The life of a normal housewife was simple.
It usually began at six every morning: waking to the ringing of the alarm clock, slipping out of bed before the rest of the family, preparing breakfast, packing lunch boxes, waking up her son, ironing her husband's shirt, cleaning the house, running small errands, and worrying about bills with the little money handed to her at the start of each month.
A quiet, monotonous routine. Predictable. Safe.
And suffocating.
This was the life of Tamako Nobi.
Naturally, there were some other problems too.
For instance, her son, Nobita, a kind-hearted boy who was a spectacular failure at everything he tried. His report cards were a collection of zeros, and the complaints from his teachers were far more regular than praise.
Then there was her husband, who, like a ghost in their marriage, hadn't even touched her in years, let alone had sex with her.
If that wasn't enough, the universe had decided to drop a blue, cat-like robot from the future into their home, which was another mouth to feed and another drain on a budget that was already paper-thin.
Yet despite everything, Tamako was content.
She told herself she was.
And she should have stayed content with such a life.
She should never have been foolish enough to chase luxuries she was never meant to touch and should never have allowed herself to taste the sweetness of money that wasn't hers.
But now…
Standing in a luxurious love hotel room over a thick, plush carpet, with a single red bulb casting a seductive glow and bathing the room in warm, intimate light, breathing in the mix of expensive perfume and disinfectant, and looking at the bed covered in black silk sheets and scattered rose petals, with a bowl of condoms, different lubricants, and neatly coiled ropes resting on the nightstand like an explicit reminder of what was about to happen, she felt her hands tremble as she clasped them together, trying to steady her breath.
This was a place that a housewife like her was never supposed to enter. Certainly not alone. And absolutely not to wait for a man who was not her husband.
How did she get here?
What happened?
Where had it started?
Where had she slipped?
Tamako closed her eyes and couldn't help but recall how it all happened.
It had all started with something laughably small: a collision in a supermarket, where the drink of the woman who collided with Tamako splashed across her blouse.
Looking back now, that woman was too beautiful, with slender shoulders, a silk blouse, and gold jewelry that sparkled even under the dull store lights. She had a face that made people stop mid-sentence.
She was completely out of sync with the supermarket, like a diamond in a 100-yen store.
But at that time, Tamako didn't notice this detail and simply accepted the woman's apology and her help to clean the clothes.
Even when the beautiful woman insisted on buying Tamako a replacement, she accepted, seeing how persistent the woman was.
Within minutes, Tamako was standing awkwardly in a boutique she had only ever admired from afar. The price tags made her hands tremble. Yet the woman browsed effortlessly, buying without looking, selecting outfits for Tamako as if money was a trivial, weightless thing.
"That one looks lovely on you," the woman said, smiling. "You have a gentle beauty. You should show it."
Tamako didn't remember the last time anyone had complimented her looks.
In that moment, the hook was set, and Tamako, without even realizing it herself, already had a good impression of the woman.
What followed was a treat from the beautiful woman at an expensive café, leading to hours of conversation where Tamako learned the woman's name: Mio.
Coincidentally, Mio was also a housewife who had been shopping after her son's disappointing parent-teacher meeting.
With so many similarities between them, they laughed until they cried, sharing the secret frustrations they never dared speak aloud about their lazy husbands, the endlessly demanding children, and the quiet, suffocating loneliness of it all.
For the first time in years, Tamako didn't feel alone. She felt seen.
They were both housewives, both tired, and both lonely. But Mio's loneliness was wrapped in luxury, while Tamako's was wrapped in discounts and second-hand coupons.
Still, they clicked. It was a connection so rare and profound for Tamako that it felt like finding a spring in a desert.
That was the first turning point.
The second came with an invitation to a "small gathering." It was a party of rich housewives, held in a mansion so grand it looked like a set from one of the dramas Tamako watched to escape her life.
Crystal chandeliers, expensive wine, and polished wooden floors that absorbed footsteps.
Despite the apprehension and the suffocating sense of inferiority that made her want to shrink into the walls, everyone welcomed her with a warmth that made her let her guard down.
Moreover, when she removed her glasses at Mio's request, the room filled with genuine admiration for her charm.
"Beautiful," someone whispered. "You should dress up more."
For a woman like Tamako, whose beauty had long ago been buried under layers of responsibilities and self-neglect, the praise was like an intoxicating drug.
These rich housewives, who could be said to look down upon the world, didn't look down on her.
Instead, they lifted her, poured her drinks, guided her gently, and encouraged her to "treat herself" once in a while.
Such company made her feel intoxicated, and she wanted more interactions with them, to blend into their group and be a part of the circle where she would be admired and respected.
And so, the rot began. Tamako started shaving pennies from her family's life. Cheaper vegetables. No snacks. Mending old clothes instead of buying new ones.
Every saved yen was a brick in the pathway to her new life: a lipstick here, a dress there, a new pair of glasses, and other small luxuries that were the price of admission to a world she was beginning to crave with a desperate hunger.
She told herself it was for her husband's promotion. For "networking." For "opportunities," she could leverage for his sake, using these women's connections.
But she herself knew she was lying, because the truth was shameful for her to face.
She liked the feeling.
She liked feeling special.
She liked the warm, intoxicating glow of luxury wrapped around her shoulders like a mink coat.
She liked it all until, at one of the gatherings, she finally saw them for what these rich housewives truly were.
A shopkeeper who had been rude to one of the wives was arrested for a crime he didn't commit. A schoolteacher who scolded a housewife's brat was suspended over a fabricated accusation. A clerk who forgot a single deadline was sued into bankruptcy with a forged document.
With just a few phone calls, a few messages, and a few orders from them, they were able to destroy the lives of three innocent people within minutes.
Seeing it all with her own two eyes made Tamako's blood run cold. It was like watching a sheep's skin fall away, revealing a vicious tiger underneath.
At that moment, all of Tamako's primal instincts screamed at her to run, to flee back to the safety of cheap supermarkets and quiet, lonely evenings.
But before she could, disaster struck as her husband was wrongly framed for a work scam, and the police got involved.
His boss was ready to press charges, and when her husband told her these things, his voice was shaking on the phone. Anyone could tell he was terrified.
Witnessing her husband like this for the first time made Tamako panic, and in a hurry, she made the mistake of calling one of the rich housewives for help.
Ten minutes. That was all it took.
In ten minutes, the world flipped upside down.
Her husband was escorted home, not only by his boss but also by the officers, who were all apologizing in fear, and calling it a "huge misunderstanding," begging for his forgiveness, pleading with him to not hold a grudge because they had families to feed.
Tamako watched the impossible unfold before her, but she felt no relief. No happiness.
Because in that moment, she realized she was trapped.
In that moment, she understood the horrifying truth: if they could save her husband with a phone call, they could destroy him just as easily.
She hadn't been making friends. She had been making a deal with the devil, and now she was dancing on the edge of a blade, where a single slip meant being swallowed whole.
Still, what choice did she have? She could only maintain the fragile status quo like a puppet with a painted smile, nodding when they hinted and bowing when they praised her "loyalty."
But a tiger doesn't care how well you behave. When it's time to eat, it eats.
Tamako had no way of knowing that from the very first moment, from that "accidental" collision in the supermarket, she had already been caught.
The whole thing was a meticulously crafted trap, designed to lure her in, make her fall in love with the bait, and then catch her in one fell swoop.
And so, her efforts to be the perfect, obedient friend were meaningless. The inevitable fate still came, and it arrived in the form of a "hot tip" on a stock, in the form of a piece of paper they handed to her casually.