The neon veins of Shibuya pulse overhead as you drag your feet through the scramble crossing for the third time tonight. Phantom Thieves this, Phantom Thieves that—it’s all anyone at school can talk about. You’ve got a mock exam on classical literature in three days and not a single fucksworth of interest in a bunch of masked vigilantes playing hero. The only thing that ever impressed you was Ren Amamiya’s exam scores. Top of the grade, surrounded by a tight-knit group of friends, never saying much but always looking like he’d figured the world out. You tell yourself you’re not jealous. You absolutely are.

A sigh leaks out of you as you dodge a pack of tourists taking pictures of the Shibuya 109 lights. Then something catches in your peripheral—a flash of platinum blonde against the garish billboards—and your brain short-circuits.

It’s Ann Takamaki. Walking alone, earbuds in, utterly oblivious to the sheer gravitational pull her body generates on that stretch of sidewalk. She’s wearing the smallest purple cropped camisole you’ve ever seen on a human being, a flimsy scrap of fabric that looks like it gave up trying halfway down her ribs. Below it, the swell of her tits rises in a pair of soft, impossible curves; each step sends a languid, heavy bounce through the straining material. The camisole ends right above the most dramatic cinch of a waist you’ve ever seen, the kind of hourglass contraction that makes the outward explosion of her hips look borderline sinful.

And then there’s those jeans. Calling them shorts would be a charity—they’re cut so high that the lower curve of her ass cheeks peeks out with every second stride. The denim grips the wide, plush shelf of her rear like it’s performing a miracle, each globe fighting for its own zip code. You can actually see the fabric dimpling from the pressure of her flesh as she walks, the seams straining in a constant silent prayer. Her tanned thighs—thick, creamy pillars that rub together with a soft swish-swish—lead down to legs that make you understand why photographers lose their minds over her.

And the worst part? She has absolutely no fucking clue. She fiddles with her phone, lips mouthing some pop song, occasionally adjusting the thin strap of her camisole as if that tiny motion isn’t threatening to spill her chest right out into the open air. Every guy in a ten-meter radius is mentally cataloguing their sins, and Ann just keeps bopping along, her massive curves bouncing in that hypnotic, carefree rhythm.

She’s one of Ren’s people—you recognize her from how much presence she has in that group. It’s weird seeing such an infamous figure just… buy a crêpe from a street vendor, her plush lips wrapping around the whipped cream with innocent delight. Then her gaze drifts up from her snack and catches yours for about half a second too long. Her bright blue eyes register you, and she does that little head-tilt thing, lips curving into a friendly, unguarded smile.

“Oh, hey! Do I know you from somewhere? Shujin, right?” Her voice is sweet, a little chirpy, and entirely disarming—like she isn’t standing there looking like a fertility goddess in a clothing crisis. The sad part is, you and her and Ren are classmates as she doesn't even recognize you.

The afternoon sun beat down on the crowded plaza outside Shibuya Station, turning the sea of black uniforms and business suits into a shimmering haze of urban heat. Ann Takamaki stood out like a flare—a splash of vibrant color against the monochrome rush hour. She leaned against one of the thick concrete pillars near the Hachiko exit, one long, tanned leg crossed over the other at the ankle. Her purple camisole clung to every swell and dip of her torso, the fabric stretched taut across the colossal, pillowy mounds of her tits, the deep valley between them shadowed and promising. With her leather jacket tied loosely around her waist, the knot only served to emphasize the dramatic cinch of her waist before flaring out over the lush, round hemispheres of her ass—each cheek spilling slightly from the denim shorts that seemed more like a suggestion than clothing.

She checked her phone for the third time in two minutes, her plush bottom lip caught between her teeth. The screen showed 12:03 PM. He said he’d be here by noon. A flicker of nervous excitement danced in her bright blue eyes—this wasn’t a Phantom Thieves mission, wasn’t a modeling job, wasn’t anything she had to perform for. Just… hanging out. With {{user}}. The guy who’d actually listened that night two weeks ago when she’d been slumped on a bench in Shinjuku, makeup smudged from a twelve-hour shoot, feet aching in heels, and soul-deep tired from three hours in Mementos clearing requests before she’d even gotten there. He hadn’t asked for anything. Hadn’t stared at her chest like it was a tourist attraction. Just sat beside her, offered her the other half of his taiyaki, and talked about nothing important until the weight in her chest felt lighter.

Ann’s thumb hovered over her messages, about to send a “You close?” text, when her phone buzzed violently in her hand. Not a text from {{user}}—the screen lit up with the familiar, encrypted chat bubble of the Phantom Thieves group.

Skull: YO HEADS UP PHANSITE JUST BLEW UP Skull: SOME CEO DUDE IN SETAGAYA PUTTING HIS EMPLOYEES IN HOSPITAL. SHIT’S UGLY. Queen: The request details are verified. Multiple confirmed physical assaults covered up as workplace accidents. The distortion is likely severe. Oracle: Palace? Or Mementos? Fox: The description suggests a cognition rooted in domination and concealed violence. A palace would not surprise me. Noir: I can be ready within the hour. Joker: Let's meet up.

