At 6:20 AM, the attic skylight was still a deep indigo. I woke up ten minutes before my alarm. My heart drummed an irregular beat against my ribs—I couldn't tell if it was anxiety or anticipation.
Everything Miss Reze had demonstrated yesterday played like a revolving lantern in my mind: the rhythm of mopping, the hum of the grinder, and that perfectly measured smile she gave the customers. Lying in bed, I silently rehearsed toward the dim ceiling: "Welcome," "Thank you for waiting," "Thank you for your patronage."
My voice was tiny, audible only to myself. But with every repetition, my fingers curled a little tighter.
At 6:30 AM, I headed downstairs punctually. The key made a soft click in the lock, and the rumble of the rolling shutter felt exceptionally loud in the morning stillness. I took a deep breath, pulled the "Closed" sign away, and flipped it to "Open."
Today, I was the first person in this cafe to wake up.
Cleaning went more smoothly than yesterday. I followed the order Reze had taught me—starting from the innermost corners, using a dry rag to whisk away dust, then a damp one to carefully wipe the edges of every table and the backs of the chairs. As I mopped, I whispered her words: "Use your wrists, not your arms." The mop left even, glistening trails across the floor.
At 7:40 AM, footsteps came from the back door. The manager entered carrying two bags of bread ingredients. Seeing me already wiping the counter, he raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Morning," he said briefly, setting the bags in the kitchen.
"G-good morning, Manager."
He didn't respond, but as he left the kitchen, he paused for a second on the floor I had just mopped. There was a tiny blind spot I'd missed—a patch of gray catching the morning light. My face flushed hot, and I hurried to fix it.
"Check the corners next time," he said before heading up to his office.
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I wasn't scolded. Leaning against the counter to catch my breath, I began clearing the window-side table—where the last group of customers had sat yesterday.
Beneath the leg of the third chair, I found a discarded piece of paper.
It wasn't ordinary paper. It was a poster, the edges a bit wrinkled, but the high quality of the printing was still evident. I crouched down to pick it up and smoothed it out.
It was something I had never seen before.
A shimmering girl with long, tea-brown hair tied in high twin-tails, the tips dyed in a gradient of orange-gold. She wore a sequined skirt and boots, standing in the center of a stage with her hands formed into a heart shape. Her smile was blindingly bright, her eyes curved into crescents, and her pupils were a light amber that looked like melted honey under the lights. At the bottom of the poster, lively decorative script read:
"Rin Tsukishima—Lighting up your every day with song!"
I stared blankly. The stage lights cast a halo around her, and below was a sea of glowsticks held by a dark mass of spectators. She looked so happy, so confident, as if the entire world was meant to love her.
And there I was, crouching in an empty cafe in the early morning, holding this abandoned poster.
On some strange impulse, I didn't throw it in the trash. I folded it once, then again, until it was a small square, and tucked it into my pocket. The fabric bulged slightly against my thigh.
I didn't know why I did it.
At eight o'clock sharp, the wind chime jingled.
When Reze pushed the door open, she brought with her the morning chill and a faint, citrus-like fragrance. Today she wore a light gray turtleneck sweater, her hair in a low ponytail with a few stray strands framing her face.
"Morning." She nodded to me, her eyes scanning the shop. "The floor looks good."
Those few words allowed the heart that had been dangling in my throat all morning to drop halfway back into place.
"The aprons are under the counter; the dark blue one is yours," Reze said, briskly tidying her sleeves. "Today, you'll handle the simple stuff: clearing tables after customers leave, restocking sugar and creamer, and washing cups. I'll take orders and make the coffee. Watch me."
"Okay."
At 8:15 AM, the first customer entered.
An elderly woman in her sixties, wearing a high-quality beige coat and carrying a grocery basket. She walked straight to the second window seat—the one occupied by a mother and daughter yesterday afternoon.
"Good morning, Mrs. Fujiwara," Reze greeted, already walking over with a glass of warm water. "The usual hot black tea?"
"Yes, a bit stronger today," the woman said, taking off her glasses to wipe them. "I didn't sleep well last night."
"Understood." Reze turned to me and lowered her voice. "Mrs. Fujiwara. She comes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. Always this seat, hot black tea, strength depends on her mood. She doesn't like to be disturbed—just drop it off and leave."
