alley, brighter and full of suffocating smells. I was on the floor again, too. I began to crawl, feeling a searing pain in my body while barely keeping my eyes open. Whatever life I had before being dropped here must’ve been more comfortable than the fate I found myself in now, one I’m starting to long for despite not knowing its origin.

After some time, I escaped the area I found myself and found a small street. I crawled to the end of it, then sat under a streetlamp and wondered what to do now. No helpful thought occurred. After a while it struck me that, perhaps if I called out for help, maybe that girl would come back and help me. I tried some soft cries, begging for help, but even passersby turned their head. It soon became dark and cold, the only thing illuminating the world now being the streetlamp I sat under and the ones like it. I was cold, hungry, and sick. But there was little I could do about it. I got up and stumbled into a small izakaya, deciding at the least I needed some food and drink. Opening the door, the man serving the bar let out a soft gasp before stepping back away from the sorry sight that is me. It was like chance that I made it there; had it not been for the door to the izakaya being slightly ajar, I likely wouldn’t have eaten that night, as other places were closed.

When I managed to enter and sit down at the bar, I could barely feel my face. I had no clue what to do next, just staring at the man behind the bar with sunken eyes. He smiled at me; it was a look of pity, as if seeing a scrawny kitten upon your doorstep with little you can do for it. Rain began to fall, pattering against the floor and leaking rainwater into the izakaya until it began to collect into a drain right beside a trash can. Things got darker and colder. I did not know it, then, but I was staring at the face of the person who’d be my greatest benefactor, but also the source of my eventual ruin. The first act of kindness he expressed towards me was a sorry look. He decided to strike up a conversation with me, this young woman who stumbled into his store confused and tired, and see if he could help me.

“I don’t often see people your age coming in,” he began with a soft, raspy voice. I looked at him, brow furrowed, then shrugged.

“I’m hungry. Shouldn’t you feed a patron, regardless of status or time?” I replied quietly. The man nodded.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

He was tall, with short hair that hung over his eyes. He tied the lower half of it into a ponytail that draped over his back, hiding its true length should you only view him from the front. His smile was gentle, with neat teeth and a few piercings on his lower lip that I found myself staring at. The man wore a simple graphic tee, with some character on it that I couldn’t recognize. His arms were lean, covered in hair and ornate tattoos, with scars towards the wrist that suggest various knife incidents alongside intentional scarring. Every time I looked at this man, I can’t help but think he must understand the position I’m in right now. I laid my head on the counter, taking the bag that was strapped to my belly and pulling it towards me. Somewhere in there, I had a little money left; no more than maybe 5,000 yen, but it was enough to get me by for a few days until I figure out what to do and where to go. As the man watched me, he held his hand out and placed it next to my head. His next words were quiet.

“You want to pay? No, I can’t allow that.”

I sneered at him. “It’s only right, isn’t it? I should pay, if you’re going to feed me at this late of an hour. Shouldn’t you be closing this shop by now?”

“Maybe I should,” he murmured, “but I just live upstairs. I can close this place when I feel like it. You just have a meal, and if you need to, I can get you a hotel or set up a warm place for you to sleep.”

It was like he knew I had nowhere to go. Normally, I wouldn’t try and stay in a stranger’s home, but with how little I knew and how dangerous Shinjuku could get, it was safer here than on the streets alone. I just nodded along to his lecture, taking my hands away from the bag to play with a cup of disposable chopsticks laid on the counter. The man placed a menu in front of me, tapping it twice with two fingers. “Pick what you’d like, or ask for something that has these ingredients,” he said to me softly. When we made eye contact, there was only compassion in his eyes, but I could still feel the pity. I sat up, a searing pain entering my side, then stared at the menu. I was about to turn 18 years old at this point, so not old enough to drink yet – that was two years away – so I ordered some water and peach juice to drink. The food, however, I found myself lost in options. Karaage, sashimi, even bowls of butadon and oyakodon seemed appealing. The man watched my eyes scan everything, preparing my drinks.

“Take your time,” he said with a slight chuckle.

This world is full of interesting people. Not many are this kind, offering a warm meal and a few drinks to a stranger they had just met. But I didn’t know, still, that this kindness wouldn’t last forever. In the moment, I just kept nodding along and imagining each meal in my belly, and how sleepy it could make me. In the end, I chose some gyoza and miso soup. I don’t think I could stomach anything heavier. As the man prepared the food, he then struck up another conversation with me.

