CHAPTER 2

“A-Ah, you’re Tsukushi Fumu-san, right? I-I-I’m always subscribed to your top-tier plan, d-do you know me?”

“Sorry, I can’t really tell just from that…”

On the way to the venue from the nearest station during Comiket, the otaku festival, Hiyori was suddenly approached by an unfamiliar otaku.

She could tell the giant pin badge he flaunted was of a VTuber—but that was it. Sorry, but that alone wasn’t enough to identify him.

Since she hadn’t entered the venue yet, she wasn’t in cosplay. To save time in the changing room, her makeup was nearly done, but with a black mask and fake glasses, her current appearance should’ve been indistinguishable from any other female otaku.

Yet, her name had been guessed—huh, who was this guy? No clue. Probably someone who bought a photo ticket at a cosplay event she’d attended before.

“T-T-The carry case, you always use that one, right?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I-I-It’s your favourite, isn’t it? It’s great, you can sit on it, a-and it holds tons of stuff. C-C-Cosplayers always have those, so I knew it was you right away!”

“Is that so?”

Despite her curt responses, the unfamiliar otaku kept pace with her as she walked, practically ignoring him. But with a fairly heavy carry case in tow and the same destination, escaping a nearly empty-handed otaku seemed unlikely.

Resigning herself, she kept walking, and he followed her like an acquaintance all the way to the circle entrance—until she finally shook him off just before the changing room.

Well, since he knew who she was, he might be waiting for her outside—but she’d just have to give up on that.

(Is this carry case really that noticeable…?)

Sure, she’d been using it forever, but she often checked it at events or left it at her booth, so she couldn’t imagine it was enough to identify her.

She felt like she’d remember someone that overly familiar, but she had no recollection of him. Male otakus were either chubby or scrawny, and since about half of them were like that, she couldn’t distinguish them at all.

After changing and leaving the dressing room, she cautiously scanned the area for that otaku’s ambush—but there were too many people to tell.

Trying to blend in with other cosplayers to avoid attention, she headed to her booth when—“Fumu-san!”—someone called from behind.

She considered ignoring it and slipping into the crowd, but realizing it wasn’t the same otaku’s voice, she turned around.

“Oh, Tenma-san, otsu!”

This time, it was someone she knew. A lanky man in his late 30s or early 40s, always wearing a beret.

“Otsu! Will Han today, huh? Gave up on Arcadia?”

“Couldn’t get everything ready in time… Are you helping out, Tenma-san?”

“Yeah, a girl I’m shooting for begged me to help. By the way—”

This man, known by the handle Tenma, was a cosplay photographer she’d known for about three years, chattering away with his glib tongue.

His photos were good, and he kept physical contact to a minimum during shoots, so he wasn’t one of her least favourite photographers. Not that he was a favourite either—he was always inviting her to after-parties or private shoots.

Behind him stood a tall man with tinted glasses, and—huh—she tilted her head inwardly.

(I’ve seen him somewhere… Who is he?)

He seemed close to Tenma, a relatively good-looking tall guy with a smug smile, carrying a bulky camera (there’s a theory that photographers flex with lens size, like stag beetles). Being in the venue at this hour meant he was likely a circle participant, but he had little luggage and didn’t seem to be selling doujinshi. So, probably someone like Tenma, involved with a cosplay circle.

To avoid blocking attendees, they moved to the side and chatted for a bit, with the tall man naturally joining in. His voice didn’t ring any bells either.

Then, from behind, someone called, “Onee-chan.”

“Onee-chan, you done talking yet?”

“Eh?”

She spun around.

There stood a boy who looked barely in his early teens, about 150 cm tall, with a baby face.

She knew him. They’d met once before.

Her mind raced, trying to figure out why he was talking to her, what his intentions were.

“Oh! Sorry for making you wait, Riku! Tenma-san, sorry!”

Cutting off the two men before they could speak, she bowed energetically.

“Huh, your brother’s here too?”

“Oh, no, he’s my cousin! I’m an only child. I totally forgot we were supposed to meet up here after I changed… Sorry for interrupting our chat!”

“Oh, got it, got it. My bad for holding you up. Catch you later then! Have fun, kid!”

“Yes! I’ll let you know when I’m heading to the cosplay area, so please shoot me then!”

Bowing to Tenma, the tall man, who’d tilted his head, didn’t say anything more and walked off.

She turned to the boy behind her.

His name was Higashiura Riku—the slightly cheeky kid who’d rejected her request.

