Chapter 2

“…A-A-Aren’t you Tsukushi Fumu-san? I-I’m subscribed to your highest plan! D-Do you know who I am?”

“Eh, sorry. That alone doesn’t really help…”

On the way from the nearest station to the Comiket venue—the otaku festival—an unfamiliar otaku suddenly accosted Hiyori.

His oversized can badge featured a VTuber—but, like, what? That was hardly enough to pin down who he was.

Since she hadn’t entered the venue yet, Hiyori wasn’t in cosplay. To save time in the changing room, her makeup was mostly done, but with a black mask and fake glasses, she blended in as just another female otaku. Yet somehow, this guy had figured out her name. Who was he? She had no clue. Probably someone who had snagged a photo ticket at a cosplay event she had attended before.

“Th-Th-That carry-on! You always use it, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I-I knew it! It’s your favorite, right? G-G-Great choice—it’s sturdy, you can sit on it, and it holds a ton! C-Cosplayers always have those, so I spotted it right away!”

“Is that so?”

Hiyori’s responses were curt, but the unfamiliar otaku kept pace with her, undeterred, as she dragged her heavy carry-on toward the venue. With their destination the same and his hands nearly empty, shaking him off seemed unlikely.

Resigning herself, she pressed on, and he stuck to her like a shadow, chattering all the way to the circle entrance—until she finally shook him off just before the changing room .

This carry-on… was it really that noticeable?

Sure, she had used it forever, but at events, she often checked it in or left it at her space. It was hard to imagine it was enough to blow her cover.

She racked her brain, wondering if she would remember someone this overly familiar, but drew a blank. Male otaku tended to blur together—half of them either chubby or scrawny, indistinguishable in a crowd.

After changing and stepping out of the changing room, Hiyori cautiously scanned for an ambush from that otaku, but the sea of otaku made it impossible to tell.

Blending in with other cosplayers to avoid attention, she headed to her space when—“Fumu-san!”—a voice called out from behind.

She considered ignoring it and slipping into the crowd, but the voice didn’t match the earlier otaku’s. Turning around, she spotted a familiar face.

“Ah, Tenma-san, hello!”

It was Tenma, a lanky guy in his late thirties or early forties, always sporting a beret.

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

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

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

Tenma, a cosplay photographer she had known for about three years, talked a mile a minute. His photos were solid, and he kept physical contact to a minimum during shoots, so he wasn’t on her bad side. He wasn’t exactly on her good side either, with his constant invites to after-parties or private shoots.

Behind him stood a tall guy with tinted glasses, and—huh?—Hiyori tilted her head internally. He looked kinda familiar… who was he?

Close enough to Tenma to seem like a friend, the tall guy flashed a big smile, hefting a hefty camera. (There was a theory that photographers flex with lens size, like stag beetles or something.) Being in the venue at this hour marked him as a circle participant, but his light luggage suggested he wasn’t selling doujinshi—probably someone like Tenma, tied to a cosplay circle.

They stepped aside to avoid clogging the entrance, chatting briefly, with the tall guy naturally joining in. Even after hearing his voice, Hiyori still couldn’t remember him.

Then, from behind, a voice cut through. “Onee-chan.”

“Onee-chan, you done talking yet?”

“Eh?”

Hiyori spun around.

A baby-faced boy, looking barely in his early teens and about 150 cm tall, stood there. She knew him. They had met once before.

Her mind raced, grappling with why he was approaching her, what his intentions could be.

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

Cutting off the two guys mid-sentence, she bowed energetically.

“Oh, your little brother’s here too?”

“No, no, he’s my cousin! I’m an only child! Totally forgot we were supposed to meet up after I changed… Sorry for interrupting!”

“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 take photos then!”

Hiyori bowed to Tenma, and the tall guy, who had been tilting his head, left without another word.

She then turned to the boy behind her.

Higashiura Riku—the cheeky kid who turned down her request.

He looked like a middle schooler, but he was supposedly sixteen or seventeen, a high school sophomore.