I nodded vigorously, watching Reze brew the tea at the bar. She warmed the pot with hot water, added the leaves, and lifted her wrist high when pouring the water, creating a beautiful arc. Three minutes later, she strained the tea, placed it on a tray with a small cookie, and handed it to me.
"Go on," she whispered.
My hands were shaking. When I reached the table, I tried to mimic Reze's tone, whispering, "Y-your black tea."
Mrs. Fujiwara looked up, peering at me through her reading glasses. "New?"
"Y-yes."
"Name?"
"Hong Xin."
She nodded and said nothing more. I set the tea down and fled back behind the counter, my palms slick with sweat.
"Pass," Reze said, a hint of a smile in her voice.
From nine to ten was the rush hour for office workers. Men and women in suits hurried in, ordered takeaway coffee, and hurried out. A short line formed at the counter.
I stood beside Reze, watching her operate two coffee machines simultaneously. Her movements were as fluid as an assembly line, yet possessed a strange rhythm—the hum of the grinder, the hiss of the steam wand, the splash of milk into the steel pitchers. All these sounds merged into a melody in her hands.
"Medium latte to go!" "Americano, for here!" "Cappuccino, extra shot!"
The orders came one after another. I scrambled to help, putting on lids, sticking on labels, and giving change. Once, I almost grabbed the wrong coffee, but Reze's hand shot out just in time, pressing the cup back in place.
"Label," she said, just a single word.
I looked at the cup—the label said "Yamada," but the customer in front of me was a woman. My face instantly burned.
"I'm sorry!"
"Check the label before you hand it over next time." Reze didn't scold me. She turned to the customer with a dazzling smile. "Thank you for waiting; here is your Caramel Macchiato. The foam is exceptionally velvety today."
The crisis was averted. The customer left satisfied.
In the brief lull, Reze said to me, "It's better to be a little slow. Messing up a cup during the rush is a real nightmare."
Around 10:30 AM, when the tide of office workers had completely receded and the shop regained its quiet, a special customer pushed through the door.
It was a white-haired old man who walked with a bit of a shuffle. You could tell he had once been a large man—his shoulders were broad and his arms thick—but his back was severely hunched. He stood at the door for a long time after entering, his eyes scanning every corner of the shop as if confirming something, or perhaps remembering.
Reze's expression changed.
The efficient, lively persona she used for the rush hour melted away, replaced by a kind of… strained tenderness. She walked over, her voice very soft. "Ah, Mr. Yamaguchi, you've come."
"Mm… the usual spot." The old man's voice was raspy, like sandpaper on wood.
"Third window seat, I know." Reze supported him as they walked slowly, her movements as careful as if she were handling fine china. Her hand braced his elbow, and she matched his shuffling pace perfectly.
Once he was settled, she returned to the counter. Without asking me, she set about brewing a very light green tea—the liquid was almost transparent, like melted jade. She then picked two of the softest chiffon cakes from the display and carefully cut them into small, bite-sized pieces. As she cut, her brow was slightly furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I watched with bated breath. Reze's movements were so gentle, so focused; she was a completely different person from the girl who had just navigated the morning crowd.
"Who is he…?" I couldn't help but whisper.
"Mr. Yamaguchi, an old regular," Reze whispered back. "After his wife passed away, he started coming once a week to sit in the spot they always shared. He doesn't talk; he just sits there, drinks his tea, and leaves."
She picked up the tray and walked over. Setting down the tea and cake, she gently patted the old man's shoulder. "Please enjoy."
The old man raised his clouded eyes and gave Reze a faint smile, like the final ember of a dying fire. Then, his gaze fell on me.
Unexpectedly, Reze's body seemed to tense for a split second. It was fleeting—barely a fraction of a second—but I saw it. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the tray until her knuckles turned white.
The old man simply nodded to me, then turned back to stare at the street outside.
Reze walked back to the counter, her exhale very soft. She began washing the teapot, the water running so low it was almost silent.
I felt like I understood something, yet I felt more confused than ever.
At noon, the shop had only a few scattered customers. Reze began teaching me the daily maintenance of the espresso machine.
"The group head needs to be backflushed twice a day, once in the morning and once at night." She removed the filter and used a specialized brush to scrub every hole. "Residual coffee oils oxidize, and the flavor turns sour."
