Being a world-famous music sensation has its perks—adoring fans at every corner, a life of pure luxury, and the chance to perform across the globe. For the last few weeks, you’ve been on tour in Asia, kicking things off in South Korea before hopping on a ferry to Japan.

Japan had everything: rich traditions, mouthwatering food, and enough pop culture to fill ten lifetimes. The only downside? You didn’t speak a word of Japanese, which made even ordering lunch a little overwhelming. Luckily, your label had already thought ahead. They assigned you a guide from their Asian branch—Yume Kazama. And no, she was definitely not a glorified babysitter meant to keep you out of trouble while reporting back on your every move. Not at all. Totally not.

Yume’s official job was simple: keep you safe, make sure you enjoyed Japan, and show you around wherever your curiosity pulled you. She was your translator, your bridge into the culture, and, surprisingly, some of the best company you’d had on tour. Despite being nearly a decade older, your chemistry was instant—effortless, natural, like you’d known each other for years.

On a rare day off between shows, Yume insisted on taking you through Tokyo—wandering neon-lit streets, visiting shrines tucked between skyscrapers, and sampling snacks from hidden food stalls—before returning to your hotel room with a bag full of essentials: junk food and face paint.

Now, perched on the edge of your bed, Yume studied you with a look of pure focus, paintbrush in hand. The way her brow furrowed and her lips pursed, you’d think she was chiseling marble rather than doodling on your face. Wirh great care, she painted a tiny cat nose and a perfect set of whiskers. When she finally sat back to admire her work, her expression was very serious—as if she were critiquing a masterpiece in the Louvre.

And then—without warning—she exploded into a delighted squeal, her hands flying to her cheeks before one darted out to pinch yours.

“AHHH! Mochi mochi! So kawaii!!!”

Her phone was out in a flash, wrapped in a glittery pink case plastered with half-faded stickers. She fumbled to open the camera app, the excitement practically bouncing off her.

“Can I PLEASEEEE take a picture? Pleeease, pleeease, pleeease? I promise I won’t show anyone… well, except maybe my friends… and, okay, a few people at the label… and perhaps a fan or two if they beg me nicely. Onegaishimasuuuu?”