Days later, Shunsuke found himself in the staff room of Club Crystal, nearly ninety minutes before his shift was set to begin. The room was mostly empty, the air heavy with the lingering scent of stale smoke and expensive floor wax. He had his earbuds in, eyes squeezed shut, retreating into a wall of sound that felt like the only safe place left in the world.

  He was completely submerged in the music, his mind mapping out a particularly complex percussive movement, when a sudden tug ripped one of the earbuds from his ear.

  Shunsuke flinched violently, his eyes snapping open in a flash of raw, instinctive fright. His heart hammered against his ribs as his gaze collided with Ren’s. Ren stood over him, the stolen earbud dangling from his fingers like a captured insect. He held it to his own ear for a lingering moment, his expression curdling into a mask of pure disdain.

  “What is this trash you’re listening to, Shun?” Ren asked, his voice sharp and dismissive. “It’s so... aggressive. It’s grating.”

  He tossed the earbud back at Shunsuke as if it were contaminated. Shunsuke fumbled to catch it, his fingers trembling as he quickly pulled out his phone to kill the volume. The silence that followed was heavy and cold, the beautiful architecture of the music he’d been building in his head crumbling instantly under Ren’s judgment.

  Kei stepped into the room, his presence cutting through the heavy silence that Ren had dropped like a shroud. He had witnessed the entire confrontation from the doorway, and his voice was uncharacteristically firm when he spoke.

  “Just because the music isn’t to your taste, Ren, doesn’t mean it’s trash,” Kei said, his eyes narrowing. “Perhaps it’s just not what you expected Shunsuke to listen to.”

  Shunsuke looked up at Kei, a brief, flickering spark of gratitude igniting in his eyes. It was a rare thing for anyone to stand up to Ren, especially on his behalf.

  Ren didn’t even look at him. He simply waved his hand in a dismissive, airy gesture, as if swatting away a persistent fly. “It doesn’t suit him,” Ren countered, his voice smooth but layered with an icy finality. “A ‘Prince’ shouldn’t be filling his head with such aggressive, discordant noise. It doesn’t fit the image.”

  “That’s not for you to decide, Ren,” Kei snapped back, refusing to back down. He moved to stand closer to Shunsuke, a silent wall of support. “What he listens to, what he thinks, and what he feels... that is solely Shunsuke’s decision. Not yours.”

  Ren finally turned his gaze toward Kei, his smile sharpening into something predatory and dangerous. The air in the room grew thin, the “open secret” of Ren’s possessiveness suddenly feeling very loud and very volatile.

  Later that night, Shunsuke stepped out from the private suites in the back of the club—soundproofed rooms where high-paying clients bought the illusion of undivided, intimate attention. He offered a deep, graceful bow, his movements as fluid as a practiced dance.

  “I wish you a pleasant remainder of your evening,” Shunsuke said, his voice dropping into the polished, honeyed baritone of his host persona.

  The woman lingered, her gaze sweeping over him with a hunger that made his skin crawl. “I hope we can be alone like this again soon, Ishihara-san,” she murmured, reaching out to brush his sleeve.

  Shunsuke didn’t let a flicker of discomfort reach his eyes. He simply smiled—the perfect, seductive curve of his lips that he had spent hours perfecting in the mirror. “Whenever you wish. You need only ask for me.”

  He watched her depart, maintaining his posture until she disappeared through the main lounge. The moment she was gone, the mask fractured. Violent micro-shudders racked his frame, a physical rebellion against the hours of being touched, watched, and wanted.

  He leaned against the cold wallpaper of the hallway, closing his eyes. At least it was a woman this time, he told himself, a hollow consolation. Club Crystal catered to an elite, varied clientele, and while the majority were wealthy women, the club also accepted male patrons. Only a select few hosts were assigned to the men—those with the most “versatile” appeal. Hosts like Ren, occasionally Kei, and increasingly, Shunsuke.

  Shunsuke pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the club’s internal app. With a few practiced taps, he updated his status to Available, signaling to the floor managers that Ishihara-san was ready for the next rotation.

  He retreated toward the staff room, his steps heavy. The club’s policy guaranteed a thirty-minute grace period between private sessions—a meager window to breathe, reset his mask, and stop the trembling in his hands. But he knew the peace wouldn’t last. Lately, the thirty minutes were rarely his to keep; as soon as his status turned green, the requests flooded in.

  He was becoming more than just a rising star; he was eclipsing the veterans. In the gilded world of the lounge, Shunsuke’s popularity had begun to surge past even Ren’s. While Ren was the seasoned master of the “dark and possessive” allure, Shunsuke offered something the clients found irresistible: a fragile, ethereal grace that they were desperate to protect—or to break.

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  As he pushed open the staff room door, he didn’t look for a chair. He headed straight for the corner furthest from the mirrors, needing a moment where he didn’t have to see the “Prince” looking back at him. He knew that somewhere in this building, Ren was watching the same internal chat, seeing Shunsuke’s name at the top of the request list, and the thought made the air in the hallway feel colder than the night outside.