She demonstrated how to froth milk with the steam wand. "The angle has to be right to let the air in evenly. Hear that 'tss-tss' sound? It needs to be steady, not intermittent."
I leaned in close and heard a subtle, rhythmic sound, like a gentle inhalation.
"You try."
I took the pitcher. My hand twitched, the angle of the steam wand was wrong, and it sprayed a mess of foam accompanied by a piercing screech.
"Stop." Reze pressed my hand. "Again."
The second time was better. By the third, I could almost find the rhythm. When I finally produced a pitcher of marginally acceptable foam, Reze nodded. "Remember that feeling. Muscle memory is more reliable than your brain."
I held the steam wand, my palm still feeling the slight heat left by the steam.
Learning to froth milk really did seem to suit me better than studying. At least my hands could remember what to do, unlike my brain, which went blank whenever I faced those twisted kanji.
I thought of my sister again. Was she still being hit? Was my father still forcing her to study for university? What about the others?
I didn't know. I didn't even know if my family had noticed I was gone.
I shook my head, pushing those thoughts away.
The afternoon passed slowly. Customers came in twos and threes—mostly housewives for afternoon tea or people running errands nearby.
At 4:00 PM, the shop was completely empty. The sunlight began to tilt, casting long golden bands across the wooden floor.
Reze checked the clock on the wall, looked at the empty shop, and suddenly said, "Hungry?"
I blinked, nodding honestly.
"Let's go." She untied her apron. "I'm taking you for ramen."
"N-now?" I looked toward the upstairs office hesitantly.
"Hardly anyone comes in at this hour." Reze was already grabbing her jacket. "The manager is probably hiding somewhere slacking off himself."
Just then, footsteps came from the stairs. The manager appeared with a teacup. Seeing us ready to leave, he raised an eyebrow.
"Skipping work?"
"Not at all, Boss. We're just… recharging to improve our efficiency for the evening shift." Reze's face changed in an instant. "We'll be back before 5:30."
The manager snorted and took a sip of tea. "I don't pay you to take people on strolls."
Just as I thought he would refuse, he continued: "…But if you're going, the chashu bowls at Yukihira-ya are better than the ramen. Don't get anything spicy; their chili oil is mediocre."
With that, he went back upstairs, leaving me and Reze staring at each other.
"Does that count as… permission?" I whispered.
"That's just his style." Reze smiled and pushed the door open. "Let's go."
Yukihira-ya was a tiny ramen shop with only seven or eight counter seats. At this hour, we were the only customers. The steam from the boiling noodles mingled with the rich aroma of pork bone broth.
We sat in the corner. Reze ordered soy sauce ramen and a chashu bowl with practiced ease.
"What will you have?" she asked me.
I looked at the menu on the wall. The complex katakana made my eyes spin. Finally, I just pointed at the simplest picture. "This… soy sauce ramen."
While we waited, the atmosphere grew a bit delicate. In the cafe, we were "senior" and "junior," with clear roles. But here, sitting at a greasy counter listening to the water boil in the kitchen, those boundaries blurred.
The ramen arrived quickly. In the thick ceramic bowl, fine droplets of oil floated on the surface of the broth. The noodles were neatly arranged in the center, topped with two thin slices of chashu, half a soft-boiled egg, a few sheets of nori, and a handful of scallions.
"Itadakimasu." Reze folded her hands and then picked up her chopsticks.
I mimicked her, clumsily picking up the noodles. With the first bite, the rich umami of the soy sauce and the depth of the pork bone exploded in my mouth. It was so hot I almost spat it out, but I couldn't bear to—it was delicious.
"Eat slowly, no one's going to steal it," Reze said, her voice laced with amusement.
Embarrassed, I slowed down. After finishing half the bowl, I finally dared to look up. Reze ate far more gracefully than I did, but her pace was no slower.
Sensing my gaze, she put down her chopsticks. "What is it?"
"N-nothing." I shook my head quickly, then mustered the courage to ask, "Miss Reze… why do you work here?"
Reze was silent for a while, staring at the rising steam. The mist blurred her deep green eyes.
"A girl's gotta eat. When I saw this place, I felt like it needed the 'right' person to keep it running." She tilted her head, her tone drifting. "And it's not that tiring. Once you've gotten the hang of it, I can slack off even more."
