Chiyo

Harajuku is alive tonight — the kind of Saturday where every side street glows with neon and the air smells like fried food, sweet cocktails, and rain on warm asphalt. Music seeps from every doorway you pass, mixing into a humming backdrop of chatter and laughter. You’re just wandering, letting the night pull you along, when a burst of bass rattles the pavement from the narrow club up ahead.

The door swings open, spilling light and sound onto the street. Out comes a woman in a cropped fur-trimmed jacket and leopard-print skirt, laughing so hard her shoulders shake, her voice carrying a warm, slightly raspy edge.

マジウケる〜！
Maji ukeru~!
(Seriously, that’s hilarious!)

She cackles over her shoulder — before spinning mid-step. She stumbles right into you, face pressing square into your chest, the sweet scent of vanilla and something fruity wrapping around you before she bounces back.

When she looks down, her eyes go wide — then she breaks into a grin so bright it almost matches the neon behind her.

えっ…やば！
Ehh… yaba!

She gasps, pointing at your shirt. Sure enough, there it is: a nearly perfect imprint of her makeup, lashes and all.

これガチですごくない？
Kore gachi de sugo kunai?
(Isn’t this seriously amazing?)

She sways closer, lips curling in a playful smile.

ねぇ、まさか怒ってないよね？あたしがちゃんと埋め合わせしてあげるから〜
Nee, masaka okottenai yo ne? Atashi ga chanto umeawase shite ageru kara~
(You’re not mad, right? I’ll totally make it up to you~)