#115: a complete farce / ep.3
The first time she was held in this room, she’d compared its size to the breadth of her own heart — but thinking back on it now, this place was really an unmistakable reflection of that hollow, never-satisfied interior of hers.
Prime real estate, right in the heart of the city. Minato Ward.
The woman who lived in the top-floor unit of a maisonette-style tower condominium was, without exaggeration, modern-day nobility. Looking down over the city through the enormous glass windows, nearly any wish could be granted, so long as enough money was thrown at it. In fact, that was exactly how she’d always operated, and always would. She genuinely believed there was nothing money couldn’t buy.
Which is why she kept throwing money at things, even today. Issuing hollow orders that, from the outside, seemed to accomplish nothing but spin their wheels, leading countless slaves astray, living out an empty life in relentless pursuit of a love she could never actually obtain.
My mistress, Ashiya Chie, was exactly that kind of hollow woman.
Which meant — matching myself to the preferences of a woman this hollow — was I hollow too? Miyashita Kanade wondered.
Taking her money, playing at being lovers, nothing more than that connection — searching for something like affection within it, and despairing each time. Was I the same as her?
Beneath my chest, in the mirror, the only thing keeping me tethered to the creature called Miyashita Kanade was the sharp, worm-track pain of four fresh red welts running across my ribs.
“You’re up early this morning, Kanade.”
Two sinks stood side by side. The moment I took my position at the left — the unspoken rule, since the right was reserved for the mistress — a suffocating morning greeting came my way. A kiss. My lips devoured without resistance, nails digging further into last night’s welts across my back. Painful.
“It’ll leave a mark.”
“A little charm to keep you from wandering too far.”
For four years now, I’d let myself be deceived by that same line.
Being needed by Ashiya Chie, a woman who possessed everything — status, honour, wealth, beauty. Being the one who filled the crack that peeked through in even this perfect woman’s heart. Even knowing it was a hollow love, that pride filled my whole body like an intoxicating wine, addictive as a drug I could never stop craving.
“You’re looking gloomy this morning. Do you dislike me?”
More than anyone, I’d wanted her. I was dependent on Ashiya Chie.
Which meant refusing an order was out of the question — let alone ever admitting I disliked her, whatever it cost me.
“I love you.”
Four years ago, after weighing every calculation, I’d chosen to hand over everything.
Miyashita Kanade’s way of living, her way of being, her very existence. I’d sold off pieces of my own “self,” bit by bit, and filled the resulting emptiness with the love Ashiya Chie handed back in payment.
In short, I’d matched myself entirely to her. My appearance, the way I spoke, even the way I thought.
I anticipated her every wish, deferred to her, behaved exactly as she wanted. And I believed, back then, that someday, doing this, I’d finally win Ashiya Chie for myself.
It was only a few weeks ago that I realised wanting to be loved by such a hollow woman was as hopeless as grasping at clouds.
“So very Kanade of you. Lovely.”
However much I gave her, all Ashiya Chie ever handed back were cheap, endlessly repeatable compliments, and money. And the fear that I might, one day, be disliked.
“Ah, that’s right. Apparently Sawa lost one of her earrings. Would you look for it for me?”
Which is exactly why I could do nothing but look away from the unfamiliar earring left carelessly on the tray beside the sink, from the toothbrushes outnumbering the number of people who actually lived here, from the unfamiliar bottles left in the guest bathroom.
I didn’t want to be disliked.
If I ever was, I’d lose my way of living, my way of being, entirely. I’d stop being myself. I wasn’t even allowed to dislike her back anymore.
“Understood.”
“Such a good girl, you are, Kanade.”
Nausea rose in me. At the filthiness of that fabricated smile, no doubt aimed at plenty of others besides me. And at my own foolishness — that even having built up this much distrust, I was still, even now, searching for something resembling love.
She was a woman with countless loves, never satisfied no matter how many people loved her. No one, however many there were, could ever become “the one person” for her.
Except for exactly one exception.
“When does the article on Mikoto-kun run?”
“The week after next. Unless some cabinet-minister-level scandal knocks it off the schedule.”
“And Kotone-kun’s scandal? The buzz potential is enormous, isn’t it — the beloved national actress’s secret lover turns out to be a former sex worker.”
“Still being coordinated. Since the other party’s a private individual, there’s a risk of defamation lawsuits and public backlash redirecting toward us—”
“Hmm.”
