“Welcome, welcome. Come one, come all. Thank you for joining us, this here is Yoshi Ono! And you’re watching I.O. PANIC! Our special guest star is coming all the way from America, you know him already, one of the best, yes yes. Please clap your hands for Hamburger Cowboy-sama! The strongest hamburger in America!”

  The TV’s speakers chattered away, showcasing a late-night repeat of this gameshow as a man dressed in a hamburger costume waddled out into the brightly coloured set to booming applause and bellowing laughter.

  It was still Friday, and the club was winding down, yet Mikako’s words remained prevalent in my mind. To cut clean from the Ha:Yami, to somehow burn away a history that could threaten my acting before the first step has been completed.

  Too dangerous a risk to take. As long as Mikako’s plan was feasible, it would be worth it.

  “Oh, Hamburger Cowboy-sama, coming to Japan must be a big change. How do you feel?” The host asked, and in response, the hamburger simply flexed his muscles and said nothing, “Ho ho, Hamburger Cowboy-sama! So confident! So strong! But is he a match for his challenger? Mega-Monkey! To the stage!”

  Mikako had already gone home. She didn’t loiter after our meeting. Mari had left before that, and Nao was gone as well. All that waiting for Mikako’s shift to end meant that the majority of the Ha:Yami had cleared out. The few who were still wandering about were a handful of bouncers, cleaners, and not really much more than that.

  I was the last hostess here, I knew that much. The empty breakroom was the best indicator of that, and if this TV wasn’t continuing to run through this pre-recorded broadcast then there would only be a settled silence here.

  “Born in a banana factory on the moon! Mega-Monkey landed in Japan just for this! His battle will be legendary! To teach the ways of healthy eating, he must defeat Hamburger Cowboy-sama! Any words for your opponent, Mega-Monkey?” The man in a monkey suit shrugged comically and then pulled out a giant banana and began to peel it threateningly, “Oh ho oh! Mega-Monkey is telling Hamburger Cowboy-sama that he’s going to peel him like a banana! So scary, so… healthy?”

  I'm not really sure how he peeled a banana threateningly, and I’m the one watching the show. Well, ‘watching’ is a strong word; distracting myself is more appropriate. And I wouldn't be doing that if I wasn’t alone here, but that’s the crux of the issue.

  I’m alone in the Ha:Yami Club.

  And all my things have been stolen from my locker…

  “Now, now! It is time to spin the wheel of battle! Mega-Monkey, you have been chosen to spin the wheel! Whatever it lands on will be your first challenge! Whoever is the first to win three challenges is the winner!” The monkey triumphantly jumped up and down before spinning the wheel, and it landed on “Climbing Cooking Challenge! Oh, oh, cooking with a twist! A dish to prepare but chosen by your opponent! But wait! There’s more! The ingredients will be hidden throughout our special climbing course! They must be found to cook!”

  It was a cruel prank played on me by one of the hostesses who despised me. Though, saying it’s a prank was understating it, yet it wouldn’t have bothered me too much if it weren’t for the time. If anyone was here, I could have relied on them to get home; Nao could have taken me directly to our home, Mikako would have dropped me off, and even Mari might have been able to help.

  However, with everyone gone, I’m in an awkward spot. I still have my phone, and ringing Nao was the first thing I tried. But considering I live with her, I’m well aware that she crashes hard when she gets home, it’s instant sleep once her show is over and little is getting her up.

  “Oh my! Mega-Monkey has chosen a hamburger! Will Hamburger Cowboy-sama be able to cook up his own kind? This is truly an evil tactic. How will Hamburger Cowboy-sama get back at him!”

  I couldn’t even get a train, not only was my IC card stolen, but the train lines stopped all service after 1 a.m..

  There might still be a bouncer who can help me, but I only really know Muto. The rest barely interact with me unless told to, and that’s rare enough as Kiyoshi usually just sticks Muto on me and leaves it at that.

  I suppose I could just sleep here. It wouldn’t be the first time a hostess has slept over in secret, tucked in one of the many out-of-the-way rooms around. Though the issue with that is that it’d be hard to explain why I left so early in the morning when I swipe out tomorrow, plus I’d then have to somehow get to Hanako Hall in time for the run-through.

  “What’s this! Hamburger Cowboy-sama is picking-” The TV was suddenly turned off, and the abrupt end to the sound caught my attention as I turned towards the now silent monitor.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just turning this off for the night. I could hear it from the hallway-” It was Kiyoshi, half talking to himself as he entered the room, his mind not catching up to my presence until now, “Seina? Why are you still here?”

