Chapter Text
I knew he was trouble from the moment I walked into his office.
The fact that it was me walking into his office and not the other way around wasn't as much of a tip-off as you might think. A client who expects you to come at their call sets off more cash register chimes than alarm bells. If you've got the skills - and I do - you can look forward to enough green to keep you in the black through the end of the year.
But this one… this one smelled off. Like dairy left out in the sun. From the first details of the case I could tell I wasn't being told everything.
But I agreed to the meeting, I put on a tie, I smoked in the car to disguise my scent, and I signed the NDA (after reading it, of course, this wasn't my first rodeo). And as I stepped through the door and the client turned around, I knew I was in trouble.
It wasn't the face, though he had one like an angel. It wasn't the scent, though it was warm and musky and surprisingly sweet for an alpha. It wasn't even the legs, though they went on for hours.
No, it was the eyes. Gold, and sharp enough to cut from across the room. He looked like a snake in sheep's clothing. He looked like when he bit you, you'd be lucky to survive it.
Damn. And here I was without my rabbit's foot.
“Zed,” a voice came from the doorway. Zed looked up to see Tamako waving a piece of notepad paper, like a treat for a dog. “Got a live one for you.”
He waved her in, and Tamako closed the office door behind her. He usually worked with it open, when he worked in the office at all (it was a job that had been done from home and on the move for far longer than Zoom calls existed), but when it came to client privacy there could be no chances taken. They both knew that. They all knew that.
Tamako gave him the note, scribbled in her own practiced hand. A business name, a phone number, and a time.
“Numeric Talent,” Zed read aloud. “No details?”
“None,” Tamako said, leaning on his desk. “But they asked for our best.”
Zed snorted. The company employed less than ten official Private Investigators, but there were over a dozen assistants and specialists and IT guys, not counting consultants they brought in on a case-by-case basis. Asking for “the best” just proved the client didn't understand they were getting a team, not one person.
More importantly, it proved they were going to have high expectations.
“And I'm the best that just happened to have a clear schedule, right?”
“Bingo,” Tamako said. “You are done with your last case, aren't you?”
“Yep,” Zed said, and gestured at his computer screen. “All over but the crying.”
He’d sent his findings – complete with pictures – to both the client and the client’s lawyer. Often after this step the client did want to come and talk to him in person, get the details, ask why. Zed didn’t have answers.
This one hurt. An omega, just like him, and bonded no less. Everybody said it was incredibly rare for a bonded alpha to desire anyone other than their mate.
But rare wasn’t impossible. And a bond didn’t change an asshole into an angel.
“Good,” Tamako said. “It was a woman who made the appointment, but she talked like an assistant.”
Zed nodded, and pulled out his phone to take a picture of Tamako’s note. May the gods bless camera phones, they made his job about six thousand times easier. He had his calendar set up to automatically transcribe things, so he would have a record of the meeting even if the note was lost or destroyed. You got clients like that, sometimes. Didn't want any trace of consulting a private investigator, as if they didn’t log every single tiny thing as billable hours.
Tamako shifted her weight, preparing to leave, and Zed stopped her. “Hang on,” he said, “let me check something first.”
“Sure.”
He put “Numeric Talent” into a search bar, and his screen filled with dozens of headshots of beautiful young men and a scattering of women.
“Oof,” Zed muttered.
Tamako hopped up and moved around to peer at the screen. “Oof indeed. Idols.”
“You know much about the business?”
“I was a fan when I was a kid, so I know the basics,” she said. “Every rumor you've ever heard about the entertainment industry, concentrated.” She leaned over his shoulder and pointed at one of the photos, a girl with waves of chestnut hair. “If an idol agency wants to hire you, they probably want you to follow one of these kids around and see if they're breaking the purity clause in their contract.”
“I don't like the sound of 'purity clause.'”
“You haven't heard of that?” Tamako asked, mildly surprised.
“I'm assuming it's what it sounds like.”
“Idols aren't allowed to date,” Tamako said, and Zed nodded. “They'll claim they're too devoted to their careers to have time for it, but it's more about the illusion of being sexually available to fans.”
“Oof,” Zed repeated. “I suppose that extends to drinking and partying?”
“Where someone might see it, yes.”
“All right, that blows for them but I can handle it.” Zed moved to close the search window, and something caught his eye.
A young man with blue hair, smiling with his fangs showing.
He scrolled a little farther. The girl with chestnut waves, a blond boy, a few more men with black hair, a woman with purple tips.
Fangs, fangs, fangs, as far as the eye could see.
“Alphanumeric,” Zed muttered. “Dammit.”
“What?” Tamako looked over his shoulder again. “Oh...” She grimaced, flashing her own fangs. “I didn't realize-”
“Is this normal? Do the idol agencies specialize like this?”
“I don't know,” Tamako said. “I never paid attention to what company the idols I liked worked for.”
Zed sighed. He could see Tamako rubbing her neck, a nervous gesture, at his side. “It's fine.”
