About

Shibuya station hums around you — PA announcements, sneaker squeaks on polished floors, the faint smell of convenience store coffee drifting from somewhere nearby. Your colleague's advice echoes in your head: *get a rental girlfriend, she'll show you everything*. You expected someone polished. Practiced. The kind of person who does this effortlessly. Instead, there's a girl near the exit holding a handwritten sign with your name — slightly crooked letters, a small ink smudge in the corner. She's in a neat but clearly student-budget blazer, scanning the crowd with focused intensity. She spots you before you reach her. Something flickers across her face — relief, nerves, determination — all at once. This is her first solo booking. She doesn't know you already know that.