  And there’s that name- No, he didn’t say it…

  He used my name.

  My. Name.

  Not some cursed apparition of a family name. Lurking in the shadow of my past, a continuous and constant reminder that no matter how far I run, where my escape leads me, or what new pieces of this puzzle I accept into this truthful and genuine personality of mine, I cannot cast off my childhood.

  It’s still here, it always will be; the memory of who they tried to mould me into.

  A fabricated ideal created from her unrealised desires and his grandiose expectations.

  A loftly height unreachable to the small arms of a child, yet instead of offering respite, I was forced onto my tippy toes. Then, when that didn’t work, I was told to stretch further and further with no regard given as my skin split and cracked, but that too fell short of what they demanded, so I tore off pieces of myself and used them as my building blocks for this trembling ladder of lies.

  There was no use for my personhood, the one I would have grown into if left free to grow. The persona was all they granted me, from my first breath, and to Seina’s last; that was all I had- all I was.

  I wonder if I ever reached their ambitions, perhaps I at least came close to that unfathomable zenith?

  It doesn’t matter, even if it should- even if it does.

  But it still isn’t resting in the rearview mirror of my life, settled behind forgotten and lost. I wish it was, and maybe the symptoms have been treated, hidden away and blanketed under a new goal. The disease has even been cured, the combination of two into one achieved, so why is the cause still here?

  Why do I still have this family name… the final tether that connects me to them.

  Except it wasn't the final one. This hair colour still mocks me, these eyes of mine taunt me too, and so too does this face ridicule me; my DNA clings to their resemblance, unchanging and persistent.

  It always will, it cannot be outran, escaped or avoided; this past cannot be erased.

  But this family name can, and once it is gone. The deed of my appearance will transfer over to me in the ending will of what once was.

  There will be no reminder.

  “Kanemoto?” He corrected himself, his fist covered his mouth to stifle a false cough as he realised he had once again mistaken me for work mode. It was his belief that he had made a mistake of names, his abidance to this tradition of using family names over first names.

  There is the reminder.

  A cruelty used against me carelessly, the thoughts behind it impossible to formulate, yet they bite and cut with emotionless efficiency. Why is work mode given the privilege of being called Seina? Why does he place a separation between the two? Is the distinction palpable? Have they not already been made into one? Am I not entitled to the boon of my name?

  Is this respect towards me? Then is it disrespect towards work mode? I don’t understand, I have begged him to change before, but he is unable to abandon this tradition for me, yet he is able to for everyone else.

  It doesn’t make sense, we are the same now, and I deserve to be called Seina as much as she did.

  But he won’t.

  “I can’t get home. Everything in my locker has been stolen.” I explained briefly and to the point. The speedy words act as the cover to my uncertainty, this confusion that surrounds his use of names.

  He crossed his arms, that tattoo of his peeking out from beneath his shirt as he did. There was a shuffle to his movements, a repositioning of limbs as he stunk into thought yet never moved from his spot.

  “Let me give you a ride home.” He offered, his words kind and protective, spoken to me as if I am his beloved family, a cherished sister to look out for, “I’ll find the culprit tomorrow and see if I can get your things back.”

  But he is no sister of mine, perceived or otherwise, neither is he a dear friend or equal liar.

  So why?

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Part of the reason I took this job is to help people.”

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  I found myself having to restrain a laugh, his words so bizarrely spoken that my smile couldn’t help but peek through. All said with a seriousness I could barely comprehend, almost as if he believed being the manager of a nightclub was somehow equal to a doctor or firefighter.

  Who is he helping? Mikako is searching for a method to erase all her traces here because of the fear of what this place might do to her future, and I am following her closely behind, treading the same route; and if we are on this path, how many more have walked it?

  How is this helping anyone? The sale of an experience, an illusion of wealth, or the flooding drinks to drown away a sore in need of soothing. This is no service to society, at best it is the ugly side of a necessity.

  To claim anything more would be outrageous.

  He is outrageous.

  “You can laugh,” He began, understanding my reaction better than I understood his claim, “But I’m trying to do the best I can for everyone. Its a thin line to walk, sure. A lot of people need to be kept happy, and I have to find the balance.” He paused, his eyes wandering around the room before returning to me, “I try to keep the worst of it away, and I don’t believe there are many others who’d do the same in this position.” He concluded, his tone still holding onto that seriousness that didn’t pair well with his boosted morality.

  His phone suddenly beeped at him, the noise grabbing both of our attention and forcing a swift subject change as he checked it, took note of the time and slid it back into his pocket.

  “It’s already late, we should go.” His speech was concise and without emotion, the easy glossing over of what had been said, “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

  “At Nao’s house, please.”

