“Welcome, sir. What hairstyle are you looking for today?”
Mizuki Sakai had brought Ayumu Kurogane to the most famous salon on Shinjuku’s Kabukicho Ichiban Street—a place rumored to style nearly every notable host in the district. Stylist #3, a dark-skinned girl with voluminous ash-blonde waves, a cropped top, and daringly short shorts, handed Ayumu a custom salon magazine while asking.
The booklet showcased popular hairstyle samples. Ayumu flipped through it and realized it was no ordinary catalog. Though featuring only hairstyles, the models were hosts from local clubs, pages meticulously ordered by last month’s popularity ranking. The first page spotlighted Roland—the current top-ranked host.
Ayumu had never heard of Roland before, let alone seen him. Yet each page included a brief bio. Roland’s read: *Name: Roland; Host Club: Roland; Address: 54 Kabukicho Ichiban Street, Shinjuku, Tokyo; Last Month’s Rank: #1 (Host x Host); Honors: Most Popular Host Champion (2016–2018), Record Holder for Highest Daily & Annual Sales.*
Page two featured last month’s #2 host. Rankings weren’t always consecutive, but pages strictly followed ascending order by rank. Ayumu guessed some Host x Host-ranked hosts outside Kabukicho simply weren’t included. The magazine likely updated monthly—tourists drawn by the salon’s fame would see it, hosts kept returning, the salon promoted them quietly. A perfect symbiosis.
Ayumu barely turned the page, eyes locked on Roland’s. He was genuinely curious: just how handsome was this guy to make wealthy female patrons spend fortunes willingly? Rumor said Roland’s record daily sales—tens of millions of yen—were made on his birthday night alone. Ayumu felt a flicker of envy.
Honestly? Roland didn’t strike Ayumu as “handsome.” More androgynous. Shoulder-length wavy golden curls, surgically precise features, heavy yet flawless makeup. “Aristocratic elegance” fit far better than “hot.” Ayumu’s straightforward guy perspective couldn’t decode the appeal—but he wasn’t naive enough to think looks alone did it.
“Handsome, your hair’s too short for Roland’s style,” Stylist #3 chimed kindly, noticing his fixation.
“Not that,” Ayumu replied. “I’m clueless about styles. Can you recommend something?”
“Sure. Any requests?”
“Nothing flashy. And no dye.” He answered thoughtfully.
“Got it.”
She set the magazine aside without glancing, already reaching for tools. Ayumu figured she had every style memorized—but skipping the preview left him uneasy, heart thumping. Still, he’d asked her to decide. No backing out now. Trust it was.
She didn’t cut or dye. Washed his hair, worked in wax, then blow-dried while deftly tousling strands with her fingers for nearly five minutes. Finished with a light spritz of fragrant mist.
“All done. Take a look,” she said, confident.
Ayumu’s sides were nearly shaved from last week’s cut; only the top and front held slightly longer, thicker hair. She’d sculpted it into layered, textured spikes. Not conventionally “good-looking,” but undeniably stylish. If pressed? Reminded him of Ichigo Kurosaki’s spiky, dimensional hair from *Bleach*.
“It’s good.” He didn’t dislike it. Acceptable.
“Handsome, you’re new to hosting, right?”
“Mm. How’d you guess?” He didn’t deny it. Maybe one day he’d be in this magazine too.
“The lady with you brought other rookies here before for styling and promo shots. Which club are you from?”
“LOVE. Heard of it?”
“LOVE? Super famous—Roland’s old club. Though it’s been struggling lately… Wait, that woman is LOVE Host Club’s owner? To have nurtured someone like Roland… seriously impressive.” Her admiration was unmistakable.
Ayumu recalled the saying: *When one rises, all around share the glow.* Perfect for LOVE’s former glory. Suddenly, he felt genuine curiosity about Roland. What charm did this man hold to captivate so many?
“Handsome, I believe in you. Keep going! Maybe after my shift tonight, I’ll stop by and request you specifically.”
“Mm. Thanks.”
Ayumu figured it was just encouraging fluff—no need to dwell on it.
Just then, chatter erupted in the waiting area. Curious, Ayumu glanced over—and froze. There, unmistakable, stood the legendary Roland himself, right inside the salon.