“So, Ms. Tanin, why are you out so late?” He asked. Ms. Tanin being a nickname he chose to address that I was a stranger.

“I have a name…” I croaked out uncomfortably. “I don’t know why I’m here, though.”

“Hm. If you’re going to respond so curtly, then it’d be my honor to hear your name, Miss. I’m Kobayashi Taiki.”

“Kobayashi? What a name,” I huffed out. He smirked, then placed the cup of water in front of me. “My name is… Nakuru. Arima Nakuru.”

Mr. Kobayashi looked at me for a second. As if he recognized me, or wanted to really settle the name with a face. He bit his lip in deep thought, then returned to cooking. The smell of miso filled the air, stuffing my lungs with something other than the stench I had been stuck with for the past few hours, or however long I was passed out. He then passes the soup I ordered to me, continuing our conversation.

“Nakuru, huh. Well, if you have no idea what you’re doing here and you have no place to go back to, feel free to keep stopping by so long as you can find your way back.” Mr. Kobayashi looks towards a set of stairs in the back of the izakaya before continuing. “I have enough space upstairs, but it might be a little cramped if you start bringing tons of stuff back.”

I sighed. “I understand… thank you.”

He grinned again. This man was always smiling, he had a carefree air, something you’d only see in people who either have made peace with their suffering or cause the suffering of others. I’d eventually learn he was a mix of both, but for now I resolved he must be a peaceful man to live such a simple and sustainable life. I began to wonder why the izakaya was so quiet and empty, then found my phone nestled under my skirt against my thigh. I flipped it open to look at the time and date; May 14th, 1997 … 1:53 A.M. I put my phone away, looking back to Mr. Kobayashi, who was finishing up the gyoza for me.

“Did you finally see the time?” He asked.

“I did. It’s really late… we should both be asleep by now.”

“Definitely. However, you need to eat first, Nakuru.”

“Okay,” I sighed.

When the plate was placed in front of me, I stared down at the food for a few moments. Mr. Kobayashi looked proud of his work; he folded his arms, waiting for my reaction. My nose scrunched, almost overwhelmed by the smells of the food in front of me. Mr. Kobayashi’s expression changed to worry for a moment; lips downturned, eyebrows raising. I tried to reassure him that I liked the food. My ailments, however, made it difficult to express it. So, I simply began eating, trying my best to ignore the pain and nauseating feeling taking over me. He relaxed watching me eat away at his food, shifting his weight onto his right side to continue talking.

“Your hair looks nice,” Mr. Kobayashi started. “It must be a lot of work to keep it dyed white, huh?”

I shrugged. It wasn’t ever much work to me, from what I remember. I’m sure I could find the things for it at a drugstore should I need to do maintenance again. He peeked at the black roots on my scalp, where I decided to keep my hair intact in case I wanted to grow it out without damage.

“Hm. No? Maybe you’re just built for that hair color. I tried dying my hair a few times, but it would get gummy and burn off, so I stopped when I was around your age.”

I lifted my head from the bowl of soup. “How old do you think I am?” I asked. He said it like I was a kid, maybe that was why he was so compassionate.

“You must be a teenager at least,” he replied. Kobayashi folded his arms.

“I’m about to be 18 in a few weeks,” I murmured.

“So, I was right.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of child you can dote on…”

“That’s true, perhaps. I’m only three years your senior once your birthday comes.”

“You own this izakaya at 21? How young.” I scoffed.

“It was my brother’s. He passed last winter, though, so I took over the place for him. And you ought to be a little less formal, knowing you and I are so close in age. You’re making me feel old.”

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s fine. Just keep eating, get your fill and then get settled upstairs.”

I had no reason to disobey. After all, this was the first person since I had woken up that had spoken to me, so kind as to take care of me for a little while. I scrounged down the last of my food before finding the stairs in the back to find where I’d be resting. My stomach began to hurt again, to the point a hunched walk became a weakened crawl, and everything began to seem grim again. Kobayashi cleaned up for some time, mumbling to himself some unintelligible words. When he reached the top of the stairs with me, he saw me laying on top of a discarded futon, glaring at the little pile of belongings I made to take up as little space as possible. Every time I had done something to keep from inconveniencing him, it seems as if he has only become more inconvenienced, making that same expression past his thick hair and piercings all over his face.

