The rest of yesterday was a blur.

After the talk show interview ended, Aoi was dragged back outside, where her most dedicated—and entitled—fans still lingered. No one grabbed the tail this time, but that didn’t stop them touching everywhere else.

Her handler hadn’t forgotten being called a bitch before Aoi went on stage. Aoi had thought she had gotten away with it.

A few new bruises, and a split lip, proved she was wrong.

Afterward, she was bathed thoroughly. The tail was removed for a short, blissful period—but it was quickly reapplied before she was left alone for the evening.

This time, Aoi didn’t cry.

She sat in front of the television instead, watching her own interview replay.

Cringing.

Now she was backstage in a venue she had performed in more than once. Any signs of abuse were, once again, hidden beneath makeup.

“Aoi!”

A voice she recognised cut through the noise.

“Mom!”

Aoi moved before she could think, crossing the space and throwing herself into her mother’s arms.

The embrace was tight—too tight.

Pain flared where her injuries lay hidden, sharp enough to draw breath, but she forced it down. She didn’t want to worry her. There was no point.

Justice wasn’t an option for her.

She wouldn’t be around long enough to see it.

“You look so cute in that costume,” her mother said. “Hori-san told us you came up with it?”

Of course he did.

“It’s cute, right?” Aoi said, turning slightly, giving a small shake of her hips to make the tail move.

Her mother clapped her hands together with a soft laugh.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He couldn’t make it,” she said, reaching up to stroke Aoi’s cheek. “But he’s so proud of how well you’ve taken to all this.”

“Are you still getting the checks I sent for college?”

“Yes… I suppose you’ll want to donate that money now?”

“No. You keep it,” Aoi said quickly. “I made sure that was in my contract. If anything happened to me, you get it—not the agency.”

“Oh honey, you always were so good to us,” her mother said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll make sure you have a picture in the centre of the family shrine, okay?”

Aoi’s breath hitched at that promise.

The last three days had been a waking nightmare—but, for a moment, she felt something else.

Like someone cared.

Like she was a Human again.

Before she realised it, she was crying.

“Oh, don’t cry,” her mother said, pulling her into another hug. “You’re always so brave. Don’t let your lovely fans remember you without that lovely smile, okay?”

A stagehand pushed past Aoi’s mother.

“Hori-san called,” he said, holding something out to her. “He said you have to sing this.”

Aoi took the sheet.

The lyrics.

It wasn’t unusual. Last-minute changes, sudden requests—she’d handled them before.

But this—

She glanced at the page.

“I can’t memorise this that quickly,” she said.

“I can go out first?”

Anna had finally arrived—naked, composed, carrying herself with quiet confidence.

“This is my show, Anna. If you go out first, it’ll—”

Anna didn’t respond.

She stepped past her.

Music began.

Not new.

Not the song Aoi had just been handed—

but something familiar. Something prepared.

Aoi turned, watching as the spotlight shifted.

Taken.

Again.

“You have ten minutes,” the stagehand told her.

“Come on,” her mother said, taking her hand. “Let’s sit somewhere. We’ll learn the lyrics together, like we used to.”

Aoi clutched the paper tightly.

If she was going to spend her final ten minutes with anyone, she would prefer it was with her mother.

They found a relatively quiet spot. The stagehand followed at a distance, his earpiece feeding him updates on when Aoi was expected.

There was a rhythm to this.

Memorising quickly.

She read the lyrics over and over, then began writing down the first word of each line. Again and again, until the structure settled into place.

Eventually, she closed her eyes—

and recited it.

No mistakes.

“That’s amazing, Aoi!” her mother said, grabbing her hands and bouncing in place with excitement.

Aoi joined her.

For a moment, it almost felt normal.

“Now go,” her mother said, pulling her into one last hug. “I love you so much.”

Aoi leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

“I love you too.”

Aoi put the earpiece in and, immediately, everything became familiar.

The microphone sat at the perfect distance from her mouth. She had done her stretches. She even checked the ears—made sure they wouldn’t fall out.

Or the tail.

Anna’s voice carried out onto the stage.

“And now we have the star of the show!”

“The girl of the hour!”

Aoi Himari—

“The Meatgirl Catgirl!”

