Chapter 12: is fake…it’s all fake…

In the company restroom’s frigid stall, Ayata Aina leaned against the frosted glass partition, fingertips blanching from the grip.

Overhead LEDs hummed, casting bluish-gray halos on tiled floors. The air stung with bleach and artificial fragrance.

Earphones in, her world shrank to the phone screen’s suffocating scene—Kawasaki izakaya surveillance footage ripping her heart silent.

The angle screamed security cam: grainy, desaturated.

Oddly, only Hoshiya Kaoru and the stranger moved under warm amber lights. Other staff and patrons erased by invisible hands.

Wooden counter scattered with uncleared sake pots; congealed grease glinted in bowl edges.

No one else visible but them.

Hoshiya Kaoru knelt on maple flooring, navy yukata collar askew, silk obi dangling loose at his waist. Left sleeve slipped to elbow, baring vast jade shoulder and neck.

Enticing collarbones rose with scented sweat; hem bunched in thigh creases, wrinkled folds.

The blonde wore a sports tank, wheat skin gleaming with sweat-scattered light.

Men are visual creatures.

In nature, females flaunt vivid plumage or fur—evolved to lure males for mating.

Gaudy females trigger deep-coded reproductive drives in males.

Even human men speak of “physiological attraction.”

For Hoshiya Kaoru—knees grounded, hips and calves pressed tight, curves heartbreaking under light—this female’s form hammered his instincts.

The blonde seized his glossy, fragrant black hair mercilessly, yanking his face up. Gem-like eyes no longer clear, rippling with hazy allure.

Her wheat fingers threaded his locks; his thick lashes quivered wildly.

Sweat-soaked strands clung to flushed temples; tips brushed reddened eyes.

Head tilted back, neck arched vulnerably; Adam’s apple bobbed frantically.

“Ugh…”

His moan warped by earphone static.

Foggy pupils reflected her waist upward—dizzying impact.

Flat, taut abdomen first—thin skin hinting at honed muscle beneath, healthy sheen tempting thoughts of resilient bounce.

Mermaid lines carved shadows from obliques, dipping inward to pant waist.

Eyes climbing: plains to steep peaks—pear curves far above Tokyo average, overhead light shrouding his flushed face in shadow.

Worse: fresh from gym, her tank and shorts soaked.

Hoshiya Kaoru’s cute nose hovered twenty centimeters from the scent’s epicenter.

Each breath hot, humid, laced with acrid sweat that should repulse—yet high-density female pheromones twisted it to thrilling sweetness. He inhaled faster, deeper.

Brain melting to mush, thought impossible. Instinct commandeered.

Every cell screamed: this female—powerful, prime for breeding.

[So… strong…]

Limp, he relied on her hair-grip to hold him up.

The blonde eyed the snot- and drool-smeared innocent face, lips curling in sneer.

“Know how slutty you look?”

She teased.

“N-no…”

He felt her condescending gaze—like rotten meat.

Pupils snapped focus; drool spilled, silver thread from chin.

Fingers fumbling to close his collar—pinned by her shoe, nails bloodless.

“Fine, sweaty’s gross. You know what to do, my… Kaoru-slave.”

“Y-yes… Master…”

“Kaoru-slave” exploded in her earphones. Ayata Aina clapped a hand over her mouth.

Screen reflected her saucer eyes, pupils mirroring Hoshiya Kaoru’s slow bow—spine vertebrae ridged under yukata like a puppet on strings.

Outside: colleagues’ laughter, soap dispenser’s hollow thunk—cruel duet with video’s stifled pants.

Cut: window glass reflected midnight neon.

Red-blue flickers danced on his sweaty cheek; swallowing, neck veins flashed trapped lightning.

Her shorts edge revealed tattoo fragment—thorns and roses writhing with breath, coiling his trembling gaze.

Ayata Aina’s nails scraped white trails on the door.

She saw his toes curl under fabric, tips pale from strain; strands slipping her fingers like shattered raven feathers; final prostration—yukata back flipping, waist dimples pooling light like two tipping cups of bitter wine.

Video blacked out. Tile chill seeped through her shirt into her spine.

Curled in the corner, earphones hissed static—like tears sizzling on her eyes.

Phone’s last pre-lock gleam: her lips unwittingly echoed the woman’s cruel curve.

[Kaoru… it’s fake… you wouldn’t become this… right?]