The late afternoon sun was bleeding through the screens when Shunsuke finally drifted back to consciousness. His head felt like a hollow drum being struck from the inside—a throbbing, rhythmic mess of pain—and a wave of nausea hit him the moment he tried to move. Every joint felt rusted, every muscle stiff from the previous night’s physical and emotional toll.

  Shunsuke let out a low, pained groan as he forced himself into a sitting position, the world spinning dangerously for a few seconds. He fumbled for his phone, the brightness of the screen stinging his eyes: 3:45 PM.

  As the notifications loaded, a familiar sense of dread settled in his stomach. Ren had been busy. The messages started with a deceptively sweet “Good morning,” but quickly spiraled into irritation, then sharp, biting accusations about his silence. His “Prince” was displeased. Still trapped in a mental fog, Shunsuke typed out a shaky response: “Just woke up. Sorry for not answering your messages.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he opened the LINE group for Club Crystal to check the evening’s roster. His eyes scanned the list until he found his name.

  Both he and Kei were listed as on reserve.

  A long, shuddering exhale escaped his lungs. Being on reserve meant he wasn’t required to be on the floor; he only had to be available for emergencies or specific, high-priority requests. For the first time in days, the crushing weight on his chest lightened. He had a night of relative peace—a chance to let his body heal and perhaps, for a few hours, just be Shunsuke instead of “The Prince.”

  His phone buzzed almost instantly, the vibration rattling against his palm. ‘Ah, I didn’t know you were capable of sleeping that long, my sweet Shun.’

  Shunsuke’s fingers moved automatically, driven by the ingrained need to appease. He couldn’t let the silence linger long enough for Ren’s mood to sour again. ‘Had too much to drink last night,’ he typed, his thumb hovering briefly over the screen before finishing. ‘I hope you have a productive night at the club.’

  He closed his eyes, hoping to sink back into the quiet of his room, but the phone hummed again. Ren was never one to let a conversation end on someone else’s terms.

  ‘Sadly, my favorite person won’t be there to keep me company tonight,’ the message read. ‘But I suppose even you have earned a day of rest.’

  Shunsuke stared at the words. There was a hidden edge to them—a reminder that his “freedom” was a gift granted by Ren’s magnanimity rather than his own right. He forced his facial muscles into a small, hollow smile, even though no one was there to see it. It was a performance for a phantom audience.

  ‘Thank you, Ren,’ he sent back, his mind already mapping out the response he knew Ren wanted to see. ‘I wish we could spend the evening together instead.’ It was a lie, but it was a safe one. As long as he played the part of the devoted partner, he could maintain the fragile peace of his night off.

  A few minutes later, the phone buzzed again. Shunsuke reached for it with a sense of grim inevitability, certain it was Ren—and certain that the conversation wasn’t over. As he unlocked the screen and read the new message, the air seemed to leave his lungs.

  ‘You could do me a favor, since I can’t see you tonight. Mind sending me a nice selfie? If you know what I mean... wink’

  Shunsuke’s heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, trapped-animal rhythm. He knew exactly what Ren meant. In the twisted economy of their relationship, this was the “tax” for a night of freedom.

  With trembling hands, Shunsuke began to undo the buttons of his black dress shirt. The fabric felt abrasive against his skin as he bared his chest, the cool air of the room stinging his heated flesh. He reached for his belt, his movements mechanical and hollow. He felt like a stranger in his own body, a sculptor preparing a piece of clay for a buyer.

  He held the phone up, the flash momentarily blinding him in the dim light of his room. The second the photo was sent, he didn’t wait for a reaction; he deleted it from his device immediately, as if trying to erase the evidence of his own humiliation. A violent shudder racked his frame, and he pulled his shirt back together, clutching the fabric as if he could hide himself after the fact.

  Minutes later, the reply arrived.

  ‘I like what I see. You’re truly beautiful, Shun.’

  The compliment felt like a brand. Ren didn’t see a man or a partner; he saw a curated aesthetic, a possession that he could summon to his screen at will. Shunsuke dropped the phone onto the bed, feeling more exposed in the silence of his room than he ever did under the neon lights of the club.

  Shunsuke entered the main living area, his footsteps muffled by the tatami mats. His mother and father were already seated, the room governed by a heavy, traditional silence. Shunsuke immediately dropped into a deep, formal bow.

  “Oto-san, Oka-san. I apologize for the intrusion,” he said, his voice low and deferential.

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  His father, Shohei, didn’t look up immediately. He merely offered a dismissive wave of his hand before signaling for Shunsuke to sit. Shunsuke lowered himself onto the floor, tucking his legs beneath him in a perfect, rigid seiza. Despite the throbbing in his back and the numbness in his leg, he didn’t allow his posture to falter; in this room, any sign of weakness was an invitation for scrutiny.

  “I received the reports. You brought in an exceptional amount of revenue last night,” Shohei began. His voice was like a winter wind—sharp, cold, and entirely devoid of pride. “I expected nothing less from a son of mine. However...” Shohei’s gaze finally flicked upward, pinning Shunsuke in place. “I also heard you were absent from your lectures today.”

  Shunsuke flinched, his head dropping instinctively. “Yes. I... I apologize, Father.”

