Chapter 28

  NYA!

  The DiDi car sputters to a stop in front of

  Saitama Super Arena, its engine rattling before settling into silence. Outside,

  the world pulses—thousands of voices colliding into a restless hum, neon lights

  flashing red, blue, yellow against the night. Billboards scream for attention,

  their oversized faces grinning down. The air is thick with the smell of

  popcorn, fried chicken, caramel—warm, greasy, electric.

  I slide out, the heat of the pavement seeping

  through my shoes. A warm breeze snakes past, ruffling my sweater sleeves. I

  hand the driver a few bills. He barely nods, eyes flicking over me, unsure how

  to respond to my “Nya.” I smirk, but don’t linger. Not when the arena looms

  ahead, alive with movement, waiting.

  The crowd thrums around me, voices rising and

  falling like a tide. I move through it, absorbing everything—the laughter, the

  flashing lights, the distant bass vibrating through the ground. Every step

  stretches out, a slow-motion inhale. No rules here. No expectations. Just the

  city’s heartbeat and mine.

  Then, I see them.

  Grandma stands by the entrance, her floral scarf

  a bright burst against the dark. The fabric flutters slightly, a soft contrast

  to the chaos around us. Beside her, Ruri bounces on the balls of her feet,

  barely contained energy. Her ponytail is already unraveling, stray strands

  sticking to her cheeks, but she doesn’t care. Her eyes are wide, sparkling.

  A smile tugs at my lips, warmth unfurling in my

  chest. The noise, the crowd, the city—it all fades.

  My family.

  My heartbeat quickens, but this time, it’s not

  nerves. It’s them.

  I spot her first—O bāchan, impossible to miss,

  standing in the middle of the crowd like a rogue firework that went off in the

  wrong direction.

  She’s wearing the “Super-Size Me Sumo Wrestling”

  onesie I got her for her birthday. It swallows her whole, bunching awkwardly at

  the waist, nearly drowning her UGG boots in folds of ridiculous fabric. But

  does she care? Not a chance. She’s grinning like she owns the place, waving a

  foam finger so aggressively it’s a miracle she hasn’t taken someone’s eye out.

  And the cat ears. Not the cute kind—no, she’s

  gone full battle-mode kitten. The oversized, fur-covered monstrosities perch on

  her silver hair like she’s preparing to lead an army of feral strays. Her bag,

  identical to mine, hangs off her shoulder, bulging at the seams with

  who-knows-what. The patches and beads rattle together when she moves, a chaotic

  jangle of personality daring anyone to question her choices.

  Then there’s Ruri.

  She’s leaning against a pillar a few feet away,

  effortlessly cool, like she’s been here a hundred times. Baggy overalls hang

  loose on her frame, the faded denim slung so low they might belong to a giant.

  A plain white T-shirt peeks out from underneath, soft and rumpled like it’s

  been through a couple of lives already. Her cat ears—smaller, more subtle than

  O bāchan’s, but still completely ridiculous—sit tilted on her head, like an

  afterthought.

  Arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd, she’s the

  exact opposite of O bāchan’s chaotic presence.

  Like she’s above it all.

  Like she’s not wearing cat ears at a stadium

  event.

  I practically bounce toward them, my feet barely

  touching the pavement, excitement bubbling up like soda about to fizz over.

  With a dramatic flourish, I throw my arms wide and belt out, "NYA!"

  at full volume, because subtlety has never been my strong suit.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ruri, mid-yawn, freezes. Her gaze flicks to O

  bāchan, searching for backup, but the old woman is already ahead of her, eyes

  twinkling with mischief. She doesn’t hesitate.

  "NYAN!" she howls back—too loud,

  way too dramatic, and absolutely perfect.

  Ruri exhales, a long-suffering sigh, but I catch

  the flicker of amusement at the corners of her mouth. She fights it, eyes

  darting between the two of us, but I see the cracks forming.

  O bāchan levels her with a knowing look, that

  slight lift at the corners of her lips—the universal sign of impending chaos.

  Ruri groans. "Nya..." she

  mutters, deadpan, her lips twitching into a reluctant grin.

