Chapter Text
The Shibuya lights reflected in the car window like shards of stars that had fallen too low.
Rangiku smoothed her lipstick one last time, a soft red that contrasted with the simple black cape on her shoulders. Outside, a fine rain sliced through the night, just enough to make the asphalt glisten but not heavy enough to scatter the crowds of laughing youths beneath the giant billboards.
“Shooting finished at one, meeting at two, and now at this hour I’m still playing spy…” she muttered to herself, staring at her reflection in the glass. “Matsumoto Rangiku, you really don’t know when to stop.”
Her phone vibrated on her lap. A LINE notification popped up.
[ O-RI-HI-ME 🌸 ]
Onee-san, are you still out? Don’t come home too late. We have a photoshoot tomorrow morning, remember? 😣
The corner of Rangiku’s lips lifted. Her well-trained fingers flew across the screen.
[ RANGIKU ]
Relax. Onee-san always comes home.
You focus on resting. Tomorrow you just have to smile, the rest is MUA and lighting’s job. 😘
The reply came almost immediately, as always.
[ O-RI-HI-ME 🌸 ]
Promise you’ll come home?
I want to tell you something tomorrow… it’s important…
Rangiku stared at the three little dots that appeared and disappeared in the chat box. Tell her something? Important?
Her head instantly filled with possibilities—an offer for a new drama? some cruel comment from netizens? or… the name of an orange-haired boy who used to show up a lot in Orihime’s stories, then suddenly vanished from their conversations these past few years.
Her smile softened.
[ RANGIKU ]
I promise. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast together. Onee-san will treat you to pancakes with lots of strawberries.
She added a 🍓 emoji. Orihime always softened when it came to strawberries.
For a moment, she remembered the polaroid photo Orihime kept in the wardrobe of their apartment: the cramped dining table in a clinic in Karakura, Isshin pulling a silly pose, Karin scowling, Yuzu laughing, and Orihime in the middle of them, mouth full of rice, eyes closed in happiness.
Orihime had once said quietly, “It felt like… I really had a family there.”
Rangiku shook the image away with a small shake of her head. Later. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow. About work, about Ichigo-kun, about whatever she’s been holding back all this time.
Her phone vibrated again. The sender’s name was different this time.
[ Toshiro Hitsugaya ]
Are you on the way?
Rangiku typed while letting out a sigh.
[ Rangiku ]
Stuck in Shibuya traffic. Relax, before I go into the club I’ll send a photo of the car plate like always, Little Captain. 😏
The reply came a few seconds later.
[ Toshiro Hitsugaya ]
Don’t joke around tonight.
The info you have is too big. Only a handful of people know you’re an informant.
If anything feels off, leave the place and CONTACT me IMMEDIATELY.
Rangiku snorted softly, not because she underestimated him, but because she knew Hitsugaya was probably glaring at every letter he typed.
[ Rangiku ]
Relax. I know what’s at stake.
If I bail early, you’re the one buying pancakes tomorrow.
She hit send, then put her phone down beside her, looking again at her reflection in the glass. The eyes that were usually full of camera sparkle looked a little more tired tonight.
For the past two years, the world she knew—stages, studios, after parties—had grown another layer that the audience at home could never see.
Posters of missing teenagers at stations, panicked chats from junior talents who suddenly disappeared, vague stories about “out-of-town auditions” that no one ever heard from again.
Everyone knew the entertainment industry had a dark side. But what the police had found—shell company names, lists of bank accounts, routes for shipping human beings wrapped in the phrase “international talent placement”—went far beyond gossip.
And she, Matsumoto Rangiku, had chosen to be eyes in the middle of the spotlight.
“If I don’t do this…” she had once said to Hitsugaya in an interrogation room whose light was far too white, “then I have to watch my little sister smile in front of the camera, knowing there’s a cliff right behind her. I can’t take that.”
The taxi driver coughed softly. “Miss, we’re almost there.”
“All right, thank you,” said Rangiku, drawing in a deep breath.
