Shinjuku—one of the busiest commercial districts in Tokyo, a bustling urban hub lined with shopping malls, entertainment centers, and nightlife.
But for most people, the name "Shinjuku" conjures a very specific image—not of high-end shopping or modern convenience, but of its notorious red-light district: Kabukichō.
That's a section tucked into East Shinjuku.
Packed into that area are over 3,000 bars, clubs, love hotels, and other establishments of every imaginable size and style. Walking its streets, you'll see tourists from every corner of the world.
It's not just a haven for heterosexual nightlife. The Ni-chōme area is one of Asia's most famous gay districts, and San-chōme is known for its strong lesbian presence.
When Kitahara Takeru stepped out of Shinjuku Station, he was immediately hit by the crowd.
Men and women of all kinds, dressed in every style imaginable, packed the streets in noisy clusters—even in broad daylight, the whole area was buzzing.
"Takeru! Over here, over here!"
Standing at the subway exit, Takeru turned toward the voice.
He blinked at the sight of a broad-shouldered guy wearing a sleeveless tank, his head wrapped in a bandana, dressed like some kind of vintage punk throwback.
"…What are you wearing?" Takeru asked, bewildered.
Ōtani Shōta looked down at himself and asked in confusion, "What's wrong with it? I saw online that Shibuya gyaru love this kind of look."
"Shibuya gyaru…" Takeru rubbed the bridge of his nose, already developing a headache.
"They don't even dress like normal people themselves. And you trust their taste?"
The gyaru you think of—tall, slim, stylish, irresistibly cute.
The gyaru in reality—caked-on makeup, overdrawn lips, buck teeth, bowlegs… like some rural knockoff of city fashion. Some didn't even hold up to other countries basic girls.
Better not confuse anime gyaru with real-life ones.
Ōtani's confidence began to waver. "Is it really that bad?"
He was just a high school student—not into fashion, didn't care about brands. His parents bought most of his clothes.
He pretty much wore whatever they gave him, with no real opinion of his own.
This outfit? He'd searched for it on Google.
Honestly, it was the same energy as a clueless boyfriend googling "What to get girlfriend for birthday" and picking the first link.
"A bit," Takeru admitted, then softened it. "But that's just my personal opinion."
Who knew? Maybe this kind of look was in with Japanese high school girls right now.
Japanese aesthetics were weird sometimes.
He still couldn't understand the obsession with "glassy skin" and "wet hair makeup." Or why the hell people thought standing pigeon-toed was cute.
"By the way, which school are we meeting today?"
Ōtani said, "Shinkawa High."
"Shinkawa?" The name rang a bell. After a moment, Takeru asked, "Is there a guy named Watanabe Toru at that school?"
Ōtani scratched his head. "Who? Is he famous or something?"
"Just a local heartthrob," Takeru said offhandedly, changing the subject. "Where's Tanaka?"
"He's already at the karaoke entrance. He thought you might get lost, so he sent me to fetch you," Ōtani muttered as he led the way. "Getting you out is such a pain."
"Every time we ask you to hang out, you're either working or on your way to work."
"You're not broke—why the hell do you live like some corporate drone?"
"This is the time in our lives when we should be falling into sweet, youthful romances, enjoying school, and basking in the glow of youth!"
"God gave you that ridiculously handsome face just to work part-time? Do you even know how to use it? No? Then hand it over to me."
Ōtani was getting more heated as he spoke.
If he had Takeru's looks, screw the twelve zodiac signs—he wouldn't die happy until he'd collected a thousand conquests.
Takeru popped open a can of gum he'd bought from the convenience store, tossing two into his mouth. He chewed lazily, smiling. "Is it wrong to not want to taste the bitterness of love?"
Economic foundation determines the superstructure.
Without stable material support, love was nothing but a fantasy castle in the sky. Frankly, high school romance was just hormonal impulse.
Out of a hundred high school couples, maybe one would actually end up married.
Takeru wasn't about to waste his time on something destined to fail.
His plan? Study, work part-time, save money, get into Todai, then either take the civil service exam or join a big corporation.
Sure, like most transmigrators, he had a system. But who could say the system would always be there? What if it vanished someday?
He wasn't the type to put all his eggs in one basket.
He needed a backup plan.
A future where, even if the system disappeared, he could still live comfortably.
"Takeru, Shōta! Over here!"
Ōtani was about to say something else when a voice called out.
The two of them turned and saw a group of five waiting outside a karaoke bar—one guy, four girls.
The girls were dressed boldly, revealing large swaths of pale, bare skin.
But they were all seriously hot—way better looking than your average Shibuya gyaru.
The guy had a close buzz cut, tall and tanned from regular exposure to the sun. Definitely the athletic, "dark-skin sports guy" type.
As for his face… well, let's not talk about it.
Tanaka Kōta walked over and punched Takeru in the chest. "Could you be any slower?"
Takeru glanced at the four-moon-phase watch on his wrist. "We're fifteen minutes early. What's the rush?"
"You should've been here earlier! Don't you see all the girls are already waiting? You're not embarrassed making them wait for you?"
Maybe it was standing in front of so many pretty girls, but Tanaka's usual rough-and-tumble bravado had vanished. Now he was putting on airs, trying to act like a gentleman.
Takeru raised a brow. "Did I ask them to show up early?"
Tanaka shot a glance at the girls and hurriedly pulled Takeru aside, whispering, "Bro, please—just go easy today."
He'd gone all out for this mixer—even dyed his hair green the day before.
If he couldn't land a girl today, all that money he'd dropped on clothes, cologne, and hair products would be for nothing.
Plus, he was done being single.
He didn't care who else wanted to be a sad, lonely bachelor—he was out.
Ōtani chimed in with his own "threat." "Yeah, Takeru-nii, don't make us get on our knees here."
"…Fine."
Seeing the way both of them were practically begging, Takeru couldn't bring himself to push any further.
These two were athletes, deep in the heat of youth, testosterone through the roof.
Guys their age were usually slamming bikes in motel rooms—yet here they were, stuck in their bedrooms, playing hand games with tissues.
Other kids were being cherished in someone's hands. These two just had their hands full—with themselves.
---
T/N: heh dodgers