Right, he was an otaku, so of course he’d be at Comiket…

His presence made sense. Otaku flocked to Comiket like moths to a flame. Even without cosplaying, someone like Riku, who crafted high-quality cosplay props, would naturally gravitate to the country’s biggest cosplay event.

But why had he approached her? Thanks to her quick improv, she had dodged the chatty photographer, but Riku’s motives remained a mystery.

“…Um.”

Hiyori opened her mouth, unsure what to say. Words faltered.

She had complaints—had he really never shown up to the clubroom again? Why hadn’t he shared his contact info?—but more than that, she was baffled by his sudden appearance.

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

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

“Eh?”

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

With a quick bow, Riku walked off without another word, his expression blank, like he didn’t even recognize her.

That must have been why the photographer seemed familiar—likely someone who had shot her at an event or handed her a business card. Maybe he had pitched a doujin AV, and she had turned him down. A vague connection like that.

Still, Riku’s reaction suggested he hadn’t recognized her, and for a moment, Hiyori wondered if she had left so little an impression—then it hit her. She was in cosplay.

Yeah, no way he’d recognize me…

Spotting a cosplayer as their real self was a rare skill. Someone like Tenma, whom she had known for years, or a diehard fan subscribed to her fan site might manage it, but at a massive event like Comiket, with dozens of cosplayers in the same genre—some even as the same character—it was a long shot.

She had only spoken to Riku once, after the school festival, for less than thirty minutes. He had guessed her handle name after seeing her in a swimsuit, but back then, he hadn’t known her. So, naturally, he wouldn’t recognize her now.

He had helped a random cosplayer, even playing along as her “little brother.”

—That was all Riku did.

No self-important attitude, no introducing himself—just a quick assist and gone.

“Ugh… that’s, like, heart-fluttering…”

Hiyori stood there, dazed, watching Riku’s back vanish into the crowd. This time, no one else called out to her.

＊ ＊

“What time should I be back today?”

“Hmm, can you come back around noon?”

“Noon… I’m hitting the west hall first, so it might be a bit past 12. Is that okay?”

“Yup, sounds good.”

While setting up the circle space, I exchanged those words with my sister, the circle leader. Then the neighbor, dragging a hefty carry-on, arrived.

“Yorodesu!” my sister greeted them with her usual energy, and I glanced over, offering a small bow.

Huh… the neighbor’s doing Willhan too. It’s really trending.

Willhan—Willhas Hand—was a mobile game that had launched about two years ago, and lately, it had been exploding on SNS. When fanworks gained traction, cosplayers naturally followed. The game’s mildly risqué character outfits were a draw, and about half the nearby cosplay circles were selling Willhan-themed ROMs or photo books. My sister was no exception, of course.

As she stretched a poster across the wall, something caught my eye. I paused and asked, “Hey.”

“What?”

“Onee-chan, did you gain weight?”

“Eh?”

Her outfit, measured to the millimeter six months ago, clung too tightly around her waist and back, a slight roll of fat visible under her chest. It hadn’t looked like this during the shoot. So, basically—

“…Sorry, okay?” she mumbled, grabbing the extra fat, clearly aware.

“I keep telling you to stop binge eating.”

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

“No ‘buts.’”

A sigh slipped out. Even a perfectly crafted outfit looked off if the wearer’s body wasn’t in shape. It was a letdown.

Still, telling my sister—who slaved away at a soul-crushing company and barely made it home—to “avoid stress” would’ve been cruel, so I held back.

As the shutters rose and the massive crowd surged outside, I finished organizing the cardboard boxes and stood. “Alright, I’m heading out.”

“Yup, see ya!”

But as I stepped away from her space, someone grabbed my arm.

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

“Wait! Higashiura Riku… right?”

“Eh?”

She had called me by my real name, but I didn’t know this cosplayer. Had I ever taken a commission from this person…?

Even if I had, I rarely met clients face-to-face. I included my real name when shipping props, so some might’ve known it—but not my face. Plus, among otaku, using handle names at events was an unspoken rule. Calling someone you weren’t close to by their real name was a bit of a faux pas.

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

“Eh, ah… right, sorry… no, wait!?”

“What?”

“Your handle! You never told me it!?”

“Huh…?”

