Chapter 12: Akira’s True Identity

After nailing the routine, Katori, still in her Furīze cosplay, decided to walk from school back to the shopping district.

Dressed so flamboyantly, she naturally drew attention.

On the school route, everyone turned to look. In the shopping district, whispers of curiosity followed her.

But Katori brushed it off with ease, flashing smiles and waving at people.

She even teased Takumi, walking beside her, with a playful grin. “That last routine was intense. Did it wrinkle my skirt?”

It was behavior unthinkable for the old Katori.

The transformation was so drastic, it’d be a lie to say Takumi wasn’t thrown off.

It seemed Katori had broken through some barrier.

After parting with Katori, who had band prep, Takumi joined the handicraft club members.

Together, they watched the event from the stage wings.

The rotary was packed with families—the main audience—along with people of all ages, captivated by the stage.

Right now, the rakugo club from their school was performing classics like “Manju Scary”, “Time Soba”, and “Meguro’s Sanma” in a comedic skit style.

Different actors took the stage for each piece, likely to give more members a chance to perform.

The chosen stories were timeless favorites. Modernized with exaggerated, humorous delivery, they had the audience roaring with laughter.

The kids especially loved it.

Even Takumi was charmed, his face breaking into a grin.

When the rakugo club finished, applause erupted.

Takumi clapped heartily.

The handicraft club members said every act had been just as lively.

Next up was Katori’s group.

The crowd was already hyped.

Failing now would be catastrophic.

The pressure was unimaginable.

“Next, Misasagi High School’s handicraft club presents a band performance.”

With the emcee’s introduction, the band members in “Okuribito furīze” cosplay took the stage.

The crowd erupted in excited cheers, shouts of “It’s Furīze!” “I saw her earlier!” and “Wait, the handicraft club!?” ringing out.

Facing the hyped audience, Kuroda’s face went pale.

Even Akira, usually all smiles, looked stiff with nerves.

But Katori? She stood tall, unfazed, as if embodying Furīze’s long-lived, carefree nature, ramping up the crowd’s energy.

As the band readied their instruments and Katori stepped to the mic, the air fell silent.

Sweat beaded on Takumi’s clenched fists.

Tension stretched taut across the scene when Katori suddenly glanced back.

She gave Akira and the band a gentle smile, visibly easing their nerves.

Confirming they’d relaxed, Katori faced the crowd, gripped the mic, and spoke in a clear, ringing voice.

“Please listen. A magical song to make everyone smile.”

With her words as the cue, the music started, and as Katori sang, the atmosphere transformed.

Longing, sorrow, regret.

Then hope, bonds, melancholy.

Katori’s voice wove the world of “Okuribito furīze” perfectly.

It drowned out the faint murmurs and the shopping district’s bustle, captivating everyone.

Just hours ago, she’d been hesitant before this stage, a completely different person.

And just moments ago, she’d been in Takumi’s arms.

Now, she shone brilliantly on this grand stage, overwhelming and enchanting the crowd. Knowing he’d drawn out a side of her no one else would ever see—writhing in pleasure—filled Takumi with pride and confidence.

Yeah, I can do this.

Giving Akira a thank-you gift? That was nothing now.

Before long, the three songs ended.

“Thank you very much!”

As Katori bowed, thunderous cheers celebrated the performance’s success.

Catching her eye as she left the stage, she flashed a clear, triumphant smile.

That unguarded, unprecedented smile hit Takumi like a sucker punch, making his heart skip.

The Hanabishi Festival ended in grand success.

More visitors came than expected, causing slight traffic nearby, but otherwise, no issues arose. The shopping district’s sales exceeded forecasts, making the festival a triumph.

After returning instruments and costumes to the clubroom, Takumi and the others joined the afterparty, courtesy of the shopping district association.

Normally, Takumi and Katori would skip such gatherings—they weren’t their scene, and they rarely got invited. But when Yagi said, “You’re coming, right?” they nodded without hesitation, surprising even themselves. This whole experience had clearly leveled up their youth.