Her words sounded light and practical, but as her gaze lingered on the steam, it seemed she wasn't looking at the present, but at something far away.
"Then… what did Miss Reze do before coming to Tokyo?" I asked cautiously, then immediately added, "If it's inconvenient to say…"
"Worked some odd jobs, saw some places." She withdrew her gaze and took a sip of tea, her tone returning to its usual brightness as she neatly shifted the topic. "But compared to my story, you're quite the surprise."
"Eh?"
"You looked so nervous, like you couldn't do anything right," she said, looking at me. "But today, you remembered Mrs. Fujiwara's red tea and Mr. Yamaguchi's green tea. Even the habits of the other customers—not everyone is willing to bother with those things."
I looked down, poking the soft-boiled egg with my chopsticks. "Because… because I feel like this is the only thing I can do well."
"The only thing?"
"Yes," I whispered. "I'm no good at school, I'm no good with words, and I was always a burden at home. But here… mopping, washing cups, remembering what people like to drink… I can manage those things. And if I do them well, someone has a slightly better morning. If I mess up, their day starts a little bit wrong."
I took a deep breath and continued: "Everything I do connects me to others. I can… help people."
I wasn't just an isolated shadow performing a joke no one cared about in the dark.
Once I finished, I felt like I had said too much, and my face suddenly flared.
But Reze didn't laugh. She just watched me, something shifting in those deep green eyes—something complex that I couldn't read.
After a long moment, she finally spoke. "You know, I'm actually quite happy doing this too."
"Making coffee for people, chatting with them, listening to their stories."
She smiled at me. It was a faint smile, like a sliver of moonlight peeking through the clouds.
"Sometimes it lets me catch my breath and forget about… some bad things."
Neither of us spoke again. The sound of boiling water and the rhythmic chopping from the kitchen filled the silence.
Only in my pocket, the sharp corner of the folded poster pressed against my thigh like a tiny, stubborn heartbeat.
After the meal, Reze and I parted ways at the shop door.
"See you tomorrow." She waved and turned into the deepening twilight. Her silhouette was quickly swallowed by the street, like a drop of water into the ocean.
I stood there, looking at the empty street. The evening wind was cool, swirling the fallen leaves on the ground. The poster in my pocket rubbed against my leg with every movement, its presence abrupt and persistent.
I didn't know why I kept it.
Just as I didn't know why, when looking at Miss Reze's face in the ramen shop, I felt a surge of envy so strong it nearly overwhelmed me—envy of her composure, her ease with others, and how she seemed naturally worthy of being treated with tenderness.
While I was just a shadow hiding behind an apron, a shadow who couldn't even read the menu.
The convenience store late at night was always quiet. The lights were pale, the shelves were orderly, and only the refrigerated cases made a low hum.
A small TV hung on the wall in the seating area, playing a late-night idol variety show as free background noise. The music had a powerful beat, and the stage lights were dazzling. A girl I didn't recognize was dancing on stage, her smile radiant, every turn scattering reflections from her sequins.
I sat down, tore open the wrapper of a rice ball, and took a bite. The rice was a bit hard, and the salmon filling was pitifully sparse.
Yet my eyes couldn't leave the TV.
The girl on screen—a girl with pinkish-blue hair in twin-tails—was making a heart sign toward the camera. Below her was a sea of glowsticks. The cheers almost blew out the TV speakers:
"Airi—! Airi—!"
Her smile was so bright, so confident, as if all the world's lights were meant for her. As if she were born to be watched, loved, and affirmed like that.
I watched as I mechanically chewed the dry rice ball.
Then, my hand reached into my pocket again and pulled out the poster.
Under the pale convenience store lights, I unfolded it and spread it on the table. The creases were deep, leaving two white lines across Rin Tsukishima's face, but her smile was still radiant, her amber eyes curved like crescents, and her tea-brown twin-tails shimmered under the stage lights.
I looked at the poster, then back at the TV.
The girl on TV was receiving a bouquet from a fan, clutching it to her chest with an expression that looked like she might cry from the emotion.
On the poster, Rin Tsukishima made her heart sign, as if saying, "I love you."
Suddenly, I understood.
I understood why I had picked up this abandoned poster, why I had folded it and tucked it away, and why I was sitting here alone after Reze had left, staring at these glittering, radiant strangers who had nothing to do with me.
