The ride back from the studio was silent, but the air inside the car was screaming. Mikoto drove the Triplets' sleek black SUV, his eyes fixed on the road, while Marin sat in the passenger seat, her phone illuminating her face with a ghostly, flickering light.
Notifications were pouring in like a flash flood.
“WHO IS HE? The Mystery Man Behind Marin Kodakawa’s Emotional Meltdown.”
“Method Acting or Secret Romance? The Tennis Ghost Returns to the Spotlight.”
“Kodakawa Agency Silent as Leaked Studio Footage Goes Viral.”
“They’re calling you a ‘distraction,’ Mikoto,” Marin whispered, her voice trembling as she scrolled through a thread of vitriolic comments. “They’re saying you’ve ‘corrupted’ my image. That I’m losing my mind because of you.”
Mikoto gripped the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have walked onto the set. I broke the one rule Shino gave me: Discretion.”
“You didn’t break a rule,” Marin snapped, finally looking up. Her makeup was still smeared, her hair a chaotic mess, but her eyes were the sharpest they’d ever been. “You broke the cage. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t a doll. And now they want to punish us for it.”
When they pulled into the Grand Zenith’s underground garage, they weren't greeted by the usual silence. Three black sedans were idling near the elevator. Men in sharp suits—the Kodakawa Agency’s "Cleanup Crew"—were waiting.
“Miss Kodakawa,” the lead agent, a man with a face like cold marble, stepped forward. “Your father is on the line. And Mr. Asada? You’re required to hand over your keys and your phone. Your contract is being terminated for a breach of the morality clause.”
Mikoto felt his stomach drop. It was happening. The "Nightmare" was being ended by the people who insisted on the "Dream."
He reached into his pocket to hand over the keys, but a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack echoed through the garage.
Karen and Shino stepped out of the elevator. Karen was carrying three tennis rackets in a single bag, looking like she was ready to go to war. Shino was holding her laptop like a shield, her expression one of terrifying, calculated calm.
“He’s not handing over anything,” Karen growled, stepping in front of Mikoto.
“Mr. Asada has compromised the brand—” the agent started.
“The ‘brand’ is currently at its highest engagement in three years,” Shino interrupted, turning her laptop screen toward the agents. “I’ve been tracking the metrics for the last twenty minutes. While the ‘traditional’ fanbases are confused, the New Adult and Indie Film demographics are surging. Marin’s ‘raw’ performance has already been tweeted by three major directors. To fire him now would be a PR disaster. It would look like we’re hiding something.”
“Our father’s instructions were clear—”
“Our father isn’t here,” Marin said, stepping out of the car. She walked up to the lead agent, her head held high. “And neither is my ‘image.’ That girl you’ve been selling for ten years? She’s retired. Tell the agency that if they touch Mikoto, I walk. I’ll break the contract, I’ll take the lawsuits, and I’ll go to a rival studio tomorrow.”
The garage went deathly quiet. Even the agents looked stunned. Marin Kodakawa, the "obedient" starlet, had just declared a mutiny.
“And if you try to kick him out of the apartment,” Karen added, tapping her racket against the concrete, “you’ll have to explain to the press why the ‘Iron Ace’ is boycotting the National Finals. I’m sure the sponsors would love that conversation.”
The agents looked at each other. They were outnumbered by three geniuses and one "Ghost."
“We will relay your... concerns... to Dr. Kodakawa,” the lead agent said stiffly. “But don’t think this is over. The media will be at the gates by morning.”
As the sedans peeled away, the four of them stood in the dim light of the garage. The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the weight of what they’d just done. They had officially declared war on their own lives to protect a roommate they’d known for less than a month.
“Why did you do that?” Mikoto asked, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re risking everything.”
“Because,” Shino said, adjusting her glasses, “statistically speaking, this apartment was a landfill before you arrived. And emotionally? We’re even worse.”
“Besides,” Karen said, punching Mikoto’s arm—harder than usual to hide her own shakiness. “You still haven't taught me how to hit that cross-court winner you used on Ryuji. You aren't going anywhere until I'm the best.”
Marin didn't say anything. She just reached out and took Mikoto’s hand, her fingers interlacing with his. This time, there were no cameras. No scripts. No directors.
“Come on,” Marin whispered. “Let’s go home. We have a nightmare to manage.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW8PhyKtmJ8
and then Add to home screen.