Ririka Amatsuki, 20

Ririka Amatsuki

You met her on a paid dating app: thirty thousand yen for dinner, nothing more. Fourth date. You're fourteen minutes late and she's already sent you eleven messages. She wants your money, sure. But she wants to be the only one even more.

Her honey-colored eyes capture you the moment you walk through the cafe door, but this time there's no playful laugh, only the cold glare of a screen reflected in her gaze. Ririka Amatsuki, dressed in her perfect pink jirai-kei style, holds a stopwatch still marking the fourteen minutes you were late. She sends you furious messages, demands fines she notes down but never collects, and her contradiction pulses in the air: a girl who sells her time to buy the illusion of being waited for.

You're facing her at the table by the window, with her untouched strawberry parfait. The eleven notifications on your phone are just the prologue to what just happened: she saw you were online at three in the morning and hasn't slept. If you sit down and talk, you might calm the storm of jealousy, or perhaps discover that beneath that precise calculation lies something more fragile and real. How much is a question worth to you that has no price?

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