Days began to pass, and I found that I had gained a routine. Being newly homeless, I only stumbled my way back home once in the middle of the day to gather some of my old belongings. My cat, whose name I had forgotten by now, purred and nuzzled against my leg, but I could only stare at him and wonder if he’d be taken care of since I left. I grabbed a few important things; a few bags stuffed with my clothes, medicine, and things I felt were a bit too sentimental to leave behind. The rest I could reclaim later, if I really cared or had the chance to. Otherwise, it’d be bought and replaced.

When I left the house, I began to realize it’d be no use going back. It barely felt like a home. Though these things were mine, and I knew I once slept here, it felt as if all my memory and feelings associated with that house were jumbled and I suddenly felt nothing. I began to travel along the roads until I got back to around where I remember being picked up. This road was much different in daylight. It was not nearly as long, nor as wide, and the lights that seemed so blinding and gargantuan were only a few meters tall and all broken down. I continued walking down the road, even passing the izakaya, where inside I could see Kobayashi happily serving customers. During this time of day, customers were usually families or couples. By later afternoon, it’d be the students, and by evening, it’d be salarymen and their coworkers coming for drinks and casual chatter.

One night, just before my birthday, I had stayed and hung out by the bar, speaking with the patrons of that night. It was a group of men, no older than their mid-30s, all having come from work after doing grueling overtime. They were surprisingly reasonable for men, all including me in the conversation for my unique perspective. Downing shot glasses of putrid sake, one of them would ramble some point before the others would nod and raise their eyebrows. In particular, one of them began his speech by hanging his head low and gripping his hair with despair.

“My girlfriend,” he begins with a groan, “She began to start wearing this garish perfume, and curl her bangs before bed. She must be seeing someone else, huh?” The other men would nod in unison, stroking their chins in deep thought as if trying to decipher the hidden meanings behind this girl’s behavior. It’s easy to part your thoughts on someone else’s life when you only have your own perspective and what they’ve told you. I’ve noticed that in my many years, that the moment you ask earnestly for advice, even the least qualified and dignified individuals will offer a piece of their mind for you and give explicit thought to your plight as if it were the most important thing for them to face. And then, as if they were speaking the words of whatever god they praise, they’ll give you their thoughts with full confidence, only to then backpedal with a half-meaning “but that’s just from what I gather” to offer themselves deniability in the case their unprompted wisdom happened to be incorrect. This group of men were starting to do the same thing, and it was as if the slow gears in their heads were grinding against one another to form a conclusion from the statement of their coworker.

One of them, who was quite the gormandizer, pressed his belly against the counter to look towards the one who brought forth the predicament. “What did she do before?” He asks.

“Well, she always pinned her bangs with a hair clip,” the other begins. He looked distressed, his cheeks flushed a bright red. I couldn’t help but notice he stared at the photos on the wall of the izakaya every time he spoke. “…And she rarely wore perfume. Perhaps it was just a subtle scent I had gotten used to, but this change was sudden and I could tell she was starting to be happier.”

The larger man pushed his glasses up on his nose and frowned. “I see. Well, girls are like tanuki. You never know what form they’ll take on next, and you can only hope it’ll be one you like, or that you aren’t dealing with a tanuki in the first place.” He spoke as if he had experience, but I found myself struggling to understand the meaning of his analogy. If he meant the bake-danuki, would it not have been more apt to compare to a different sort of trickster, like a kitsune? Either way, his words were shallow. The other men started to nod again and come up with their own conclusions.

“She must be unfaithful,” one chimed in. “No woman makes such changes to her style unless she is trying to impress someone new.”

“Did she get a new job or join a new girl’s group? Maybe she’s interested in a new singer,” a different one commented.

Another man wagged his finger towards me. “Actually, you, miss, what do you think? When do you change your style?”

I never thought they’d actually seek my opinion in this conversation. All the men sitting at the bar looked to me, and I felt hot all of a sudden. I couldn’t really come up with an answer on the spot, so I stared back at them for some time past my glasses as I tried to think of the best way to answer their question. Drunk people perceive time differently, so those few moments of silence must have felt like eternity, because the group had erupted into another argument before I could speak.

