MHA REINCARNATION!

The flashing lights of the stadium threatened to sear my retinas, but I just kept grinning. The music pulsed, a relentless beat that vibrated through my bones. Twenty thousand fans, a sea of glowing lightsticks, all chanting my name. "Mirio! Mirio! Mirio!"

This was my life. Mirio Togata, J-Pop Idol. A manufactured image, a burst of carefully curated energy, a performance.

Behind the stage, in the relative darkness, was reality.

I spun around, the final notes of the song ringing in my ears, and threw myself into Tamaki's arms. "Did you see me, Tama? Did you see the leap during the bridge? I almost ate it, but I stuck the landing!"

Tamaki, my manager, my confidant, the love of my life, caught me easily. His touch was always grounding, a solid anchor in the whirlwind of this extravagant charade. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and the nervous sweat I knew he tried so hard to hide.

"You were... radiant," he mumbled, his face pressed into my shoulder. "As always. The landing… it was impressive."

Impressive was Tamaki's version of spectacular. He wasn't one for hyperbole, which was one of the million things I loved about him.

"Radiant, huh?" I teased, pulling back to tickle his side. He flinched, a rare smile flickering across his lips. "You're going soft on me, Amajiki."

He blushed, a delicate rose tint creeping up his neck. "Don't," he pleaded softly. "Someone could see."

And that was the constant tightrope walk of our existence. Mirio Togata, the sunny, approachable idol, couldn't be seen cuddling his reserved, intensely private manager. It would be a scandal, an outrage, a career killer.

We had been navigating this secret life since the very beginning. From the awkward first months, when Tamaki had been assigned to me as my handler, to the stolen glances over contracts, the hushed phone calls under the guise of business, the hesitant first touch in a darkened recording studio.

It wasn't ideal, but it was ours.

"Right," I said, regret coloring my voice. I straightened my jacket, forcing myself to radiate that public-facing cheerfulness. "Photo ops next. Then meet-and-greet. Let's do this!"

I launched into the artificial persona, waving at the cameras, flashing my signature blinding smile. Tamaki stayed close, a shadow at my shoulder, silently making sure everything ran smoothly. I knew he hated the crowds, the incessant noise, the feeling of being watched. But he was here, for me, as always.

The photo ops were a blur of forced smiles and manufactured intimacy. Fans screamed my name, thrusting gifts at me. I tried to make eye contact with each one, to offer a genuine moment of connection, but the sheer volume of it was overwhelming.

Later, during the meet-and-greet, a young girl with tear-filled eyes confessed how much my music meant to her, how it helped her through a difficult time. In moments like that, the artificiality melted away, replaced by a genuine sense of purpose. Maybe this wasn't all just a performance. Maybe I really was making a difference.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. I collapsed onto the couch in my dressing room, the exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow.

Tamaki came in, his face etched with concern. "You okay?"

"Just tired," I sighed, closing my eyes. "So tired of pretending."

He knelt beside me, taking my hand. His touch was warm and comforting. "I know," he whispered. "But you're strong, Mirio. You always are."

We sat in silence for a few moments, the quiet of the dressing room a welcome respite from the chaos outside. Then, a knock on the door.

"Five minutes, Togata-san," a voice called out. "You have an interview with Music Weekly."

I groaned. "Seriously?"

Tamaki squeezed my hand. "I'll reschedule it for tomorrow. You need to rest."

"No," I said, forcing myself to sit up. "I can't. It's important. Music Weekly has a huge readership."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and concern. He knew I was pushing myself too hard, but he also knew I wouldn't back down.

"Alright," he said, resigned. "But I'm staying with you. And after this, we're going straight home. No more work tonight."

I smiled, relief flooding through me. "Deal."

As I walked towards the door, ready to face the cameras once more, I glanced back at Tamaki. He was standing in the shadows, watching me with those intense, unwavering eyes.

In that moment, surrounded by the artificial world I had created, I knew that everything I did, every performance I gave, was for him. He was my anchor, my safe harbor, the one constant truth in a world of carefully crafted illusions.

And that, more than anything, made it all worthwhile.

The interview was a success. I answered the questions with practiced ease, charming the interviewer with my infectious enthusiasm. But the whole time, I was thinking about Tamaki, waiting for me just out of sight.

Finally, it was over. I practically sprinted back to the dressing room, shedding the idol persona with every step.

When I reached the door, I didn't bother to knock. I just threw it open and walked inside.

Tamaki was waiting for me, his arms outstretched. I ran into them, burying my face in his neck.

"I'm home," I whispered, finally allowing myself to be just Mirio, not Mirio Togata, J-Pop Idol.

And in that moment, in the quiet sanctuary of his embrace, I knew that even amidst the chaos and the pretense, our secret was worth fighting for. Because it was real. It was ours. And it was everything.