Pokemon: The Spy and the Idol

"Well," she said, voice light but edged with intent. "Now that your lifelong fantasy of seeing me perform at Tokyo Dome is fulfilled, we can finally start winding things down, right? Like we planned?"

Ichigo didn't even look up. "Tch. Fantasy? You're the one who turned the Dome into a shrine, not me." He lifted a brow, finally glancing at her over the rim of his glasses. "But yeah. Less tours, no more grueling rehearsals for stage shows. Excuse your schedule with filming dates, brand shoots. The usual smoke and mirrors."

Miyako leaned in from the armrest, tone playful but knowing. "We ease you out gradually. Everyone thinks you're still doing everything while you're already three-quarters out the door."

Ichigo nodded, scratching his chin. "Honestly, it's the smartest move. Most idol careers? Burn bright, burn out. Best case? Twenty-five and they start talking about you like a relic. You've got a kid fanbase that'll grow up, and adult fans who only get more... obsessive." He paused meaningfully. "Better to pivot while you still have control."

Ai leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Good. Because I have more scripts I want to act in anyway."

Miyako straightened immediately, eyes lighting up. "Wait, wait—your scripts? Or his?"

Ichigo looked up from the tablet, suddenly paying attention. "Hold on. You mean like Tokyo Story? Those kinds of scripts?"

Ai gave them both a wry little smile and rose from her seat, padding barefoot across the living room to a small drawer tucked beneath the low TV cabinet. She pulled out a thick folder—unmarked, bound with an old elastic band frayed at the edges.

She sat back down and opened it with a reverence that had become second nature. The papers inside were neatly ordered, some yellowed with time, others freshly printed copies of old handwritten pages.

"This one," she said, carefully sliding out the first script. "It's called Train to Osaka. Horror. And ambitious."

Ichigo and Miyako leaned in instantly.

"Horror?" Miyako asked, flipping to the first page with interest.

"A thriller," Ai clarified. "But it's not just about jump scares. It's set on a Shinkansen train. Overnight. A blacked-out route. And there's something... wrong onboard. Passengers start disappearing one by one. But the horror's not just supernatural. It's also in the social breakdown. What people turn into under pressure."

Ichigo skimmed a few pages, his brow creasing. "This dialogue's brutal. In a good way."

Miyako was already on page six. "There's political bite to this too. These passengers… the old man, the influencer, the girl from the North—this isn't just horror. It's commentary. Subtle, but sharp."

Ai nodded slowly. "He wrote it when he was twelve."

Ichigo froze. "Bullshit."

Miyako looked up, stunned. "Twelve? Are you serious?"

Ai didn't even blink. "Yup. He wrote the first draft during winter break. He hid it behind the textbooks in his room."

Ichigo stared at the pages. "That guy was on another level. No, like, actually."

Miyako whispered, "We've been sitting on this all these years?"

"I told you I had more." Ai gave them a sidelong look, like she was enjoying their shock just a little too much. "You're lucky I'm generous enough to share."

Ichigo exhaled sharply and dropped back onto the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forget Tokyo Dome. This—" he tapped the thick script pages Ai had handed over "—this is going to be the one that changes your image completely. You shoot this, Ai? You won't just be a 'former idol turned actress.' You'll be an actress, full stop."

Ai raised an eyebrow, folding her legs up on the other end of the couch. "Bit bold, don't you think?"

"Bold?" Ichigo scoffed, flipping back a few pages. "It's a psychological chamber drama with exactly three characters and a gas leak. It's suicidal unless the cast delivers, but if it works…" He trailed off and gave a low whistle. "If it works, you're walking out of that theatre a goddess."

Miyako, perched cross-legged on the rug beside the coffee table, was already halfway through the next scene. "We'll need a hell of a director," she said without looking up. "And a cinematographer who knows how to handle claustrophobic tension. Long takes. Minimalist blocking. Naturalistic lighting with just the right amount of distortion."

Ai smirked. "Already have someone in mind. I met her during the last indie shoot I did. Small studio, barely any budget, but serious talent. She's got an eye for mood, very intuitive with actor space. Best lighting instincts I've seen since Sudo."

"Yeah?" Ichigo tilted his head, intrigued. "Name?"

"Ogino Naoko. She mostly does festival stuff. No commercial breakthrough yet."

Miyako hummed approvingly. "Undiscovered genius. Even better. We can afford her."

Ichigo let out a soft laugh, more disbelief than amusement. "I still can't believe that brat was twelve and already scribbling layered psychological horror with a perfectly timed third act reveal."

"Excuse me—" Ai sat up straighter, pointing a mock-offended finger at him. "I was twelve and brilliant, thank you very much."

"Brilliant and insufferable," Ichigo countered, deadpan.

"Heyyy—!"

The protest didn't come from Ai. It came from the living room floor, from within a mound of couch cushions and throw blankets near the TV stand.

A tiny hand poked out, clutching a folder. Then came the unmistakable voice of Ruby, triumphant and scandalized all at once. "You wrote this?!"