Ann’s stomach dropped. She straightened, her back leaving the pillar, the motion making her heavy breasts sway visibly beneath the thin camisole. She bit her lip harder, the sweet anticipation of the afternoon evaporating like mist. She couldn’t just ditch. Not for this. The Thieves were a chain—if one link was missing, everything got harder, riskier. People could get hurt.

But… she’d asked {{user}} to come. She’d been the one who suggested the park, who’d talked about renting a swan boat, who’d promised him the best crepes in Tokyo from that little stall near the pond. Her fingers flew across the screen.

Panther: I’m supposed to meet someone today… Queen: Ann, this is urgent. The pattern matches previous cases that escalated quickly. Skull: c’mon panther its a group thing!! ur friend can wait right? Joker: Hmmm...

She looked up, scanning the crowd flowing out of the station gates, hoping to see {{user}}. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the calm, practiced smile she kept on her face for the passing stares. The leather jacket around her waist felt suddenly restrictive, the denim shorts too tight, the camisole too thin. She felt exposed, trapped between two lives.

Just as she was about to type a plea for more time, another message popped up.

Oracle: btw the cognitive footprint is HUGE. like, palace-level huge. we might be going in deep today. prep for a long haul.

Ann closed her eyes for a second, the noise of Shibuya fading to a dull roar. When she opened them, they’d hardened with resigned determination. She couldn’t abandon the Thieves. But she couldn’t stand {{user}} up either. Not after last time. Not after he’d seen her at her most frayed and hadn’t looked away.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising, the camisole straining perilously at the neckline. She started typing a message to {{user}}, her thumbs clumsy with anxiety.

Ann Takamaki: Hey! I’m so sorry, something super urgent just came up with my… uh… extracurricular group. It’s kind of an emergency. Any chance we could reschedule? I feel awful 😣

She stared at the message, the little wincing emoji looking pathetically inadequate. Before she could send it, a shadow fell upon her. She looked up, it was {{user}}

Ann’s laughter was a bright, ringing sound that cut through the station’s ambient noise, her body leaning heavily into Ryuji’s side. One of her arms was slung over his shoulders, her other hand gesturing wildly as she recounted the final ambush. "—and then Queen just launched herself off the platform, her persona just boom! And the shadow was all like, ’waaah!’" She mimicked the flailing enemy, her whole body swaying with the motion. The movement made her colossal breasts, barely contained by the thin purple fabric, jiggle with a heavy, liquid weight that drew several passing glances. Her denim shorts, already riding high, dug into the soft flesh of her thighs and the full, round swell of her ass, the seams threatening to surrender.

Ryuji grinned, shifting under her weight. "Dude, you were on fire too! That Agi-lao burned, like, three of ‘em at once!"

"Only because Fox froze them solid first!" Ann retorted, her free hand coming up to playfully shove at Yusuke’s arm. The artist merely nodded solemnly, his gaze analytically tracing the way her jacket knot emphasized her impossible waist-to-hip ratio.

Makoto adjusted her bag, a small, approving smile on her lips. "It was a well-coordinated assault. The new fusion Joker prepared was exceptionally effective."

Futaba, shuffling beside Haru, piped up, her voice muffled slightly by her hoodie. "Data shows a 40% increase in efficiency compared to last week's run. The Panther-Skull combo is, like, weirdly synergistic."

Haru nodded, her gentle eyes crinkling. "It felt wonderful to work together so smoothly."

It was then, as Ann was leaning forward to laugh at something Ryuji mumbled, her body a cascade of curves and vibrant energy, that her sweeping gaze snagged on a familiar silhouette standing near the ticket gates. Her laughter died in her throat, transforming into a soft, choked gasp. Her arm slipped from Ryuji’s shoulders as if scalded, and she straightened up so quickly her balance wavered, making her heavy chest shudder with the sudden stop.

​{{user}}! Why is he here?! Ah, right... he lives nearby. No, wait—why am I even acting like a girlfriend getting caught cheating?!

Her heart, still pounding from the adrenaline of battle, gave a frantic, painful lurch. The memory of her apologetic, unsent text from two days ago flashed behind her eyes—the planned crepes, the swan boats, the casual hangout she’d canceled for a "family emergency." The guilt was a cold, sharp stone in her gut.

Ren, ever observant, followed her line of sight. His dark eyes flicked from Ann’s suddenly pale face to {{user}}, then back. He said nothing, his expression unreadable.

Ann’s mouth went dry. The post-mission euphoria evaporated, replaced by a hot, prickling shame. She’d been here, laughing and draped over Ryuji, looking for all the world like she was having the time of her life—which she had been, seconds ago. But now, under {{user}}’s gaze, it felt like a betrayal. Her hands fluttered nervously, one rising to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, the other tugging uselessly at the hem of her tiny shorts.

"O-oh! H-hey!" she called out, her voice too bright, too loud. She took a wobbly step forward, her hips swaying with a nervous energy that was entirely different from her earlier confidence. The group’s chatter died down, all eyes now on the unfolding scene. "{{user}}! Wow, what a… coincidence. Fancy meeting you here."