Dream Idol Training Diary: Hotarun ~Kawarazuka Hotaru~ episode 1 (Patreon)

It was raining.

Drops of water slid down the window, dampening Hotaru’s poster on the glass. The remnants of torn tape glistened like tears. I tilted the cold can of beer in my hand and stared at the livestream notification glowing on my phone screen.

"Sold out again…"

Enlarging the image with my fingers, I saw a pink-haired girl smiling, a pale blue ribbon tied in her hair. Kawarazuka Hotaru—affectionately called Hotarin—the center of Azure Ribbon. Her smile, visible only through a screen, belonged to a world that bore no resemblance to the grimy, three-tatami reality of my cramped apartment.

Collapsing onto the bed, my thoughts wandered to my boss's yelling and the endless sales quotas. At this rate, I wouldn’t even make next month’s rent, let alone a concert ticket…

"Damn it…"

My clenched fist pounded the dusty futon. As I glanced around, my eyes fell on the display mannequin arm I'd impulsively bought from a secondhand shop yesterday, now lying in the corner of the room. When I first saw it at the flea market, an inexplicable tightness had seized my chest—maybe because of the pale blue ribbon tied around it, identical to the one Hotaru wore at her handshake event.

"What the hell…"

I clutched the mannequin’s cold wrist, the smooth ceramic texture oddly lifelike. But the next instant—a jolt like electricity shot through my fingertips.

"……?!"

For a split second, I thought the room's light flickered. A hallucination? Probably the beer. Rubbing my eyes, I turned back to the picture of Hotaru on my phone. Her smile, still dazzling, still impossibly out of reach.

"If only… she were real."

A choked laugh echoed strangely through the room—or so I thought.

That night, I didn’t realize the glass figurine on my desk had begun to glow faintly just past midnight.

I woke up with a stiff neck. Staring blankly at the stain on the wall, I let out a heavy sigh. Must have dreamed about my useless boss again. My jaw ached faintly—had I been grinding my teeth in my sleep?

…Huh?

Something was off.

The futon felt strangely heavy, as if someone—no, something—was pressing down on me. A faintly sweet scent drifted from beside my pillow. The smell of hair.

"……!"

Slowly, I turned my neck and looked down.

There—

Pink strands spilled onto my shoulder.

My heart skipped a beat. The silky, flowing hair spread across the bedsheets like watercolor paint, shifting slightly with every breath. Beneath it peeked skin as flawless as polished porcelain.

A girl.

A girl was sleeping next to me.

(Who…?)

My mind went blank. I desperately combed through last night’s memories, but I’d only had one beer. Blacking out and bringing a girl home? Impossible. And not just any girl—one as cute as this…

Then my gaze landed on the ribbon in her hair.

Pale blue.

(No fucking way…)

My fingers trembled. My throat dried up. Bracing myself, I slowly pulled back the covers to see her face.

"—!"

Azure Ribbon’s center—Hotaru herself—was lying there.

Her lips were slightly parted, long eyelashes quivering ever so faintly. The steady rise and fall of her chest, the soft rhythm of her breathing—completely human. Alive.

(What the hell is happening…?)

Amidst the chaos, I suddenly recalled the mannequin’s arm and the strange shimmer of the glass. Was I dreaming? I pinched my own cheek hard.

It hurt.

…This was real.

A shiver crawled down my spine. Steeling myself, I reached out a trembling hand, barely daring to brush my fingers against Hotaru’s cheek.

—Warm.

The heat of living flesh. The delicate smoothness of her skin. The faint curve of her cheekbone.

(Real…? But that’s impossible…)

I couldn’t suppress the disorientation. This time, my fingers trailed up to touch the ribbon—the fabric unmistakable beneath my touch. The line of her neck beneath it, the pale slope I'd seen so many times in concert footage.

"…Mmm…"

A quiet murmur escaped her lips.

I recoiled instantly.

"……"

Slowly, those long lashes lifted.

And from beneath them—

Eyes, hazy but undeniably alive, blinked back at me.

My breath hitched the moment Hotaru opened her eyes.

I scrambled backward, rolling off the futon and slamming against the wall. My heart hammered, goosebumps erupting down my arms. Right in front of me was an idol who, until yesterday, had only existed through the glass of my phone screen.

(What the hell… A dream?)

I slapped my own cheek.

It hurt.

The texture of the futon, the stale air of the room—everything was real. Even the warmth of her breath, brushing faintly against my face, was undeniably real.

"………………"

Hotaru stared at me in silence.

Her eyes seemed focused, yet empty. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t so much as twitch. Like… a doll waiting for a command.

(…Is she not going to react unless I say something…?)

"H-Hey—"

My voice cracked. My throat was bone-dry. I swallowed hard, forcing out the words.

"…You’re Hotaru, right?"

"…Yes."

A clear, melodic voice—the same one I'd heard countless times in concerts. But the resonance lacked life. Like a machine responding to input rather than a person speaking.

(Holy shit… she sounds real…)

Calm down, I told myself. This can’t be happening. There had to be a trick. Cautiously, I edged closer from the wall, settling beside her and peering into her face.

The arch of her brows. The length of her lashes. The soft pink of her lips.

All of it matched exactly what I'd seen on my phone.

(Just like watching her on a live broadcast…)

But the eeriest thing? Her utter passivity. She just sat there, her gaze fixed on me. No fidgeting, no expression, not even adjusting her disheveled clothes. It was like… she was waiting. Waiting for me to tell her what to do.

(Like a doll…)

Swallowing hard, I reached out and touched her shoulder.

—It was warm.

Human warmth.

"………!"

I yanked my hand back, spine tingling.

(What do I do…? What the hell do I even—?)

My thoughts spun into chaos.