“She doesn’t know! She’s probably never had a boyfriend!”

“Or she doesn’t want to tell you the bad news, Amachi! It’s bad – just leave the girl!”

“You fool, she was just thinking, I mean, look at her! She’s fashionable enough! Go on, tell us what it is, take your time.”

When the spotlight was on me again, I couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh. They all clamored so much over a few moments of silence. “Well, give us a bit more information, and I can say something from a girl’s perspective,” I reply. The group fell silent, looking back to the man who gave the question.

“Right… we’ve been together for about four months. She did recently get a new job, but it’s been a couple of weeks. I doubt she would change her style so late into getting that job, and since we’ve been working late hours, I can’t spend as much time with her. Is that enough?”

“What’s her name?” I asked. I didn’t care what her name was, but I figured he’d be convinced I was listening if I asked questions.

“Reine…” He whined. The man hangs his head low, hitting his shot glass against the table. He begins to ramble more about this Reine girl, describing her every feature. He spoke about her as if she were an obscure goddess; I found most men did this when they were in love. It was clear he was head over heels for her, even willing to ignore the truth if it meant something ugly, but perhaps in this state I could give him a glimmer of hope. I found myself getting invested in the lives of these strangers, even so much as wanting to figure out what kind of work they were doing to keep them out so late. The white coats they wore and suits underneath them gave a few options, but I couldn’t spot any imagery relating to what company it was quite yet.

“Reine,” I repeated after him. “She sounds like a nice woman.”

“She’s great… that’s why it’d be devastating if she were cheating,” he whimpered.

“I don’t think I caught your name, actually. It feels rude to give advice to someone who I don’t know the name of.” The man looked at me as I spoke as if I said something completely foreign, then stumbled on his words.

“I’m, er, uh, Amachi. Amachi Shohei.”

“Okay, Mr. Amachi.” I repeated again. Repeating things was a way to let him know I was comprehending what he was saying, but it was also an attempt at flattery. I wanted him to believe the words I was saying and understand I spoke with sincerity, although it was only for my own gain, to get a nice story to entertain myself in this izakaya. Amachi smiled towards me.

“Then, what is your verdict, miss…”

“Arima.”

“Miss Arima?”

“I can’t exactly say that her behavior isn’t suspicious, but you’d be better off asking her genuinely what she’s doing.” I shrugged, then wiped my nose with my thumb, feigning my ignorance. “Girls love to switch up their fashion on any given day, so while the changes may be drastic, perhaps she’s just experimenting and trying to redefine who she is for herself.”

One of the other men among the group nodded enthusiastically. This group in particular bobbed their heads like a bunch of chickens, clucking and ruffling their feathers at the sound of any decent commentary they had heard. “That sounds right,” he murmured through a half-swallow, looking towards his colleagues, “You should ask her. Hey, Miss Arima, can I ask you something actually?”

The attention made me feel nauseous. I picked up my cup of water and nodded, trying to drink down the nausea and brace for the question. If I were lucky, it’d just be something simple, but the expression on this man’s face seemed deeply perplexed. He spoke up through a sip of his sake.

“Why’s your hair white?” He asks crudely.

“I thought it was cute,” I replied simply. I realized that was only a half-truth. They’d sniff it out of me – these kinds of people always do. I began to speak up more, and offer a confession. It was worth it, after all, because by my luck, I’d only see them this one night and never again. “…Actually, it’s a bit more complicated. Since I graduated school a little early, I had more freedom to express myself, so I decided to make a grand change to my appearance. I always liked the bleached hair and bright colors in Harajuku… so I decided to go with white, since it’d fit every outfit regardless of color or makeup.”

The group nodded, but Mr. Amachi had his gaze fixated on me. It was like he was processing my monologue in the perspective of his Reine, wondering if that was what she was doing, but contradicting it with his own worries. The one who asked me a question let out a quiet “oh,” as if he didn’t expect something so insightful of me. Even Kobayashi had paused to think of what I said, then got back to cleaning and fixing up a drink for himself.

“What the hell,” one man grumbled, “This is complicated now. I still think that Reine girl’s cheating, but a woman’s life is complicated, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t help but agree. The man who asked me the first question then chimed in, “Actually, do you have piercings too?”