  And just like that, we’re lost. The laughter

  bursts out of us, spilling into the night, unpolished and unfiltered, mixing

  with the city’s chaotic heartbeat.

  I wipe at my eyes, still grinning, as the last of

  my giggles fade.

  "When I texted you ‘Dress to Impress,’ I

  thought you’d take it seriously," Ruri says, shaking her head, her voice

  sliding effortlessly into her signature brand of exasperation. "Instead,

  you show up looking like... whatever this is."

  I cross my arms, feigning deep offense, even

  though I know exactly where this is going. "Hey, I got the message loud

  and clear."

  Ruri gives me a slow, unimpressed once-over. "Clearly."

  I crack up again, unable to help myself. "It

  was the only way I could ditch Dad’s publicist and those stupid bodyguards. You

  wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go through."

  O bāchan cackles, her laugh big and full, the

  kind that makes strangers turn their heads. "We look ridiculous, dear.

  But I love it."

  For the first time in what feels like forever, I

  exhale, slow and steady. The weight on my shoulders lifts—just a little, just

  enough. No cameras flashing in my face, no manager in my ear whispering

  reminders to smile, to pose. Just me, my family, and the kind of peace that

  only comes when you’re surrounded by people who don’t expect you to be anything

  but yourself.

  I scan the arena, letting the moment settle.

  Saitama Super Arena stretches around me, buzzing with life, but without the

  weight of a thousand eyes tracking my every move, it feels... different.

  Lighter. I’m not a spectacle here. Just another face in the crowd. And for

  once, the chaos doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in. It feels alive.

  Then I see them—cat ears. Everywhere.

  A snicker slips out before I can stop it. Turns

  out, we’re far from alone in this absurd little rebellion. A sea of ridiculous

  headbands surrounds us. Little kids dart past, their ears bouncing with each

  step, tugging on their parents’ sleeves and pointing at O bāchan’s giant foam

  finger like it’s some kind of holy relic. Teens flash grins, striking dramatic

  poses for selfies, their own ears bobbing in sync with their excitement. It’s

  like a surreal, unspoken agreement—tonight, we’re all cats, no questions asked.

  Even the parents wear them, some begrudgingly,

  others with that resigned amusement that says, Yeah, I’m in too deep to

  fight it. A group of adults lingers near the merch stand, oversized

  "Super-Size Me" bags slung over their arms, their expressions caught

  somewhere between amusement and outright commitment. Some wear the ears like a

  joke. Others wear them like a badge of honor.

  It’s ridiculous. It’s freeing. And for the first

  time in a long time, I don’t mind blending into the madness. Hell, I might even

  like it.

  I arch an eyebrow, scanning the crowd again. Then

  I spot them—a whole group, draped in black, eyes lined with enough makeup to

  challenge a raven’s wingspan, boots heavy enough to stomp through a storm. I

  blink.

  "Why are they all goth’d out?" The

  words slip out before I can stop them.

  O bāchan beams, her smile practically glowing

  against the night. "Because tonight, the great-grandson of a legendary

  Yokozuna is tag-teaming with the reigning Women’s Champion, Raven Moon, against

  the Legionnaires of Doom!"

  I stop mid-step, my brain tripping over the

  words. "Wait. What?"

  Ruri, ever the queen of casual, just shrugs.

  "Hello? ?" She rolls her eyes, the universal

  sign for "It’s Moon’s catchphrase.

  ‘Supersize Me’ is the Jr. Yokozuna’s. Earth to Ak—"

  "Shhh!" I cut her off, lowering my

  voice to a hiss. "I’m in my persona." My eyes dart left,

  right—scanning for lurking paparazzi. Not that I expect them to be here, but

  you never know.

  Ruri sighs, long and suffering. "Oh,

  right," she mutters, like she can’t believe I’m still trapped in my fame

  paranoia bubble.

  But then something clicks, and my voice spikes.

  "Wait—Moon is the new Women’s Champion!?"

  O bāchan chuckles, nudging me like she’s in on

  some secret. "Where have you been hiding? She’s been champion for

  years."

  I stop walking entirely. My heart skips.

  "Five years?" The words barely make it out. How did I not know

  this?

  The thought swallows me whole. Five years. A

  whole reign. And I had no idea.