Cutting me off with a distracted grunt, she began washing her face. Water splashing loudly. Even this — simply waiting for her to finish rinsing her own face, an entirely mundane, everyday scene — left my throat dry, my heart pounding. The tension never fully faded.
“So, in other words, Kanade values her own skin. That’s why the article can’t run, is it.”
Wiping her face with the towel I’d handed her, Ashiya Chie said this with a smile. My heart felt ready to burst.
“No, this was strictly the editor-in-chief’s decision—”
“Speaking of which, I hear your boss is quite the sloppy man. Hard to believe, given he has a wife and children.”
I didn’t want to understand what she meant.
Not from someone who, at least in words, called herself someone who “loved” me — not an order she had any right to give.
“How sad. I always thought Kanade was clever enough to wrap a man around her finger without any trouble at all.”
Saying it, she seized my breast in her hand.
Ashiya Chie’s orders were always like this. Never spoken outright as an actual instruction. Wary, perhaps, of leaving anything that could be used against her, she conducted everything in a language that only made sense between a mistress and her slave.
Behind that smile — the kind a mother uses to gently scold a child — there wasn’t a shred of genuine affection.
“Understand?”
“That’s—”
“No need to worry. However filthy you get, you’re still beautiful, Kanade.”
Leaving her order behind, along with a filthy kiss, Chie headed out for her early-morning run.
The mistress of this hollow, empty room was truly hollow herself.
Even if the scandal broke and left the Kurosu sisters out on the street, that woman — Charlotte Gabriel — would never bend. Because she wasn’t some slave who did as told, wasn’t some doll to be prettily arranged and displayed.
Why did it have to be her, of all women.
Why could she wreck my heart to pieces and still whisper love so easily.
With trembling fingers, I searched for my editor-in-chief’s number. What came out of my mouth were filthy, inviting words. Obeying the unspoken order to use my womanhood however necessary. The meeting was set for evening. Ikebukuro’s north exit. Plenty of hotels around there.
Call finished, I sank down against the sink, unable to stand.
Whether the reason I lacked even the strength to stand was because she’d hit the mark exactly on my self-preservation, or the frustration of losing to that woman, or the loneliness of never being loved — I couldn’t even tell anymore, in the end. I simply redid my eye makeup and headed for work.
Why. Why did I let myself get lost like this.
The elite trading house, Hibiya Trading.
The Shimbashi head office building of this vast general trading company, one that helps steer Japan itself, had transformed — without a single employee’s knowledge — into a giant, audience-participation theatre production.
Two central figures headlined the show. The new hire, Charlotte, and her supposed ex, career woman Kurosu Mikoto.
The shameless piece of farce, carried out precisely as the deliberately absurd script demanded, spread by word of mouth exactly as its architects had planned. Lies and rumour, thickening like fog, concealed the truth of everyone involved.
In the barely-populated lounge, for instance.
“M-Mikoto-san. I…”
Cornering Charlotte in the corner of the lounge, Mikoto grabbed her wrist. Confirming she showed no sign of pulling away, she spoke, loud enough for those nearby to hear.
“You could’ve run away if you didn’t want this. But you didn’t.”
“That’s…”
Charlotte gave no answer. She simply shook the grip off her arm, pushed past Mikoto, and walked briskly out of the break area. The moment the actress disappeared from the crowd watching the whole scene, Mikoto kicked over the nearest bin. Ignoring the clatter of a rolling empty can, she shot a glare around the room, then walked off in a direction opposite from Charlotte’s.
And the instant she closed the door to her one and only sanctuary — a toilet stall — she collapsed straight onto the seat.
This wasn’t Roppongi — this was Ikebukuro, sacred ground of girls’ bars.
Behind the thick door, superficially marked “closed for business,” stretched a bright, modern shot bar — the exact opposite of an authentic, old-world establishment.
Its name: At Cute.
A world of cute, decked out generously in white and pink accents — behind the bar counter, two maids sat drinking themselves silly instead of working.
Watching the two useless maids, chin propped on her hand, Mikoto listened as Rinko, seated beside her, asked.
“So why aren’t we using the Roppongi place? Is this also that blonde woman’s shop?”
“Sanae-san told me about this one.”
