Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and settings are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The psychological concepts referenced in this story are for narrative purposes only and do not constitute professional mental health advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress, please reach out to a qualified professional.
This story opposes all illegal activities and violence. Nothing in this novel should be interpreted as endorsement or encouragement of unlawful behavior.62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl3rYKMwpwI
Kanade lugged a cardboard box through the door.
It was a big one, the sides printed with the faded characters for "North Star Electric," the corners worn white. He nudged the door open with his knee, hugging the box with both arms, shuffling inside like he was smuggling something illicit.
"What's that?" Kotaro's head popped up from behind the sofa, a half-eaten senbei rice cracker in his hand.
"Nothing." Kanade set the box beside the bar and blocked it with his body.
"Looks suspicious." Kotaro sidled closer, neck craned. "Is it a bomb?"
"Why would I bring a bomb into the club?"
"That's how it always goes on TV. The guy being chased hides the evidence in a box, and then the bad guys—"
"Kotaro. Shut it." Tsubasa emerged from the kitchen with a freshly brewed coffee. "That's a secondhand electronics store box. North Star Electric has been in Ryusawa for twenty years. They specialize in discontinued stock."
Kanade turned to Tsubasa, eyebrows raised. How did he know that?
Tsubasa caught his look and shrugged. "I bought a hair dryer there once. Manufactured fifteen years ago. Only had a cold setting."
"And?"
"And I learned to air-dry."
Kanade almost laughed. That was the closest thing to a joke Tsubasa had ever made.
Ren stepped out from behind the bar and stopped in front of the box. He didn't ask what was inside. He just stared down at it, as if scanning the contents with some kind of supernatural power.
"A camera," Ren said.
Kanade's spine went rigid. How did this man do that?
"A secondhand webcam." Kanade pulled a black device from the box, its plastic casing scratched in several places. "Plus a microphone, a light strip, and a tripod. Cost me eight thousand Starling total."
"What for?" Ren asked.
"Streaming."
The word hung in the air for about three seconds. Then Kotaro was the first to react.
"Streaming?! Like singing and dancing on the internet?!" Kotaro's senbei hit the floor. "I wanna watch! What's Kanade gonna stream? Singing? Dancing? Or—"
"None of the above." Kanade set the camera on the bar. "I want to do a 'Late Night Worry Consultation Room.'"
"What's that?"
"It's..." Kanade paused, thinking how to explain this in a way they'd understand. "An online talk show. Guests write their troubles in the chat, and we answer them on camera. No face-to-face, no need to walk through the door. We can make people feel heard through a screen."
Tsubasa frowned. "You want us to put ourselves on display? On the internet?"
"It's promotion. Not putting ourselves on display—building a brand."
"A brand?" Tsubasa's tone made the word sound like a curse. "We're hosts, not influencers. A host's work happens in the club, face-to-face, one drink at a time. That's service. Not entertainment."
"The traditional host industry is shrinking." Kanade pulled out his phone and opened a data page. "Over the past three years, forty percent of the host clubs in Hoshimi City have closed. You know why? Because young people don't go out to clubs anymore. They watch streams, send tips, interact with handsome guys through a screen. Going out means changing clothes, putting on makeup, catching a train, working up the courage. But opening your phone takes one second."
Tsubasa set his coffee cup on the bar. The sound of ceramic hitting wood came down a little hard.
"So you think we should become like those streamers? Smiling into a camera? Saying 'thank you for the rocket, pretty lady' in that sugary voice?" Tsubasa put on an imitation so cloying it was genuinely unsettling. "I'd rather close the club."
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
Kanade took a deep breath. He should've known Tsubasa would push back. The man's devotion to "tradition" bordered on the pathological.
"What I mean is," Kanade slowed his voice, "we don't have to change who we are. We just take what we're already doing and move it to another platform. Kotaro's hug therapy, Ren's three-drink rule, your perfect conversation technique, and Yuri's..." He paused. "Yuri's presence. These are things no one else has. We're just letting more people know about them."
Tsubasa said nothing. His fingers tapped the bar twice, then stopped.
"Also," Kanade continued, "we don't have to trick guests into buying expensive champagne. Stream revenue comes from tips and subscriptions. Guests give what they want. No minimum charge, no pressure. This isn't lowering ourselves. This is..."
"Democratization."
The voice came from the corner. Everyone turned.
Yuri sat on a tall stool by the window, a fresh lollipop in her mouth. Grape-flavored, purple. Her legs were crossed, posture languid, but her eyes were sharp.
"What?" Tsubasa asked.
"The problem with traditional host clubs is the barrier to entry." Yuri pulled the lollipop from her lips. "Not everyone has the courage to walk into a place like this. Not everyone can drink alcohol. Not everyone can afford a ten-thousand-Starling designation fee. But everyone has troubles. Streaming lets people who would never step through that door be heard too."