  He gave me a curious look but didn’t press it any further, valuing my privacy but never my name. However, he did reveal he had no idea where Nao lived, so I had to point it out to him.

  The car he led me to was a grey four-door sedan stationed in that parking lot that sits behind the Ha:Yami; the same one where an altercation led to a remedy of loneliness between two birds of a feather.

  He opened the passenger door for me. His hand waved to signal me to enter. It was a gentlemanly act, and while it suited him, I couldn’t appreciate it until he lowered the rusted and chipped blade that he held above my neck in his executioner’s stance. All it would take is a single word whispered for the blade to swing down and decapitate my head, yet the tether would remain regardless, dripping red and bloody.

  The car door on his side was pulled shut with a light tuck. His hand found the button for the ignition soon after. It was a modern car, the dashboard lit up in an array of orange lights, the radio clicked on to sing out its sleepy tunes, and the engine hummed an eager whirr as more cylinders than necessary for a sedan propelled into action.

  Tokyo was quiet, it lacked even the choice to be loud. It was too early in the morning, the roads empty of all noise, no idling engines or chatting pedestrians. We were the only car here, steadily running along these lanes as the sole hub of activity in a city that otherwise exhibited humanity as its finest artistry.

  However, it was never going to be permanent. This city could seldom be content without its many spectators, so it soon brought fresh faces onto the stage of its streets; rare duos heading home, hand in hand, snuggling up against each other for warmth, both from the heat and the love, their voyage home accompanied by the scarce sounds and plentiful lights.

  The sun was absent. Even if it was the early hours of the morning, it was still dark. Yet, it was no longer a Friday; in truth, we had entered this Saturday soon after Mikako had spoken with me. But I’ll forgive my error. It is barely worth the topic; any time spent on debating the matters of tomorrow when today is still here is time wasted-

  No, it isn’t. Tomorrow is always relevant, just as today is.

  Nevertheless, the Ha:Yami’s curtains are drawing, the acts of the week cut and closed. Now, the leftover days are handed over to Hanako Hall, the nights can be ignored, no matter if the Ha:Yami stubbornly retains them, the focus is on a play, on an actress, and on a sister being herself over an actress.

  The run-throughs are today, and that won’t change no matter how important yesterday was. It’s the sixth week of rehearsals, two more weeks of practice after this, and then one last week till the curtains are opened for the first time.

  “Do you have anything planned for the weekend?” Kiyoshi suddenly asked. The gap between the radio’s songs was the perfect slot for some small talk, or at least he thought so.

  “No,” I lied, for he was no sister of mine, neither is he a dear friend or equal liar, so what hope does he have of gaining my answer, “What about you, Shikichi?”

  I am no longer weary of connecting my life at Ha:Yami to the one at Hankao Hall, but only because I am certain they cannot connect. Especially not when one stands to be erased while the other is to be exalted.

  “I teach a women’s self-defence course on Sundays.” He stated, his eyes on the road and no deviation in his tone, “It was my sister’s idea. I think she likes seeing me do something that isn’t work. That or she likes the house to herself.” He finished after a quick pause, a tender smile on his face as he spoke of his sister.

  “You have a sister?”

  “A younger sister, yes.” He confirmed, navigating the car down another road closer to Nao’s house, “She’s got a frail body, keeps her in the house most days. I look after her when I have the time- a caretaker does the rest. I’m glad the Ha:Yami pays well, she’s too independent for a hospital. They’d treat her like a box of eggs, but she’s only physically weak, not infirm.”

  So Kiyoshi is fluent in this language of familial love, the bond between siblings that only they can understand. He holds the same decipher that I do, the ability to decrypt the oldest human language that remains untethered to words, letters, and symbols.

  I… I didn’t expect that.

  That this careless and cruel man can hold a bond this tightly. If only he would release his grip on that family name he so vilely uses. Perhaps I might like him more.

  But until then, I will treat him the same as I always have; this piercing cold tone that no hearth can warm up. Anyone who uses that family name over Seina deserves as much, his delusion of respect that cuts as honourless as a ronin in a duel.

  “We’ve arrived.” He declared, pulling his grey sedan up onto the curve outside of Nao’s apartment block. He was out of the car before I could say a word, moving with a haste to open my door before I even had the chance to do so myself.

  I reluctantly gave my thanks as I stepped out of the car. The door was shut behind me, but he remained hovering by the car. He seemed intent on making sure I got home safely; why he was stuck within this role of a gentleman, I had no idea.

