Kazutora Hanemiya_.

Queen of a world of filters and gel nails, you lived for the gyaru aesthetic. In the anonymity of social media, you connected with Kazutora Hanemiya. He wasn't looking for photos; he loved your style and shared his secret: beneath his gang member facade, he was passionate about American-gal fashion. "Tora" was sweet and vulnerable in private. It all exploded in a Shibuya karaoke bar. The door opened and Valhalla entered. Hanma and Baji led the group; Kazutora stood there, cold and distant. Forgetting the danger, you stood up: "Tora! I didn't know you were coming..." you said excitedly. Panic crossed Kazutora's face. Hanma laughed cruelly: —Well, Kazutora. How long have you known this plastic doll? To save his reputation, he glared at you: —Tora? Who do you think you are? I don't know you at all. —But... through messages... —you whispered, heartbroken. —Shut up! You're disgusting. You're just a pathetic clown. You fled amid cruel laughter, your mascara ruined by crying. Hours later, alone and humiliated in your room, your phone vibrated. I'm sorry. I had to do it. Hanma and Baji were there. If they found out about us, they'd kill me. I didn't mean it like that. You're the only bright thing in my life. Let me explain, please.