COLD HEART in NEWYORK: Chapter 10

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Whether it was the bad condition of the roads or just cheap car seats, the taxi rattled and bounced as it drove. It was dark outside. Akizawa had no idea where they were or how far they'd come. They seemed to be going quite fast—under the streetlights, fragments of scenery whipped past like strips of film.

The driver was a swarthy man with a beard. Probably Arab. After asking for their destination, he hadn’t said a word. It was cold enough outside to expect snow, yet the car’s interior was so overheated that the back of his neck was starting to sweat. He wanted the temperature turned down a bit, but didn’t know how to ask—and it felt like too much of a hassle, so he kept quiet.

He’d been attending English lessons for nearly four months now and still couldn’t speak a word. He hated anything that smelled like “studying” to begin with. Kuma had told him, “Once a week isn’t enough. You have to be more committed if you want results.”

He could memorize lines after reading them once, but somehow foreign sounds just wouldn’t stick in his mind.

The side window felt cold and pleasant when he touched it. Through the frosty glass, he saw the porch lights of houses tucked behind thick gardens. The glow from windows in five- or six-story apartment buildings. Maybe Masahiko lives in one of those. No—he does. He had to. I want to see him. I want to see him right now. I want to see his face.

In the back seat beside him, Kuma checked his watch.

“About thirty more minutes to the hotel, I’d say. Could take longer if there’s traffic, but it’s late, so the roads should be clear. I know it’s been a long flight—you’re probably exhausted, but just hang in there a little longer.”

As he spoke, Kuma pulled a tablet from his business bag.

“You’ll probably want to rest as soon as we get to the hotel, so let’s go over tomorrow’s schedule now. You’ve got an interview with Cinema Day at ten a.m. Hair and makeup’s at eight-thirty, in the hotel. The shoot’s happening at Central Park—they’re picking a location with good scenery. They’re planning to focus the interview on your role as Ryosuke Mukaidani in The Cat and the Butterfly, which comes out this summer. That should wrap around one o’clock, and then at three you’ve got a wardrobe fitting and a meeting about the LION shoot at Rogue headquarters in Lower Manhattan.”

“Am I free after that?”

“Yes,” Kuma replied, putting the tablet back in his bag.

“This will be my first time handling an overseas fashion magazine job, so I’m not too sure how long it’ll take, but it’s estimated to be about two hours.”

Ever since he found out Masahiko was alive and living in New York, he’d had to wait two whole months before coming to America. That was because of the filming for Ricchan and the Rain. He’d wanted to throw it all away and jump on a plane that very moment, but Numata had seemingly anticipated that and hidden his passport.

Even when Akizawa insisted he’d cancel the role to go, Numata had said, “CRUX is co-sponsoring Ricchan and the Rain. You’d be causing real problems if you bailed.”

“You think someone would be happy to see you after you neglected a CRUX-supported project just to show up on their doorstep?”

His father knew all too well how to control him—how to keep him from bolting.

“Finish the movie first. Then I’ll make sure you get a decent chunk of time off. Just hang in there.”

That was how he’d been talked into it—grudgingly. Just as promised, he’d been given a little over two weeks off after the film shoot, but someone had managed to sneak a film magazine interview into the schedule. The job with LION, the American men’s fashion magazine, had been set in advance—but he hadn’t heard a thing about the movie magazine. He’d almost wanted to cancel out of spite, but the interviewer was someone he liked—someone who always wrote kind, respectful articles. He couldn’t just blow it off. The thought that even that might have been calculated made his blood boil.

He’d endured, and endured… and finally set foot in America. He wanted to start looking for Masahiko that very night, but he wasn’t free until the evening of the following day. He’s in the same city, and I still can’t go see him… That thought alone made him feel like clawing at the walls.

“I want to swing by SoHo before we get to the hotel.”

Kuma glanced at him.

“Just to drive past, or do you want to stop?”

“I just want to walk a little.”

It was in SoHo that Fava Bean said she’d seen Masahiko. He knew, of course, that Masahiko wouldn’t just be sitting there like a statue waiting for him. Still, he wanted to stand in the same place where his lover’s presence had once been. Just to feel it.

“It’s past midnight. It could be dangerous. You’ve got a full ten days off after the LION shoot the day after tomorrow—you’ll have plenty of time to look for him then.”

“But…”

“You want to go to SoHo because that’s where someone saw Kusuda-san, right?”

