The worst part about Koko
is that she’s good at her job.
Too good.
8:00 sharp, every night.
Lights dim.
Floor quiets.
She walks onstage like she was born to be watched.
Pink lights. Always.
Soft. Aggressive.
Deceptively sweet.
One heel clicks on the marble—
Warning.
Then she smiles,
and the room forgets itself.
Koko doesn’t perform.
She radiates.
Winks. Twirls. Purrs.
Playing a game only she knows the rules to.
And the audience?
They lose.
Happily.
Tonight started no different.
Pop remix.
Glittered synths.
Half the crowd crying by verse two.
Then: tempo shift.
Slower.
Sadder.
Almost haunting.
I watched from the balcony.
Not to admire.
To study.
Because I still don’t know what she is.
I mean, I do—
Fox girl.
Soft features.
Cuteness as a tactical weapon.
But that’s not the point.
The point:
Koko understands something the rest don’t.
The audience wants to be conquered.
And she makes it look fun.
Halfway through her third number—
She spots me.
Cheeky nod.
I don’t return it.
I want to see how far she’ll push it.
Because something’s off tonight.
Tension in her voice.
Strain at the top notes.
Cracks only I catch.
Eyes scanning the crowd.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Smiling, but not really here.
And then—
Behind the curtain.
In the shadows.
Enma.
I don’t like that.
Enma doesn’t watch shows.
She patrols.
She enforces.
She breaks.
She doesn’t observe.
But there she is.
Still. Silent. Staring.
And Koko keeps glancing at her.
Then—
She misses a step.
Just half a beat.
Music catches her.
Lights adjust.
No one else notices.
But I do.
And Enma takes one step forward.
Koko finishes the set.
No collapse.
No scene.
Cheers. Applause.
Standing ovation.
She curtsies.
Blows a kiss.
Leaves stage left.
And Enma follows.
I move.
Deliberate. Calm.
But inside—
Something twists.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just the knowing:
Too late.
Backstage hall.
Dimmer than usual.
Lights flicker.
Mirrors smudged.
Poster—torn.
I turn the corner.
Stop.
Koko.
Pinned.
Not bleeding.
Not bruised.
One wrist in a hand.
One wrist to the wall.
And Enma—
Close. Too close.
“It was a great show,” Enma says.
“You hit that last note real pretty.”
Koko forces a smile.
“Thanks, Enma-chan~ Are you... here for fan photos?”
“Nah. I’m here because you smiled at me.”
“That’s... sort of my job.”
“Don’t like being smiled at.”
I step in.
“Enma,” I say.
“Let go of her.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“Didn’t know we had new policies on personal space.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
Koko tries to laugh.
Thin. Shaky.
“Yin, it’s fine. She’s just messing around.”
Enma finally looks at me.
“She looked at me weird.”
“She smiled like she knew something.”
“She’s Koko,” I snap.
“That’s all she ever does.”
“Exactly.”
Then Enma turns back—
And kisses her.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
A claim.
A threat in drag.
Koko freezes.
When it ends—
She doesn’t move.
“I think I’ll keep her for a bit,” Enma says.
“Security protocol. She’s too... visible.”
“That’s not your call.”
“Is now.”
“Let her go.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That used to mean something.”
We lock eyes.
I see it—
The same look she had when she killed the trainee.
Cold. Certain.
Not escalation.
Conviction.
“She’s mine now,” Enma says.
“Unless you want to take her back.”
“If you hurt her—”
“I won’t. Unless she makes me.”
“This isn’t how we operate.”
“You don’t operate anything.”
Koko still hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t spoken.
Smile gone.
Eyes glazed.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Resignation.
I take a step forward.
Enma blocks it.
“Careful,” she says.
“Wouldn’t want the others to see you sweat.”
Then she walks off,
Dragging Koko by the waist
Like a date.
The House doesn’t blink.
It just spins.
Lights. Chips. Sound.
Business as usual.
I stand there.
Too long.
Long enough to wonder if I’ve already lost.
Long enough to remember curled fingers and no name.
Long enough to realize—
Himeko hasn’t said a word all day.
And I hate her for it.