I didn’t feel like answering this. I could tell he was intending to press me more and reach a perverted line of thinking, so I just got up from my seat. I didn’t have any piercings besides in my ears. However, after looking at Kobayashi, I wanted to get something similar and see if it’d fit me. I was always interested in that kind of self-expression. When writing didn’t quite scratch the itch, I needed to wear my feelings and thoughts, so I had gained a habit of getting many exquisite clothes and jewelry. However, with such a strict upbringing and with my age, it was much too soon for me to find out how many holes I could poke in my body and make sparkle with jewelry. That man had no need to know that, though, and I found myself disgusted at the thought of his reaction to anything I’d say.

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, watching me curtly leave the bar. The others chided him for making me leave, but soon went back to their drunken chatter. An hour or so passed until Kobayashi had joined me upstairs, where I now had my own section of the living space. He moved things around to give me enough space and privacy, so kind as to form a makeshift nest for me to hide in when the world was too much for me. Kobayashi had only been kind. Occasionally, he’d speak to me, always careful with his words and never trying to make me uncomfortable. He asked me things of my past home, in which I’d have few answers, or he’d find things that reminded him of me to show and let me keep. On this night, he was of few words at first. I had already changed into pajamas, cozied up next to a TV he had sitting on the floor in the corner of the living room. I was watching the late-night news, though I didn’t care about the contents so much as I did in having some kind of entertainment. Kobayashi sat down at the kotatsu a few feet away, letting out a soft huff. He moved like an old man at points, letting out groans and huffs when he’d plant himself into a resting spot, or sitting on a stool when the izakaya wasn’t busy.

“Exhausting, aren’t they?” He asked. I grumbled, but a hint of laughter came as well.

“Exhausting doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“They’re a bunch of regulars; I see them maybe once a month. I should have warned you of them beforehand. They come in, drink up all my sake, bitch about their lives, then leave around midnight.”

I started to get curious again. Though I had a long talk with these strangers, the important detail I couldn’t gather was where they worked and what they did. “What do they do?” I ask Kobayashi.

“They’re… it’s hard to describe. They all work under an international conglomerate, so to say, but I believe they work under the pharmaceutical subsidiary here.”

“…Okay.”

“Sorry. That wasn’t enough information, was it?”

“Not quite,” I scoffed.

“It’s called Umbrella Corporation,” Kobayashi huffed. “They have branches everywhere, but only one here. They do… biotechnology research, I think. I don’t remember.”

“Did you do research, or are you just parroting back what those guys tell you?” I ask.

“A little of both. I got curious after the second time they came by,” he confessed. I looked back at Kobayashi with a neutral expression. He just shrugged at me, trying to find the best way to word his thoughts. “What matters is they’re a bunch of smart guys. At least academically – I’m sure you can tell what they’re like socially.”

Thinking back to my abrupt departure, I couldn’t help but see them about the same as most people. Despite how smart others claim to be, the moment they’re under the influence, they all become fools. Between the attempts at becoming wisemen and the intimate line of questioning, though, I couldn’t tell with that group where “fool” ended and “genius” began. Working for a pharmaceutical company aside, they were blubbering the same nonsense a person who works in a mechanic’s garage would spew once alcohol got into their system. I find it deplorable, how people get when drunk, and will rely on such poison to give themselves a sense of relaxation. Either way, I listened to Kobayashi and looked at the TV. Soon enough, my eyelids got heavier and heavier, struggling to stay awake for too long.

By the time autumn came, we had built a routine. I wake up in the late morning as Kobayashi opens the izakaya for the afternoon, and he makes me breakfast. I check the clock, and try to forge a plan for the day before heading out. I’ve begun spending most of my days browsing shops and getting acquainted with most of the people along the road. At some point, I found an old bike abandoned by its owner, got it fixed by the handyman down the street, and began decorating it to bike around the neighborhood. Today, though, I spent a little longer inside of the izakaya. The first few customers came in; an older woman in her 40s, and a younger college student, likely around the same age as me. I chose to sit in my usual spot, marked with a stool with a blue cushion unlike the red ones on the other seats, and start writing away at a notebook. Kobayashi greeted the customers, and they’d begin their dialogues.