The taxi stopped in front of a club with a small signboard and a tightly guarded entrance. To regular people, this was just an exclusive spot where producers, celebrities, and rich folks mingled. To the police files she’d secretly read, this was one of the doors into the network they were trying to expose.
Rangiku got out. The rain touched her skin, cold and sharp. She quickly snapped a photo of a black car with the license plate Hitsugaya had previously flagged as belonging to someone in the network, then sent:
[ Rangiku ]
Suspicious plate’s already in the parking lot.
Going in now. If I’m not “online” in two hours, you’re allowed to panic. 🙃
She knew that last emoticon would make Hitsugaya want to yank his own hair out in frustration. It was her own little entertainment.
Inside, the club was packed with heavy bass that pounded into bone, strobe lights slicing the room into fragments of color—red, blue, purple. The air was thick with expensive perfume, alcohol, and something subtler—the fear hidden behind loud laughter.
“Matsumoto-san!” called a young man in an overly shiny suit. “I’m a huge fan, can we take a picture—”
“Of course,” she replied automatically, putting on a smile, tilting her head just so, the best angle of her face. The flash of a phone camera went off.
She laughed, shook hands with producers, executives, faces she often saw at press conferences. In each perfunctory hug, she counted her breaths and her steps.
As if she were dancing between two stages: one dazzling with glamour, and one crowded with names in a case file.
A middle-aged man in a gray suit without a tie waved from a corner. Beside him stood a woman in a glittering dress, beautiful face but dead eyes.
“Rangiku-san,” the man said when she approached. “We finally get to meet in person. I’ve wanted to work with you for a long time. This industry needs faces like yours. Beautiful, professional, easy to talk to.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Rangiku smiled politely. “I’m happy to learn from people who’ve been… in the industry for a long time.”
She held back from using the word “moldy.”
This man’s name was listed in the police files as one of the links between small agencies and the overseas network. Not the top boss, but close enough to the center.
They talked about endorsements, variety shows, sponsors, plans for overseas events. The phrase “promising young talents from the countryside” came up too often to sound innocent.
Rangiku drank half of her drink. The glass looked full, but she never actually swallowed much. She’d long since learned how to pretend to be drunk while staying clear-headed.
Her phone buzzed in her small bag.
[ Toshiro Hitsugaya ]
How long have you been inside?
Rangiku excused herself to the restroom, slipping out of the current of bodies. The women’s restroom was much calmer, only the sound of water and the music muffled by walls.
She took out her phone.
[ Rangiku ]
Relax.
He brought one young girl, doesn’t look like a mainstream talent. Her eyes are empty.
I’ll try to dig for info.
She had just hit send when the restroom door opened.
A young woman stood in the doorway. Dress too tight, heels too high, her steps a bit unsteady. Her face was pretty, but her eyes… like mirrors with nothing reflected back.
“Sorry,” Rangiku said automatically, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. “Do you need—”
The girl stared at her, lips trembling, as if words were stuck in her throat. Then, from outside, someone called her name sharply.
“Hey! They’re looking for us. Don’t stay too long in the bathroom.”
The girl flinched, lowered her head, then walked out without a single word.
Rangiku stared at the door as it closed again, then at her own reflection in the mirror.
Faces like that were the ones that would later appear on small posters in train stations.
The ones printed with cheap ink, pasted on poles near ticket machines, with the word “missing” in tiny letters.
She exhaled slowly, tapping the phone screen. Her message went through.
[ Rangiku ]
Everything’s just like you suspected.
There is something very wrong with the way they “manage talent.”
Details later. For now focus on keeping Hime safe tomorrow morning. Don’t let her be alone.
She almost added another joking emoji, but stopped herself. Her fingers felt a little cold.
The night grew later before she finally decided to go home. The music still thumped in her chest as she slipped out through the side door, following the procedure she and Hitsugaya had agreed on to avoid paparazzi.
The narrow alley smelled of damp, a bit of trash, and rain seeping from above. A dim yellow light cast long shadows on the walls.
Her phone vibrated again.
[ O-RI-HI-ME 🌸 ]
Still not sleeping… I keep thinking about tomorrow. Are you home yet, Onee-san?