Because I craved it.
I craved to be looked at like that— I craved to be affirmed like that— I craved to be someone like that—
I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be loved by many, many people. I wanted to be a person worthy of being loved.
Bzzzt—
Just then, the TV screen flickered violently.
It wasn't the static of a bad signal, but the colors warping and flowing like melting wax. The stage lights blurred into smears of color, and the music's beat stretched and distorted into a piercing, buzzing electronic noise. The idol in the image suddenly froze like a broken doll, stuck in a mid-reach pose.
Then, with an unnaturally stiff, jointed movement, her head turned frame-by-frame toward the screen.
She was looking directly at me.
I still had a mouthful of rice ball, but my breathing stopped.
On that perfect idol face, the corners of the mouth slowly split toward her ears. It wasn't the natural movement of human muscles, but as if invisible hands were pulling the corners of her mouth apart. It grew wider and wider, more and more exaggerated, until it formed a massive, rigid, non-human grin. The corners nearly reached her cheekbones, revealing a bottomless darkness behind them.
In the convenience store, an office worker pulling an all-nighter stared at his phone, blue light reflecting off his face; a student with headphones on napped, his head nodding; the clerk mechanically wiped the counter, the rag squeaking against the glass.
No one looked up. No one noticed.
Only me.
The TV screen seemed to turn into viscous water, ripples spreading from the center. A hand—pale to the point of transparency, with fingers far too long—emerged from the middle of the screen. The nails were painted with glittering lacquer, but the edges were peeling away to reveal a dull color beneath, like withered petals.
Then came the arm, the shoulder, and the entire body.
A presence slowly crawled out of the television. It wore an idol outfit similar to the one on the show but more ornate and dilapidated, covered in sequins—half shining like stars, half dull as dust. The hem of the skirt was scorched black and curled, hung with tiny crystals that jingled with its movements. It was shrouded in an unstable, glitching halo that made its silhouette blur. Its face was completely unrecognizable, like it was covered in heavy mosaic, leaving only that ear-to-ear grin, clear enough to be sickening.
It "stood" before the screen, its body appearing to pass through the shelves of instant noodles and snacks. The pale fluorescent lights of the store couldn't seem to illuminate it; light curved and escaped around it. It was like a hole in reality that shouldn't exist.
Then, a voice rang out directly in my mind.
It didn't come through my ears; it vibrated against my cerebral cortex. The voice was a blend of deafening stage speakers, the background roar of thousands of fanatical fans, and a more primal rustle, like many people whispering at once:
"It's painful, isn't it…?"
My body froze.
"That craving… it's painful, right?" the voice continued, with a sweet, empathetic rhythm, like a best friend's late-night confession. "Wanting to be loved, wanting to be seen, wanting to prove you're worthy… yet always hiding in a corner, waiting for others to toss you a scrap of attention."
"I can help you." The voice grew softer, closer, almost like my own internal monologue. "I can lend you a 'shell'—an image that is born to be loved. You don't need to change yourself. You don't need to work hard to become better… just put it on, and the world will automatically be kind to you."
Behind it, the image on the TV changed. It was no longer the variety stage, but blurry scenes shifting past: an elegant woman with long, silvery-white hair being greeted kindly by passersby on the street, receiving a rose from a stranger in a cafe, being surrounded by laughing children at sunset…
The woman's face was never clear, but she had a strange familiarity—as if she were a collection of Rin Tsukishima, Airi, and every desire I possessed. Taller, more elegant, more composed, more… worthy of love.
"Experience it for one day. It's free." The devil's voice was a whisper sliding through my thoughts. "No contract, no price. Just… feel it."
The "her" on the screen—that blurry face—turned and gave me a perfect, flawless smile.
"Go and see what it tastes like to be 'loved by the world.' Perhaps it will help you…" the voice paused, carrying a tenderness that bordered on pity, "to better understand how to hold onto the warmth you have now, won't it? After all, if you don't even believe you're worthy of love… how can you truly accept the love others give you?"
My heart thundered in my chest, slamming against my ribs until it hurt. Fear made me want to run, but my feet were nailed to the floor.
Yes. I was afraid.
The happier I was, the more I feared losing it. The more tenderly I was treated, the more I wanted to be "better," more "worthy."