“This husband of mine,” the woman would start. “He is so noisy when he sleeps, I begin to look forward to sleeping just to get out of bed in the morning and leave him to his noise. And he no longer looks at me when he gets home, just moving to sit in front of the TV and read the newspaper. Does this man have any sense?” She’d continue to complain. Her voice was creaky and high-pitched, and she spoke quickly, emphasizing the last syllable with a screech. I have never heard her happy with her husband ever, but I couldn’t suggest she leave him – the time I did, she got irate and berated me for ten minutes for being an “ignorant little girl,” trying to suggest that I had no idea what I was talking about when trying to say her marriage was certainly loveless and needed to end.

The college student rarely spoke. He would just bow towards Kobayashi and I, then pull out his textbooks and get his usual order. By now, I remember it: he always ordered a plate of gyoza with two glasses of pineapple juice. When I asked why pineapple, he’d blush and say it was for his health. Later, he eventually confessed rather crudely he was trying to improve the taste of his semen. When I grimaced at it, he looked away, and hasn’t brought it up since, so I never commented. Today, however, he got cranberry juice. Kobayashi didn’t have much left, so he only had one glass, but this change was enough to press me to ask about it.

“Cranberry juice today? You want it to taste like…”

“No, no, don’t say this,” he whined. He looked past his silver spectacles and gave me a look you’d only see from a guilty pup, prompting me to go quiet and simply grin. He then went straight to his confession, “I’ve been struggling with an infection. It should help out with it.” I didn’t think much of it. The student always had health on his mind, so I figured he was just being conscious once more. When I stopped speaking, he ducked back into his textbooks, picking up the gyoza with his fingers and licking them clean after eating.

I decided to stay home that day. Nothing good was happening in the outside world, but part of me wanted to just watch Kobayashi all day and see the kinds of people that came through for the evening. No one in particular was interesting; you find most of the world is boring once you’ve slotted them all into categories, and I found myself slotting each patron into those categories instead of listening to the actual content of their personal lives. When there was a lull in conversation, Kobayashi sighed, rubbing his arm with a damp towel. He looked towards me, his expression twisting into one of near concern; I couldn’t tell why, as nothing was particularly worrying about me in this moment, but all I could do was stare back with an indifferent look.

“You’re staying in today,” he stated plainly.

“Yes? What about it?”

“How unusual… you know, I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had a few months back, when those pharmacy guys came in.”

“What about it?” I looked him in the eyes.

“You were out the other day when they came back, but it turns out Reine was cheating on Amachi. She had picked up some guy at her new job, and the moment he caught on, she decided to leave.”

“What does that have to do with me?” I asked.

“I figured you were curious. But that’s not actually my point… I just thought you wanted to know what was going on.”

“Get to the point, please.”

Kobayashi groaned. “Always so blunt, you are. Well, we talked about piercings in that conversation… and your fashion. I’ve noticed it, but you’ve been dressing in darker clothes. But you’ve still got that soft, cute face of yours.”

I sneered at him calling me cute. “…What is it?”

“Well, do you want me to give you a piercing? I did all of mine myself.”

“That’s unhygienic. But…” I couldn’t help but admit to myself I was curious. That conversation had only strengthened my curiosity, and since I had gained an interest in grungier clothing, I wanted to look the part for some time. I sighed. “I don’t want to ruin my chances of getting a job, honestly. Don’t most companies look down on you if you’re pierced or inked in any way? … No offense.”

“You’re right, they do,” Kobayashi replied calmly with a smile. “I can pierce you somewhere subtle, though, and you can always take it out or add more later when you feel confident.”

“Somewhere subtle,” I repeated. “Like where?”

Kobayashi began to point to different parts of his body. Various studs poked from beneath his dark clothes, suddenly noticed the second I truly paid attention to them. “I have piercings here, here,” he begins to point around his torso, then to his head, pointing to each individual piercing. “…and even here.”

I nodded along. I found myself just nodding towards him in acknowledgement, even if I was barely paying attention. “My chest might be fine, then. I heard you need the right anatomy for the navel, and … well, it’d get caught on my shirt.”

“Like the other location wouldn’t?”

“…Hmm. I still want it, though.”

“Okay, then. I’ll prepare it all when we close.” He hummed, returning to his cleaning. I thought about what he said, and the concerned look he had. It couldn’t have been too abnormal I chose to stay home, as I had done so on a few other occasions, but this time must have been significant enough for Kobayashi to point out. I soon retired to go upstairs, deciding I was bored and no longer wanted to be around the public. Not too long after, the izakaya started to get busy again, so I remained hidden for the evening.

