Kaito lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “That was always the deal. You just never let anyone close enough to keep it.”
Miki’s eye twitched. She stepped closer, close enough that the bell on her choker tinkled softly. She reached out and placed a single finger on his chest, right over his heart. “You’re so cold. Don’t you feel anything ? The audience was screaming. I could have made them do anything I wanted.”
And in that backstage hallway, with the ghost of her devilish costume still clinging to her, Mihama Miki finally stopped running. She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest, and for the first time in years, she didn’t need to charm, manipulate, or perform.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “A stupid, honest, idiot producer.”
She just let herself be held.
The night of the Halloween Live was always Miki’s true stage. While the other idols twinkled in cute witch costumes or princess-like cat outfits, Miki had chosen something else entirely. A sleek, form-fitting black dress that shimmered like a raven’s wing, a choker with a tiny silver bell, and a pair of crimson contact lenses that made her eyes look like embers in the dark. Her signature “Devilish Appeal” wasn’t just an act—it was a weapon.
Miki turned fully, the devilish gleam in her eyes replaced by something far more dangerous: hope. She walked back to him slowly, deliberately, and this time there was no act. She took his hand—not a seductress’s move, but a girl’s.
“One condition,” she said, her voice soft but with a hint of her old fire. “When I’m on stage, I get to be the devil. But off stage…” She squeezed his fingers. “You have to promise to see me . Not the appeal. Just Miki.”
And tonight, she had a target.
The hallway felt silent, even with the distant roar of the crowd. Miki’s throat tightened. No one had ever said that before. Her whole life, she’d used charm like a shield—first to survive, then to win, then just out of habit. But Kaito had just reached past the shield and touched the soft, unarmored part of her.
Kaito looked up from his notes, his expression unchanged. “You dragged the second verse’s bridge by a quarter of a second. Fix it for the encore.”
“I didn’t say I felt nothing.”
She froze. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder. Kaito had set down his clipboard. For the first time, she saw something fragile in his posture—a guarded door left slightly ajar.