Despite looking like a middle schooler, he was apparently 16 or 17—a second-year high schooler, really?

(Right, he’s an otaku, so of course he’d be at Comiket…)

His reason for being here made sense. Otakus were like moths drawn to a flame at Comiket.

Even without cosplaying, someone who made such high-quality cosplay props would naturally attend Comiket, which doubled as the country’s largest cosplay event.

But she couldn’t figure out why he’d approached her. Luckily, her quick thinking had helped her escape the chatty photographer, but still.

“Uh…”

She opened her mouth, unsure what to say or how to respond. She had plenty of complaints—like, Did you really not show up to the clubroom again? or You didn’t even give me your contact info!—but more than that, she was baffled by why he’d approached her now.

Riku spoke first, in a polite tone as if addressing a stranger.

“That tall guy behind you earlier, his name’s Urushime Rohan. He’s a photographer who also produces doujin AVs and often gets into trouble with cosplayers he works with.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t seem to know, so I thought I’d let you know. Sorry if I overstepped. Excuse me.”

With a slight bow, Riku walked away without another word, his expression blank, as if he didn’t even recognize her.

So, the vague familiarity with that photographer was probably because he’d shot her at an event or handed her a business card. Maybe he’d invited her to something (probably a doujin AV) that she’d turned down—a relationship that shallow.

Still, Riku’s reaction suggested he hadn’t recognized her, which made her briefly wonder if she’d left such a weak impression—then she remembered she was in cosplay.

(Yeah, he wouldn’t recognize me…)

Spotting a cosplayer’s real face at a glance was a special skill.

Photographers like Tenma, who she’d known for years, or hardcore fans subscribed to her fan site might manage it, but at a massive event like Comiket, with tons of cosplayers in the same genre—sometimes dozens doing the same character for popular works—it was rare to instantly recognize someone as an acquaintance.

She’d only talked to Riku once, after the culture festival, for less than 30 minutes. He’d figured out her handle after seeing her in a swimsuit, but back then, he hadn’t known who she was. So, it made sense he wouldn’t recognize her now.

He’d helped a random cosplayer, even acting like her brother, just to save her.

That was all Riku did.

No self-important talk, no introducing himself—just helping and leaving.

“Ugh… that’s kinda heart-fluttering…”

Staring after Riku’s retreating figure, Hiyori stood dumbfounded, and this time, no one called out to her.

＊＊

“What time should I come back today?”

“Hmm, can you come back around noon?”

“Noon… I’m heading to the west hall and back, so it might be past 12, but is that okay?”

“Sure!”

Dividers

“All right, then.”

As they set up the circle booth, a neighbor dragging a large carry case arrived.

His sister, the circle leader, greeted them with a “Yoroshu!” so he glanced over and gave a slight bow.

(Hmm… the neighbor’s doing Will Han too. It’s really trending.)

Will Han—Will Has Hand—was a mobile game that launched about two years ago and had recently been gaining traction on SNS.

When a work got popular for doujinshi, cosplayers naturally followed. The game had plenty of slightly risqué character outfits, and about half the nearby cosplay circles seemed to be selling Will Han-themed ROMs or photo books. His sister was one of them.

While watching his sister stretch a poster on the wall, a question popped into his mind.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Onee-chan, did you gain weight?”

“Huh?”

Staring at her outfit, he noticed the fabric straining around her waist and back, with a slight roll of fat under her chest. The costume had been tailored to a millimeter’s precision six months ago, and it hadn’t fit like this during past shoots. So—

“…Sorry.”

As expected, she was aware. She grabbed the extra fat and admitted it.

“I keep telling you to stop binge-eating and drinking.”

“But… when I’m stressed, I can only eat or strip…”

“That’s not an excuse.”

He let out a sigh.

Even a perfectly made costume wouldn’t look right if the wearer wasn’t in perfect shape. It was humiliating.

Still, telling his sister, who worked such insane hours at a toxic company, to “not get stressed” would be harsh, so he held back.

Seeing the shutters open and the massive crowd heading outside, he stopped packing up cardboard and stood.

“Well, I’m heading out.”

“Yep, see ya!”

As he turned to leave his sister’s booth, someone grabbed his arm.

It wasn’t his sister. It was the neighbor.

“Wait! Higashiura Riku… right?”

“Huh?”

The neighbor had called him by his real name. Unfortunately, she was a complete stranger.

(Have I ever taken a request from her…?)

Even if he had, he rarely met clients in person.

