The standoff between Ichigo and the "Goddess Guard" (Kenji's new, terrible name for Rina, Haruka, and Aiwa) is tense enough to cut with a prop sword. Ichigo remains infuriatingly calm and charming, deflecting their accusations and veiled threats with witty banter and ambiguous compliments. Rina vibrates with barely contained rage. Haruka analyzes his every word with the intensity of a cryptographer. Aiwa hovers nervously, occasionally interjecting with a surprisingly firm defense of my honor ("Hinamata-kun was just being polite!").
I just want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. The crowd is eating this up, phones recording every second of this bizarre, real-life drama. #IchigoVsTheQueens is probably already trending.
Finally, Miki, bless her pragmatic soul, intervenes. She appears with several stern-looking convention security guards. "Alright, show is over, people," she announces, her voice brooking no argument. "Event is closing. Please disperse in an orderly fashion." She gives Ichigo a pointed look. "Ichigo-sama, your car is waiting."
Ichigo gives a mock bow. "Duty calls," he says again, shooting me one last, lingering wink before allowing himself to be escorted away, leaving behind a battlefield of simmering resentment and unresolved tension.
The moment he is gone, Rina, Haruka, and Aiwa all whirl on me simultaneously.
"What was that?!" Rina demands. "Explain the kabedon!" Haruka insists. "Are you okay, Rui-kun?" Aiwa asks, her voice full of concern.
"I need… to process," I stammer, backing away slowly. "Need quiet. Need… research. For the… Heian agriculture report!" I seize on the first terrible lie that comes to mind and make a break for it, dodging Kenji (who is trying to get my firsthand account of the kabedon), ignoring Miki's sigh, and escaping into the dispersing crowd before they can corner me again.
I do not go home. Home is Command Central. Home is the Interrogation Room. Home is where Rina keeps her sharp objects. I need sanctuary. I need anonymity. I need a place where no one knows my name or cares about my disastrous love life.
I find myself, almost inevitably, back at the cybercafe.
It is blessedly quiet, mostly empty now that the Comicon rush is over. I find my usual corner booth, pay for an excessive amount of time (just in case), and sink into the worn chair with a groan of relief. I do not even log into the game. I just sit there, staring blankly at the login screen, trying to process the sheer, unadulterated insanity of the past few hours.
Ichigo is Izumi. Izumi is Ichigo. The cool gamer girl is the charming cosplay king. My one normal friend is secretly the biggest variable in my already overcomplicated life. He/She knows Aiwa is LUNA. He/She knows I know. And he/she seems to find the entire situation utterly hilarious, possibly using me as a pawn in some larger game against the girls. My brain feels like it has been put through a blender.
"Rough day, Sir Rui?"
I jump, startled. Standing beside my booth, holding two cups of steaming coffee, is Izumi. Or Ichigo? She is dressed in her usual casual, androgynous style – ripped jeans, a band t-shirt, a leather jacket. Her blonde hair is tied back loosely. Her sharp, intelligent eyes are sparkling with amusement. There is no trace of Ichigo's stage makeup or Zero's theatricality. This is definitely Izumi. Probably. Maybe?
"You!" I splutter, pointing an accusatory finger. "Cybercafe again? Are you actually stalking me now?!"
She just laughs, that rich, appealing sound. "Relax, Rui. Total coincidence this time, I swear." (I do not believe her for a second). "Saw you slumped over here looking like the world had ended. Figured you could use some caffeine." She slides into the booth opposite me, placing a cup in front of me. "My treat. Consider it payment for the wyvern tears."
I stare at her suspiciously. "Are you really Izumi? Or are you Ichigo pretending to be Izumi?"
She raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of her coffee. "Does it matter?" she asks cryptically. "Right now, I am just Izumi, your friendly neighborhood gamer buddy who happened to be in the area."
"Right," I say, still deeply suspicious, but too tired to argue. I take a cautious sip of the coffee. It is surprisingly good.
"So," she says, leaning back in her seat, looking genuinely curious. "What gives? You look like you just survived a natural disaster."
"You could say that," I mutter darkly.
"Let me guess," she says, tapping a finger against her chin. "Overly affectionate sister? Calculating rival? Shy girl with secret identities? Overenthusiastic best friend? All of the above?"
My jaw drops. "How did you-?"
She just smirks, that same infuriatingly charming smirk Ichigo had. "Lucky guess," she says, though her eyes tell me it was definitely not a guess. "You have a very… expressive face when you are panicking."
Okay, she definitely knows more than she is letting on. But right now, weirdly, I do not care. Talking to her, even with the underlying suspicion, feels… easy. Like venting to a sympathetic (if possibly manipulative) stranger.
"My life is a mess, Izumi," I sigh, finally letting my guard down. "It is like I am the main character in the world's worst romantic comedy, written by a sadist."
"Tell me about it," she says, her expression surprisingly empathetic. "Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction." She takes another sip of coffee, her gaze distant for a moment. "You just have to learn how to play the game."
We spend the next hour just… talking. I vent about the pressures, the constant surveillance, the sheer absurdity of the Rui Schedule. She listens patiently, occasionally offering wry, insightful comments or surprisingly helpful advice (mostly involving plausible deniability and strategic napping). She talks a bit about her own stresses – demanding college professors, the pressures of maintaining a "certain public image" (which feels like a massive understatement now), the loneliness of being in a new city.
It feels good. Cathartic. Like talking to someone who actually gets the weirdness, even if she is also secretly contributing to it.
As we are leaving the cybercafe, the sun having long set, Izumi surprises me again. "Hey," she says casually. "I am starving. There is a great little ramen place near here that is open late. My treat again, as thanks for the kabedon entertainment earlier." She winks, and the gesture is pure Ichigo, sending another wave of confusion through me.
"You saw that?" I ask, horrified.
"Let's just say," she replies cryptically, "word travels fast in the cosplay community. Especially when it involves potential romantic drama and terrible attempts at espionage."
I should say no. I should run home and face the music. But the thought of Rina's inevitable interrogation versus a bowl of delicious, uncomplicated ramen with this confusing, funny, possibly-evil-but-definitely-interesting person… the ramen wins.
"Okay," I sigh. "But if a drone shows up, I am leaving you to deal with it."
She just laughs. "Deal."
We walk off into the Tokyo night, me still completely bewildered, her motives still completely opaque. Is this a date? Is it an interrogation? Is it just two tired people getting ramen? With Izumi/Ichigo, I have absolutely no idea. And the most terrifying part is, I am starting to find the uncertainty… exciting.