In the cramped break room outside the dance studio, the air conditioner hummed low, yet it couldn’t dispel the stifling feeling in Su Yuqing’s heart.
Chiai was still inside, sweating to the intense beat, while Su Yuqing had been ordered to be “on call at all times.”
Her phone screen lit up with a message from Minazuki Ruri.
This contact from the “past” was like a glimmer of light piercing through her current life, which was tightly controlled by Chiai, bringing a momentary chance to breathe.
“I feel like just calling is a bit inconvenient in some ways.”
Ruri’s messages carried her unique rhythm—seemingly casual, yet impossible to refuse.
“How about we add each other on WeChat? It’ll be easier to stay in touch.”
Su Yuqing’s heart skipped a beat.
‘WeChat, a more private and immediate space, means more risk—if Chiai finds out.’
But another desire—a longing to grab hold of this tether to the outside world, especially one from Ruri—overwhelmed her.
She could almost imagine Chiai’s cold gaze and the potential punishment if she found out, but her fingers seemed to have a will of their own as they quickly typed a reply:
“Sure, sure.”
Almost the instant the friend request was accepted, a crisp ding-dong notification rang out.
A WeChat video call request from Ruri’s social media profile immediately popped up on the screen.
Her avatar was an abstract piece of art; much like Ruri herself, it was beautiful yet carried a sense of distance.
This sudden video invitation flustered Su Yuqing.
She instinctively glanced toward the dance studio, confirming that the music was still blaring, before taking a deep breath and pressing the answer button.
She quickly adjusted the camera angle to avoid showing any of the background.
The screen lit up, and Ruri’s face, as exquisite as a porcelain doll, appeared.
The background was her art studio, which was filled with an artistic atmosphere.
She seemed to have just finished a session, as there were flecks of paint on the tips of her hair, yet this only added to her rebellious charm.
“Okay, looks like we’re connected.”
Ruri smiled at the camera, her eyes bright and lively.
“Next, I’ll send you a photo first! I guarantee you’ll be surprised.”
Her tone carried the excitement of someone sharing a secret.
“Okay, no problem.”
Su Yuqing tried to make her voice sound natural and expectant.
She needed this conversation; she needed this seemingly normal social interaction to prove she wasn’t entirely isolated from the world.
Soon, an image was sent over.
Su Yuqing tapped it open, and her pupils dilated slightly.
“Wait… is this… a ticket for the weekend performance!?”
Her voice was filled with disbelief.
It wasn’t just an ordinary ticket.
The unique gold-leaf patterns and the words Special Debut Commemorative Edition were clearly visible on the surface.
“And it’s a VIP All-pass that can be used for both consecutive performances on Saturday and Sunday…!?”
Her gaze landed on the seating area, and her breath hitched.
“Even… this is the first row of the audience, right in the center—the best spot! How on earth did you get this, Ruri?”
Tickets for such seats were considered priceless treasures in the fan community, often impossible to obtain even with money.
On the other end of the screen, Ruri tilted her head slightly and gave a smile that was a mix of playfulness and nonchalance, as if she were discussing a trivial matter.
“Well, simply put, this morning—”
She intentionally dragged out her words.
“I gave the girl who held this ticket a price she… couldn’t refuse.”
Her fingertip lightly tapped her chin, and a trace of indifference that saw through human nature flickered in her eyes.
“It seems that compared to so-called idol obsessions or the fixation on meeting someone up close, the cold, hard cash of reality is much better at ‘educating’ people, isn’t it?”
Looking at Ruri’s “money is everything” composure, Su Yuqing felt a mix of complicated emotions.
As an industry insider, she understood the mindset of fans all too well.
She sighed softly, her tone carrying a hint of complex emotion.
“I think… that girl will probably take the money you gave her and turn right around to buy even more Idol Merchandise.”
“Oh?”
Ruri raised an eyebrow, seemingly interested in this deduction.
“Why do you say that, Yuqing? Didn’t she already ‘betray’ her idol?”
“Exactly because of that,” Su Yuqing explained, her voice carrying a professional analysis mixed with a faint, imperceptible sadness.
