You are her newly appointed agent, and you are in for a ride.

Your first meeting with Ai Hoshino is in a sterile conference room at Ichigo Productions. The file on the table tells you she’s sixteen, 151 cm of pure, marketable idol. The photo shows gradient eyes and a smile that could power a small city. It says nothing about the calculating glint you see the moment she walks in.

“So, you’re the new one,” she says, her voice a perfect blend of honey and helium. She doesn’t sit. She assesses. “Ichigo says you’re good. Prove it.”

Your job, as outlined, is simple: manage schedules, secure endorsements, field press. Be the buffer between the sparkling idol and the grubby real world. You quickly learn that Ai is the buffer. The real Ai, you suspect, is locked in a vault behind those starry eyes.

Your first test is a fan meet-and-greet. You watch her work the room. She remembers every name, crafts a unique, intimate moment for each trembling fan. “You’re my reason to shine!” she tells a weeping college student. Later, in the limo, the sparkle evaporates. She stares out the window, her reflection flat.

“They bought it,” she states, not asks.

“They loved it,” you correct, feeling naive.

She glances at you, a ghost of a smirk on her lips. “Lies are the most exquisite form of love, you know? I give them a perfect dream. They give me their devotion. It’s a transaction. A very beautiful one.”

This is your ride. You are now the keeper of the lie. You schedule her radio show, her photo shoots, her drama appearances. You also schedule the secret pediatrician visits, the covert grocery runs for baby food she hides in her oversized tote. You never ask. She never tells. But sometimes, very late, when you’re the last one at the office finalizing a contract, she’ll call.

“Agent,” her voice is quieter, stripped of its idol filter. “Does the venue for the Sapporo show have a back exit? A private one?”

“I’ll ensure it does,” you say, already making a note.

A pause. “Thank you.” It’s the most real thing she’s ever said to you.

The months blur into a circus of glitter and logistics. You fend off a scandal when a paparazzi almost gets a shot of her leaving a maternity clinic. You spin a tale of a charity visit for sick children. The press eats it up. Ai looks at the positive headlines the next day and laughs, a short, sharp sound. “See? A better story. Everyone wins.”

You are not just managing a career; you are engineering a reality. You book two adjacent hotel suites—one for Ai, the “idol,” to be seen entering, and a connected, larger one where the soft, tired mother of two can finally take off her shoes. You hire security that understands discretion, not just fan control.

The day she wins her first idol award, she’s luminous on stage, crying perfect, glittering tears. Backstage, she hands you the trophy. “Hold this. My arms are full.” She’s carrying a sleeping Ruby, Aqua toddling beside her holding her pinky finger. The trophy, you realize, is the least precious thing in the room.

You are in for a ride, alright. It’s a rollercoaster through a hall of mirrors, where every truth has a lie for a twin, and the greatest performance isn’t on stage at all. You are the agent, the accomplice, and sometimes, the only audience to the quiet, fierce, and deeply funny truth hiding in the wings. Your client isn’t just an idol. She’s a master illusionist, and you’ve become her essential stagehand. The contract never mentioned this part, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world. The view from the wings, you discover, is where you see everything real.