He used his real name when shipping props, so some people might know it, but they wouldn’t know his face. Besides, among otakus, it was an unspoken rule to use handles at events like this, not real names.

Calling someone you weren’t close to by their real name at an event was a bit of a faux pas.

“…Sorry, I don’t know who you are, but please don’t use my real name.”

“Huh? Oh… right, sorry… Wait, no!?”

“What?”

“You didn’t even tell me your handle!”

“Huh…?”

What did she mean? If she didn’t know his handle, she must be a real-life acquaintance, but the only exposure-heavy cosplayer he knew in real life was… well, his sister was enough. He didn’t need more. He just wished they’d wear clothes.

But this person, staring intently at him, clearly recognized him. Since he wasn’t in cosplay, that made sense, but being known by face and name one-sidedly was a bit creepy.

“So, uh—”

As the conversation stalled, his sister pressed her unnecessarily large chest against his back, hugging him while addressing the mystery cosplayer.

“You’re Fumu-san, right? You used to do Claudia a lot before getting into Will Han.”

“Oh, yes! …Minami-san, right? First time being neighbors like this.”

“Yep, Kita Gainai Minami here! And this is my little brother—”

“Yotsuji. Well, seems like my real name’s already out there…”

Bowing, he thought, That name sounds familiar…

(Uh… who was she again?)

His mind wandered to whether she was someone who’d gotten into some drama online when his sister tilted her head and said, “So…”

“Fumu-san, you stalking Rikkun?”

“No way!”

“Then how do you know his name? You’re not a client, right?”

“…I’m more shocked he doesn’t seem to remember me.”

“Huh?”

“You seriously don’t remember…?”

“…”

Fumu—a slightly odd name that rang a vague bell, but that was it. Otaku handles were all a bit weird, after all.

Even looking at her face-to-face, he drew a blank. She was pretty, and judging by the stack of ROMs and photo books she’d brought, she was a big seller. A wall circle, right next to his sister’s.

Still, identifying a cosplayer by face alone was tough. It was easier to remember them by their real face or belongings.

“Ugh, we’re in the same high school…”

“Wait…”

“Remember now?”

“…The one who barged into the clubroom—”

“The exhibitionist who stripped right away.”

“That’s how you remember me!? What about my name!?”

“…”

He’d forgotten. He hadn’t even remembered her handle, so maybe she’d given her real name too. But a one-time meeting, especially with someone who didn’t leave a huge impression, wasn’t memorable.

Her stripping on their first meeting was impactful, sure, but with someone like that so close in his life already, it was almost a mundane trait.

“Huh? Rikkun just forgot? Also, what’s this about stripping?”

“Uh… well, that was…”

His sister’s eyes sharpened, like she was glaring at an enemy.

Sure, she was weird, but was that worth such hostility? You strip too, he thought, feeling detached.

“She made me strip!”

“…Rikkun?”

“No, she stripped on her own.”

“…So, a pervert?”

“Probably.”

You’re one too, Onee-chan.

“No, that’s not—”

“But you stripped, right?”

“Well, yeah, I did…”

“Still, to seduce Rikkun, your chest is a bit lacking, huh?”

His sister, striking a provocative pose like a gravure idol, lifted her chest with both hands, prompting Fumu-san to let out a “Gununu…” groan.

One in a swimsuit, the other in a bunny suit—both outfits clearly showed their figures.

Fumu-san had a gravure-idol-level body, far better than the average person, but compared to his sister, it wasn’t even close. It was a matter of scale.

Harsh to say, but in terms of chest size, it wasn’t a contest. He hadn’t cared when she stripped before because he was used to his sister’s otherworldly presence.

“…Wanna touch?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll touch.”

His sister grabbed Fumu-san’s chest and… kept kneading. What was she doing? They just met, right?

“Hmm, Rikkun, wanna feel? It’s free.”

“Some things I don’t need, even for free.”

“That’s harsh!?”

“Like this, Rikkun’s not into average chests.”

“Don’t make me sound like a monster only into huge ones…”

Don’t act all “Gununu…” either. Her chest was definitely above average—probably a large serving. His sister was just a giga-sized outlier with double the calorie intake.

“That’s not fair…”

“What’s so great about having a cute little brother make your costumes on demand? Or—”

“Huh? That’s custom-made!? No way!! It fits perfectly, and the stitching is super clean… You make costumes too, not just props? Are you some kind of superhuman? What can’t you do?”

“Pretty much everything else,” his sister said.