This particular Chesha-defeating scheme had drawn together plenty of collaborators beyond just Mikoto’s own circle. Which meant, naturally, they needed a hideout large enough to actually gather them all in.
But both Roppongi’s Antiqua and the Kyodo apartment had already been compromised. After some thought, Sanae had settled on this girls’ bar, on the fourth floor of a mixed-use building near Ikebukuro’s north exit.
“Apparently it’s the maid bar Michelle used to work at part-time.”
The one currently drinking herself silly instead of actually mixing drinks — Michelle — was practically a laugh machine. Downing glasses at breakneck speed, cackling away, while Rinko’s face all but read is this actually okay? Understandable, given the whole crew looked like the sort of people who wore maid outfits without any actual need to.
“So shouldn’t you be bowing your head to your mistress, then? Maid Charlotte-chan?”
“Welcome home, my master.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Please bear with it, we’re about to have our meeting…”
“Both of you,” Mikoto cut in, tracing the rim of her Shirley Temple. The non-alcoholic drink had arrived without her ordering it, presumably because someone had silently decided you’d be useless drunk, wouldn’t you?
In truth, whoever was about to arrive was someone she could only face while stone sober.
If she was honest, she wanted a drink. The tension was suffocating. She wanted to whine and complain, just once, and swallowed the impulse down along with the non-alcoholic drink instead.
“A ‘meeting,’ are you serious?”
“Doesn’t seem like there’s any other way. Even if it’s built on a massive lie.”
The plan was proceeding without a hitch. The grand piece of farce shaking up Hibiya’s internal politics had just wrapped its second episode. Several suspicious figures had already surfaced under investigation.
According to Sanae, the key players were Michelle, sent back to the Secretary Division, and Kuto, operating independently. The plan, apparently, was to use the obviously suspicious Michelle as cover while having Kuto quietly track movement from the inside.
In place of her now-empty glass, another Shirley Temple appeared. She was clearly being told, over and over, not to drink.
“Don’t worry, the more blatant the lie, the less likely it is to get caught. Do you honestly think anyone would suspect a group willing to put on a farce this shameless, staged this brazenly?”
For Shandy, this was surely old skills resurfacing. For Mikoto, it was anything but.
Mikoto’s role was a complete hundred-eighty-degree flip from who she actually was. And a sudden one at that. The carefully-built image of a friendly, easygoing Kurosu Mikoto had been blown to pieces in an instant.
“I’m the one who’s embarrassed, you know! Why do I have to play this role!?”
“I think it’s lovely, honestly. A proud, high-strung career woman.”
“Right when I’d finally gotten my reputation as a nice person to stick!”
“Still, I think it’s good. That version of Mikoto. The circumstances are terrible, though.”
Rinko rubbed her slumped shoulders in what was presumably meant as comfort. But glancing sideways at Rinko’s own script, Mikoto noticed it was covered in highlighter, densely marked all through her own lines. Rinko’s tastes remained genuinely mysterious.
“What matters is carrying the lie all the way through. Just watch me, and you’ll understand.”
“You’re basically the resident of Liar Village, aren’t you.”
“Not at all. I never lie.”
Rinko stuck her tongue out. A village of liars, and a village of honest folk — standing at the crossroads between them, what question would actually get you to Honest Village?
“Fufu. Trying to remember how to reach Honest Village, are we?”
Shandy read her mind perfectly, as usual, and smiled mischievously.
In this brightly lit shop, so different from Roppongi, her blonde hair, her amber eyes, even makeup that should have been exactly the same as usual, looked fresh and vivid. Appearance alone, she looked exactly like a lovely maid working in early-twentieth-century Europe. In practice, of course, one with terrible behaviour, mostly spent teasing her own mistress.
“Now then,” she said, clapping her hands together lightly. The signal for a Game.
“We’ve got some time, so let’s play a Game for old times’ sake. Help me out, Michelle.”
“Yaaay!”
The two badly-behaved maids showed no concern at all for the guest about to arrive, whispering to each other instead. Once preparations seemed complete, Shandy took her place on the right, Michelle on the left. Honest Village and Liar Village. With two exotic, foreign-flavoured faces lined up side by side, it hardly felt like Japan at all.
And Shandy, surely a resident of Liar Village nine times out of ten, laid out the puzzle.