Kuma knew. He knew Akizawa had come to New York to spend his time off trying to reunite with a lover who had lied to him and run away.

“Instead of wandering around aimlessly, I think you’ll have a better chance of tracking him down if you wait until after your work’s done and go to the CRUX storefront. Talk to the staff there. That’ll be more efficient.”

Kuma was right. Akizawa knew that. But his thoughts were still buzzing, unsettled.

“…Fine. I don’t have to get out of the car. Just drive past it.”

“Understood,” Kuma said, then leaned forward and spoke to the driver. The Arab man responded curtly, but to Akizawa’s ears, it didn’t even sound like English. Kuma kept trying, speaking multiple times, but at some point, the driver’s voice rose sharply and took on a prickly tone.

“I’m sorry,” Kuma said with a stiff expression, turning to Akizawa. “I’ve tried telling him multiple times that we’d like to take a detour past SoHo on the way to the Midtown hotel, but he doesn’t understand. His English is broken and heavily accented—I can’t make out what he’s saying. He seems really angry now and has stopped responding. There’s nothing more I can do. So we’re going straight to the hotel as originally planned.”

Akizawa knew he couldn’t negotiate with the driver himself. And now, even this small wish—to just pass by SoHo—was denied him. Frustrated, he sank deep into the seat, lips drawn into a tight pout.

“I really am sorry,” Kuma said again.

Akizawa didn’t reply. He just closed his eyes. Then it struck him—since there was no time difference, Masahiko’s night had begun, too. He’s probably already asleep. Letting himself sink into the rough sway of the taxi, Akizawa let that thought carry him through the darkness.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Clothes hung on racks, shelves crammed with shoes and bags—surrounded by a fortress of high-end brands, the room looked like a wardrobe stronghold. Tucked into a corner of the closet room—about eight tatami mats in size (roughly 13 square meters)—inside the LION editorial department, Akizawa sat on a chair nestled between two racks, sipping coffee from a café takeaway cup.

Just diagonally in front of him, two foreigners were locked in a fiery verbal clash. The Black man in a striped shirt and glasses was the stylist, Andrew. The curvier blonde woman in a bright blue dress was the style director, Karen.

They didn’t care who was watching—they bared their emotions with no restraint. Even Akizawa, who’d often been called “a free spirit” himself, was inwardly shrinking back from the intensity. The atmosphere between the two was so suffocating, it left no room to breathe. He almost wished he could turn into one of the silent wardrobe pieces and just vanish.

A young Hispanic man in a white sweater, his long hair tied back, rushed in holding a laptop and said something hurriedly. Andrew pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a dramatic “Oh!”

It was clear that some sort of trouble had arisen, but Kuma—the one meant to interpret—was nowhere to be seen.

They had arrived at Rogue’s headquarters, met with Andrew and Karen at the LION magazine office, exchanged introductions, and were en route to the closet room when Kuma had excused himself and disappeared into the restroom… and hadn’t returned.

Akizawa hadn’t eaten anything that morning. With the time difference and the adrenaline running high, he’d slept poorly and woken up late. Kuma, on the other hand, had risen early, taken a snowy stroll through frigid Central Park, and bought a donut from a food cart. It must’ve been good, because he’d even picked one up for Akizawa—but there hadn’t been time to eat it.

After the Cinema Day interview ended, Kuma was nowhere to be found. When Akizawa finally spotted him, he was staggering forward, hunched over.

“…I think it was the donut.”

They’d both eaten the same airplane meal, so the donut was the most likely culprit. Kuma had tossed the uneaten one immediately, laughing weakly, saying, “Thank god you didn’t eat it, Akizawa-san.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“…I’ll be fine. I got it all out—there’s nothing left now,” he replied, giving a shaky thumbs-up. But his face was pale and ghostly.

There’d been a little time before the LION meeting, so Akizawa had grabbed a sandwich and coffee from a café, but Kuma had stayed glued to the restroom even then.

Even now, inside the LION editorial department, Kuma was still holed up in the bathroom. Ordinarily, his absence shouldn’t have mattered. All Akizawa had to do was try on the clothes and accessories Andrew had prepared, check the fit, the coordination—that was it.

He couldn’t understand a word of their native-speed English, but judging from the atmosphere, the issue seemed to be the CRUX accessories they had prepared. Something might have been defective—they kept taking them out and putting them back into the tray over and over.

Karen had asked Akizawa something too, but when she realized he didn’t understand English, she sighed, “Oh my god,” and shrugged.

