Chapter 1

My earliest memories are a haze, details blurred and indistinct, yet one thing stands crystal clear – my life was the stuff of fairy tales, a charmed existence that would leave many green with envy. Wherever I went, a procession of smiling faces greeted me, bending down to my level with eyes alight with admiration. Their words were a constant refrain, praising my beauty and brilliance, echoing like a sweet melody in my young ears. Occasionally, amid these accolades, curious voices would turn to Mama, asking if I might follow in her artistic footsteps.

"I'd prefer him to have a normal life. Takeo-san thinks the same as I do," Mama would respond, her voice tinged with the softness of a summer breeze, her smile a radiant sunbeam that lit up her already stunning features.

Mama, my mother, was a maestro of the arts – a singer whose voice could tame the wildest heart, an actress who weaved emotions like a painter with a canvas, a model gracing the world with her poise, and a television host whose charisma knew no bounds. Papa, while a phantom on the screen, was a titan behind the scenes, the founder of a colossal talent agency. His role in the grand tapestry of showbiz was a mystery to me, but he often said he was the fulcrum that allowed stars like Mama to shine for all the world to see.

As Mama's life was a whirlwind of engagements, her presence at home was a fleeting moment. Nights often found her absent, her commitments sometimes whisking her away for weeks, even months when shoots called her beyond the province's borders. Yet, loneliness was a stranger to my heart – for in Papa, I found an endless well of companionship. He was my playmate, my storyteller, my anchor in a world where Mama was a dazzling comet, ever fleeting, ever brilliant.

It was on an ordinary day, unmarked and unremarkable, that the fabric of my childhood shifted, revealing a thread of disquiet beneath the surface. Papa, who was the epitome of calm and composed, shattered the day's tranquillity by coming home in a tempest, the door banging shut with a force that echoed like a gunshot in my young ears. I remember freezing, a rabbit caught in the headlights, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribcage.

But then, as if the storm had passed as suddenly as it had arrived, Papa was before me, his face rearranged into its familiar, comforting smile. His hand reached out, brushing my cheek with a tenderness that belied the harshness of his entrance.

"Have you had a bath, Daichi?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing, a gentle zephyr that seemed to carry away the remnants of my alarm.

"Uh-uhm..."

"That's too bad, though... because Papa wants to have a bath with you," he said, and at that moment, his words felt like an invitation to a secret world, akin to those mysterious adult interactions I had glimpsed on foreign television shows.

Despite my reply that I had already bathed, my words seemed to dissolve into the air, weightless and inconsequential. With a guiding hand, gentle yet insistent, Papa led me to the bathroom. The normalcy of the act was a veneer, beneath which lay an undercurrent of something I couldn't quite name – a sensation unfamiliar and strangely unnerving.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks as my heart pounded with a nervous rhythm. Yet Papa remained the constant, enigmatic figure he always was. His smile, a paradox of comfort and mystery, floated in the air as his fingers tenderly brushed through my hair.

"You're gonna love it— I promise," and he whispered, his voice a soothing balm laced with unspoken complexities.

At merely three years old, my understanding of the world was as limited as a tiny boat adrift in a vast ocean. All I could truly grasp was the strange, ticklish sensation that bubbled up inside me, yet it was void of the innocent mirth found in Papa's wrestling tickles. When his hands glided with unsettling stealth, he reminded me of airport security guards conducting invasive searches for forbidden items. His aggressive tongue worked like when you desperately attempt to salvage melting ice cream on sweltering summer days. At times, he would press his teeth against me, a bizarre, strained gesture as if he were trying to coax milk from the unyielding surface.

It was an uncomfortable, somewhat painful yet oddly pleasurable feeling, especially when those hidden, unspoken areas were gently teased.

Papa's lullaby-like voice, soothing yet heavy with an unspoken gravity, murmured, "Let's keep this our secret, promise?"

Whether lulled by the hypnotic cadence of his voice or drained by the bewildering dance of sensations, I nodded blankly, a wordless agreement. My consciousness slipped away almost instantly, like a leaf carried off by a gentle stream, blissfully ignorant of the weighty transgression that had just been woven into the fabric of my being.