At this rate, with Katori’s striking looks, her goals felt within reach—maybe even closer than expected.

They might need the routine less and less. That should’ve been a happy thought, but Takumi couldn’t help a pang of loneliness, chuckling wryly at himself.

It was a bit early for dinner, the western sky just starting to tint.

Led by Yagi, they arrived at the afterparty venue.

Sadly, not everyone could join—one handicraft club member and one band member had to leave for family reasons, their reluctant expressions sticking in Takumi’s mind.

The venue was a privately owned okonomiyaki restaurant in the shopping district, reserved for the event.

Yagi said it was known for cheap, hearty portions, popular with sports clubs.

The place was packed with dozens of attendees, standing room only.

Takumi’s group squeezed around a teppan table in the raised seating area.

Soon, a stout, middle-aged man stepped to the center, and the chatter quieted.

He scanned the room, raised his beer mug, and declared.

“Here’s to the Hanabishi Festival’s success—great work, everyone!”

““““Cheers!””””

Takumi and the others joined the surrounding crowd, clinking glasses in a toast.

The adults, fueled by alcohol, quickly turned the atmosphere rowdy.

Normally, the okonomiyaki would be served ready-made, but today, due to a staff shortage, each table had to cook their own.

Kuroda jumped in, saying, “Alright, let’s just whip something up!” and spread the batter on the griddle. Takumi silently admired the ever-reliable senior.

Yagi and the others chimed in, “Wow, you’re so good at this!” “Kuroda-kun, you can cook?” When Akira teased, “A guy who cooks scores major points, right?” Kuroda flushed red, mumbling, “W-Well…” with a vague reply. Laughter spilled out, and Takumi and Katori joined in, blending into the group’s mirth.

By the time Kuroda finished the first batch, the table was buzzing with energy.

The excitement spread to the nearby rakugo club table. Being from the same school, conversations soon flowed freely.

As expected, the talk centered on Katori’s band.

“Your band was amazing! The costumes were handmade? Seriously? Gimme your contact info!” Questions rained down on Katori.

Overwhelmed, she reverted to her usual curt “Yeah” and “Mhm,” embodying the aloof ice princess.

She’d gained the nerve to handle crowds, but her communication skills hadn’t quite caught up.

Takumi was no different. When the costume-making topic came up—“Hashio-kun, you’re so skilled!” “The embroidery quality is insane!”—he could only manage awkward “Uh, yeah” or “Hmph.”

Still, being approached without fear by people they’d just met, hearing “You’re surprising!” or “Total gap from your looks!” was a huge step forward.

Maybe the next goal was to actually hold a proper conversation.

All of this was thanks to Akira.

As for Akira, her charming looks made her a school celebrity. At the lively afterparty, rakugo club members eagerly chatted her up, asking for her contact info and sneaking in casual touches. Akira gave a wry smile.

But Kuroda, ever considerate, stepped in. “Hey, ease up, guys.” “You’re a bit too close.” He kept them in check.

He even said to Akira, “You really saved us today,” and “Let’s team up again for the cultural festival,” steering the conversation smoothly. Classic Kuroda.

Takumi, quietly eating, pondered when to give Akira the gift.

Doing it now, in front of everyone, wasn’t a bad idea. But if someone teased, it might muddy the sentiment.

He could wait until tomorrow or later, but he wanted to do it today, while his heart was still burning.

Ideally, he’d catch her alone after the party, with Katori there too.

He needed to arrange a moment with her.

Doing it publicly wasn’t an option.

A misunderstanding could cause Akira trouble, which would defeat the purpose.

Takumi kept an eye out for a chance to talk to her discreetly.

Sociable Akira flitted between tables.

But she was never alone.

As Takumi grew antsy, a sudden poke to his side startled him.

“Hey, Hashio-kun!”

“Gah!? Yagi-senpai…?”