  Shunsuke chased a handful of painkillers with a lukewarm swallow of water, the pills rattling against the back of his throat. His back wasn’t just aching; it was a searing, deep-seated fire that radiated down his hip. A familiar, terrifying numbness was creeping along the underside of his leg—a sign that his nerves were screaming under the pressure of the previous night’s “punishment.” He flexed his calf, relieved to find he still had the strength to stand. As long as he didn’t limp, he could keep the lie alive.

  He couldn’t sit still for the full thirty minutes; the silence of the staff room only made the throbbing in his spine louder. He forced himself back into the main lounge, the transition from shadow to neon instantaneous.

  The floor manager caught his eye immediately, cutting across the plush carpet with a sense of urgency. “You’re back early, Ishihara. Good. There’s a group of regulars at Table Four—they specifically requested you.”

  Shunsuke offered a polite, professional nod. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  He paused for a single heartbeat, closing his eyes to draw a deep, steadying breath. He adjusted the line of his suit, mentally locking the pain into a small, dark box in the back of his mind. By the time he reached the seating area, the “Prince” had returned.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, his voice a smooth, seductive velvet that betrayed nothing of his internal agony. He offered a low, graceful bow that made his nerves spark like live wires. “I am Shun Ishihara. I’ll be your host for the evening. How may I make your night unforgettable?”

  Shunsuke moved with a practiced, feline grace, settling into the plush velvet seat at the center of the group. He could feel their collective gaze—a physical weight that swept over him, appraising every inch of his frame. Over the years, he had learned to remain perfectly still under such scrutiny; he was a masterpiece on display, and he knew exactly what they were looking for.

  His height had always set him apart, a natural advantage that made him tower over his peers and command the room without saying a word. But it was the hidden strength beneath the fine silk of his suit that truly fascinated them. The years of rigorous Kendo and Aikido training hadn’t just given him discipline; they had sculpted his body into something lean and powerful—a “cherry on top” of his already striking appearance.

  “You really are incredibly tall, Ishihara-san,” one of the women breathed, leaning in close enough that he could smell her expensive floral perfume.

  Her companion reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from his shoulder, tracing the broad line of his frame. “And such a perfectly trained body,” she added, her voice a mix of awe and hunger. “You don’t see many hosts who look like they actually know how to handle themselves.”

  Shunsuke offered them a slow, enigmatic smile—the one that made them feel like they were the only people in the world. Inside, his nerves were still sparking with the electric hum of the painkillers, but on the outside, he was the picture of effortless, athletic elegance.

  “The training keeps me grounded,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration. “But tonight, my only focus is ensuring that you feel as striking as you look. Shall we start with a bottle of your favorite vintage?”

  A single cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke curling into the chilly morning air. Shunsuke rarely smoked; it was a crutch he reserved only for the nights when the alcohol ran too deep or when his mind felt like it was fracturing. Tonight, it was both. He had pushed his limit, swallowing glass after glass of expensive champagne to drown out the electric screaming of his spine. Now, the alcohol and painkillers were locked in a hazy, dangerous battle in his bloodstream, making the world tilt at a sickening angle.

  He stared down at his phone—5:30 AM. The numbers felt like a sentence. He stood at a crossroads: return to the “prison” of his home and succumb to the exhaustion, or drag his broken body straight to the university to maintain the only part of himself that felt human.

  With a heavy, ragged sigh, he pushed himself away from the wall. He dropped the cigarette, the orange ember dying instantly as he crushed it beneath the sole of his shoe.

  Ren was already gone, having vanished into the night long before Shunsuke’s final table had settled their bill. The absence felt like a cold relief. Shunsuke fumbled for his earbuds, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. As the first notes of his music flooded his ears, the “spreadsheet” in his mind began to scroll again—a desperate attempt to organize the chaos of his soul as he began the long, limping trek back toward the residence.

  The forty-minute walk in the freezing pre-dawn air passed in a blur. Shunsuke’s body moved on a mechanical auto-pilot, his muscles stiffening with every step as the cold bit into the lingering aches in his back. As he approached the heavy gates of the family residence, the guards snapped to attention, their postures mirroring the rigid discipline of the household.

  “Good morning, Kawamura-san,” they intoned in unison. Shunsuke offered nothing more than a ghost of a tired nod as the gates hummed open, allowing him to slip inside the compound.

  The transition from the street to the house was seamless and silent. He stepped into the genkan, stepping out of his dress shoes and sliding into his house slippers with practiced ease. The silence of the house was broken only by the soft rustle of silk; his mother, Sachiko, appeared at the end of the hallway as if she had been waiting for the sound of the door.

  “Good morning, Shunsuke,” she said softly, her eyes searching his pale, drawn face. “You look exhausted. Can I bring you something? Tea? A meal?”

  Shunsuke shook his head, the movement making the world tilt slightly. “No need, Oka-san,” he replied, his voice a dry whisper of its usual host-club silk. “I’m just going to bed.”

  He offered a shallow, polite bow—the bare minimum required of him—and turned toward his room. Every step felt like he was wading through lead. When he finally reached his bedroom and slid the door shut, he didn’t even bother to change out of his clothes. He simply collapsed onto the bed, the darkness of sleep claiming him before his head even fully hit the pillow.