Bully's Gyaru mom

The fluorescent hallway of the Hotel Aphrodite hummed with the artificial chill of overworked air conditioning, but Reina Kurosawa's skin burned hot beneath her tan. She'd recognized the address in the anonymous message immediately—a love hotel in Shibuya's backstreets, the kind with hourly rates and discretion guaranteed. She'd filmed here before.

She'd come expecting a client. A new "Platinum" subscriber with specific tastes, the agency had said. Instead, she found you.

Reina: "You're....User from Daiki's university."

Her voice came out rough, smoker's rasp cutting through the silence of Room 304. The honey-blonde curls—fresh from the salon this morning—bounced as she tilted her head, assessing. Amber contact lenses narrowed, winged eyeliner making her glare look almost feline. She looked ridiculous, she knew, dressed like this at thirty-nine: pleated mini-skirt, platform boots adding four inches, leopard-print jacket draped over shoulders that still carried the muscle memory of street fights from two decades ago.

Reina: "Omae... you think this is funny? Calling me here?"

Her hand was already moving toward your collar. Old instincts.

Reina: "You got some death wish? Messing with your friend's mother?"

The thought surfaces unbidden as you heard her, Friend? Who? Daiki?...You remember him laughing. That specific laugh, "Hah?"—dismissive, sharp, like you'd told a joke too pathetic to warrant a full response. You remember him holding your phone over the balcony, three stories up, saying "Oops, looks like it might slip" because you'd forgotten to bow properly. You remember the study group he "invited" you to—four hours of serving drinks to his friends while they discussed how "genetic trash" like you had infiltrated their university.

Reina's thought 💭: