第1章
- Imprisonment
Wearing a hat the color of a light brown teddy bear pulled low over my face, round sunglasses, and a high-collared coat that concealed my appearance, I strode briskly through the city.
Just moments ago, I had been thinking about my days as an idol. Things were different now. Everything had changed since then. I had become someone who needed to stay hidden from the public eye.
“You’re Asami Kurusu… aren’t you?”
Before I realized it, several men had surrounded me.
So they had finally found me…
I had tried so hard to avoid being recognized all this time.
I’ve spent my life running away.
I’m tired of it.
Asami stamped her foot in frustration, then lowered her shoulders in resignation.
“Yes…” she replied quietly. “That’s me.”
I am not someone who should be an idol.
I am worthless now.
I am no longer fit to stand before people and give them courage or hope.
In the end, I was taken into custody.
A person called not by a name, but by a number.
There was a reason why I had been forced to suspend my idol activities…
My mother is also confined in a certain institution.
Yes, not an ordinary institution.
And now, it had become impossible for me to avoid being sent there as well.
Cold, pale light dimly illuminated the corridors.
Clack… clack… creak.
Footsteps echoed through the chilled hallway.
The cold seemed to seep deep into my very soul.
The silence was so profound that it felt as if my emotions themselves might freeze.
“Get in! Number Forty-Eight!”
I was led into a narrow, oppressive room.
The moment the heavy door swung open, a gust of icy air brushed against my skin.
This year seemed colder than usual.
Shivering, I stepped inside.
A supervisor watched me through a small observation window with cold, emotionless eyes.
I shot a harsh glare back at them as I looked around the room.
Treat me with a little more respect…
The thought crossed my mind for a brief moment.
But I wasn’t an idol anymore.
There’s no helping it, I thought.
Giving up on the idea, I quietly began to examine the room.
The facility was utterly silent, enveloped in complete stillness.
The room appeared to contain only the bare essentials. The sterile monochrome walls and floor seemed to press down on me, making the space feel suffocatingly cramped. It was as though the lingering emotions of all the previous occupants weighed heavily upon the room like a curse.
The air felt stagnant.
I didn’t think I could endure it.
For the first time, I realized how deeply a person’s thoughts and suffering could become bound to a place.
Scratches covered the door, as if someone had desperately clawed at it. There were dents that looked as though it had been kicked repeatedly. Even the walls were covered in graffiti.
From time to time, the squeaking sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Outside, voices drifted through the air, mixed with the sounds of sports activities—the bounce of balls, the thud of impacts, and the sharp sound of kicks.
Inside the room, a foul odor stung my nostrils.
What is this place…?
It stinks.
Ah…
It’s hard to breathe.
My chest feels tight, as though something is pressing down on it.
A crushing sensation.
Having grown up neglected, the atmosphere made me feel as though I were being slowly flattened beneath an invisible weight.
Who is it…?
Who’s trying to crush me?
It feels as though something is draped over my back.
Around me, I could almost sense the spirits of countless former residents lingering in the room.
But this is unavoidable.
I brought this upon myself.
Because of what I did…
I could feel all the effort, sacrifice, and hardship that had carried me to the very top dissolving like bubbles and disappearing before my eyes.
From that day on, I was forced to suspend all idol activities.
To the public, it was announced as a leave of absence due to health issues. But the truth was very different.
The band’s name was “Killer Idol.”
A murderer…
That’s right…
The person I had become behind the scenes was a murderer.
What am I supposed to do here?
How am I supposed to atone for my crime?
My thoughts are still a mess. I don’t even know if I can endure this pressure.
Haa… haa… haa…
I wonder how the other band members are doing.
I feel so sorry for all our fans.
Everyone… I’m sorry.
A band without its vocalist…
Who would even come to see that?
Or perhaps Manager Sasaki has already found a new vocalist and the band is thriving without me.
That would be just like him.
“There are plenty of people who can replace you.”
He used to say that all the time.
Gradually, tears began to well up in Asami’s eyes.
To think that I had destroyed with my own hands the very peak I had fought so desperately to reach.
I had worked so hard…
So incredibly hard…
Together with my bandmates.
And now I had ruined everything.
My pride, my reputation, everything I had built had been completely shattered.
I crawled into the damp bed inside a cramped, musty room no larger than eight tatami mats.
Disgusting. What is this place?
The futon felt as though it had absorbed years of moisture. It clung to my body, sticky and clammy against my skin. It didn’t seem like it had ever been aired out in the sun.
There was even a toilet installed in the cell.
Am I really supposed to use that?
Haa… haa… haa…
My vision began to darken.
The room was spinning.
I felt dizzy…
Nauseous…
My consciousness slowly drifted away.
And then, at last, I lost consciousness.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the bed.
“Where am I…?”
“You’re awake, Asami.”
“Technically, I’m supposed to be reprimanded for calling you by your name. But since you’re well-known, would you mind if I addressed you that way?”
Asami slowly sat up and pressed a hand against her head.
“Ow…”
Her head throbbed painfully.
“Where is this…?”
When Asami looked around, she realized she was no longer in the cell she had been in earlier. Instead, she found herself in a brightly lit room.
The sound of someone rapidly scribbling notes with a pen echoed through the room.
A pleasant aroma of coffee drifted through the air, stimulating her senses.
At a neatly organized desk sat a woman in a white coat. She was facing away, but turned her head slightly to look at Asami.
“…Yes. But please don’t pay any special attention to me.”
“I’m just a criminal. Please treat me the same as everyone else.”
Only now was the weight of her crime truly beginning to sink in. The guilt she carried surfaced in her expression from time to time, impossible to conceal completely.
“Do you suffer from any medical condition?”
The woman set her pen down on the desk, turned her chair toward Asami, and asked the question.
Asami studied her face.
Her long black hair was tied back neatly. She wore narrow, thin-framed glasses, and a faint touch of lipstick colored her thin lips—subtle enough to avoid drawing attention. She wore very little makeup otherwise.
“I was neglected as a child.”
“Sometimes I experience panic attacks.”
Asami’s words prompted the woman—who appeared to be a physician—to pick up her pen again and swiftly jot down notes in a notebook.
Then she looked up and asked her next question.
“Neglect…?”
The woman blinked in surprise.
“So that was your situation…”
“You managed to continue your idol career despite that? That’s remarkable. Under normal circumstances, it would have been extremely difficult.”
“I’ve been doing this job for many years, and I’ve never met an idol who came from a background like yours.”
She folded her hands on the desk.
“Would you tell me what happened? I’d like to understand how you ended up in this situation.”
“…I refuse to answer.”
Asami lowered her gaze.
“I choose to remain silent.”
The woman nodded calmly.
“I understand.”
“I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me yourself.”
“For now, we need to address your condition first.”
“You should be evaluated by a psychiatrist.”
She studied Asami carefully for a moment.
“Actually, I don’t think ‘neglect’ is the most accurate description.”
“You’re more what we would call an adult child.”
“You’re well-groomed, your appearance is tidy, and there’s no sign of poor self-care. In its strict sense, neglect refers to a parent abandoning or failing to care for a child. Of course, the term can be used more broadly as well.”
She paused briefly.
“Then let me ask a different question.”
“Have you ever gone to a hospital or received treatment for this before?”
“No…”
Asami shook her head.
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
“It isn’t that I never went.”
“I never even considered going.”
“So no, I’ve never been to a hospital for it.”
The woman frowned slightly.
“Then how have you managed your symptoms all this time?”
“I came up with my own ways to cope.”
Asami looked away.
“I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Not friends. Not family.”
“Not even a doctor.”
“Being around people exhausts me. It makes me feel sick.”
She paused for a moment before continuing.
“Idols like us are supposed to give people dreams and hope.”
“If someone like me were known to have these kinds of problems…”
Her voice trailed off.
“You never know when information might leak to the public.”
“The thought of becoming a spectacle for the whole world…”
“Just imagining it makes me miserable.”
The moment those thoughts crossed her mind, a piercing ringing erupted deep inside her ears.
Her face gradually turned pale.
The ringing intensified.
Then it began transforming into flashes of memory.
Images.
Voices.
Fragments of the past.
“Ngh…!”
Asami clutched both sides of her head and covered her ears with her hands.
The flashback was beginning.
“I watched one of your concerts.”
The correctional counselor spoke gently.
“It was a remarkable performance. You truly shined on that stage.”
“I wanted to understand what kind of person you are and what sort of work you’ve devoted yourself to over the years.”
She paused before continuing.
“One thing became very clear to me.”
“You’ve given strength to a great many people.”
“I was deeply moved myself.”
The counselor leaned forward slightly, speaking with unexpected enthusiasm.
“I’ve never seen a concert that radiated so much energy through a screen.”
“My work doesn’t leave me much time to attend performances, but even I found myself getting excited.”
“All those fans came to see you.”
Her expression was completely different now from the calm, clinical demeanor she had shown moments earlier.
“Please stop.”
Asami’s expression darkened instantly.
She lowered her head and frowned.
Her hands remained on her knees as her body trembled slightly.
“I don’t need compliments.”
“I simply did the job I was given.”
“That’s all it was.”
“A job.”
Her voice grew colder.
“I don’t have dreams.”
“I don’t have hope.”
A look of profound despair surfaced across her face as she stared back at the counselor.
Then, cutting off anything the woman might have said next, Asami continued.
“I’ve done nothing more than carry out my work.”
“Day after day.”
“Quietly.”
“Mechanically.”
“Without questioning it.”
Asami’s voice was hollow.
“An idol only has to do what she’s told.”
“You do the work you’re assigned.”
“And you keep doing it.”
“That’s all.”
“We don’t have the luxury of dignity or personal will.”
“The moment you disagree, you’re rejected.”
“We’re just gears placed into a machine designed by the production company.”
“You ride the mechanism they’ve built for you.”
“You follow the tracks laid out in advance.”
“That’s all there is to it.”
The counselor shook her head.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“What you’ve accomplished is something very few people could ever replicate.”
A warm smile appeared on her face.
“And you did it while wearing that incredible smile.”
She continued, gently but firmly challenging Asami’s view.
“The effort you’ve accumulated day after day hasn’t been wasted.”
“People see it.”
“They feel it.”
“That’s exactly why they want to attend your concerts.”
She held Asami’s gaze without looking away.
“Do you understand?”
Her eyes remained fixed on her.
“People aren’t coming just to hear songs.”
“They’re coming to see you.”
“You, as a person.”
“They watch you because they’re trying to gain something from the way you live.”
“From the way you keep moving forward.”
“From the way you continue despite your struggles.”
“That’s what reaches people.”
“That’s what inspires them.”
“Without even realizing it, you’ve discovered a version of yourself that is uniquely yours.”
“And somewhere along the way, you’ve made it a part of who you are.”
The counselor spoke softly.
“It’s almost like an instinct for self-preservation.”
“You have a truly remarkable voice.”
“A voice with the power to draw people in before they even realize it.”
“There is a charm about you that even you don’t seem to recognize.”
She shook her head slightly.
“And that’s not something people can simply imitate.”
Once she began, the counselor’s conviction seemed impossible to stop.
“Please don’t misunderstand me.”
“I’m only telling you what I saw.”
“I’m not trying to flatter you or put you on a pedestal.”
There was a quiet strength behind her words.
Nothing about her tone suggested exaggeration or empty praise.
She sounded sincere.
Asami listened in silence.
But her expression suggested she was ready to argue back at any moment.
Beneath the table, her hands had already curled into tight fists.
She seemed to be enduring something.
Holding herself back.
Her jaw tightened.
Her teeth clenenched together as she fought to suppress the emotions rising within her.
“I imagine the daily schedule of an idol singer must be incredibly demanding.”
The counselor pulled out a document she had apparently prepared herself.
“I tried putting together what I believe would be a typical day for someone in your profession.”
She glanced down at the papers before continuing.
“Public figures like you live under intense schedules. Idol singers, in particular, have to balance live performances, music production, rehearsals, physical conditioning, fan interactions, media appearances, interviews, recordings, and countless other responsibilities.”
She looked back at Asami.
“It’s an exhausting schedule.”
“An overwhelmingly crowded one.”
“And you’ve lived that life for years.”
“You endured it.”
“You accomplished it.”
“There were probably days when you barely had time to sleep.”
“The only rest you got may have been those brief moments dozing off on a tour bus between locations.”
Asami’s expression hardened.
“No.”
The word came out sharply.
“I’m a person who belongs to an organization.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I simply do what I’m told.”
“Like a machine.”
“Like a robot.”
“With precision.”
“Without deviation.”
The counselor remained silent.
Even the emotions expected of an idol are managed by the organization.”
“The smiles.”
“The gratitude.”
“The tears.”
“The words.”
“Everything.”
Asami’s voice grew colder with every sentence.
“What you said earlier couldn’t be more wrong.”
“The person you think you saw on that stage doesn’t exist.”
“Every expression.”
“Every gesture.”
“Every reaction.”
“They were all products manufactured by the system.”
One by one, she dismantled the counselor’s argument.
The praise.
The admiration.
The belief that her performances reflected her true self.
Asami rejected all of it.
Completely.
As if she were determined to overturn every word the counselor had spoken.
“It’s separate from my own consciousness.”
Asami’s voice was calm, but there was a bitterness beneath it.
“‘Do this.'”
“‘Don’t do that.'”
“‘That’s unacceptable.'”
“‘Never say that.'”
“I simply follow the instructions I’m given.”
“Nothing more.”
Her eyes drifted toward the floor.
“Lesson after lesson.”
“Training after training.”
“The same things repeated endlessly until they’re carved into your body.”
“Eventually, it starts to feel like mind control.”
She gave a faint, humorless laugh.
“Delusions have nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t have a will of my own.”
“If I did…”
She hesitated.
“I think I’d break.”
“My mind would.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“It’s easier this way.”
“Easier to do exactly what I’m told.”
“At least then the pain is manageable.”
“If I push back…”
“If I argue…”
“It comes back at me ten times harder.”
Her hands tightened.
“Without pressure from the organization, I can’t bring myself to act.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of being rejected.”
“Afraid of being told I’m wrong.”
“Afraid of facing myself.”
She looked up at the counselor.
“So the person you saw on that stage wasn’t the real me.”
“The things I want to say don’t matter.”
“They’re never accepted.”
“No one listens.”
The counselor remained silent.
Asami continued.
“If I had to describe it…”
“The person on stage is the person I wish I could be.”
She paused, searching for the right words.
“To borrow Jung’s terminology…”
“It’s my Shadow.”
Not the shadow of darkness, but the hidden self she could never fully become.
“The real me imagines that version of herself.”
“And then I perform her.”
“A different Asami.”
“An Asami who can smile without fear.”
“An Asami who can stand before thousands of people.”
“An Asami who says the things I never could.”
For a moment, her gaze seemed distant.
“As strange as it sounds, the idol everyone admires may be closer to who I wanted to become than who I actually am.”
“And so I keep playing her.”
“Again and again.”
“Until even I can’t tell where the performance ends and where I begin.”
“Jung, huh?”
A faint smile appeared on the counselor’s face.
“You know some surprisingly sophisticated psychology.”
“The organization teaches us.”
Asami answered without hesitation.
“If you don’t have knowledge, you’re treated like an idiot.”
“That’s how modern idols are expected to be.”
The counselor tilted her head slightly.
“That’s an interesting choice of words.”
“‘Organization.'”
“Wouldn’t ‘agency’ or ‘production company’ be more accurate?”
She folded her arms.
“What exactly is this ‘organization’ you’re talking about?”
Asami remained silent.
The counselor watched her for a few moments before letting out a small sigh.
“Well, even if I asked right now, you’d probably deny it.”
“And you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Not because you’re being stubborn.”
“Because you genuinely believe you shouldn’t.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“And perhaps even that has nothing to do with your own wishes.”
“Perhaps you’re only repeating what you’ve been taught.”
“What you’ve been conditioned to say.”
“What has been implanted into your thinking.”
The room fell quiet.
Then the counselor picked up a folder from her desk.
“Starting today, you’ll be participating in counseling sessions.”
Asami’s eyes narrowed.
The counselor opened the folder and slid several documents across the desk.
“My goal is to help you recover a sense of who you really are.”
“To help you distinguish your own voice from the voices that have been speaking for you.”
She tapped the schedule with her finger.
“And before you argue—”
A slight smile crossed her lips.
“This is an order.”
“Understood?”
Without waiting for a response, the counselor turned the documents toward Asami.
They contained the schedule that would shape her days from now on.
Counseling sessions.
Psychiatric evaluations.
Medical examinations.
Personal reflection journals.
Group programs.
Interviews.
A carefully structured routine designed not to create an idol—
but to help a person rediscover herself.
Asami remained silent and simply nodded.
To receive treatment for her condition, she was enrolled in the facility’s counseling program.
At the very least, it was better than solitary confinement.
A Wounded Heart Never Returns
（KIZUTUITA Heart WA MODORANAI）
Lyrics: Asami Kurusu & Ayami Hoshino
F / Killer Idol
There are things I just can’t believe in anymore
Love, friendship, bonds — all those pretty words
Every day smolders beneath the surface
A life sharpened by resentment and distrust
I’m sick of hearing people preach their beautiful lies
I’m not calling myself a sharpened knife
But my jagged state of mind
Is certainly a rusted blade
I force myself forward with worn-out courage
A soul wounded by corroded ties
The only thing that heals me
Is the light of the moon
Teacher, tell me how to live
Tell me how to hold my heart
How to keep it in balance
No one ever taught me
How to care for a broken mind
Maybe then
I could learn to face tomorrow
A wounded heart never returns
Wearing cheap clothes
While pretending to be noble
Drawing grand dreams
Across a tiny reality
The feelings hidden inside me
Burn crimson red
Friendships full of thorns
Compassion twisted beyond recognition
Bound by the prison called everyday life
Days when even running away felt forbidden
Countless nights curled up crying alone
Whatever I did
I simply obeyed
Like a stray cat wearing a collar
An empty shell of a body
A stained and weary heart
Tell me…
Teacher, tell me how to live
Tell me how to hold my heart
How to keep it in balance
No one ever taught me
How to care for a broken mind
Maybe then
I could learn to face tomorrow
A wounded heart never returns
© 2024 Ayami Hoshino
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