Aoi almost tripped over her feet, thrown by the cue.

For a moment, she thought she’d heard it wrong.

But she hadn’t.

Anna had just used a different name.

One the crowd screamed in joy.

A voice in her ear said, Here comes the song.

Aoi listened to the intro. Matched the words to it in her mind. Found the rhythm.

When it came time to sing, she caught the flicker of surprise on Anna’s face as she kept pace.

Of course Anna had learned the song before her.

This had never been about the performance.

It was about making the world forget Aoi Himari—

and celebrate her sacrifice.

The song ended.

Aoi had improvised a few dance moves—Anna scrambling to copy her. They stood side by side, chests heaving as they caught their breath.

The crowd was already chanting.

“Aoi-chan!
Aoi-chan!
Aoi-chan!”

Anna pulled her into another hug.

“How the fuck did you do that? You only had ten minutes,” she hissed into her ear.

“Because I was always a better Idol than you,” Aoi murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before stepping away.

She turned back to the audience, her smile already in place.

“Did everyone like that song?” she called out. “Thank you so much for listening—and for enjoying it. You’re all so amazing!”

The performance continued.

Older songs she was famous for. Hits she had written herself.

Anna knew them, of course. She didn’t struggle to keep up this time.

And for the next hour and a half, Aoi didn’t feel like a Meatgirl. Or an Animal. Or the ridiculous persona they had forced onto her.

She felt like an Idol again.

The part of it she had loved.

Performing for fans who loved her.

The nudity faded into the background.

The pressure in her body dulled to something distant.

Right now, Aoi Himari was performing her final show—

and she wanted it to be hers.

Not Anna’s.

Not the agency’s.

Hers.

From a door at the back of the stage, technicians began wheeling something in.

Aoi saw it, and her stomach clenched.

The beams, the narrow platform, the rope with a noose already tied at the end.

Anna smiled at her reaction, then leaned in close enough that only she could hear.

“I bet this next dance will be all they remember.”

Her wrists were taken gently, not roughly or hurriedly, but firmly enough that there was no question. Aoi didn’t resist. There was a familiarity to it now—the way her body followed instruction without needing to be told twice, the way she held herself still as her hands were guided behind her back and tied. She barely felt the moment it was done.

“Careful,” someone murmured—not to her, but about her.

Anna’s hand found her shoulder again, guiding her forward. Aoi stepped when she was led, bare feet meeting the surface of the stage with soft, measured steps. The noise of the crowd had changed, quieter now but heavier, expectant.

Every movement felt precise. Placed.

The platform waited, smaller than she had thought, but she stepped onto it without hesitation. The wood was solid beneath her feet, grounding in a way everything else wasn’t.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then there was a shift behind her, something brushing her neck—the rope. She felt it before it settled, the coarse fibres resting against her skin, the weight not heavy, but present.

Final.

Aoi swallowed, her eyes lifting past the lights, past the stage, and into the crowd. It took a moment—shapes first, then faces.

And then she saw her.

Her mother, standing near the front, watching, smiling, proud.

Aoi held her gaze for just a second.

And then she smiled back.

Then the lever clicked—not loudly, just a crisp, mechanical sound—and then Aoi was airborne, her bare feet kicking at nothing.

The rope snapped taut, and for one impossible second, she hung there like a marionette whose strings had been jerked upward by some cruel puppeteer.

The audience gasped, then erupted into applause, as if she had executed a perfect pirouette instead of convulsing against the noose.

Aoi's vision blurred at the edges, but she clenched her teeth, refusing to scream.

Anna had wanted her to thrash, to sob, to lose herself—but she wouldn't. Not yet. Her fingers, bound behind her back, curled into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms.

The pain was sharp, bright, something to focus on besides the fire in her throat and the growing pressure behind her eyes.

Then Anna tugged the rope—not hard, just enough to make Aoi jerk—and the sudden movement jostled the tail plug still seated inside her.

The sensation was sharp, invasive, and Aoi’s stomach clenched in protest. But her body betrayed her almost instantly. The plug shifted again, pressing against something deep inside her, and heat flared low in her belly, spreading outward like spilled ink.

She hated it, hated how easily her body responded—how her cunt pulsed around nothing, how her nipples tightened into stiff peaks, aching against the cool air.