“In the eyes of the vast majority of Ai-fans, this act is essentially a form of betrayal. Because of the temptation of money, she gave up a precious opportunity to interact with her idol from a close distance at a concert. This ‘sense of betrayal’ brings about a huge psychological gap and a feeling of guilt.”
She paused, as if she could see the stranger’s future actions.
“So, regardless of anything else, I think the girl will most likely take at least a considerable portion of that money—or even more—and go on a shopping spree for merchandise because of ‘compensatory psychology.’ It’s as if by doing so, she can fill the void and self-reproach caused by ‘selling the opportunity.'”
“Listening to your analysis…”
A playful light flashed in Ruri’s eyes, and the corners of her mouth curled up.
“It seems being an idol is quite a happy thing? To have a group of followers willing to give everything for you.”
Those breezy words were like a needle that lightly pricked Su Yuqing’s nerves, which had been tense for days.
The forced, relaxed smile on her face vanished instantly, replaced by deep exhaustion and helplessness.
Her voice dropped.
“Sigh… I wish… that were really the case…”
That sigh was so heavy that it felt out of place in her current noisy environment.
“What is it?”
Ruri keenly caught the shift in her mood and pressed further, her gaze searching.
“Did I… say something wrong?”
“Of course you did.”
Su Yuqing looked up, meeting Ruri’s curious eyes through the screen.
Her tone carried the clarity and bitterness of someone standing at the center of a whirlwind.
“Ruri, you don’t understand. From the moment someone successfully becomes an idol—especially a top-tier idol like her—every tiny movement in her life, whether public or what she thinks is private—”
“There will be countless pairs of eyes in corners you can or cannot see, staring at you intently.”
Her voice was filled with a sense of powerlessness.
“They will… analyze you and dissect you. One look, one careless word, or a simple outing will be placed under a magnifying glass for interpretation and given all sorts of meanings, whether kind or malicious. That omnipresent sense of being pried into and the pressure of being scrutinized… it’s not something an ordinary person can imagine.”
Though she was speaking about the general phenomena of the idol industry, the image that surfaced in her mind was Chiai’s lapis-colored eyes, which seemed capable of piercing through her soul with a paranoid, possessive desire.
It was a more specific, more suffocating kind of “gaze.”
“When you put it that way…”
Ruri nodded thoughtfully, her tone turning more serious.
“Then it seems the pressure behind the idol halo is indeed quite immense.”
“Yeah…”
Su Yuqing murmured, her thoughts drifting.
She thought of Chiai’s willful and reckless actions, and her own life that felt like that of a marionette.
A strong urge to confide almost broke through her throat, but she forced it down.
She could only add vaguely, “Even if we consider every other possibility, perhaps most idols in this industry find their own sense of happiness while gaining fame, fortune, and love… However, the one in my house—”
She cut herself off abruptly, like a faucet being suddenly tightened.
“Hmm?”
Ruri’s follow-up came right on time, carrying a concern that couldn’t be avoided—or perhaps it was an artist’s desire to probe for “material.”
“The one in your house… what about her? It sounds like there’s quite a story there.”
Su Yuqing’s lips quivered a few times.
In the end, all the complex emotions—the controlled anger, the unspeakable grievances, and the fear of the future—
They all turned into a helpless, almost resigned whisper, so soft it was nearly inaudible:
“The one in my house… if only she would stop tormenting me so much… that would be enough…”
As soon as she finished speaking, she seemed to lose all her strength.
She slowly lowered her phone, and the screen went dark, cutting off the brief and fragile connection with Ruri.
She looked up, her gaze vacant as she stared at the white wall of the dance studio.
There hung the Idol Kasahana Chiai’s Exclusive Schedule, a chart she had once personally and meticulously designed, filling it in stroke by stroke as a symbol of order and planning.
But now, that chart was covered in the marks of Chiai’s willful alterations—red crosses, random arrows, and newly added temporary arrangements that showed no regard for others.
This schedule had long since turned into a piece of scarred, useless paper.
Just like her life at this moment.
It seemed to have a framework, yet the inside had long been smashed to pieces by Chiai’s powerful will, leaving behind nothing but silent compromise and endless fatigue.