What was she talking about? If she didn’t know my handle, she must’ve been a real-life acquaintance, but the only cosplayer I knew in real life—especially one into revealing outfits—was my sister, and that was more than enough. I’d rather they wore proper clothes.

Yet this person staring at me clearly knows who I am. Since I’m not in cosplay, it’s not surprising, but it’s unsettling to have my face and name known one-sidedly.

“So, uh—”

As we hit a stalemate, my sister pressed her unnecessarily large chest against my back, hugged me, and called out to the mysterious cosplayer. “You’re Fumu-san, right? Used to do a lot of Claudia before you got into Willhan.”

“Ah, yes! …You’re Minami-san, right? First time we’ve been neighbors like this.”

“Yup yup! Kitagaito Minami here! And this is my little brother—”

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

I bowed, and… now that I thought about it, that name sounded familiar. Uh…… who was she again?

My mind drifted, wondering if she was tied to some drama, when my sister tilted her head and said, “So, uh, Fumu-san, are you Rikkun’s stalker?”

“N-No, I’m not!”

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

“……I’m just shocked he doesn’t remember me.”

“Eh?”

“You seriously don’t remember…?”

“……”

Fumu—a slightly unusual name that rang a faint bell, but that was it. Otaku handle names were often quirky, after all.

Even studying her face, I drew a blank. She was pretty, and judging by the stack of ROMs and photo books, she was a big-name cosplayer, even at a wall circle next to my sister. Still, identifying cosplayers by face alone was tough. It was easier to recognize them by their real-life appearance or belongings.

“Ugh, we’re at the same school…”

“A revealing cosplayer at our school……? Oh.”

“Remember now?”

“…The one who barged into the clubroom.”

It finally clicked. Same school, different programs, right?

Seeing her beam with relief, I realized who she was—

“The exhibitionist who strips right away.”

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

“……”

Forgot it. I’d barely recalled her handle, so I’d probably heard her real name too, but a single meeting didn’t stick unless it was unforgettable. Her stripping was memorable, but since I knew someone else who did the same, it wasn’t that unique. It was practically a family trait.

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

“Uh, well…”

My sister’s eyes narrowed, like she was sizing up a rival. Sure, Fumu-san was a bit odd, but was she worth that hostility? You stripped too, I thought, brushing it off, when Fumu-san panicked.

“I was forced to strip!”

“…Rikkun?”

“No. She just stripped on her own.”

“…So, a pervert?”

“Probably.”

That was you too, Onee-chan.

“N-No, it’s—”

“But you did strip, right?”

“I-I did, but…”

“Well, to catch Rikkun’s attention, your boobs might be a bit lacking, huh?”

My sister lifted her chest with both hands, striking a provocative gravure idol pose, while Fumu-san let out a frustrated “Gununu…”

One was in a swimsuit, the other in a bunny suit, both outfits clinging tightly to their figures. Fumu-san had a gravure idol-level body, far above average, but—she was no match for my sister. It was a difference in scale.

I hated to admit it, but in terms of chest size, it wasn’t even close. I hadn’t flinched when Fumu-san stripped before because I was used to my sister, who was on another level.

“…Wanna touch?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll touch.”

With that, my sister grabbed Fumu-san’s chest and… kept kneading. What was wrong with her? You’d just met her!

“Hmm, Rikkun, you sure you don’t wanna try? It’s free!”

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

“That’s harsh!?”

“See, Rikkun’s not into average-sized boobs.”

“Don’t make me sound like some monster who’s only into huge ones…”

Anddon’t you act all frustrated with your “Gununu…” either. I mean, you’re definitely above average. Probably extra-large. It’s just that my sister’s on a giga-level, with double the calorie intake.

“Tch, that’s not fair…”

“What, jealous that I’ve got such a cute little brother making custom outfits? Or—”

“Eh, that’s custom-made!? No way! Wow, it fits perfectly, and the stitching is super clean… Not just props but outfits too? Seriously, what are you, a superhuman? What can’t you do?”

“Pretty much everything else.”

My sister said it, and I nodded. Yeah, I’m no all-purpose genius. I’m just good at making outfits and props. Everything else? Useless. I’m terrible at games, can’t handle housework, and don’t get me started on studying or sports. Oh, and I’m short…

“…Riku-kun.”

“I said, don’t use my real—”

“Yotsutsuji… right? Wait, is Yotsutsuji, like, Yotsutsuji Mei?”

“That’s me.”

“For real?!?!”

Fumu-san snapped her head up, reaching for me, but my sister swatted her hand away like some kind of auto-defense mechanism.

“The legendary prop maker Yotsutsuji Mei, whose commission slots fill up in five seconds?!?!”

“I don’t know about legendary, and it’s not five seconds every time. More like thirty. Five seconds isn’t even enough to finish typing.”

“Ugh… what even… Why didn’t you tell me when we met before…?”

“You didn’t ask. Plus, giving my handle to real-life acquaintances feels kinda weird, you know?”

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

She slumped, looking genuinely dejected, and I almost felt guilty, like I had said something wrong. But it was not my fault that she didn’t have friends, right? Stripping in front of a guy you’d just met was honestly unnerving. Her communication skills were, like, trash-tier.

“Whoa, Fumu-san, you’ve got 520,000 followers? That’s wild!” My sister, sensing my struggle, tosses me a lifeline, steering the conversation her way.

“…Well, I’ve put in a lot of effort to grow my followers, so…”

“I could never keep up with posting slightly spicy pics every day to drive fan site traffic. I mean, work’s too hectic for that.”

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

For some reason, Fumu-san sank deeper into gloom, staring at the floor. Didn’t she have a helper or someone selling for her? She’d been setting up alone the whole time.

“A student? Oh, right, you said same school earlier… Wait, then isn’t selling adult stuff a no-go?”

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

“Got it!” my sister nodded, satisfied.

Evening program students were rare. I’d sometimes spot them leaving the clubroom late, but they didn’t wear uniforms, and their ages varied. Still, most seemed close to full-time students’ age, so being 21 in your third year felt a bit unusual.

“What about you, got a seller? Already sent out your fan funnel?”

“No, I’m here alone.”

“No friends?”

“None……”

“Photographer?”

“……”

“Wait… all self-shot?”

“Yeah……”

“Yikes… That sounds rough.”

It really did. All I knew about selfies was snapping with a phone’s front camera, but her photo books and posters were clearly on another level. She was probably using a proper digital camera. How did she even manage self-shots? A fixed camera?

“But, like, aren’t you scared letting some random guy take naked photos of you at a love hotel?”

“Yeah, at that point, it’s basically consent for sex, right?”

“……Minami-san, you…”

“My photographer’s a girl.”

“That’s so unfair……”

Yeah, that was genuinely unfair. One of the many issues in cosplay was that photographers were mostly guys. There were decent male photographers and some female ones, but plenty of guys shot cosplayers with ulterior motives. For revealing cosplayers like my sister or Fumu-san, it was even more intimate, with photographers getting up close for risqué shots. Most would only trust someone reliable or someone super close, like a boyfriend or husband. And the kind of eccentric person who’d spend hundreds of thousands or millions on cameras and gear for a hobby that earns nothing? Almost always a guy.

“Please… introduce me…”

“Eh, she’s a coworker at my company—different department, but it’s just as soul-crushing as mine, so I doubt she could match your pace.”

“……”

“I mean, 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 clearly wasn’t amateur-level. It was at least better than mine. If she could do it all herself, that was better than hunting for someone trustworthy, especially in a genre where guys could be risky.

“…But, like, some poses just can’t be done without another person.”

“Like someone groping your boobs from behind?”

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

““That works…?””

“There are poses I can’t recreate no matter how I plan them, so 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?” My sister pointed at what was probably Fumu-san’s main attraction—a swimsuit ROM featured on her poster. It looked like a fancy Hawaiian resort, but it was probably domestic, maybe a love hotel. I’d seen my sister use similar ones.

“About 20 hours? I stayed two nights.”

““……””

That was insane. I’d tagged along to shoots to see my props in action, and even including makeup and cleanup, it usually wrapped in about six hours. Most cosplay studios were rented by the hour, often shared by strangers splitting a building. Since pricing assumed cost-splitting, booking studios that allowed revealing shoots exclusively for long hours with a small crew must have cost a fortune. Doing that for years? Honestly, that was impressive.

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

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

“Really!?” Fumu-san leaned in excitedly, but my sister held her back.

“I’m a total newbie. Don’t even own a camera.”

“I’ve got super high-end ones!! All the gear you need!!”

“Perfect, Rikkun, learn photography!”

“Yay!!!! I’ve got my exclusive GeroKawa photographer!!”

[T/N: The Japanese phrase ‘ゲロかわ’ (gerokawa) is a slang term that combines two words: ‘ゲロ’ (gero) meaning “vomit” and ‘かわいい’ (kawaii)]

“Hold on, Onee-chan, don’t just decide for me. If a guy’s fine, just ask one of your photographer buddies…”

“Nah…”

“…That’s not the same.”

Both shot me down, and I tilted my head. Why did I feel like I’d said something weird?

“Those are guys, right?”

“I’m a guy too…”

“…Rikkun, do you think there’s a single cameraman out there who wouldn’t try something if a year-round, horny-looking ero-cosplayer asked them to shoot risqué ROMs or fan site content at a love hotel?”

“…There’s gotta be someone, right?”

Also, that insult was brutal.

““Nope.””

“There’s really no one…”

Wow, their trust in photographers was wild. In a bad way.

“But you, Rikkun, you wouldn’t care if Fumu-san stripped naked in front of you, right?”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it!? If she was completely naked, I’d—”

“You might not care…”

“You really wouldn’t……”

I hoped she wouldn’t get all sad about it. My sister had always been the real nudist here. There was a big age gap between us, and with no parents around, we’d used to bathe together until middle school. I had only realized it was weird when a classmate said, “You stop bathing with your mom or sister by elementary school!”. Back then, my sister was probably around Fumu-san’s age now. Seven years older than me.

“I mean, you think a high school boy who’s totally chill around ero-ROMs on a wall is a normal guy? Normal guys would be sneaking glances and hunching over.”

“I totally get that… Isn’t he just holding back?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe he’s got a chastity belt…”

“I don’t.”

I just did’t care if a stranger stripped. They were a stranger.If it had been someone close, maybe it would’ve been different, but my close cosplayer friends didn’t sell ROMs or post spicy fan site pics. Besides, people into prop-making saw cosplay as an “expensive hobby,” not a “money-making scheme.” They weren’t out to earn cash by stripping.

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

“…P-Photography—I mean, I originally wanted props, and I’m bad at outfits, so I wanted help with those too—”

“So, a partner, huh?”

Summed up in one word, Fumu-san nodded silently.

Okay, but hold on.

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

“Eh, we’ll figure it out.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Rikkun, you’re super fast. It’ll be fine.”

“Wait, really!? You seem so reserved, that’s surprising!”

“Hold up, isn’t that phrasing misleading!?”

Sorry, but I’d never had a girlfriend! Back in middle school, I’d overheard a girl I was close to say, “I can’t date someone shorter than me,” and I gave up on everything! Why’d my growth spurt stop in seventh grade!?

“Your current commissions will be done before Winter Comiket, right?”

“…Yeah, probably.”

I was planning to finish early, by mid-November even. But it felt weird how cooperative Onee-chan was being. She wasn’t the type to warm up to strangers, guy or girl. Was she letting her guard down because Fumu-san was a similar kind of cosplayer? Still, I’d never seen her soften this fast.

“Ah.”

An announcement echoed through the venue. General attendees were about to flood in, and circle participants’ movement would soon be restricted.

“Crap, gotta go!”

“See ya!”

“Safe travels!”

Waved off by both, I hurried out of the space.

Back at the space, their conversation continued without me.

“I’m the type who doesn’t believe in platonic friendships between guys and girls. You, Fumu-san?”

“I’ve never had one either, so I’m on the ‘doesn’t exist’ side.”

“Got it. So that’s what you meant.”

“…Yeah.”

If I’d overheard that shady conversation, I would’ve shut this down hard—