His weird yelp drew muffled giggles from around the table.

He shot Yagi a half-hearted glare, and she shrugged with a “what’s-your-deal” look before getting to the point.

“So, about seconds. You’ve been staring at the empty plates with this hungry, grumpy face.”

Others piped up, “I’m still kinda peckish.” “I could go for more!” Apparently, they thought he was still hungry. Thinking back, it wasn’t surprising.

“Uh… seconds, please.”

“Got it! Excuse me—!”

Takumi replied sheepishly, and Yagi raised her hand, calling toward the kitchen.

He turned back, feeling awkward, only to realize Akira was gone.

(…What?)

Panic crept in.

In the brief moment he’d looked away, Akira had slipped off somewhere.

He scanned the room—handicraft club, band members, rakugo club. No sign of her.

A chill ran through him.

Just as his anxiety spiked, he caught the faint sound of the entrance sliding open.

His eyes snapped to it, spotting Akira's back as she stepped outside.

This is my chance!

Grabbing his bag with the gift, Takumi blurted, “Gotta hit the bathroom!” and rushed after her.

Outside, night had fully settled.

Most nearby shops were closed, their lights sparse.

The daytime bustle felt like a lie, replaced by stillness.

Time had slipped by faster than he’d realized.

Surprised but focused, Takumi searched for Akira.

He spotted her a short distance away, heading into an alley.

What was she doing there?

Curious but prioritizing the promise, he figured he’d find out soon enough.

He quickened his pace to catch up.

“Aki—!?”

Just as he called out to her at the alley’s corner, he froze, stumbling back to hide.

(…!? …!?)

There stood several men in expensive suits, radiating menace.

They were clearly not from the normal world—people you didn’t mess with.

Their eyes alone set them apart from ordinary folk.

Compared to them, Takumi’s slightly delinquent look was child’s play.

Cold sweat poured down.

His instincts screamed danger.

It felt so surreal that he peeked again, but they were real, and so was Akira's back, facing them.

The sight of Akira, the school’s beloved star, confronting these underworld figures was jarringly wrong.

What was going on? Was she caught up in some trouble?

His mind spun with confusion when one of them locked eyes with him.

“Who’s there!?”

“!?”

All heads turned his way.

Their piercing glares, used to intimidating, froze his legs and spine, stirring a terror he’d never known. He deserved credit for swallowing his scream.

Their hostility was unmistakable.

One wrong move, and who knew what would happen.

Takumi’s brain raced for a solution.

No one was around to help.

Shouting wouldn’t reach the restaurant. The nearby shops were closed.

Calling the police now? They’d never arrive in time.

Fleeing was the logical choice.

But what about Akira?

Leaving her with these men would be like abandoning a lamb to wolves.

Akira was his benefactor.

Meeting her had saved him, changed him.

Abandoning her was unthinkable.

The thought of them hurting her stopped his trembling legs cold.

Steeling himself, teeth gritted, he resolved to risk a broken bone or two.

He burst forward, wedging himself between Akira and the men, arms spread wide, shouting.

“Akira-senpai, run!”

“Huh, Hashio-kun!?”

“Who’s this kid?”

“What’s your deal, brat?”

Akira's voice was shocked, the men’s confused.

“Senpai, hurry!”

“Uh, um…”

Takumi urged her to escape, but she only sounded troubled.

As he grew frantic, the apparent leader—a man with a scarred face—stepped forward, annoyed.

“Hey, kid, play hero somewhere else.”

“No way!”

“I’m letting you off. Scram.”

“I refuse!”

The scarred man nudged his shoulder, but Takumi glared back, swatting his hand away.

The defiant move seemed to anger him. He grabbed Takumi’s collar, barely hiding his rage.

“Listen, you little—”

“—Stop it, Shinomiya.”

Just as the scarred man raised his fist, Akira's voice cut through, low and menacing, unlike her usual self.

