Truly, you reap what you sow. The current mess was entirely Ayumu’s own doing. If he hadn’t gone for that morning run, he’d never have met Masami—their bond wouldn’t have deepened, and she certainly wouldn’t have cared how he spent his weekends. If he hadn’t been so intrigued by Hina’s maid café part-time job, he wouldn’t have tagged along to Shinjuku, wouldn’t have bought clothes at that vintage store, and never would’ve crossed paths with Michiko.

After meeting Michiko, she’d immediately pushed him to become a host—and even used shady tactics to drag him straight to the club. Just as Ayumu and Michiko debated scheduling, Masami *conveniently* called to say he had the weekend off… and Michiko overheard every word. His last possible excuse vanished. Ayumu almost wondered: was fate really sealing his destiny as a host?

“Why are you so fixated on me?” Ayumu asked, utterly baffled.

Hope had nearly drained from him. He felt dejected. This question was just his way of seeking closure—a final, stubborn flicker before surrender.

“You’re young, fit, and handsome,” Michiko replied without hesitation.

*Just that simple?* Inside, Ayumu wailed: Why couldn’t she be a talent scout from a top agency? Why a host club owner?! Even if he leveraged his looks to earn cash, he’d rather break into Japan’s entertainment industry openly—not through this shoddy “down to the sea” route. Host work was legal in Japan, profitable without selling your body… yet Ayumu still felt uneasy.

“Actually, I have my reasons,” Michiko said softly, her heart tugging at his defeated slump. She decided to share her plight.

“The ‘LOVE’ host club I run was once the nation’s largest and highest-earning. We had Roland—the top host nationwide. Three straight years crowned ‘Most Popular Host,’ hailed as the ‘Host Emperor.’ But early this year, he went independent. Took every moderately famous veteran with him, left only green newcomers. Since then? Business plummeted. Some days, revenue doesn’t even cover rent.” Michiko spoke calmly of past glory and present decline—tone even, no bitterness, no blame.

“Don’t you hate him? That host named Roland?” Ayumu asked, curiosity piqued.

“I don’t. Host work is youth-driven. Most plan exits after a few years. Retiring hosts often go independent, open their own clubs, train newcomers. Roland couldn’t stay popular forever—his move made sense. The veterans followed him willingly; they knew he’d lead them to bigger earnings. I get it. They earned me well, especially Roland. So no—I don’t hate them.”

Ayumu understood. “Every man for himself”—not that extreme, but planning ahead was rational. From Michiko’s view, it might feel like burning bridges. But as an outsider? Roland’s choice was comprehensible.

“So why not downsize? Or quit host work entirely? With your savings, starting fresh should be fine,” Ayumu asked, puzzled.

“No one dislikes more money—I’m no exception. And I hate losing. *Especially* surrendering before trying. If I cultivated the first Roland, I can cultivate a second. That’s why we’re recruiting hard—even I scout personally. One last shot. Only if glory stays out of reach will I close.” Michiko’s voice carried confident stubbornness.

Hearing this, Ayumu finally grasped why he’d been roped in. Reluctance stirred again. If he steeled himself to take the job… only to work at a club on the verge of collapse and earn nothing? Total loss.

“Our hosts get 6,000 yen daily base, plus 50% commission on beverage sales. Weekends? Longer hours, 10,000 yen base,” Michiko explained plainly.

Sensing his hesitation—and spotting his potential—she upped the offer: “Work only weekends. I’ll pay you 15,000 yen per day.”

After she finished, Ayumu heard almost nothing else. His mind locked onto *“15,000 yen.”*

Meaning: 30,000 yen per weekend—roughly 1,800 RMB. Two weekends to save for a computer. *Twice as fast.* If he earned even a hint of commission? Even sooner. Honestly… “down to the sea” didn’t feel so unbearable anymore.

“I’ll waive training fees and cover work attire and styling costs,” Michiko added.

Ayumu barely registered it. Styling costs meant nothing to him. Cold hard cash? That was real.

“Can I use a stage name?” Ayumu asked tentatively.

“Of course! Every host picks one at debut. Almost no one uses their real name,” Michiko replied eagerly. *He’s hooked.*

“Then… I’ll try it. After all… you’ve gone this far,” Ayumu mumbled weakly, his flimsy excuse hanging in the air.

Truth was? Ayumu cared about only one thing: that 15,000-yen daily wage.