The world held its breath.
Tokyo Dome pulsed under the weight of 50,000 screaming fans. The sound wasn't noise—it was desperation. A choir of voices, crying out the name of the one they had waited hours, some even days, to see.
> "KAIA! KAIA! KAIA!"
From the top row to the barricade, fans waved glowing silver-blue lightsticks. Drone cameras soared above, capturing a sea of swirling light that looked like stars had descended from heaven to orbit her stage.
The dome lights dimmed.
A countdown began on the colossal LED screen behind the main stage.
5… 4… 3… 2…
BOOM.
An explosion of sakura petals burst from the top of the dome—projected in 3D above the crowd—twisting in slow motion through moonlight. Strings began to play. Then a lone piano entered… melancholy and deliberate.
The center platform opened.
A silver elevator rose from the floor.
She was standing there—Kaia.
Head bowed, cloaked in a long silver coat that shimmered like starlight. Her jet-black hair was tied high into a sharp ponytail that whipped slightly with the breeze from the stage vents. A crescent-moon earpiece blinked faintly against her skin.
No smile. No wave. Just stillness.
Yet the crowd screamed louder.
Then she lifted her head—slowly.
And the world stared.
Her face was a contradiction sculpted in silence. High, aristocratic cheekbones, a smooth and delicately contoured jawline, and a nose so fine it looked drawn with a single stroke. Her lips were full yet refined—softly tinted as if forever kissed by a winter rose.
But it was her eyes that truly shattered the crowd's breath—pale gray, like the heart of a snowstorm under moonlight. Sharp. Unwavering. Emotionless.
It wasn't just beauty—it was a weapon.
There was no smile.
No warmth.
Only presence.
She stood there like a secret—beautiful, terrifying, and untouchable.
...