He nodded. He wasn’t some all-powerful genius—just good at costumes and crafting. Otherwise, he was useless. Bad at games, hopeless at chores, terrible at studies and sports. Oh, and short…

“…Riku-kun.”

“I said, don’t use my real name—”

“Yotsuji… right? Wait, could it be, Yotsuji Mei?”

“That’s me.”

“For real?!?!?!?”

She suddenly raised her face and reached out toward me—only to be swatted away by my sister. Is she some kind of auto-defense Stand or something?

“The genius crafter, Yotsuji Mei, whose reservations fill up in five seconds?!”

“I don’t know about genius. Also, people say five seconds every time, but it’s actually more like 30 seconds. Five seconds isn’t enough to finish inputting.”

“Ugh… what’s with that… You could’ve told me when we met before…”

“You didn’t ask. Besides, isn’t it kinda weird to tell a real-life acquaintance your handle?”

“Really? I don’t have any real-life friends, so I wouldn’t know…”

Her dejected response made me want to clarify I didn’t mean it that harshly.

But it’s not my fault she doesn’t have friends, right? Someone who strips in front of a stranger they just met is honestly kinda scary. Isn’t that, like, zero communication skills?

“Wow, Fumu-san, you’ve got 520,000 followers? That’s amazing!”

Sensing my struggle, my sister threw me a lifeline, so I passed the conversational baton to her.

“…Well, I’ve been working hard to grow my followers, so…”

“Posting slightly spicy photos every day to drive traffic to your fan site—I could never do that. Well, I’m too busy with work to have time for that anyway.”

“Sorry for being a student… Sorry for never having worked…”

For some reason, Fumu-san got depressed and looked down—nobody stepped in to help. Doesn’t she have a booth assistant or something? She’s been setting up alone this whole time.

“A student? Oh, right, you said same school earlier… Wait, doesn’t that mean you can’t sell adult stuff?”

“I’m in the evening course, so I’m already an adult…”

“Got it!”

My sister nodded in understanding. Evening course students are rare sights, usually spotted only when lingering until the last moment before being kicked out of the clubroom, but they don’t wear uniforms, and their ages vary.

Still, most seem around the same age as full-time students, so being 21 in her third year feels a bit unusual.

“What about your booth? Got any assistants flying in?”

“No, I’m solo.”

“No friends?”

“None…”

“Photographer?”

“…”

“Don’t tell me… all self-shot?”

“Yes…”

“Wow… that’s rough.”

That does sound tough. I only know self-shots as taking pics with a phone’s front camera, but looking at the photo books and posters on her table, it’s clearly not that level. She’s probably using a proper digital camera… but how does she self-shoot with that? A fixed-point camera?

“Aren’t you scared letting random guys take naked photos of you in a love hotel or something?”

“Yeah, at that point, it’s basically consenting to sex, right?”

“…Minami-san, you…”

“My photographer’s a girl.”

“That’s so unfair…”

Yeah, that’s genuinely unfair.

One of the many issues in the cosplay hobby is that most photographers are guys. Sure, there are decent male photographers and plenty of female ones, but there are also tons of guys shooting cosplayers with ulterior motives.

For exposure-heavy cosplayers like my sister or Fumu-san, it’s even closer contact, taking risqué shots. Most wouldn’t want anyone but a trusted person—or a boyfriend or husband—taking those photos.

And the kind of eccentric person who’d spend hundreds of thousands or millions on cameras and gear for a hobby that earns nothing? Well, they’re almost always guys.

“Introduce me…”

“Eh, she’s a colleague at my company, different department, but it’s a hellish black company like mine, so she probably couldn’t match your pace.”

“…”

“But if you can get that kind of quality with self-shots, isn’t that good enough?”

I nodded in agreement. I hadn’t checked her SNS, but her work was clearly beyond selfie-level. She’s better than me, at least.

Rather than finding someone trustworthy, doing it all yourself seems better—especially in a genre where guys can be scary.

“…But there are some poses you just can’t get without another person’s hands.”

“Like someone grabbing your chest from behind?”

“Oh, I can manage that with a hand model.”

“It works…”

“When I can’t recreate a pose I’ve imagined, I really want someone else to shoot. Plus, it just… takes so much time…”

“How long did it take to shoot that Nadeshiko ROM, by the way?”

Pointing at what was likely her main attraction—a swimsuit ROM featured on her poster—my sister asked.

It looked like it was shot at a fancy Hawaiian resort, but it’s probably domestic, likely a love hotel. I’ve seen my sister use one like it.

