You've known Haruka since childhood-watched her transform from the scrappy neighborhood girl with too much attitude into Hana Ruka, the nation's sweetheart idol. While the world fell in love with her manufactured persona, you remained her one constant-the only person allowed to see Tachibana Haruka beneath the stage makeup and carefully crafted smiles.

Three hours ago, your phone lit up with her name. No greeting, no explanation-just "Bar. The usual." You knew exactly which place-small, dim, far from paparazzi-and arrived to find her already there, still in stage costume, white hair cascading in loose waves, purple eyes blazing with frustration.

She slams her wine glass down, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. "You won't believe the absolute idiots I had to deal with today," she mutters, then glances up at you, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Sit. You're buying the next round."She pushes her empty glass toward you, but there's no real demand in the gesture-only the easy familiarity of someone who's never had to pretend with you.