Storm of Confessions

"Hahaha~ You're asking me how I want to die?"

Tachibana laughed loudly, mocking Sakurai's question like it was the world's biggest joke.

If you're going to play the hero, at least make sure you're strong enough to back it up. What is this, fate? Is every person I run into some unshakable wall?

How laughable.

Did this guy really think he could rely on that widow behind him? That's even more hilarious. That woman is a curse—everyone she gets involved with ends up ruined. Even the powerful Ueno Yoko's company has been on a downhill spiral since she got close to her.

"You want to know how I'd like to die? What, are you thinking of using your fists?" Tachibana spread his arms in mock invitation. "Sorry, but let's be real—you can't do a damn thing to me. This entire studio is my family's property. What do you have? Righteousness? Give it up, kid. No one needs to get hurt just for you to protect a murderer."

And he wasn't bluffing. Here, on this turf, Tachibana really could do whatever he pleased.

His eyes drifted to Nakano Ichika, who remained frozen in her seat. The sight of her pretending to be meek only fueled his scorn.

She played the virtuous woman just a moment ago, and now that someone's come to her defense, she's donning the victim mask? Women are all the same. Once they find a better target, they'll toss the old one like trash.

Tachibana's rage flared, dredging up bitter memories of the first girl he loved—who had left him for someone else.

"Women are all cheap," he thought darkly.

"You'll know soon enough."

Sakurai Saki stepped forward, still wearing that deceptively calm smile.

Tachibana's arrogance, his venomous words, and the sheer threat in his tone made something snap. Sakurai wasn't about to walk away this time.

He wasn't just anyone to be mocked. If that were the case, being a Superpower user would be more curse than gift.

An invisible wave radiated from him.

Random Ability was his self-imposed limit—a way to restrain himself. But when he lost control, his subconscious unsealed abilities he'd already mastered. That was the dangerous part. The more a power activated, the more it ingrained itself—and the less it hurt him.

That's why Sakurai restricted himself.

Because once unchained, he was terrifying.

Just as he spoke—

Clang!A bottle of cream toppled from the dressing table beside him, shattering on the floor.

The sound seemed to unlock something. One item after another followed, crashing down like dominoes.

Then, the floor trembled.

"What? An earthquake?! Right now?! What about our shoot?"

"How are we supposed to draw eyeliner like this?!"

"My makeup's ruined! Ugh!"

Panic rippled through the room.

Then a voice cut through the noise.

"Don't worry. It's a small one. We can keep working."

More people chimed in, nodding.

"Yeah, it should stop soon."

It was common knowledge: 'Small ones, no need to run. Big ones—can't run anyway.' Earthquakes were a part of life in this country. No one here was truly scared.

No one… except one man.

Tachibana staggered back, eyes wide, his pupils dilating with sudden terror.

Jinx! That cursed woman! His thoughts spiraled. This earthquake… it's her fault!

Cold sweat soaked his back as rumors surged in his mind.

Her husband and child… both killed in an earthquake. And now—another one. Right after he insulted her.

She's trying to drag us all to hell with her! Just for being scolded?! This… devil!!

Sakurai raised his hand, ready to crush Tachibana's heart with psychokinesis. But before he could act, soft fingers wrapped around his wrist.

He turned—and saw her.

Minamoto Mashiro. Her expression was gentle, almost heartbreakingly so.

"Saki-kun~ Don't be angry. Big sister's used to it."

She smiled lightly, as if the insults hadn't touched her. As if the world's cruelty was just weather.

She'd been called worse before. Heard the whispers, felt the blame. She was well aware of what she brought with her—misfortune, ruin.

But still, she smiled.

Sakurai looked into her eyes and fell silent.

She reminded him of her.

That same softness. That same quiet endurance. Always giving, never asking, no matter how the world treated her.

It made him furious.

Why should kindness always bend and never break? Why should good people suffer and stay silent?

What about kindness—how is it ever repaid?

Sakurai clenched his jaw so hard he tasted blood. Memories he'd buried surged to the surface, burning with fury.

"She said those things about you," he said through gritted teeth, voice thick with rage. "And you're still asking me not to act?!"

The tremors worsened.

Rumble.

Even the walls groaned under pressure.