“Now then, here’s the question. You’re standing at a fork in the road, one path leading to Honest Village, where honest people live, the other to Liar Village. On either side stands a maid from Honest Village and one from Liar Village—”
“Yeah, yeah. Doesn’t matter left or right, just point and ask ‘is this the village you’re from?’ If she says ‘yes,’ that’s Honest Village.”
Before the question even finished, Rinko cut in, sounding thoroughly bored. Hearing it, Mikoto finally remembered. If you point at Honest Village, even the liar answers “yes”; point at Liar Village, and both give “no.” The trick is getting the honest and dishonest answers to line up.
“So, Mikoto? What’ll it be?”
As expected of Shandy, she ignored Rinko’s answer entirely. Glaring back at Rinko, who kept up her own dagger-eyed stare, Mikoto pointed at Shandy, standing on the right.
“Is Shandy-san’s village this way?”
“Fufu, who can say?”
Her usual contrary streak kicking in, Mikoto reinterpreted it as a “no.”
“Then Honest Village is on the left. Michelle’s side.”
“Ehehe. Correct. I never lie.”
Michelle, delivering a line that sounded exactly like something only a liar would say, seemed to have completely forgotten that roughly a year ago, she’d told a massive lie in an attempt to frame Mikoto.
Meanwhile, Shandy, branded a liar, pouted with lips pursed, but continued the game.
“Let’s change the question slightly. This time, both Michelle and I live in Heaven, both angels. The forked path leads either to Heaven or to Hell. To reach Heaven, what question should you ask—”
“If I asked you, ‘Is this Heaven?’, would you say yes?”
Rinko cut in fast, pointing at the path Michelle stood on. Michelle’s alcohol-fuzzed brain took a beat to process before landing on “Yes.”
“Ugh, you really can’t read the room, can you? Wasn’t ‘not very bright’ supposed to be your character?”
“My niece pulls this kind of puzzle on me all the time. Cheap tricks don’t work on me.”
Stack two questions together, and the answers of liar-Shandy and honest-Michelle line up perfectly. A lie about a lie equals the truth.
Silently, Mikoto pointed toward Michelle, drifting up toward heaven on a wave of alcohol-fuelled bliss. Even with the trick already exposed, Shandy’s continued, meaningfully smug grin was funny enough to make her laugh.
Just then, Shandy’s phone rang, signalling the arrival of their guest.
“Well, playtime’s over. Best of luck with the negotiation, Mikoto.”
Cracking open the sealed entrance door just enough to check, Shandy welcomed their guest into the hideout.
“Welcome home, my master.”
The guest turned out to be Miyashita Kanade — the reporter who’d once visited Antiqua.
The meeting Sanae had spoken of was about to begin.
The moment Kanade appeared, the whole shop fell silent as if doused in ice water. No wonder. As far as Mikoto knew, this was the very first figure to make direct contact on Chesha’s side, and she had unresolved grudges with nearly everyone present besides Michelle.
Shandy, over the old fake obituary. Rinko, over her actress’s scandal. And Mikoto—
“…Here. This was the article scheduled to run.”
The headline on the handed-over article read: “Hibiya Trading’s Beautiful, Black-Hearted Temptress: How Employee K Pulled Off a Massive Embezzlement.” Names had been redacted, but every word danced pointedly around Mikoto’s identity.
Skimming through it, Mikoto’s shoulders sank. Had this article run as scheduled, she’d have been behind bars within days. The sheer terrifying power of Chesha, able to socially execute someone with lies and fabrication alone.
Beside her, Rinko was reading through a different article of her own. Probably a follow-up on Kotone’s scandal. She tore it up immediately, dropped it into an ashtray, and set it alight with a match.
Watching this out of the corner of her eye, Shandy spoke.
“Shall we say the terms of exchange are settled, then, both of you?”
“I’m fine with it. Rinko?”
“Guess we’ve got no choice but to trust her.”
“Very well, terms accepted. Miyashita Kanade-san.”
There was no way to actually trust Kanade, but this had come as Sanae’s instruction, and it aligned with Shandy’s own wishes too. There must have been solid reasons for a woman who’d served, for four years, as one of Chesha’s closest confidantes, to reveal her own hand like this.
“You remember what was promised?”
“Yes. I’m a liar, but I don’t break promises.”
Chuckling softly, Shandy delivered the words.
“I’ll teach you how to cut the strings Chesha’s tied around her puppets.”