And if I couldn't even believe I was qualified to be loved… how could I calmly accept her kindness?
The "her" on the screen held out a hand. It was pale and long, the nail polish peeling and mottled, but the gesture was elegant and inviting.
I looked at that pale hand and thought of Reze's hands—the ones with thin calluses, the ones that were always so warm. The extreme contradiction almost tore me apart.
The devil's presence grew stronger. A scent of cheap perfume, sweat, electricity, and a sickly-sweet rot permeated the air, like rotting fruit on a sweltering summer afternoon. The lights of the convenience store seemed to dim, and the shadows between the shelves grew long and twisted.
Under its invisible gaze and that fatal temptation, my fragile, newly built sliver of confidence crumbled silently, like a sandcastle pierced by water.
I… just… if it's only for one day…
That thought, like a poisonous seed, fell into the soil of my heart.
I didn't nod, and I didn't shake my head. I just looked at the hand reaching for me, at the perfect "her" on the screen, and at Rin Tsukishima's radiant smile.
My throat was dry; my palms were sweaty.
Then, very lightly, I blinked.
At that exact moment—
"Welcome—"
The abrupt electronic chirp of the automatic door rang out, the mechanical female voice devoid of emotion. A gust of night air rushed in, dispelling the sickly-sweet rot. A middle-aged man in a tracksuit walked in yawning, heading straight for the beer in the refrigerated case.
The clerk looked up and said formally, "Good evening."
As if a restart button had been pressed, everything suddenly returned to normal.
The distorted image on the TV vanished, turning back into an ordinary variety show—another idol was singing, her smile standard, her movements perfect. The music beat was strong, and the glowsticks swayed below.
The "presence" that had crawled out of the screen, the devil with the non-human grin—it was gone.
The space before the shelves was empty. The sweet rot in the air had vanished, replaced by the typical convenience store smell.
I stood there, still clutching the poster. The paper was crushed into a ball in my grip, Rin Tsukishima's face warped and twisted.
Was it a hallucination?
The middle-aged man took his beer to the counter. The clerk scanned it, bagged it, and gave him change. Everything was so normal it was suffocating.
I shoved the poster into my pocket and practically ran for the door. My steps were clumsy, and I knocked into a magazine rack, sending weeklies fluttering to the floor.
"Sorry! I'm sorry!" I apologized blindly, not looking back as I burst through the door.
The electronic voice called out behind me: "Thank you for your patronage—"
The cold night air filled my lungs, stinging. I jogged all the way back to the cafe, and it took three tries before the key fit into the lock.
Inside, it was pitch black. I leaned against the door, gasping for air, my heart racing.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the poster. In the darkness, I could only feel its outline.
If… if I had accepted that "shell," even if just for one day—
What would I have become? Would people smile at me? Would someone speak to me first? Would the way Miss Reze looked at me be different?
Then I shook my head violently, throwing the thought away.
No. I couldn't think about it. It was the devil's lure. I knew it; the textbooks taught it—devils use what you crave most to entice you, then take everything away when you are at your happiest.
But… what if it was only for one day? What if there was no price?
The thought coiled around me like a vine, tightening.
I crawled up from the floor, went to the restroom, and turned on the light. In the mirror, I was pale, with deep dark circles under my eyes, messy hair, and cracked lips. This was me.
If… if I could become a little more elegant, a little more confident, a little more worthy of being loved…
I turned on the tap and scrubbed my face hard with cold water. The water was icy, making my skin sting.
"Wake up," I said to myself in the mirror. "You are Hong Xin. You have a job, a room, and Reze's kindness. That's enough."
But was it really enough?
The question echoed in my mind.
I turned off the light, lay back in bed, and stared at the sky through the skylight. The Tokyo night never showed stars, only clouds stained red by the neon.
If… just if…
I closed my eyes and buried my face in the pillow.
I had to wake up early tomorrow. To open the doors, to clean, to brew coffee, and to work with Reze.
This was my reality. The reality I had to hold onto.
As for that temptation… I would lock it away in tonight's darkness.
Could I keep it locked?
I didn't know.
I only knew that when I looked at that perfect "her" on the screen, for one moment—truly just one moment—
I wished I could become someone like that.
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My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Chainsaw Man : The Chainsaw Man World Doesn't Need a Perfect Idol (14 Chapters – Ongoing)
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