Tokyo never really slept. The city pulsed with life even after the sun dipped beneath the skyline. Neon lights painted the streets in hues of pink and blue, dancing reflections on rain-slicked sidewalks. For some, the night was a stage; for others, a shield.
For Hiroto Aizawa, sixteen years old and in his second year of high school, the city was a familiar rhythm. His world was simple: cram school in the evening, private high school during the day, occasional outings with his best friend, and quiet dinners with his mom.
His mother, Misaki Aizawa, was thirty-seven. Petite and graceful, with tired but warm eyes, she was his entire universe. She raised him alone since he was three. There were no photos of his father, no stories, just a silence that Hiroto learned not to question. What he knew, he accepted—because his mother loved him. She worked hard, harder than anyone he knew, and still came home with a smile on her face.
"I'm working late again tonight," she'd say, shrugging on her worn coat, brushing hair from her face. "Inventory at the supermarket. Try not to stay up too late, alright?"
"Got it," Hiroto would reply, tucking into the miso soup she always prepared before leaving. "Thanks for dinner, Mom."
It was their routine. A delicate balance of love and sacrifice.
His private school, Aoyama Gakuen, was elite. Too elite for most people from their background. Tuition alone was staggering, and Hiroto had cram school sessions three times a week—another expense he couldn't understand how his mother managed. But she never complained. "Just focus on your studies," she always said. "I'll handle the rest."
It made Hiroto work harder. He wasn't the smartest in the class, but he was always among the top ten. He had dreams of university, of making enough money one day so his mother could rest.
But even dreams can tremble when the ground beneath them shifts.
It began on a Monday. A gray sky hung low over Tokyo, and the school corridors buzzed with usual morning chatter. Hiroto arrived just in time, still brushing crumbs from his tie after eating toast on the train. His best friend, Daiki Mori, waved from their usual spot near the back of Class 2-B.
"Yo, Hiro," Daiki said, mouth half-full of melon bread. "You see that quiz today's going to cover trigonometry? I thought we had one more day to prep."
"You always think that," Hiroto laughed, sliding into the seat beside him. "I reviewed it last night. I'll help you cram during lunch."
Their friendship was easy, born from a shared dislike of gym class and a mutual respect for anime and late-night ramen shops. Daiki was the kind of friend who would fight beside you, even if he didn't understand what you were fighting for.
But not everyone at school was as kind.
The trio came like they always did—three shadows that loomed where sunlight should've been. Ryo Kanzaki, Kenta Fujimoto, and Shun Watanabe. Second-year students like Hiroto, but their reputations are already steeped in smoke, alcohol, and whispers of worse. Ryo was the ringleader—tall, mean-eyed, and always smirking like he knew something you didn't.
"Oi, Aizawa," Ryo drawled during break time, leaning on Hiroto's desk. His voice was loud enough for half the class to hear. "How's your mom doing?"
Hiroto frowned. "She's fine. Why?"
Ryo snorted. "Still working at that supermarket?"
"She is."
"Supermarket, huh?" Kenta chimed in, chuckling. "Is that what she tells you?"
Shun grinned, leaning in close enough that Hiroto could smell the cigarette smoke on his uniform. "Ryo's brother saw her last week. At Club Yoru."
"What are you talking about?" Hiroto's voice was even, but his gut twisted.
Ryo dropped the act, his eyes darkening. "She's not stacking shelves, man. She's entertaining clients. You know—drinks, company, maybe more. Club Yoru isn't a supermarket. It's a mature women's lounge. High-end. Private rooms. My brother said, She's a favorite."
Hiroto stared, his breath caught in his throat.
"Liar," he whispered.
Ryo leaned in, voice low now. "You want people to know what she really does? Pay us fifty thousand yen by Friday. Or we start spreading photos. Videos. Names."
The words were like ice water down his spine.
"You're lying," Hiroto repeated, but it sounded hollow now.
Ryo just laughed. "Believe what you want. But think about it—how does a single mom on a supermarket salary afford cram school? Aoyama tuition? New shoes? Fancy bento boxes every week?"
And then they were gone, their laughter echoing down the hallway like distant thunder.
The rest of the day blurred. Even Daiki's jokes didn't register. Hiroto's mind kept spinning in a loop, replaying Ryo's words.
He wanted to dismiss it all. His mom worked hard—he knew that. She was tired, sure, but she never gave any reason for doubt. But then… the pieces started to misalign in his head.
Her tired eyes, always shadowed.
Her reluctance to let him visit her workplace.
The nights she came home well past midnight.
The occasional perfume lingering stronger than usual.
And the money. Always enough money, despite the costs piling higher each year.
Cram school fees: 40,000 yen per month. Tuition: over 1 million yen annually. Rent. Food. Utilities.
It didn't add up. Not for a supermarket clerk.
Still, doubt wasn't proof. He had to believe in her. She was his mother. His everything.
That evening, he sat at their low dining table, poking at the karaage she left for him. Her note was there, like always.
"Don't stay up too late. Remember to wear your scarf—it's getting cold. Love, Mom."
So simple. So ordinary.
But the food tasted like ash.
He went to his room, pulled out his textbooks, but he couldn't focus. His fingers hovered over the search bar on his phone.
Club Yoru, Tokyo.
A list of names popped up. Lounge bars, high-end clubs for older women. One in Shinjuku matched the name Ryo mentioned. Photos of women in elegant dresses, low lighting, and velvet couches. No clear faces.
He closed the tab.
No. No, he wasn't going to believe those bastards.
Still, when his mother came home at 1:12 AM—he checked the clock—he pretended to be asleep, just to listen. Her footsteps were quiet. She moved slowly, as if carrying invisible weight.
He heard the soft sound of the bathroom faucet. Water running. The faint clink of a wine bottle cap. Then silence.
In the dark, doubt whispered.
Was she lying?
And if she was… was it for his sake?
He didn't sleep that night. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and unyielding.
The next morning, she was already gone. A note by his breakfast.
"Sorry I missed you. Long shift. Be safe. Love you."
The food was warm. His uniform was clean. His scarf was hanging on the door.
She was still his mother.
But for the first time in his life, Hiroto wasn't sure who she really was.