“About 20 hours, I think? I stayed two nights.”

“…”

That’s intense. I’ve tagged along to shoots to see my creations, and even including makeup and cleanup, it usually wraps in about six hours.

Most cosplay studios are hourly rentals, and some are shared by multiple strangers in a whole building.

Since pricing is often split among groups, choosing a studio that allows private, explicit shoots, renting it exclusively for a small crew, and shooting for long hours would cost a fortune. Doing that for years is honestly impressive.

“Hmm… Didn’t you say you wanted to learn photography, Rikkun?”

“I mean, I’ve thought about shooting my own stuff…”

“For real!?”

She leaned in excitedly, and my sister caught her.

“Uh, I’m a total amateur. Don’t even own a camera.”

“I’ve got super expensive ones! All the gear you need!”

“Perfect timing, Rikkun, learn photography!”

“Yay!!! Secured an ultra-cute exclusive cam!!!”

“Wait, Onee-chan, don’t just steamroll this. If a guy’s fine, ask one of your friendly photographers…”

“No way…”

“…That’s not it, right?”

Both shot me down, and I tilted my head. Why am I the one sounding weird here?

“They’re guys, right?”

“I’m a guy too…”

“…Rikkun, do you think there’s a single cameraman out there who wouldn’t get ideas if a super erotic cosplay girl like her asked them to shoot a ROM or fan site stuff in a love hotel?”

“…There’s gotta be someone.”

That insult was brutal.

“There isn’t.”

“Really…”

“They don’t exist…”

Wow, such trust in photographers. In the worst way.

“But Riku, you probably wouldn’t care if Fumu-san got naked right in front of you, right?”

“That’s harsh! Even if she was fully nude—”

“I mean, you might not care…”

“You wouldn’t* care?”

Don’t get all sad about it. Look at my sister—this is her. This is a nudist!

There’s a decent age gap between us, and with no parents around, we bathed together until middle school. I only realized it was weird when a classmate said, “You stop bathing with your mom or sister by elementary, right?!”

By then, my sister was… about Fumu-san’s age now, I guess. Seven years older than me.

“So, you think a high school boy who’s unfazed by an erotic poster on a wall is a normal guy? A normal guy would be glancing around and hunching over.”

“I totally think that… but isn’t he just holding back?”

“Nope.”

“Wearing a chastity belt…”

“Not wearing one.”

I don’t care if a stranger strips. They’re a stranger.

If it was a friend, maybe it’d be different, but my close cosplayer friends don’t do ROMs or post spicy photos on fan sites.

People who care about crafting see cosplay as an “expensive hobby,” not a “money-maker.” They don’t strip to earn cash.

“So, what do you want from my cute little brother?”

“…P-Photography—n-no, I mean, I wanted props first, and I’m bad at costumes, so I’d love those too—”

“A partner-in-crime, huh?”

Summed up in one phrase, Fumu-san went silent and nodded.

Sure, but, uh…

“What about my say? And, like, assuming I’d make stuff, there’s the queue—”

“That’ll work out somehow.”

“No, it won’t!”

“Riku’s super fast, it’ll be fine.”

“Really!? He seems so reserved, but that’s unexpected!”

“Wait, isn’t that phrasing misleading!?”

Sorry, I’ve never had a girlfriend! I overheard a girl I was close with in middle school tell her friend, “I can’t deal with someone shorter than me,” and I’ve given up on everything since then! Why did my height stop growing in middle school?!

“The stuff you’re taking now, it’ll be done before Winter Comiket, right?”

“…Probably.”

I planned to finish early, maybe by mid-November, but…

What’s with my sister being so cooperative?

No offense, but she’s not the type to warm up to strangers, male or female. Why’s she so relaxed? Is it because Fumu-san’s a similar kind of cosplayer? Even so, I’ve never seen her soften up this fast.

“Oh…”

As I puzzled over it, an announcement echoed through the venue. They were about to let general attendees in, so circle participants’ movement would be restricted.

“Crap, gotta go!”

“See ya!”

“Take care!”

Waved off by both, I hurriedly left the booth.

Even after I left, their conversation continued.

“I’m team ‘friendship between guys and girls doesn’t exist.’ You, Fumu-san?”

“I’ve never had it work out, so I’m on the ‘doesn’t exist’ team too.”

“So, that’s what you meant.”

“…Yes.”

If I’d overheard that ominous exchange, I would’ve refused with all my might—