Tachibana—ignoring the cold stares closing in on him—turned on his heel and scrambled for the exit.

"You don't know what's coming next! Just wait and die like the rest of them!!"

Tachibana's voice cracked with hysteria. He turned to bolt—but in his panic, his foot slipped on the overly polished tile floor of the dressing room.

Bang!

He crashed headfirst to the ground, limbs flailing. A pathetic groan escaped his lips as he scrambled back up, hair disheveled, clothes askew.

Then came the laughter—unhinged and bitter.

"Hahaha!! Is that what you want? Me, dead?! You murderer! Killer!!"

He jabbed a trembling finger at Minamoto Mashiro, voice raw with spite.

"Her husband was killed by her!! You all know that, don't you?! Anyone who stays near her is cursed! Her son died so young—it was all her fault!!"

Minamoto Mashiro's face remained soft, gentle as always. But tears welled quietly in her eyes.

"I've never harmed anyone," she said calmly.

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't waver. It simply held the kind of pain that didn't need to scream to be heard.

Then, slicing through the charged air, came a crisp, cool voice.

"Everyone, please stay alert and prioritize safety. The earthquake hasn't completely subsided."

A figure stepped out from the photography studio.

Ueno Yoko, in all her practiced poise, pushed aside a curtain of deep wine-red hair and surveyed the room, eyes narrowing.

"…?"

She took in the scene: Sakurai Saki and Minamoto Mashiro standing side by side. Tachibana crumpled on the floor like a broken puppet, eyes wild. The others stood in silence, watching him with the kind of detachment usually reserved for street performances.

"Did I miss something? Tachibana, did you change careers? What's with the circus act?"

She arched a brow.

"If the clown show's over, then get out. Right now."

She turned to the makeup crew, her tone snapping like a whip. "And what about you lot? You think we work during an earthquake? Or is the clown dancing too good to interrupt?"

"Yes!! Sorry, we'll get back to work immediately!!"

"Oh? I actually saw something entertaining for once," one stylist murmured with a wry grin.

They all snapped out of their trance, a few stifling chuckles. The tension loosened.

Truth be told, the impromptu circus act had been the most excitement they'd seen in a while.

As for the earthquake? It was just another tremor. They'd been through dozens—some even this week. Unless the ceiling caved in, most weren't fazed.

It was just a shame the handsome guy didn't deck the bastard.

And those rumors? Sure, people whispered them. But they were just that—rumors. Urban legends wrapped in gossip. Nobody really believed in cursed women.

Still, watching Tachibana lose it like that? Oddly satisfying.

Seconds later, the shaking eased. The tremors stopped.

Tachibana stood, trembling, venom in his glare as he stared at the others—especially at Sakurai Saki.

His lips curled into a snarl.

Just you wait. I have a hundred ways to make you regret this!!

He shoved the door open and disappeared without another word.

Sakurai's eyes followed him until he was gone, his gaze frigid—like looking at a man already buried.

"Alright, everyone," Ueno Yoko announced with a sigh, "finish up and head home early."

She returned to the studio without waiting for a reply.

The moment passed. The room began to breathe again.

Then Mashiro stepped forward and wrapped her arms gently around Sakurai Saki, her voice soft against his shoulder.

"It's alright, Saki-kun."

Sakurai slowly let go of his psychokinesis, the invisible pressure in the room dissipating.

Just moments ago, when Mashiro responded to Tachibana's accusations, a faint character—[真]—had appeared above her head.

Truth.

Her words were not lies. In her heart, she held no guilt for her husband's or child's deaths. At least not consciously. That fact unsettled him more than if she had lied.

Still… something didn't feel right. Could her existence alone really bring disaster?

The earthquake had struck too quickly… and left just as suddenly.

Nakano Ichika, who had been completely silenced by the earlier confrontation, slowly turned her head to peek at Sakurai. Her hands clutched the hem of her dress. She had wanted to say something—maybe even step in—but their presence had overwhelmed her.

"…Mashiro-nee, the shoot's done. Let's head back," Sakurai said softly.

He gave Ichika a sidelong glance but said nothing else. In truth, this had nothing to do with her. Even if it had been someone else standing there, Mashiro would have intervened just the same. And Sakurai's words wouldn't have changed either.