What was this? A husk? A ghost? Some kind of construct—?!

"Uh… so…"

I tried again, but she just waited.

"……?"

A slight tilt of her head. No initiative, no spark behind those eyes.

Morning sunlight spilled into the room, amplifying the stifling mix of dread and confusion. Right there was Azure Ribbon’s Hotaru—and yet, she just lay there, gazing up at me like a discarded doll waiting for orders.

"You… okay?"

The words slipped out on impulse. The memory of her warmth under my fingers lingered—no replica could mimic that.

"…Yes."

Same flat reply. Behind those long lashes, her pale blue eyes showed zero emotion. Her idol outfit—a dazzling stage costume, white with shimmering blue ribbons—was askew across the bed.

(Her concert attire…? Why would she be in—?)

I clutched the hem of my pajamas and leaned forward, hovering unsteadily.

"Can you sit up? I-I can help if it's hard…"

I chose my words carefully, trying to sound normal. If she was just lying there, I needed to coax her upright.

"…Yes."

Slowly, she began to rise—but the motion was off. Like a marionette yanked upright at the joints, stilted. The pale skin at her collarbone caught the morning light, gleaming through the gaps in her ribbon.

"Does it… hurt? Are you in pain?"

I almost reached for her again, but stopped halfway. Touching her so abruptly didn’t feel right.

"…No."

Her flawless idol beauty remained expressionless as she answered. I noticed her posture wasn’t quite steady after sitting up, and I instinctively moved to support her back—

(—!)

The warmth under my fingertips was unmistakably human. The suppleness of muscle, the shape of her spine beneath the fabric. The sheer realness of her made me jerk my hand away immediately.

"A-Ah, sorry. Can you… sit up by yourself?"

"…Yes."

She adjusted herself mechanically, resting now in a proper seiza position. The ribbon at her chest was slightly undone—but she made no move to fix it, as if its disarray meant nothing.

"Uh… thirsty? Should I get you some water…?"

I wasn't sure how to handle this insanity, so defaulting to basic manners seemed safest. She only tilted her head in response—maybe because my question wasn't a simple yes/no.

"Is there anything you’d like to drink?"

I reworded my offer carefully.

"…Master may decide."

"——!?"

I nearly choked.

That word—Master—it wasn’t a term used in any official merchandise, any fan perk. Yet she’d said it without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Why… are you calling me that?"

"…Because you are my Master."

It only deepened the madness. My fingers tightened around the cup in my hand, the water inside trembling from the shaking I couldn’t suppress.

"H-Here… drink."

She accepted it with both hands—so ceremoniously, so unnaturally proper, like a samurai's daughter from a historical drama.

"…Thank you, Master."

(There it is again—!)

I winced. Why "Master"? The situation was already incomprehensible enough, and this bizarre address only made it worse.

The rim of the glass touched her lips. I watched her throat move as she drank slowly, the blue ribbon grazing her collarbone. A single drop escaped, trailing down the smooth curve of her neck.

Every tiny gesture was alive.

And yet—

"Look, can you… stop calling me that?"

I sank to the floor, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

"I’m just—just a fan. I can't even afford tickets to your handshake events."

"…That’s impossible."

Her reply struck cold. Cradling the cup in both hands, she tilted her head slightly. Morning sunlight caught in her disheveled hair, turning strands gold.

"Why not?"

"…Because you are my Master."

No hesitation. No ambiguity. Just absolute certainty.

The curtains rustled as a breeze slipped through the window—and yet, strangely, the air in the room felt heavier than before.

"Wait…" I gripped the edge of the bed, forcing myself up. "Are you… kidnapped? Being held against your will?"

It sounded absurd, but nothing else made sense. Yet there she was, unrestrained.

"…No."

"Then why?"

"…Because it is decided."

A dead end. Frustrated, I walked to the window, checking outside. The usual apartment parking lot stared back—no shift in reality there.

(So is she the anomaly?)

Turning back, I found her still kneeling on the bed in perfect seiza. The hem of her idol skirt hiked up slightly, revealing the pale skin of her thighs, but she made no move to adjust it.

"Hey, listen…" I chose my words carefully. "Do you remember where you were yesterday?"

"…I was here."

"No, before that. What about Azure Ribbon—?"

"…I have always been with you, Master."

(What the hell is she—?)

My pulse spiked. I stepped closer, searching her face—no trace of that signature idol smile. Just a hollow, eerily poised version of the star I knew.

This couldn’t be real. If she were truly Hotaru, her agency would be in an uproar right now. Social media would be—

"Do you… have a phone?"

"…Please use yours, Master."

"No, I mean your own phone. Get it."

"…I don’t have one."

Confusion twisted deeper. An idol without a phone? Impossible. Was she lying? Mentally compromised? A goddamn dream?

I grabbed my own phone, pulling up her official account. Last post—yesterday evening. ["Thank you for today’s live!"] Perfectly routine. Even had an update this morning.

(Then who—or what—is this in front of me?)

I glanced back. She waited quietly, strands of pink hair still tousled, motionless. A scenario straight out of delusional fan fiction—yet in reality, it made my skin crawl.

"Wait. Are you… a ghost?"

But what about the warmth I'd felt?

"…No."

Her reply was unnervingly detached.

"Then what the hell are you?!"

I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but she didn’t so much as flinch. Just lowered her gaze—submissive. Not defiant. Only waiting.

(Like an obedient slave—)

Why is this happening?

I hadn’t done anything. Last night, all I’d touched was that mannequin and—

The memory of the glass figurine’s eerie glow resurfaced.

What if…?

"Hey, about that—"

Before I could finish, she slowly lifted her face.

"…Master, is there something you desire?"

I froze. Staring into those cold, undeniably living eyes, I had no words left.