  “Do not allow this to become a habit,” Shohei stated flatly. “We provide your tuition under the understanding that you remain a credit to this family’s name. If your work at the club interferes with your standing at the university, that arrangement will be re-evaluated.”

  “Of course, Father. It won’t happen again,” Shunsuke whispered to the floorboards.

  Sachiko rose silently, her eyes downcast as she slipped out of the room like a ghost, unable or unwilling to witness the exchange. Her departure left the air even thinner, the silence between father and son becoming suffocating. Shunsuke remained in his bow, a pawn between two worlds—one that bought his beauty and one that bought his future—realizing that in both, he was merely a transaction.

  To Shohei, Shunsuke’s passion for music was nothing more than a triviality—a waste of potential that he tolerated only because Shunsuke wasn’t the designated heir. It was the one piece of “freedom” he had been granted, a small mercy that allowed his father to maintain the illusion of choice while he systematically dismantled every other part of Shunsuke’s autonomy.

  Everything else in Shunsuke’s life was a result of his father’s cold, calculated engineering. The job at Club Crystal hadn’t been a choice; it was a deployment, a way for the family to profit from Shunsuke’s alluring appearance. Even the “extra services” Shunsuke provided—the private rooms, the male clientele—were mandates handed down by his own father to maximize the return on his investment.

  Even more damning was the silence Shohei maintained regarding Tsukasa. He had never intervened, never protected his youngest son; instead, he had enabled the abuse, treating it as a secondary form of discipline that kept Shunsuke compliant and broken.

  The suffocating silence was finally broken by the sliding of the door. Sachiko returned, carrying a tray with three cups of tea. She moved with a delicate, practiced grace, placing the steaming cups on the table with a quiet clink.

  Shunsuke nodded politely to her, though he didn’t meet her eyes. He reached out and took his cup, his fingers curling around the warm ceramic for a sense of grounding. As he watched the steam rise, he realized the tea was just like his life: bitter, scalding, and served at the pleasure of a man who viewed him as little more than a profitable asset.

  Shunsuke took a cautious sip of the tea, the liquid hot and bitter against his tongue. He had to be careful; his body was a fragile ecosystem of sensitivities. Too much caffeine often triggered sharp, blinding migraines or left his stomach in knots, which was why he usually stuck to the toasted, low-caffeine warmth of hojicha. This, however, was a standard green tea—likely a sencha—but he didn’t care enough to distinguish the varieties. In this house, you drank what was served.

  As the minutes stretched on, the physical toll of the room became unbearable. The seiza position, which required him to sit perfectly still on his heels, was becoming a form of quiet torture.

  The numbness in his lower legs had intensified, turning into a dull, heavy prickling, while the electric pain in his lower back pulsed with every heartbeat. Every nerve in his spine screamed for him to shift his weight, to slump, to find even a centimeter of relief. But he remained as still as a statue.

  He knew the rules. To adjust his posture or show even a flicker of discomfort would be deemed a sign of disrespect—a crack in the mask of the “perfect son.” And Shunsuke knew all too well that “disrespect” in his father’s house was met with a correction far more painful than a few minutes of cramped muscles. He stared into the depths of his tea cup, trapped in a body that was failing him, in a room where he wasn’t allowed to feel.

  Shunsuke lowered his head once more, the weight of the silence in the room pressing against the back of his neck. “Thank you for the tea, Mother,” he said, his voice a model of filial piety. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return to my room. I have several scores to study for my university lectures.”

  His father, Shohei, didn’t offer a verbal reply. He simply gave a sharp, singular nod—the cold permission of a master to a servant.

  Shunsuke began the agonizing process of standing. As he rose from the seiza position, the blood rushed back into his deprived nerves with a violent, stinging heat. His knees buckled, the numbness in his left leg nearly sending him crashing into the low table, but years of martial arts training kicked in. He caught his center of gravity with a microscopic adjustment, hiding the stumble before his father’s predatory eyes could register it as a weakness.

  He bowed one last time and retreated, his walk stiff and measured until he was safely behind the shoji of his bedroom.

  The second the door slid shut, the “Prince” evaporated. Shunsuke sank onto the edge of his bed, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. He didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, he reached for his earbuds as if they were oxygen. As the first movement of a symphony flooded his senses, he closed his eyes and began to hum—a low, melodic vibration that matched the frequency of the music. In the dark, with the melody anchoring him, he wasn’t a host, a victim, or an investment. He was just the music.

  With a deliberate motion, he pulled the earbuds from his ears. He didn’t need the recorded symphonies anymore; the music in his head was louder, clearer, and far more demanding. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting the “spreadsheet” of his mind reset.

  Then, he began to write.

  The pen moved with a frantic, scratching precision. He wasn’t just writing a traditional piece; he was weaving a tapestry of defiance. He started with the rigid, disciplined structure of a classical fugue—a reflection of the “Prince” and the Kawamura expectations—but then he began to systematically break it.

  To Shunsuke, this wasn’t just homework. It was an exorcism. He was blending the world of the “High-Class Host” with the world of the “Violated Son,” using the language of music to say the things his voice was too shattered to speak. For the first time all day, his hands weren’t shaking because of trauma or cold; they were moving with the steady, rhythmic certainty of a creator.