When things settled down later in the night, Kobayashi crawled his way upstairs. He said very little, going to the bathroom to rummage through things. For a moment, I wondered if he had forgotten about our agreement. Kobayashi had a tendency to forget things if you didn’t remind him over and over again. I could get it, as he was someone with a lot that went on, so reminding him became a habit for me as well. However, after a few moments, he stumbled out with a small bag of supplies while wearing thin gloves, placing the bag on the kotatsu before kneeling.

“Nakuru,” he began.

“Oh, you remembered.”

“I couldn’t forget. Are you still wanting to do this?”

“Yes…” I responded. I dragged out the last syllable, crawling over to where Kobayashi kneeled. He lowered himself to properly sit, then grabbed a pillow to lay on the floor.

“Where do you want it?”

“The chest is fine.” I just made up an answer, but it felt easier to just go with an option I could hide easily with thick clothing.

“Go ahead and lay your head on that pillow and take off your top for me, then. I’ll make it quick.”

The next few moments go by quickly. I remember taking off my top, nervous to be so exposed, but willing to trust Kobayashi as he seemed prepared enough and responsible. He was careful to sterilize and try and keep me calm, but I could tell he was just as nervous, careful to barely touch my skin. I felt a pinch, a cool sensation, and then a brief pain before it all subsided. When I came to again, I was laying bare-chested with a towel over my breasts, and Kobayashi with his back to me. I knew nothing happened besides the piercing, but something felt wrong either way. Kobayashi looked over his shoulder.

“You alright? You practically passed out once the needle went in.”

“I’m fine. what happened to me?”

“I just pierced you, left some jewelry in there. You might want to wear some loose clothes for a while,” he whispered.

“…Are you certain nothing happened?”

“I’m positive. I’m not that kind of guy, as pretty as you are. At least, I’d only do so if you’d let me,” Kobayashi murmured beneath his breath. In that moment, I felt a wave of disgust wash over me. Even with the courtesy to say he’d want my go-ahead, this confession of attraction felt like a betrayal. It’s often said that few times people will extend such kindness unless they want something from you. They’ll sing pleasantries, give you generosity, but it is all dyed in venom as they aim for some kind of gain in return. This comment was where Kobayashi’s gain lied – he wanted my body. Perhaps I should have known this sooner. He was friendly since day one, and never disagreed at the showers of compliments I received from other sleazy patrons. When I asked for advice, he’d always shake it in the way of his own interests, and offer excessive compliments when I dressed or engaged in the things that served him. The more I thought of it, the more disgust began to contaminate my heart, the more I wanted to scream at my foolishness. I shook off the illness clawing at my psyche before shooting up to press the towel to my chest and stare at him.

“No. No way, not even if I’m dragged to hell and told my only way free is to accept,” I stammered out through a burning throat. I would have rather been violated in my haze than have to live with this reality that every bit of kindness was only for the gain of my flesh, it painted everything in a sickening light that I couldn’t shake off. After that night, I resolved to start avoiding staying home as much as possible. I couldn’t bear this atmosphere, as there was nothing good left with that confession. Kobayashi took the rejection well, though he looked a bit downcast, nodding and resolving himself to bed for the evening. I crawled to my own bed, where I had made a makeshift blanket fort, trying to shut out the world as much as possible.

Many people’s pleasantries are nothing more than that – mere pleasantries. Hollow actions have always followed me, and this was no different. I suddenly remembered an argument my father and I had. Following a night I spent with friends, he had dug in my room, read my diary, and found out that I was interested in someone. He chided me for abandoning my studies, for trying to waste myself in someone else’s arms instead of being the smart daughter he wanted. I remember my mother said nothing, only waiting until my father left to enter my room and give me the same lecture. That she, even in her old age, did everything to make sure it looked good in his eyes. I then came to a conclusion: In this world, your mind, body, and existence belong to others. Even if you think it’s solely yours, their opinions and desires for you will seep in and you will suddenly start regarding them, or realizing their motives for you were only to serve the worldview they craft for themselves. I realized that suddenly, lying down with my arms crossing my chest, thinking of the fact that every single action of Kobayashi’s could be tied back to his desire for me. From that day onward, I, Arima Nakuru, no longer belonged to myself.