In the neon-drenched corridors of Tokyo’s Minato Ward, twenty-two-year-old Hana Sato was not a person. She was a product.
“The agency says I have to bow in a public apology. For ‘betraying the trust of our oshi .’” Rin’s voice cracked. “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The journalist’s pen never stopped moving.
As she spoke, the yūrei flickered and dissolved. The vines receded. The daruma dolls’ empty eyes filled in, one by one.
“You are not a tree, Hana-chan,” he had said later, his breath smelling of expensive whiskey. “You are a cherry blossom. Beautiful only because you fall.”