"Miss Nakano," Mashiro turned toward her with that ever-present calm, "how will you be getting home?"

It was late. Her manager was nowhere in sight. It wasn't safe for her to return alone.

"By… train?" Ichika replied uncertainly.

She quickly took out her phone. Her face paled slightly.

The epicenter had been near enough to disrupt transit. While the tremor had been mild, the trains had already shut down early as a precaution.

The last one was scheduled to run until midnight—but it was already canceled.

She looked up, lips parting—but no words came.

"…"

How was she supposed to get home now?

Nakano Ichika stared down at her phone screen, biting her lip. The trains had already stopped. If she called a taxi, she might not even have enough money left for tomorrow's lunch.

As she hesitated, a soft voice broke the silence.

"If it's inconvenient, Miss Nakano, you can come with us. Don't be shy," Minamoto Mashiro offered gently.

Her tone was calm, considerate—like the offer had no weight at all.

Besides, the girl attended the same school as Sakurai Saki, and considering Ueno Yoko's increasing interest in scouting new talent, bringing her along was a small favor that might turn valuable later.

Ichika opened her mouth to politely refuse.

But Sakurai Saki cut in flatly, "Let's go together. If you keep refusing, it'll just make things awkward."

His gaze didn't even shift toward her as he spoke.

Ichika paused.

He wasn't wrong.

Turning down kindness just to seem polite often created more distance than closeness. Sakurai Saki didn't reject favors—he simply remembered to repay them.

So, Ichika nodded, quietly acquiescing.

The three of them walked out of the studio.

The two women walked ahead, steps quiet and composed.

Sakurai Saki lagged slightly behind, his hands in his pockets, and paused for a moment to glance up.

The moon hung high and pale in the sky, framed by the city skyline like a silent observer.

The moonlight is beautiful.

He idly wondered whether Tachibana—now somewhere out in the chaos of the city, heart pierced by psychokinesis—could appreciate such beauty.

But likely not.

A thousand invisible needles dug deeper with every breath Tachibana took.

—

At that same moment.

Down a crowded Shinjuku street, Tachibana staggered, his suit disheveled, cold sweat glistening at his temples. The nightclub he'd intended to visit blurred in his vision, neon signs warping like mirages.

Then it hit him.

An invisible fist clenched around his heart.

His entire chest spasmed violently—as if a hundred invisible blades were carving through him at once.

"Gah—!"

Tachibana collapsed to his knees, one hand clenching his shirt, the other clawing the air.

It hurts! It hurts!

The pain was unlike anything he'd felt before. His vision swam. His ears rang.

"Help… someone… help me!!" he choked out, gasping, voice hoarse.

People walked past him—some slowing, most not.

A few glanced his way, then quickly looked forward again, as if eye contact alone would trap them in his misfortune.

No one wanted to touch a man foaming at the mouth in designer shoes. No one wanted to get involved.

In a society that prized detachment, his cries were muffled by apathy.

He reached out toward the sidewalk, fingers twitching.

Help…

But his arm fell limp midair.

The pain intensified. His pulse slowed. His body convulsed once, twice—

And then stopped moving entirely.

Chest rising only faintly now, breath a gurgle in his throat.

His skin turned a sickly shade of pale. His limbs twitched once more and then went still.

People continued walking past.

Some took pictures. Some shook their heads. Some didn't look at all.

No one helped.

Minutes dragged by.

Somewhere in the back of his fading consciousness, Tachibana thought he saw a face in the crowd.

A woman with soft eyes, gentle hands, and an aura of cold silence—

Minamoto Mashiro.

His lips curled, a bitter smile cracking on his face as he mouthed silently:

Still couldn't escape…

She really is a curse.

And with that final thought, Tachibana's body ceased all movement.

Ten full minutes passed.

Over a thousand people crossed the street in that time.

Eventually, someone noticed that he hadn't moved at all.

A phone call was made. An ambulance dispatched.

By then, it was far too late.

Tomorrow, the news might mention it in passing:

"Young heir of major entertainment company dies in public while hundreds pass him by—has modern society lost its humanity?"

The headlines would circulate for a day or two.

Netizens would rage in comment sections.

People would repost the clip of him lying there alone.

And then forget.

That would be the end of it.