Men lose all reason when they're trying to look cool.
Women are no different when shopping.
Sakura had lost her mind.
Fresh from the arcade, they hopped into a pre-booked taxi. The driver, a dapper older man in white gloves and a top hat, spoke four languages fluently and drove with the finesse of a former pro racer. A few slick drifts later, they arrived at the store.
Before even stepping inside, the air reeked of money.
Behind glass walls, golden-orange lights shimmered like rippling water, illuminating racks of dark, tailored suits that screamed sophistication. The staff, stunning in tight skirts and black stockings with heels, radiated an aura that demanded deference. The few customers strolled among the finery like aristocrats in a private wardrobe, exuding effortless confidence.
"Welcome." A model-grade staff member bowed.
This place was bad news—unless you were draped in millions of yen, you'd feel out of place. Takizawa sized up the staff's graceful figure, then turned to leave.
But Sakura strong-armed him into the lavish vortex, playing the seasoned dealmaker.
"He's looking for clothes. What's the best you've got this season?"
"Any preferences, sir?" The staff asked. "Favorite brands?"
"Me? I'm an Earth Booths and Night Market guy—global chains, you can find 'em anywhere," Takizawa said.
"Those sound major, but I'm not familiar," The staff mused.
"You know them—street stalls and flea markets." Takizawa flashed a grin, showing perfect teeth.
A few seconds of awkward silence followed.
"Formal or casual?" The staff pivoted.
"For an important photoshoot—formal," Sakura answered.
"Custom or ready-to-wear?"
"Need it by dinner—ready-to-wear," Sakura shot back.
The staff scanned the unremarkable boy with professional precision, then carefully presented a symbol of status: gentleman's armor.
"A suit is a modern man's battle gear. This one's crafted from premium wool, 90% alpaca, with horn buttons. Sharp shoulders, classic fit, pure pedigree—British style. Jet black, dust-repellent, perfect for galas, cocktail parties, or global trade deals. What do you think?"
The man felt a spark of temptation.
Sure, they might scoff at tokusatsu shows as kid stuff, but give them a transformation belt, and they'd shout the catchphrase louder than anyone, itching to kick some stuntman butt.
Suits were the same—who didn't want to hold a cat, pop a rose in their lapel, and rule the urban night?
This set screamed elite, worlds apart from cheap company-issued threads. No one would mistake him for a salesman in this.
"Can I try it on?" Takizawa rubbed his hands, not committing but eager to feel it.
"Of course," The staff smiled.
"How much?" Sakura cut through the fluff.
"480,000 yen. This way to try it on."
"Nope, nope…" Takizawa's face did a quick-change act, waving it off. "It's just for a company shoot, not a campaign poster—something more casual will do."
Holy hell, that price—if it got a scratch, he'd have a stroke.
The staff nodded, thought briefly, and returned with another option.
"Same brand, but this uses tweed, with a longer hem for a lived-in feel. Thicker, windproof, warmer—ideal for fall and winter. Think vintage British, like characters from a period drama. What do you think?"
"How much?" Sakura, stuck on repeat.
"380,000 yen."
"Not bad."
"…Ahem, in this fast-paced city, I'd look out of place—like I'm off to a hunting lodge with no shotgun or tea-serving maid. In a law-abiding society, I'm no detective. Something more casual, please. No suits." Takizawa leaned hard into the hint.
The staff mentally sifted inventory, then made another trip.
"Winter men's coats have history—like this duffle coat, born from Belgian fishermen, later used by British soldiers for warmth. Wide hood, deep pockets, versatile. Hides flaws while highlighting a strong frame. This brown fits a clean, youthful prep vibe. Thoughts?"
Takizawa's eyes lit up.
In a word: the autumn-winter coat of a heroic everyman!
He had something similar in his closet—a high school uniform coat. Say what you will about that sweaty principal, but the bulk-ordered uniforms were solid. Too bad Takizawa's was worn to death, faded and frayed from cheap detergent.
Otherwise, he'd have rocked that guardian-certified trench to the shoot.
"How much?" Sakura looped.
"160,000 yen."
"Nice, I like it." Takizawa nodded approvingly—manageable, worth a try. He adjusted his collar, ready to indulge.
Taking the soft, hefty coat, he emerged from the fitting room. A rare splurge, like new clothes for a lean New Year. In the mirror, the handsome guy preened, posing like a runway model, secretly checking for loose threads or missing buttons.
"Looks good!" Sakura beamed, clearly pleased.
"Alright, sold. Where do I pay? I'll wear it out." Takizawa faked bravado.
"The young lady already paid," The staff said with a polished smile.
"?"
"No need to thank me," Sakura said, genuinely bold.
"No way, it's too much—I'll pay you back." Takizawa shook his head.
"It's a gift."
"I'm older, a proper adult—how can I let a high schooler drop that much? Take advantage of you?" Takizawa said earnestly.
"It's fine, just some pocket money from last New Year." The girl shrugged casually.
"…"
Takizawa went quiet, but years of optimism soon rekindled his spark.
"Still no."
