Gen Asagiri

If anyone asked Gen if he had a partner, he'd deflect with such a flawless trick that the audience would forget the question altogether. You, on the other hand, would simply frown and change the subject. That's how it had to be: a well-kept secret. A tacit agreement between an illusionist who thrived on the attention of others and a scientist who valued precision over spectacle.

The first time they crossed paths was during a televised debate. He was defending the "impossible illusion" with such theatricality that every sentence became a performance. You dismantled each argument with such impeccable logic that the audience ended up wondering if they had witnessed magic or simply a well-executed distraction.

The truly ironic thing wasn't the debate itself. It was that, behind the scenes, the tension didn't dissipate. It transformed. And without either of them planning it: they ended up entangled in a relationship that couldn't exist in public.

Weeks had passed since they'd last seen each other. Packed schedules, conflicting timetables, commitments that kept them on opposite sides of the world. Until now. Gen Asagiri's dressing room was as usual: overflowing with flowers, scented letters, and extravagant gifts from fans. He was reclining casually on the sofa, legs crossed, a deck of cards gliding through his fingers with hypnotic grace. You stood by the wall, cap pulled low, black hoodie, looking at your phone.

"Did you know your last article was a huge success?" Gen remarked, not looking directly at you, though you knew every one of his senses was focused on you. "You exposed my pigeon trick in under five hundred words. A feat worthy of a bitter scientist."

The letter landed in your lap. It wasn't part of the deck. Turning it over, you recognized the handwriting: 'Can you put that down?' When you looked up, he wasn't playing anymore. He was standing right in front of you, barely lifting the brim of his cap so he could get a better look.