Kaoru Hoshitani, with a wariness multiplied by a hundred and twenty thousand and an almost fated numbness, was led away from that familiar small apartment by Rika Kawasaki and onto a street slowly waking in the early morning.
The early autumn air was tinged with a slight chill, sunlight filtering through the gaps in the street trees and scattering dappled, flickering spots of light onto the clean sidewalk.
He had thought that, even in this relatively public outdoor setting, Rika Kawasaki would continue—out of some perverse amusement, as she had at home the past few days—to find ways to humiliate him, shattering his last shreds of dignity.
Maybe she would, just like that time at a deserted alleyway, suddenly and without warning slip her hand under his thin jacket and into his shirt, the callused pads of her fingers maliciously rubbing at the sensitive skin of his waist, making him tremble with shame and anger in broad daylight, yet unable to loudly rebuke her.
Or perhaps she would suddenly reach out, catching him off guard, and yank off the mask and low-brimmed baseball cap he wore to hide his face, letting the familiar neighbors—those out shopping for groceries or walking their dogs early in the morning—see him in shock.
Aina Saiten’s always gentle and quiet, beautiful boyfriend, now walking side by side with a tall woman whose striking blonde hair and out-of-place aura made her impossible to ignore.
Just imagining these scenes was enough to make Kaoru Hoshitani’s stomach twist with nervous tension.
But to his surprise, when he instinctively, with a hint of resistance, twisted away in discomfort at the overly close contact, trying to shake off Rika Kawasaki’s habitually possessive arm wrapped around his waist, things did not unfold as he had expected.
He exerted just a little strength, struggled for a few moments, and the owner of that arm—Rika Kawasaki—simply glanced down at him and actually let go, allowing him to pull away a little, though she continued to walk half a step ahead of him, maintaining an invisible hold.
[This……]
Kaoru Hoshitani froze, his steps slowing half a beat.
He stared at the figure one or two meters ahead—the woman in the black leather jacket, her stride casual yet full of power—and his fine, attractive brows drew together involuntarily, clear doe-like eyes filled with confusion and a deeper unease.
The sunlight shone on her hair, yellow as ripe wheat, casting dazzling reflections.
Of course, he wasn’t naive enough to believe that this ill-natured blonde woman had suddenly changed her ways or grown a conscience, acting with “consideration” like this—a gesture that was completely out of character for her.
Because of that, Kaoru Hoshitani’s guard didn’t relax in the slightest. On the contrary, it heightened to a new level.
He was like a fawn sensing hidden danger, every nerve drawn taut, cautiously observing his surroundings and speculating what sort of scheme might be hidden behind Rika Kawasaki’s strange behavior—something even more disturbing than what he already knew.
The unknown was always more frightening than outright malice.
The two maintained this subtle, silent distance—one in front, one behind—as they walked down the gradually bustling street.
Kaoru Hoshitani kept his head lowered, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
The soles of his shoes made a faint “shh-shh” sound against the dry pavement.
After about six or seven minutes, and having crossed two intersections, the scenery around them grew unfamiliar.
They had already left Kaoru Hoshitani’s usual Core District; here, the chances of running into neighbors or acquaintances who knew him or Aina Saiten were vanishingly slim.
Just as confusion and anxiety were swelling inside Kaoru Hoshitani, unable to guess where Rika Kawasaki was taking him, the tall figure ahead finally stopped at a relatively spacious spot by the street.
There, parked quietly at her side, was a sleek, low-slung, aggressively styled bright blue supercar.
Bathed in the morning sun, the car’s glossy paint shimmered with a dazzling and luxurious brilliance, starkly contrasting with the somewhat shabby residential buildings and ordinary family cars around it.
Kaoru Hoshitani didn’t know much about car brands; his limited knowledge came mostly from variety shows he’d sometimes watched with Aina or the occasional roadside ad.
But he wasn’t clueless. The supercar’s stylish, aerodynamic shape, oversized rims, and low-slung, ready-to-pounce posture made one thing very clear—it was expensive, a possession far beyond the reach of ordinary people.
He watched as Rika Kawasaki pulled a finely crafted car key from her leather jacket pocket and pressed it nonchalantly.
With a crisp electronic beep and a flash of running lights, the supercar’s headlights flickered awake like a beast, and its futuristic Scissor Doors lifted slightly into a ready-to-open position.
[This car…….could it be that she rented it just to show off?]