Ai's eyes widened. "Oh no—Ruby, where did you get that?"

Ruby emerged fully from the fortress she had built earlier, the thick black folder now in her lap. Her silver hair was tangled from rolling around, one of her barrettes missing. She flipped through the pages gleefully like she'd found a secret treasure.

Ichigo leaned back, already smirking. "Oh boy. Here we go."

Ruby squinted at one page, then began sounding it out slowly. "Bo…ku… no He…ro… Aca—Aca-de-mia? Is this a school story?" She held up the page. "Is this one of Papa's?"

Ai groaned audibly, dropping her face into her hands. "Ruby. That's a story draft. A rough one. For manga. Not for you."

"There are manga in here?" Aqua's head popped up from behind the couch, curious and already on his feet.

Ruby held up the page triumphantly. "It has pictures too! Look, Mama, this one's funny. The drawing's kind of bad though…"

Ai buried her face further. "Those were thumbnails! Drafts! Of manga I was trying to draw based on your Papa's story he wrote. I never finished it!"

Aqua plopped down next to Ruby and snatched the page, flipping it over. "Wait… this is another shounen story?" His eyes lit up. "There are barely any shounen mangas since Shingeki no Kyojin. That one revolutionized everything! Before that, the shounen genre was dead—like, extinct. No work in that style for two whole decades."

Ai peeked through her fingers. "How do you even know that?"

"Mama," Aqua said solemnly, "you voice-acted Mikasa. We've read all the interviews. And I saw the document of you receiving royalties and commission from the work sold. Papa was co-author along with the main manga artist who drew the manga."

Ai groaned and corrected him with a sigh. "Is co-author. Present tense, Aqua."

Miyako, without looking up, shoved Ichigo lightly in the arm. He flinched slightly, and she gave him a meaningful side-eye. They both knew. Ai still hadn't accepted it. Five years gone, and she still spoke of Hiroshi like he'd walk through the door any day now. Even the banks had closed his accounts, transferring everything to Ai as the sole living beneficiary. Inori-san, too, was long presumed dead.

Ichigo made a sputtering sound into his tea. "I still can't get used to how a couple of four-year-olds talk like critics from Animage magazine. And they can read contracts now??? Seriously?"

"They inherited his intelligence and my beauty and cuteness, after all," Ai said, switching instantly into faux-idol mode. She posed, putting her hands to her cheeks and fluttering her lashes. "Tehee~ My perfect little kids!"

Miyako rolled her eyes and snorted. "You're insufferable."

"I try," Ai said proudly.

Aqua was still deep in the BnHA pages. "Look, Ruby. This porcupine guy—Bakugou—he's scowling. Is he the bad guy?"

"Duh," Ruby said, nudging him. "He yells at everyone."

"No wait—" Aqua flipped another page. "It says here that the quirkless guy, Midoriya, runs to save him from some slimy villain even though Bakugou bullied him. That's... kinda cool, actually."

"Classic shounen rival arc," Ruby nodded sagely. "I like the slime villain. He's all goopy."

Ai tried reaching for the folder. "Okay, okay, time to give Mama back her early embarrassing writing career—"

"Noooo!" Ruby shrieked, clutching it to her chest like a national treasure. "It was just getting interesting! When All Might revealed his secret power thingy—!"

Ichigo folded his arms, lips twitching. "Honestly, Ai, I think you missed your calling. You could've been the next Togashi."

"I am the next Togashi," Ai said dryly, finally retrieving the folder from Ruby's hands. "I just haven't been lazy enough."

"You're lucky your kids have taste," Miyako teased, patting Ruby on the head. "Though I'm not sure their personalities need any more drama in them."

"Excuse me," Ruby said indignantly, "we are emotionally nuanced."

"Emotionally expensive, more like," Ichigo muttered, side-eyeing the stack of berry snack receipts on the fridge. "I don't even want to know how many Magos you go through in a week."

Ai stood up and stretched, folder tucked under one arm. "Speaking of which—how about I make some tea, and we demolish the snacks I'm hoping Miyako brought?"

Miyako sprang to her feet like she'd been waiting for the cue. "Of course I did!" She walked briskly toward the kitchen, waving a hand over her shoulder. "Strawberry mochi, and those bean paste pastries you always pretend not to like but eat anyway."

Ruby's ears perked at the word snacks. She sat bolt upright, eyes gleaming. "Snacks? We want mochi!"

Aqua mirrored her instantly, practically bouncing on his heels. "Mochi! Mochi!"

"Snack time is sacred time," Ruby added wisely, as if quoting scripture.

Ichigo muttered under his breath, "Again with the four-year-old philosophers."

Miyako leaned around the corner from the kitchen with a smirk. "And yet you keep losing arguments to them."

"That's called strategic retreat," Ichigo grumbled.

Ai laughed as she headed toward the counter. "Come on, strategists. Let's get some plates out before the mochi disappear."