She looked at Kanade, a slight upward curve at her lips. "That's freedom. Making service a choice, not a privilege."
Kanade blinked. Yuri always had a way of saying the most profound things in the simplest words.
Tsubasa's expression grew complicated. He looked at Kanade, then at Yuri, then at Ren.
"Manager. You agree with this?"
Ren stood behind the bar, a cloth in his hands. He didn't answer right away—just slowly wiped a glass that was already clean.
"Three years ago," Ren said, "I tried to reform the club. Introduced a standard menu, unified service procedures, even made flyers."
Kanade knew this story. Seventy percent of the guests had left within a month.
"But that wasn't reform," Ren continued. "That was imitation. Imitating other clubs, trying to become something else. We're not someone else."
He inverted the glass on the drying rack and finally looked at Kanade. "This time it's different?"
"This time it's different." Kanade met his eyes. "We're not changing ourselves. We're just... opening another window. Letting people outside look in. They can watch or not, just like our door—always open, never forced."
Ren was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Try it once."
"Manager!" Tsubasa's voice jumped an octave.
"Try it once." Ren repeated, his tone flat and unwavering. "If it doesn't work, we stop."
Tsubasa opened his mouth, then swallowed his words. He turned and headed for the kitchen, leaving his coffee cup on the bar. It had gone cold.
"Is Tsubasa mad?" Kotaro whispered.
"No." Yuri popped the lollipop back in her mouth. "He just needs time to digest. His pride is fighting with reality."
Kanade watched Tsubasa's retreating back, a pinch of guilt in his chest. But he didn't chase after him to explain. Some fights you had to finish on your own.
The next two hours, Kanade cleared a corner of the storage room.
He took the equipment out piece by piece, setting it up on an old wooden crate to form a makeshift streaming station. The camera pointed at a paint-chipped chair. The background was the storage room's peeling plaster wall, dotted with expired drink menus.
"This background..." Kotaro stood in the doorway, head tilted. "Kinda looks like an abandoned factory."
"Abandoned factories have their own aesthetic," Kanade said, sticking the light strip to the edge of the crate. "It's trendy right now. Called... 'wabi-sabi chic.'"
"Really?"
"I made it up. But it sounds impressive, right?"
Kotaro laughed.
Ren walked in holding a power strip. "This one's old, but it works."
"Thanks." Kanade took the strip and noticed Ren had already cut the plug end into a three-prong adapter, exactly matching the old camera's power cord. He looked up at Ren. This man always prepared things before anyone even asked.
"How are you doing this?" Ren asked.
"Test run first." Kanade plugged in the camera and its screen lit up. "I won't show my face, just my voice. The format is... 'Worry Consultation Room.' Guests leave comments in the chat, and I pick a few to answer."
"No face?"
"Not yet. Just testing the tech and the flow."
Ren nodded and didn't ask anything else. He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Call if you need anything."
Kanade watched that retreating back, warmth spreading through his chest. Ren never said "good luck" or "I believe in you." He only ever said, "Call if you need anything." And somehow, that meant more than any cheerleading ever could.
At nine PM, the test began.
Kanade sat on the chipped chair, facing the camera. The light strip cast a faint yellow glow across his face, giving it a slightly ghoulish look. The microphone was clipped to his collar, the plastic casing scratching against his skin.
He opened the streaming software and created a new account. For the username, he entered "Starry NightKanade." For the title, he thought for a long time before finally writing: "Late Night Worry Consultation Room—You Don't Have to Speak, But I'll Listen."
"Start streaming." He pressed the button.
The viewer count on screen: 0.
Kanade cleared his throat. He hadn't prepared a script because he didn't know what to prepare. This was his first time doing something like this. Back at Kyoshin Group, he'd faced boardrooms, data, cold business decisions. No one had ever asked him, "What should I do?"
"...Hello." He spoke, his voice a little stiff. "This is Starry Night's first stream. I'm Kanade. Tonight's theme is worry consultation. If there's anything you want to talk about, leave a comment in the chat. I'll be reading."
Viewer count: 0.
The seconds ticked by. Kanade sat in the chair, speaking to an empty lens, feeling like an idiot. He was starting to understand Tsubasa's objection now. This was embarrassing.
He stared at the screen, counting his breaths. On the tenth breath, the viewer count ticked upward.
1.
A user named "Starry NightTsubasa" entered the stream.
Kanade's eyebrows shot up. Tsubasa?
A comment appeared in the chat: "Image quality is terrible. Lighting's insufficient. Microphone has static."
Kanade looked at that comment, the corner of his mouth twitching. That was exactly what Tsubasa would say.
"Thanks for the feedback," he said to the camera. "I'll work on it."