Looking at the ostentatious supercar before him, Kaoru Hoshitani couldn’t help but wonder.
He didn’t know the real identity or wealth of Rika Kawasaki’s parents.
Though he could tell from her clothing and spending habits that she didn’t lack money, the fact that she worked every night in that smoky, bustling Kawasaki-ya izakaya—serving, wiping tables, doing the same part-time jobs as any ordinary person…
It was hard to connect her with a lifestyle of wealth and extravagance symbolized by this car.
Rika Kawasaki seemed to catch the complex look—surprise, suspicion, and something unnamable—in the eyes of the little man behind her.
She made a barely audible “tsk,” the corner of her mouth curving in a helpless arc.
Without offering any immediate explanation, she simply bent over, reached into the partly opened driver’s cabin, and pulled out a stack of documents.
She turned and thrust a page with a bold LOGO and key details right in front of Kaoru Hoshitani’s face, nearly brushing his upturned nose.
His gaze instinctively dropped to the crisp print and tables on the page.
When the familiar name “Rika Kawasaki,” the vehicle model, engine number, and—at the bottom—a clear Purchase Date only a few days ago entered his vision, his last doubts were shattered.
The supercar really was hers—and it was a brand new one she’d just bought.
Yes, this flashy, bright blue supercar was indeed Rika Kawasaki’s New Toy, acquired just a few days earlier.
Ever since her attention had become wholly occupied by this little man—her greatest daily joy and anticipation being how to chip away at his defenses, savoring his humiliating yet beautiful reactions—she had, without even noticing, broken her longstanding rule of never using a single yen from those so-called parents.
The urge to give him a “better” experience, to occupy every part of his life, had overridden her former stubbornness.
Just days ago, she had taken the Bank Card that held years of her considerable saved-up “pocket money,” walked straight into a supercar dealership, and paid in full for the model she thought “matched his coloring” the moment she saw it.
But buying the supercar wasn’t simply because her love of roaring engines and the open road had suddenly changed.
A deeper motivation came from a “bloody lesson” shared in idle gossip by a Junior Member—one with a head full of romance experience and a history of heartbreak.
That Junior Member had once lamented: Men—especially the pretty and slightly spoiled kind—much prefer to sit beautifully in the luxurious Front Passenger Seat of a supercar, enjoying the air conditioning, checking their makeup in the visor mirror, or snapping selfies, rather than sitting helmeted and stuffy on the back of a motorcycle, hair and makeup ruined by the wind.
Her own ex-boyfriend had dumped her simply because he thought riding pillion on a motorcycle “wasn’t comfortable or romantic.”
This rather absurd but painfully real reason had somehow taken root in Rika Kawasaki’s heart.
She’d scoffed at the time, but thinking of Kaoru Hoshitani’s always-clean, delicate face—something that required careful protection—and the possibility that he really disliked the dust and jolting of a motorcycle back seat…
“Not like I can’t afford it,” she’d thought, and that thought finally led her to swipe the card for a supercar so different from her usual style.
Perhaps, subconsciously, she wanted to prove that what she could offer wasn’t just crude force and dark threats—she could also give these “good” and “respectable” things valued by the world.
Even if that “respectability” was still rooted in her twisted possessiveness.
“Get in.”
Rika Kawasaki’s voice snapped Kaoru Hoshitani out of his daze.
She had already opened the Scissor Door on the Front Passenger Seat side for him, revealing the luxurious leather seat and precise dashboard, a faint scent of new car, leather, and electronics wafting out.
“You… where exactly are you taking me…?”
Kaoru Hoshitani swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with tension.
For the first time, he was truly aware of the background and power behind Rika Kawasaki—something far beyond what he’d ever imagined. The unknown strength made his anxiety and unease peak.
He stood rooted, feet leaden, his voice trembling beyond concealment.
But Rika Kawasaki clearly didn’t intend to spend more words on this subject.
She just looked at him calmly with those gray eyes. Besides, standing next to such an eye-catching supercar, they had already drawn countless curious, probing, even envious or judgmental glances from passing pedestrians.
Those stares prickled at Kaoru Hoshitani’s exposed skin, making him feel unbearably humiliated and ashamed.
Under Rika Kawasaki’s silent pressure and the scrutiny of the crowd, Kaoru Hoshitani only hesitated for a dozen seconds.