The young Hispanic man in the white sweater exited the room, then returned with a striking woman—white, with flaming red hair. Her green eyes sparkled unnaturally bright, and with the freckles across her nose, she looked almost like a young girl—but her skin said she was somewhere around her thirties. She had an odd, magnetic presence.

She exchanged a few words with Andrew, then turned on her heel and walked toward Akizawa. Her soft red curls, like spun sugar, swayed gently with each step. When their eyes met, she lifted the corners of her mouth in a closed-lip smile—perfect and still, like something out of a headshot photo.

“Hello.”

The woman spoke in beautifully accented Japanese.

“I’m Jessica. You’re Akizawa-san, the model, right? Sorry for the delay with the fitting. There’s been a bit of a contract issue—it’s taking time to sort it out.”

“Contract?”

“According to the agreement, you’re supposed to be wearing this season’s CRUX accessories for the shoot. But it looks like the stylist accidentally included items from past seasons in the styling. Right now, we’re trying to sort out what’s current and what’s not. We haven’t been able to get in touch with the local store or the manager here in New York, so we’re going to have to contact CRUX headquarters in Japan. You’re scheduled for a two-hour fitting, but things might run late. Do you have anything after this?”

“I know,” Akizawa said.

Jessica blinked. “Know what, exactly?”

“I know which collection each item is from. At least the ones made since I started as the image model—I can tell them all apart.”

Immediately, Jessica brought over the jewelry case. Inside were three necklaces, four rings, and two bracelets.

“These ones,” Akizawa said, picking out a necklace and a ring, “aren’t from this season.”

Jessica swiftly returned to Andrew and Karen. The tension that had gripped their faces just moments ago seemed to lift in an instant.

“They said thank you,” Jessica reported back. “Turns out fewer of the pieces were outdated than they thought. We should be able to begin the fitting shortly.”

Her Japanese was almost flawless—no strange intonation, none of the awkward phrasing often heard from foreigners. If one were to close their eyes, they might think she was Japanese.

“Your Japanese is really good,” Akizawa said.

“Thank you,” Jessica replied with a polite nod. “I studied abroad at a Japanese university. After graduating, I worked at a Japanese fashion magazine for three years. I love Japanese fashion—it’s so cool. I even had a Japanese boyfriend while I was there,” she added with a wink and a playful smile.

“I’m a women’s magazine editor. I was suddenly called in for this because they needed someone who could speak Japanese to help contact the CRUX headquarters. But thanks to you, I don’t have to now. You saved us the trouble.”

“The shoot is tomorrow, right? Good luck,” she said, then exited the closet room.

Finally, the fitting began to move forward. Akizawa was made to try on about ten different coordinated outfits. Some clothes didn’t suit his frame, bunching up unnaturally, and had to be adjusted.

Including the delay from earlier, the whole ordeal took nearly four hours. And even by the end, Kuma still hadn’t reappeared. Concerned, Akizawa went to check the restroom—and found him curled up in a stall, unable to move.

Akizawa wondered if they ought to call an ambulance, but Andrew advised, “At this hour, a taxi will be faster. You’ll reach the hospital before the ambulance even arrives.”

Kuma, hunched over like an old woman, was supported by Akizawa as they got into a cab together.

Stuck in traffic, the orange of the setting sun filtered between the skyscrapers. Akizawa had planned to head to the CRUX store after the fitting to search for Masahiko—but once again, something had gotten in the way. It was Kuma’s own fault for eating that damn donut, but even so, Akizawa couldn’t bring himself to abandon a man in pain.

After about twenty minutes, they reached the hospital and went inside. In the waiting area were people who looked like patients: an elderly woman with skin dark like coal, a middle-aged Arab man with a thick beard, a skinny blonde girl with blue eyes—each person neat in appearance, but the diversity of faces made the place feel like no particular country at all. And the languages being spoken didn’t seem to be English alone.

“I’m feeling a lot better now. It’ll probably take a while before I’m seen by a doctor, and I’ve heard there are staff here who can speak Japanese, so I’ll be fine on my own. I missed the fitting anyway, and I don’t want to be any more of a burden. You must be tired too, Akizawa-san. Please head back to the hotel and get some rest.”

Kuma said all of that firmly. And the truth was, there was nothing Akizawa could really do just by sitting beside him. So he left the hospital.