Anna stepped off the platform and circled beneath her, slow and deliberate, as if inspecting a prized animal. She tilted her head, watching Aoi’s legs tremble, watching the slickness glisten between her thighs.

“Look at you,” Anna murmured, almost amused. She reached up, dragging one fingertip through the wetness, then held it up for Aoi to see. “Still dripping. Even now.”

Aoi squeezed her eyes shut, but Anna clicked her tongue. “No, no. Look at them.” She gestured to the audience, their faces rapt, their breaths held. “They want to see you.”

Aoi’s breath came in ragged, wet gasps now, her throat working uselessly against the rope. Anna pressed two fingers inside her, curling them just so, and Aoi’s hips bucked involuntarily—a weak, jerky motion, like a fish flopping on a dock.

The crowd sighed in unison, a sound halfway between reverence and hunger. Anna’s fingers worked deeper, twisting, and Aoi’s vision whited out for a second. It wasn’t pleasure—not really—just her body’s dumb, desperate attempt to survive, to cling to something, anything, even this.

Then Anna leaned in, her lips brushing Aoi’s ear. “You’re shaking,” she whispered. “Not so proud now, are you?” Aoi tried to shake her head, but the motion only made the rope dig deeper. Anna laughed—soft, almost tender—and withdrew her fingers, letting Aoi feel the emptiness they left behind.

The tail plug shifted again, a cruel reminder, and Aoi’s stomach tightened around nothing. Her toes curled. The audience clapped. Anna wiped her fingers on Aoi’s thigh, leaving a glistening streak behind.

A spasm ran through Aoi’s hips, uncontrollable, the plug’s movement sending jolts up her spine. Her thighs trembled, her cunt clenching around nothing but air and the ghost of Anna’s touch.

The orgasm crashed over her like a wave of static—not pleasure, just her body’s last, desperate attempt to hold on. Her vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into gray. Anna watched, her head tilted slightly, as if studying a curious insect pinned to a board. “There it is,” she murmured. “Just like they said you would.”

The crowd erupted into applause, but it sounded distant now, muffled, like Aoi was underwater. Someone cheered. A flashbulb popped. Anna reached up, adjusting the noose with a practiced twist, her fingers brushing Aoi’s jaw.

“Almost poetic,” she said, louder this time, for the audience. “Even at the end, she’s still putting on a show.” Aoi’s breath hitched—wet, ragged—but no sound came out. Her eyelids fluttered. Anna stepped back, arms spread, as if presenting a finished masterpiece.

Aoi’s thoughts dissolved into fragments: the smell of the stage lights, hot and metallic; the weight of the tail plug, still lodged inside her, rocking gently with each feeble twitch of her body.

Then even those sensations faded, replaced by a slow, creeping numbness. The last thing she heard was Anna’s laugh—light, amused—as the world slipped away.

Anna watched the light leave Aoi's eyes. A stream of urine finally escaped, pooling on the stage below her. "Thank you for your sacrifice," Anna said loudly, making sure the crowd heard it.

"Thank you for your sacrifice!" the crowd yelled in response.

Aoi was lowered carefully, not hurried or careless, but handled with the same attention she had been given on stage.

There were hands at her shoulders, at her arms—guiding, adjusting, ensuring everything remained as it should be. Someone stepped in close, making small corrections, subtle and practiced. Anything out of place was fixed. Anything that might distract was smoothed away until, by the time they stepped back, there was nothing left that might unsettle the viewer.

Only the image.

The cameras moved in quickly after that, not chaotically but with a rhythm—positions taken, angles found, lights adjusted. This wasn’t documentation. It was curation.

Photographs were taken. Video captured. Aoi Himari, framed perfectly, exactly as she needed to be seen—not to shock, not to disturb, but to inspire.

A celebrity had met her end gracefully.

And that was all the world would be allowed to remember.

Anna stood off to the side, ignored now, her part already done. The attention had shifted—to the image, to the cameras, to what Aoi had become.

But she felt it then.

A quiet rush.

This was the moment they had told her about, the one the experienced Butchers spoke of back home—the moment you knew that this work suited you, that it fit.

Anna let out a slow breath.

Enjoyment.