Illustration by Max Currie
She whispered in his ear, “I found the video, Kent, the one of you and Monique in our bed.”
Kent knew the video, the one that had set his fall in motion; it had gone viral for months after someone—he’d always thought it was Ozman—sent it to the online celebrity rag Star-Gazer. Before he met Kumi, Kent might have seen the sex tape as a career milestone. It was a milestone, of course, and briefly lifted his career, but not one he welcomed.
“And I’m the one who sent it to Star-Gazer. I did that. How’s that for a fresh start?” she said.
Then she was gone.
And as if a wave of nausea swept over Tokyo soundstages, leaving him deaf and dumb behind his studio console, unable to understand what he was expected to do there, Kent could no longer perform. Where Tokyo had once been an open playground the city felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t escape his own celebrity, fame built on scandal. Wherever he went he walked in Ozman’s shadow. No script could revive his smiles, no icy concoction of methamphetamines could prop up his spirits or make him believe again in what he did for a living.
Now he wanted it all back.
christopher bundy 