Rangiku stopped in the middle of the alley, leaning for a moment against the cold brick wall. She could picture Orihime in their small apartment wearing oversized sweater, hair down, maybe sitting while hugging a pillow. On the little shelf by the TV, the framed photo of the Kurosaki family was surely still there; Orihime had placed it there so carefully.
“So I don’t forget what it feels like to have a crowded dinner table,” she’d said back then.
Rangiku closed her eyes for a second. Home. Breakfast. Pancakes. An important story.
Once I finish my job tonight, once everything’s wrapped up…
Her thumb moved.
[ RANGIKU ]
I’ll be there soon.
Close your eyes, Hime. Tomorrow you’ll need full energy to make all of Japan fall in love with you again.
She added a little heart, then hit send.
She was just about to type a second message—more honest, more vulnerable—when a small sound came from the far end of the alley.
Creek.
Like the sound of footsteps trying not to be heard, but the wet ground made them slick.
Rangiku opened her eyes. The instincts she’d been forced to sharpen over the last two years raised goosebumps along her skin.
“Sorry,” she called out jokingly, raising her voice. “If this is some new paparazzi trick, just so you know I usually charge a special fee for ugly-angle photos.”
No answer.
Only the sound of rain at the end of the alley, and the faint buzz of a neon light.
She shifted her small bag to the front, pretending to search for lipstick, while her thumb slid across her phone screen, pressing the number saved as CAPT-TOSHI. Just one ring would be enough to send a location signal.
That ring never came.
A hand suddenly appeared from behind, gripping her wrist with a firm but controlled hold, while another hand closed over her phone and switched it off in one smooth motion—far too clean for some drunk stranger.
“Rangiku Matsumoto-san,” the voice was calm, almost polite, whispering near her ear. “Nice to finally meet you without a crowd.”
Rangiku stiffened. She tried to turn her body, but the grip on her arm was like an invisible shackle. From her limited angle, she could only see the line of a jaw beneath the shadow of a cap, and the faint cold glint in a pair of eyes.
“If you know my name,” she forced herself to sound casual, even as her breath shortened, “then you should also know I always come home late. A lot of people will get suspicious if I suddenly disappear.”
“Don’t worry,” the voice remained smooth. “People like us never really disappear.”
He leaned in closer, his whisper brushing the skin of her neck. “We just change stages.”
Rangiku’s heart thumped wildly, but her mind kept working. Knees, elbows, voice—there was always a way to fight back. But the grip on her arm was iron-strong, and the angle of her body made every move risk knocking her out even faster.
In a split second, Orihime’s face flashed through her mind: laughing at the Kurosaki dining table, asleep on the sofa with a script on her chest, smiling as she talked about feelings she’d never voiced to a certain orange-haired boy.
I’m sorry, Hime.
Looks like onee-san won’t be able to keep all her promises.
The rain at the end of the alley sounded louder, swallowing any small sound that might have escaped her throat.
On the wet ground, the phone that had slipped from her hand lay face down.
The call to CAPT-TOSHI was recorded as dialed, but never connected.
In their warm apartment kilometers away, Orihime sat on the sofa, phone in hand. The TV was on at low volume, replaying the variety show she’d been on that afternoon. On the shelf beside the TV, the framed photo of the Kurosaki family smiled at her—Isshin, Karin, Yuzu, Ichigo turning his face away awkwardly, and herself squeezed in the middle.
She stared at the screen. The last chat from Rangiku was open. No new “read” status, no typing…
She bit her lower lip, then slowly typed:
[ O-RI-HI-ME 🌸 ]
All right, onee-san probably fell asleep in the taxi again…
Good night. Don’t forget the pancakes tomorrow.
She added a laughing emoji, then hit send.
After that, she glanced at the photo frame beside the TV. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she whispered to her own reflection in the dark screen. “About the new job, about the netizens’ comments, about… Ichigo-kun…”
She didn’t know that the message would be read but never answered.
And that tomorrow morning, what would be waiting for her was not pancakes and an easy chat at the dining table, but a news headline that would change the meaning of the words “family” and “home” for her forever.