"Come on, just take it," Sakura huffed, stomping lightly, a bit shy. "It's my first time gifting a friend."
Looking at the girl with a fat wallet but thin skin, he sighed softly.
"Quick question—got this style in women's?" He almost just asked for women's, but the dazzling price tags felt like fuses ready to burn a broke guy to ash, so he clarified.
"Of course." The stunning staff, professional to a fault, still let her gaze linger on the pair.
Charming broke senpai.
Cute rich kouhai.
Selfless giving, rational reciprocation, a delicate balance of distance—friends or siblings, crossing class and age with ambiguous warmth.
—Damn, complicated!
"Since it's a gift, we'll trade, no issue, right?" Takizawa grinned.
"S-sure." The girl nodded, arms crossed.
Looks were the true currency of fashion. Sakura slipped into hers and instantly became a street-style icon, model-tier buyer's showcase.
"Come back soon," The staff bowed, seeing off the matching-coated pair.
"I'm off to the shoot. You good getting home?" Takizawa asked.
"I'm not some elementary kid—think I can't ride the subway?"
"…Habit."
"Heh, like you walked me home from the amusement park?" Sakura rolled her eyes.
"Don't remind me. I rode my scooter there, forgot, took the train back with you guys, then had to double back for it." Takizawa groaned—he'd nearly abandoned his trusty ride.
"Next time, then?"
"Yeah, see ya."
He waved, vanishing into the crowd.
Sakura touched her new coat, heading home in high spirits.
"I'm back!"
"Tonight we got fresh crab from your dad's coworker—lucky us," Her mother Shinobu said with apron on. "Oh, new clothes?"
"Yep, a gift from a friend." Sakura spun to show off.
"You've got friends giving gifts like that?" Her young mother raised a brow, taking the shopping bag.
"Nah, Takizawa needed an outfit for a company shoot, so I was gonna get him something nice. Then he insisted on gifting me back." Sakura flopped on the couch, teasing the parrot her dad had trained into silence.
"Takizawa?" Shinobu paused, peeked at the receipt in the bag, and froze. "You dragged him there, didn't you?"
"Yep."
"When you two parted, anything… happen?"
"Huh?"
"Like, any change in his mood?"
"Nope, normal."
"…Alright, don't do this again." Shinobu sighed softly. "But you've really found a solid, responsible friend."
"What're you two on about?" The self-proclaimed ultimate family man sauntered downstairs.
"Nothing, keep playing with the parrot. Ayane, help me out. You need to learn some things, or you'll stay a kid forever."
"What'd I do now?" Sakura whined.
"Kitchen. We'll talk."
Left behind by wife and daughter, the credit card king's warm smile faded.
In its place, a wolfish, predatory glint.
Who was this "he" They were talking about?
…
7 p.m.
Tokyo never sleeps.
[BullChief: Finally done shooting, busy day. You home?]
[WiseAdult: Haha, already ate—crab!]
[BullChief: Pfft, so what? My shrimp instant ramen's just as good.]
[WiseAdult: Oh, I told Mom about the clothes…]
[BullChief: What'd Sakura-san say? Hope she didn't trash my taste.]
[WiseAdult: She praised you.]
[BullChief: Proud.jpg]
[WiseAdult: How's the headshot?]
[BullChief: Check it. Headshot.jpg]
[WiseAdult: Whoa, so serious—no smile?]
[BullChief: Photographer wanted that 'three parts disdain, three parts aloof, three parts worldly regret' vibe. I couldn't nail it! Hate headshots.]
[WiseAdult: Coat looks great, though.]
[BullChief: Damn right.]
[WiseAdult: How long's that photo good for?]
[BullChief: Like an ID photo—ages. Heard some use theirs for a decade.]
[WiseAdult: That long? I wanna retake mine.]
[BullChief: Sneaky.jpg. What, bad edit?]
[WiseAdult: Wanna wear my new coat for one, so people know we're a team.]
[BullChief: Awkward if I switch agencies later, no?]
[WiseAdult: You're quitting?!]
[BullChief: Nah, just saying. Truth is, I've never stayed anywhere longer than three years.]
[WiseAdult: No way, you can't leave.]
[BullChief: Capitalist sticking up for capitalists—not my crowd. Teary.jpg]
[WiseAdult: I mean we jump together.]
[BullChief: We'll see. Ramen's done, news is on—time to eat.]
Sakura lay on her bed, staring at the stalled chat, then scrolled up to the headshot.jpg.
The boy's pose was formal, straight-on, no tilted head or easy smile—pure ID style. The harsh angle and lighting only sharpened his features, rugged and striking.
Pure bone structure beauty, eyes clear, pupils sparkling like starry accents.
But pros saw the real star: that crisp brown coat.
Soon, this photo would hit the agency's site, paired with voice samples, a simple profile for the world.
Ten years online, churning out forever?
The girl giggled foolishly at the thought.
***
Every 100 Power Stones and 5 Reviews will earn you a Bonus Chapter.
And if you want to read up to 50 chapters ahead, don't hesitate to visit our patron: pat reon . com / XElenea (remove space)