  “You’re not going to walk me to the door, are you?” I asked, and though it might have sounded like a tease if anyone else had said it, I was being serious.

  “No, I’ll just be waiting here to make sure you’re safe.” He replied, and at the very least, I was content he’d be leaving once I was passed the front door. So I offered a hum and an obligatory thank you before heading towards the door.

  “Goodnight, Kanemoto.” He called out cruelly and carelessly. No thought was given to the words, to the reaction they caused in me, his illusion of respect, this adherence to a tradition I have begged him to cease.

  Why did work mode get the boon of my name, but I am burdened with this memoriaI I so desperately want to move on from?

  There is the reminder.

  But I want to forget. I want to cut this final tether and take back the deed to my appearance. Let my invisible DNA be the only thing that connects me, and when people ask me of my hair, or my eyes, I will offer them a lie.

  The blonde in my hair is dyed. The blue of my eyes is a contact lens. Look at my face, its perfectly Japanese, my parents are exactly the same as yours. There is no difference, and there is no more reminder.

  Everything will belong to me.

  “Why do you continue to use that name?” I spoke the words coldly, said in between clenched teeth. The stalling of my movement, the balling of my fists, why must he attack me this way.

  There is no tradition in this assault of memories.

  “What?” He replied, confused and unable to put together the meanings in my words.

  “Why do you call me Kanemoto?” I pushed forward, the first time I’ve said these words. Previously my words have been focused on my name, on requesting he called me Seina rather than stick to this rotten family name, but now there can be no mistaking it, this is no honour or tradition, surely he can see that, “Why won’t you call me Seina? By my name.”

  No reply at first, just thoughts that swirled around in his head, but then he finally spoke, “What’s wrong with your family name?”

  Has the reason not been explained enough? Do I have to repeat myself in words now? Spill everything held within me, speak in length of my hair, my eyes, and my face, then end it all by saying that nothing will change my DNA?

  He doesn’t know, it is unfair to expect him too. But it is also unfair to disregard my requests, to continually use that name even after every flinch of mine, is he blind to my suffering? Does he misinterpret it each time? Then why does he use my name for work mode, yet never me?

  This is not respect.

  “Every time you say it reminds me of my parents. I hate it. I didn’t escape them to have their faces thrown back into my mind each time you say that name. They were stubborn, selfish, controlling, argumentative, manipulative, apathetic, arrogant, and when you say Kanemoto, you force me to realise I’m still connected to them, that I haven’t gotten away.”

  That this tether is uncut.

  Kiyoshi had no response, so I pressed on, “Why is work mode called Seina? Why did you only call me by name during then, never once outside of it?”

  “That’s different,” He had a response this time, an obviously layered excuse, “Everyone called work mode by her first name.”

  By her first name…

  He knew all along. Somehow he figured it out, he managed to see work mode and I as different people.

  Because we were different, she was Seina Kanemoto, and Seina Kanemoto was beautiful, she was perfect, pure, happy, flirty, intelligent, knowledgeable. She had hobbies and she always knew what to say. Women wanted to be her, and men wanted to be with her.

  She wasn’t dirty or broken. She had the purity of white.

  And he realised that.

  The woman who stared into that mirror was clean, pure, beautiful. She was everything you could ask for, totally and completely perfect.

  I was Seina Kanemoto.

  “Seina,” He began awkwardly, using my name- yes, my name, the first time he had uttered it to me, and not work mode, “If you feel that strongly about your family name… why don’t you change it?”

  Yes, why do I still have this family name… the final tether that connects me to them.

  “Change it?”

  It's an obvious solution, could we have not thought of it sooner? Why did we not think of it sooner? But when was sooner? We have only been Seina for less than three weeks; is it really so shocking that the change took a little longer to be fully realised?

  Is it fully realised?

  No, of course not. We still remain half-filled. These pieces of the puzzle that could come together to create a better, more genuine version of this new me appear and vanish with each scene made.

  Love becomes a little more settled on this runway, familial as it is, held in the grasp of the sister I perceive her to be.

  Fear, too, is made mine, acknowledged by the haunting past that threatens this first step of acting if not properly erased.

  There is still more I don’t understand, but I learn as the wind blows new ideas and creations onto my stage.

  And with these, I make the scissors, mammoth and lacerating as they are.

  All to cut this final tether that connects me to them.

  “Yes, Seina…” He declared, the sword placed into its sheath, no rust coating its surface as the ronin abandoned it and let it clutter to the floor. The honourless ronin gives up his tasks of cruelty and instead picks up the farm tools, trading bloodshed for honour.

  So I must cut the tether.

  “-Just change it.”

  And then I will be Seina.