In the end, he gave in, dropping his gaze, biting his soft lower lip until he almost tasted blood, then bending at the waist, climbing into the plush but needle-cushioned Front Passenger Seat in an almost desperate posture.
Rika Kawasaki watched as the little man sat inside, awkward and embarrassed as he tried to pull down the oddly-shaped car door—clearly unused to it.
Maybe even she didn’t notice the barely perceptible gentleness that flickered in her eyes.
She didn’t, as usual, tease him. Silently, she stepped forward and, with practiced gentleness, helped him pull down the heavy Scissor Door and shut it tight with a muffled “thud,” sealing him off from the outside world.
Only then did she circle to the other side, slip into the driver’s seat, and close her door with neat efficiency.
The engine growled low and deep, then settled into a smooth purr. The car’s interior was instantly filled with a closed-off, luxurious, yet oppressively intense atmosphere.
The high-end sound system played a throbbing electronic tune; the air conditioning sent out a gentle breeze at just the right temperature.
Rika Kawasaki didn’t start driving right away. She turned her head, her gaze falling on Kaoru Hoshitani—back ramrod straight, body stiff, hands properly resting on his knees in the Front Passenger Seat.
She reached out and rested her hand naturally on his thigh, right over the fitted jeans. Through the thin fabric, she could feel his muscles tense and tremble ever so slightly.
She didn’t use force, only stroked him slowly, absently, in a gesture of ownership.
“Take off your mask and cap. Where I’m taking you next, chances are no one will recognize you.”
She spoke, her voice sounding especially clear in the closed car, tinged with a careless command.
“You’re so good-looking, but always hiding away in that cramped little apartment. What a waste—such a beautiful thing, just wasted.”
Her words barely concealed her contempt for the “home” that Aina Saiten provided.
Kaoru Hoshitani caught the derision—toward Aina, toward the little nest they’d built together—layered in her words. A rush of hot blood surged to his head.
His urge to defend his girlfriend instantly eclipsed his fear.
He suddenly raised his hand, ripping off the suffocating mask, revealing a face flushed red from agitation and anger, looking even more dazzlingly beautiful.
He turned, and in those usually gentle, teary deer eyes now burned two flames of anger. He retorted at once:
“So what if I like that little apartment?! Aina worked so hard, saved up bit by bit, to buy it! It’s our home! People like you… like you, a pampered rich girl, would never understand!”
In Kaoru Hoshitani’s mind, Rika Kawasaki had clearly become the worst type of rich girl—uneducated, always seducing men, the kind who looked down on everyone.
His voice was raised with excitement, the meaning obvious—what right did someone sheltered by parental wealth have to belittle the hard-won life of others?
These words hit a sore spot deep inside Rika Kawasaki—a place she’d rather not acknowledge.
The nonchalance on her face vanished at once, her gray pupils contracting, a flash of wounded darkness passing through them.
She hadn’t expected that the little man, who always trembled and endured in her presence, could become so sharp-tongued, every word a barb, in defense of another woman.
“Heh…”
She gave a short, cold laugh, the chill in her eyes deepening, though her hand kept caressing his leg, now with a punishing pressure.
“So what? No matter how touching, no matter how full of love… That boyfriend of hers who she worked so hard to buy a little apartment for is still sitting in my supercar, letting me do as I please, isn’t he?”
She slowed her speech, each word a poisoned icicle.
“Your body is far more honest than your mouth…”
“You—! Mmph!”
Kaoru Hoshitani trembled all over with anger at her shameless, cutting words, his pale cheeks flushed bright red, just about to retort or shout back.
But in the next instant, Rika Kawasaki leaned in abruptly. Both hands grabbed his burning cheeks, holding his head in place, and with irresistible force and a surge of angry passion, she kissed his sharp-tongued, tender lips hard.
The kiss was full of plunder and punishment, anything but gentle—almost stealing all the air from his lungs.
The temperature inside the car seemed to soar in that moment. The scent of luxury leather, the faint traces of tobacco and perfume from her body, and their mingled breaths created an intoxicating, ambiguous air.
As always, Kaoru Hoshitani tried to struggle at first, but up against overwhelming strength, his hands soon slid down weakly from the woman’s body.
Outside the car, occasional passersby glimpsed the intimate scene through the less-than-private windows, their faces full of surprise or embarrassment, quickly speeding past to escape the awkwardness.
Leaving behind the quiet, bright blue supercar by the morning roadside—like a luxurious, secret cage…
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