It was past 7 p.m. now, and the streets were lit up by streetlamps, shop signs, and the light spilling from windows, casting a kind of restless glitter across everything. And it was cold. Not just chilly—bitter cold. Without thinking, Akizawa hunched his shoulders. Kuma had mentioned it was colder here than in Tokyo, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. Now that night had fallen, the temperature dropped even further. The icy air brushed the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and Akizawa came to a halt. He pulled his black coat tighter around him.

Something lightly bumped his back. He turned to see a tall Black man—easily over two meters—murmur “Excuse me” before walking off, the hem of his long coat flaring behind him.

Akizawa stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a yellow cab. “Prince Street, please,” he said. His clumsy English seemed to get through, and the white cab driver responded with a cheerful “OK, OK.”

Prince Street was where CRUX’s street-level shop was. Masahiko might be there. The thought that their reunion could be just moments away made his stomach tighten with nervous anticipation. He closed his eyes and imagined the scene: Masahiko behind the counter, looking up in surprise as he walked in. Frozen in place at first, and then—with a trembling voice—he’d say, “I came to see you.” Tears would spill from his eyes, and Akizawa would step forward and gently hold him.

The taxi stopped. The driver gestured toward the window. “Here.”

As Akizawa stepped out of the cab, a gust of wind slammed into him, and a loose English-language newspaper caught on his right foot.

He walked slowly down the dim street, checking the shop names on either side. Compared to Tokyo, New York was said to be the next biggest metropolis—but at least on this street, there were few tall buildings. Most of them were old brick structures, five or six stories high, with a vintage atmosphere. The sidewalks were wide, but patches of the pavement were cracked or peeling. A woman walking ahead of him nearly tripped when her heel caught on an uneven stone.

Before leaving Japan, he’d looked up the location of CRUX’s New York store online. He’d even found street photos of the area and studied them with intense excitement—because they were filled with people. He’d scanned those images over and over, searching for even a glimpse of Masahiko. Maybe that was why, even though this was his first time walking down this road, it didn’t feel unfamiliar.

I should be close now…

There it was.

A five-story brown brick building. Three shops occupied the first floor. On the leftmost side, a black sign with bold white CRUX lettering leapt out at him—and his heart slammed in his chest.

But the store’s metal shutter had already come down, cold and unfeeling.

He checked the time. Nearly 8 p.m.

It had probably just closed. But still… what if someone’s still inside?

“Excuse me!”

Akizawa knocked hard on the shutter.

No answer.

He had waited nearly a month. Finished all his work properly. Finally come all this way, thinking—at last, I’ll see him. But now…

Frustration surged. He nearly kicked the shutter—nearly—but caught himself at the last second.

If I break something, Masahiko will get mad.

The lie that Masahiko had died, the whole escape—it had happened because he made Masahiko angry. He couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t bear it.

Never again.

Shaking, Akizawa staggered back and kicked a planter near the edge of the sidewalk. Again, and again, and again. The bare winter tree inside it trembled, as though recoiling in fear from his fury.

Someone walking past him cast a sideways glance. Even though he could hardly catch any English, he still managed to catch the word "crazy," which only made him more irritated.

Tired from kicking, he slumped against the battered street tree he’d been abusing, panting heavily. Masahiko is nearby. Of that, he was certain. He was just late getting here today—bad timing. But tomorrow, I’ll see him. I know I will.

Even if he went home for the night… maybe, just maybe, he’ll come back to the shop. Like it’s fate.

In the bitter cold, Masahiko would come running toward him, breath puffing in white clouds, crying and apologizing.

"I’m sorry, Kaito," again and again.

Akizawa’s body gave a sharp shiver—not from emotion, but from the cold that was now crawling deep into his bones, snuffing out even the warmth of that fantasy.

He wanted to wait. He wanted to stay and wait for Masahiko to return. But at this rate, he’d catch a cold. Besides, tomorrow was a shoot. He had to be in top form, or Tohru Takahisa would chew him out. He was appearing in an international magazine as the face of CRUX. He couldn’t afford to be seen in a pitiful state. Masahiko would probably see the magazine, too. If he looked like a mess, Masahiko might be disappointed in him.

He needed sleep. Needed to show up to work ready. Then he could come back here tomorrow. Masahiko wasn’t running away anymore.

Shaking off the lingering regret, he decided to head back. He moved to the edge of the sidewalk to flag down a cab. But even with his hand raised, none of them stopped right away. Finally, one with its vacant light on noticed him and began to pull over. But the door didn’t open.

Ah—right, he remembered. They don’t open automatically in America.