The man, Shinomiya, hesitated, lowering his arm.

“But, Ojou—”

“No ‘Ojou’ either.”

“—Akira-san, this guy…”

“This guy… Hashio-kun was trying to protect me. If my family hurts him… Shinomiya, are you trying to shame me?”

“That’s… Tch, lucky break, kid.”

“…Huh?”

Shinomiya let go.

The other men nodded reluctantly, as if understanding.

Takumi, clueless, looked between Akira and them, dumbfounded.

Akira pressed a hand to her temple, offering an awkward smile.

“Sorry, Hashio-kun. My family caused trouble.”

“Huh? Family? You… don’t look much alike?”

“Well, we’re not blood-related.”

“Uh…?”

As Takumi grew more confused, Akira sighed, as if giving up, and spoke haltingly.

“You know the Oowada-gumi?”

“That big Japanese house on the outskirts, rumored to be yakuza?”

At the word “yakuza,” Shinomiya bristled, his voice sharp.

“We ain’t yakuza! We’re chivalrous—”

“Shinomiya, quiet.”

“—Yes, ma’am.”

Akira's single command silenced him.

Takumi wasn’t so dense as to miss their dynamic.

Hesitantly, he asked, “Akira-senpai, are you…?”

“Yeah. My real name’s Oowada Akira. The Oowada-gumi’s only daughter. Ikoma’s my mom’s surname. I told them I’d be late, but they sent these guys to pick me up.”

Even expecting it, Takumi gaped in disbelief.

Shinomiya, under Akira's half-hearted glare, explained.

“The boss was worried about Akira-san…”

“Grandpa’s overprotective! It’s not even eight yet. Ugh, now it’s out in the open.”

“Sorry… So, since it’s out, should we…?”

“Yeah, might as well. Get the paperwork ready. Maybe out-of-prefecture next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Takumi stood frozen, gaping at the scene before him.

He didn’t know what the Oowada-gumi was or what they did.

But it was clear that rough types like Shinomiya belonged to it, and Akira stood above them.

It also clicked why Akira could treat him so casually. Compared to her “family,” Takumi was small potatoes.

From the way she gave orders to Shinomiya, Akira was clearly part of that world.

Yet, he couldn’t reconcile the always-smiling, beloved Akira from school and the volunteer club with this reality.

Noticing Takumi’s conflicted expression, Akira spoke with a tinge of regret.

“Now that my identity’s out, things can’t go back to how they were. I had fun with you and Nabata-san, though. Until today—”

“—!”

Akira's troubled smile struck Takumi as lonely. She looked like just an ordinary girl.

“—I won’t be able to hang out with everyone anymore.”

Her face was eerily similar to the one Acchan had when she broke things off.

Driven by instinct, regret, and urgency, Takumi couldn’t let her say more. Before he knew it, he’d pulled something from his bag, shoved it toward Akira, and shouted.

“It was fun for me too! Please, take this!”

“—Huh?” “““!?”””

Akira let out a startled yelp at the sudden gift, and Shinomiya and the others looked dumbfounded. Takumi pressed on, words tumbling out.

“You let me join the volunteer club, make costumes, be part of events—it was my first time doing stuff like this, and I was so happy. I wanted to show my gratitude. Katori and I picked this out together!”

“But, like I said, I’m with the Oowada-gumi…”

“That doesn’t matter right now! I just want to thank Akira-senpai for letting me be part of the group!”

“…!”

He knew he was being tactless.

But the loneliness Akira had let slip made her not the Oowada-gumi’s daughter, but just the admired school senior. He had to give her this.

Yet Akira, staring at the gift, lowered her face, trembling.

Had he messed up? Was it a bother?

Inexperienced in these things, Takumi felt a wave of anxiety.

The air around them buzzed with confusion.

“Um…?”

He cautiously tried to gauge Akira's reaction, but then she clutched her stomach and burst into laughter.

“Haha! Ahahahahahahahaha!”