The viewer count jumped to 2. The new account was "Starry NightKotaro," with a message: "GO KANADE!!!" followed by ten exclamation marks.
"Thanks." Kanade said. "But please don't watch the stream on your phone inside the club. You're wasting data."
Kotaro's comment: "I'm watching from the bathroom!!"
"...That's worse."
The viewer count held at 2. Kanade looked at that number, his feelings a complicated mix. Two viewers, both coworkers. Was this success or failure?
But he didn't stop. He thought of Kenta. That programmer who'd stood outside the door for twenty minutes before finding the courage to come in. If Kenta hadn't pushed that door open, he'd never have known what "you don't have to speak" felt like.
Maybe streaming was like that. Opening a window for those who couldn't push open the door.
"Well then," Kanade said to his two viewers, "since there are no chat questions, let me share a story."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"A few days ago, a guest came to the club. Thirty-one years old, a programmer. He stood outside the door for twenty minutes without coming in, because he was afraid of talking to people. When he finally entered, someone welcomed him too enthusiastically and he almost ran away."
The chat went quiet. Even Kotaro had stopped typing.
"I told him: 'It's okay if you don't want to talk.' And he sat down. For two hours, we barely spoke. But when he left, he said this was the first time he'd felt like there was a place in this world where he could just... be."
Kanade looked at the camera's red recording light. That little red dot was like an eye, watching him silently.
"A lot of people think helping others requires saying a lot, doing a lot. But sometimes, all it takes is one sentence. Or just quiet companionship. That's what Starry Night wants to do."
The viewer count jumped to 3.
Kanade blinked. The third viewer's account was "RandomUserA"—no message, just sitting quietly in the stream.
"Welcome, RandomUserA," Kanade said. "If you have any worries, feel free to comment. If you don't want to talk, you're welcome to just stay."
No response.
"That's fine." Kanade spoke softly, as if talking to the air itself. "No one here will force you to speak."
The moment those words left his mouth, RandomUserA sent a comment: "...Where is this club located?"
Kanade looked at that message. Something in his chest fluttered.
"Hoshimi City, Ryusawa District, by the Neon Canal," he said. "Third floor. There's a faded sign above the door."
RandomUserA didn't comment again. But for the next ten minutes, that account stayed in the stream, never leaving.
Thirty minutes later, Kanade ended the stream.
He turned off the camera and leaned back in the chair, his back drenched in sweat. Talking to a lens was more exhausting than talking to a real person. Real people gave you reactions—nods, frowns, smiles. But the camera just watched you in silence, like an emotionless judge.
He walked out of the storage room to find the entire team waiting at the bar.
"How'd it go?" Kotaro was the first to rush over.
"Three viewers," Kanade said. "Two of them were you guys."
"Who was the third?"
"Dunno. A stranger."
Tsubasa leaned against the bar, fiddling with a lighter. "They comment?"
"Asked for the address."
Tsubasa's fingers stilled. He looked up at Kanade, something unreadable in his eyes.
"That worked?"
"Why wouldn't it?"
Tsubasa didn't answer. He pocketed the lighter and turned toward the door. "Next time, fix the lighting. And your voice was too tense. Relax more."
That was Tsubasa's way of giving praise. Kanade understood.
"I'll work on it."
Tsubasa waved a hand without looking back and walked out.
Yuri slid off her stool and came over to Kanade. "Potential."
"Really?"
"Really." She pulled the lollipop from her mouth. "That story you told... about the programmer. It was real. Authenticity is rare on the internet."
"Thanks."
"But don't stream from the bathroom next time." Yuri jerked her chin toward Kotaro. "The background echo gives it away."
Kotaro's face went red. "I-I closed the door!"
Ren came out from behind the bar with a glass of water. He handed it to Kanade. "For your throat."
"Thanks." Kanade took the cup and drank. The water was cool, sliding down his throat and washing away some of the exhaustion.
Ren looked at him, his gaze quiet but deep. "Again tomorrow?"
Kanade thought about it. Three viewers. Two coworkers. One stranger. By any metric, this was a complete failure.
But he remembered RandomUserA's final comment. That simple question—"Where is this club located?"
It meant someone had heard. Someone wanted to know. Someone might push open that door.
"Yeah," Kanade said. "Tomorrow too."
Ren nodded without a word. But as he turned and walked back behind the bar, his steps were lighter than usual.
Kanade held that cool glass, looking toward the storage room. The old webcam sat in the darkness, silent—like a gatekeeper that had only just been awakened.
What would tomorrow bring? He didn't know.
But at least one stranger out there wanted to know where this club was.
That was enough.
62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCkmaYsATVI
────────────────────────────────────────
62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0OQ8WeV7Uw
Update every Friday, Tuesday
62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsqBmqA7R3f
VIP content on Patreon
ns216.73.216.176da2
and then Add to home screen.