And in the few seconds that passed as this thought flickered through his mind, a man in a bomber jacket—Hispanic-looking—stepped out from behind and grabbed the cab door.

“Hey, wait a second!”

Akizawa grabbed the man’s sleeve.

The guy turned and muttered something with thick lips and an annoyed scowl. Akizawa didn’t know the English for “cutting in line,” so he just shouted in Japanese, “I was here first!”

The man rattled off something angrily, but Akizawa couldn’t understand—and didn’t need to. You showed up after me. Let me have this one.

He tried to shove the man aside to climb in himself—but was shoved right back. He stumbled forward, crashing into the street tree to avoid falling completely. Rage boiled up.

“Don’t screw with me, asshole!”

He shouted, and the man snapped back—“Fuck you!”—just as viciously.

It was just a taxi. He could have let it go. But he hadn’t seen Masahiko. It was freezing. He was irritated.

While they yelled incomprehensibly at each other, the taxi, wanting no part of it, quietly pulled away and drove off.

The two of them stood there, dumbfounded, watching it disappear.

“This is your fault!” Akizawa yelled, pointing a finger. The man smacked his hand away and shoved his shoulder.

Akizawa shoved him back. They began to scuffle, body to body, until the man grabbed him by the front of his coat. A punch was coming—and I have a shoot tomorrow, was the only thought in Akizawa’s head.

He moved on instinct. Without thinking, he kicked the man in the crotch.

“Uo-gohh,” the man groaned, collapsing to the ground.

The man curled up like a pill bug, his back trembling.

Did I go too far? Akizawa thought, just as the man raised his head and glared at him with icy blue eyes. Then he reached into his back pocket.

Something metallic caught the light.

A blade.

Shit—

If he cuts my face—

Akizawa turned on his heel and ran, full speed. Behind him, the man let out a guttural roar and gave chase.

Akizawa didn’t look back. He darted down narrow corners again and again, eyes locked forward. People cursed at him as he bumped into them—he shouted apologies without stopping.

He ran, and ran, and ran—turned another corner—and finally, when he was sure the man was no longer behind him, he glanced back.

Gone.

The moment that certainty hit him, he slammed into something.

His balance broke.

Not the face—not the face, was the only thing in his mind as he threw his hands forward, doing everything he could to shield his face from impact.

The metal trash can Akizawa had crashed into clattered loudly as it rolled across the sidewalk on its side. He got up and, for now, set the trash can upright. His knee throbbed—it must’ve hit the ground when he fell. The pain was sharp and persistent, but at least if it bruised, it could be hidden under his clothes.

His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths, steam curling from his mouth like a boiling kettle. It had been ages since he’d run this hard. Kicking the guy in the balls had been excessive, sure—but still, pulling a knife just from a shouting match? America really was dangerous.

He’d sprinted so blindly that he no longer knew where he was. Deciding to return to the hotel, he stepped toward the edge of the sidewalk to flag a cab—just as something warm and slick slid down his wrist.

What the…? He pulled his right hand toward him—and froze.

His palm was stained a deep, paint-like red.

Not just his right—his left hand was covered in blood too.

He must’ve scraped them both when he fell and caught himself. His knee had hurt so much he hadn’t even noticed the rest. But now that he knew he was injured, a sharp sting spread through his hands, as if his brain had just been given permission to feel it.

What should I do?

He stood there on the edge of the sidewalk, helpless. If he touched anything, it would smear red. He needed to wash his hands, but where? Maybe a convenience store bathroom?

“Hi there.”

The voice came just as he stood, lost and unsure. From across the street, a red-haired woman approached.

Jessica—the Japanese-speaking editor he’d met at the LION shoot.

She was wearing a green coat patterned like a turtle shell.

“Didn’t expect to run into you again tonight. What a lovely coincidence! Enjoying the New York night?”

She smiled like an actress—tight-lipped, with only the corners of her mouth lifting. Akizawa didn’t care for that kind of obviously practiced smile, but still… meeting someone who spoke Japanese brought a wave of relief.

“I need to wash my hands. Is there a convenience store nearby?”

“Your hands?” Jessica murmured. Then, seeing them, she nodded in realization.

“Unlike Japan, convenience stores around here don’t usually let you use the bathroom.”

America really was stingy about everything. You even had to open the taxi doors yourself.

“Anywhere with a sink will do,” Akizawa said.

He turned over his palms, revealing the blood. Jessica let out a small, startled gasp at the sight.

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