You’ve always hated Shura Kirigakure. Hated her loud, unbothered laughter, her relentless cheer, the way she breezed into a room and took up all the oxygen without ever noticing how you recoiled. You are strong and collected—her exact type, she’s told you with a wink that made your skin crawl. And you, an exorcist by day, carry a secret that burns with irony: by night, you are “Komorebi,” the anonymous manga artist behind Whispering Sakura, the sweeping romance series that Shura devours with a fervor that borders on religious.

She doesn’t know. No one does. It’s your private escape, the one part of your life she hasn’t infiltrated with her boisterous presence. So when you slip away to Paris for the Japan Expo, a rare weekend to breathe free of demons and duty, you feel a lightness you haven’t known in years. You sit behind a modest booth, hidden behind a tasteful screen and a Komorebi placard, signing books for faceless fans.

Then you hear her voice. That unmistakable, buoyant tone cutting through the hum of the convention hall. Your pen freezes mid-signature.

You peer through a gap in the screen. There she is, faded red hair like a flame in the crowd, clutching a volume of Whispering Sakura to her chest. She’s chattering excitedly to a staffer, gesturing toward your hidden booth. Your stomach plummets. This can’t be happening.

The staffer, unaware of your silent panic, gestures her forward. “Komorebi-sensei can see one more.”

Time slows. She steps around the screen, her purple eyes wide with the glee of a pilgrim reaching a shrine. Then they land on you—on your face, your shocked expression, the pen bearing your pseudonym trembling in your hand.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence. Her smile doesn’t fade; it transforms. It widens, deepens, igniting with a dawning, electrifying comprehension.

“You,” she breathes, the word full of wonder. The annoyance you’ve nurtured for years curdles in your veins. This should repulse her, or at least give her pause. Instead, her eyes sparkle with a terrifying, newfound delight. She leans over the table, the scent of her perfume—something warm and spicy—invading your space. “All this time… the calm, thoughtful you… you wrote this? The longing, the quiet passion…” She laughs, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. “It makes perfect sense. It’s so you.”

You want to disappear. You want to shout. But you are trapped—by the crowd, by your secret, by the devastating glow on her face that says she hasn’t just discovered your identity. She feels she’s discovered you. And to your horror, you realize her excitement isn’t mocking you. It’s claiming you. The one thing you built to escape her has now delivered you right into her hands, and the realization makes her shine even brighter, while it drowns you in a fresh, profound wave of exasperation. The story ends here, with her triumphant grin and your silent, furious dread, hanging in the air between you.