“Are you sure? I can find someone else. Duran-”
“Duran has been arguing with his last client on the phone all day.” He'd had his door shut, but they could all see it. Tamako had been bringing him throat-soothing tea periodically.
She nodded, though her mouth was twisted.
“It'll be fine, it's not like I haven't been dealing with alphas all my life. Besides,” Zed waved at the screen. “Look at these guys. I bet I could take three of them at once.”
Tamako raised her eyebrows. “In a fight, right?”
He laughed.
“Okay but seriously, do you want to wear a collar? I could mark it for you.”
“Nah.” Zed finally closed the search and stood up. “That'll just draw more attention. If I breeze through like it's not a big deal, they'll do the same.”
“Okay...” And Tamako, ever the businesswoman, added, “Make sure to bill them for the consult in case they want to switch to somebody else.”
“Will do.”
It was still sometimes surprising to Amai how quickly things happened when he asked for them now. Ten minutes after he told Ebina, his personal assistant, about the problem, she had a list of reputable private investigation companies in the area, as well as a rundown of how this sort of thing usually worked and what to expect.
Her lips were trembling as she spoke, but it was reassuring nonetheless. At least, until Amai noticed that her makeup had been touched up. She'd been crying.
Amai had half been hoping that she'd dismiss his concerns. Tell him this kind of thing happened all the time and it was nothing to worry about. She didn't. She snapped to work, professional as ever, only a few shades paler. She hid her fear well, but not completely.
They called the first agency on Ebina's list.
Now Amai stood in his office, waiting. Ebina had paged him a moment ago that the detective had arrived, and Amai was standing by the window and staring through the blinds. Something of a habit. Nearly all his movements were calculated, now, and turning from the window to greet a guest, as if their arrival was barely more important than the view, always made an impact.
So he waited… and waited… and waited, and couldn't resist glancing at his watch several times. Five minutes. Ten. Was Ebina taking this long to vet them? What could possibly be more important than him?
The door opened – at last – and Amai enjoyed the way the detective's eyes widened slightly in appreciation as he turned.
Maybe Amai's might have done the same. He was expecting someone older, more average-looking. Not a handsome man only a few years older than Amai himself. He looked like he could use some sun, maybe an iron supplement, and his coat could use dry-cleaning, but overall the man was straight out of Hot Detective Central Casting.
The only thing ruining the illusion was that he reeked. Amai could smell tobacco smoke on him from all the way across the room. Cheap stuff too, not that Amai smoked. But he'd spent enough time with the CEOs to recognize the scent of a good cigar. This was not.
“Afternoon,” the man said, his voice a pleasing rumble. “Sorry if I'm a little late. I never sign anything I haven't read.”
Of course, the non-disclosure agreement. Amai and Ebina had barely needed to discuss it before deciding to make the detective sign one before telling him anything. All Amai had said was to make sure it was thorough. That this man read it all the way through was actually somewhat reassuring. He wasn't a fool, at the very least.
“I'm known as Amai Mask,” Amai said. “It's the only name I use, so use it.”
The detective nodded. “I'm Zed.”
Amai gestured at the plush chairs he had near the front of the room, and the detective sat, Amai taking a binder from his desk before joining him.
He saw the way the detective's eyes moved around the room, taking everything in. They called it an “office,” but Amai rarely used it for paperwork. It was more like a green room. Comfortable furniture, several mirrors, a corner for his yoga mat. The only concession to the name was a small desk and a laptop.
The stench of cheap cigarettes was bad enough that Amai began to wish he had one of those huge opulent offices and a massive desk to hide behind, but he couldn't move his chair further away without being obvious about it. He leaned back as far as he dared before he began to explain.
“Ah,” Zed held up a hand as soon as Amai opened his mouth. “I'm sorry, but if you could state very simply what it is you need, before we get into any details? I'd hate to waste your time on something if it turns out I can't help.”
Amai closed his mouth, and nodded. He'd rehearsed this over and over as he waited, but...
He swallowed, and held out the binder. “For the last two years, I have been receiving threatening notes along with my fanmail. They recently escalated to-” he swallowed again, and pulled his eyes away as Zed took the binder. “-to more specific threats. I want you to find the culprit.”
“I see,” Zed said. From the corner of his eye Amai saw him open the book, and begin to flip through the plastic pages. “You saved the envelopes too, that's very good.”
Amai nodded, again. Why was it so hard to find the words?
Silence reigned for a few moments, nothing but the sound of turning pages and – once – the detective stifling a gasp.
“Very specific. Damn. Amai-san?”
Amai forced himself to look back.
“Have you called the police?”
“No,” Amai said.
“You really should.”
“No,” Amai repeated firmly.
“I'm not saying I won't take the case,” Zed said. His expression was soft, but serious. He was clearly trying to be reassuring despite the bad news. Just like Ebina though, he'd gone pale (well, paler). The notes had shaken even him. “I'll have a much better chance of finding this person than those- I'll have a better chance. But the cops need to know as soon as possible to make it easier when you file a restraining order.”
“It's not happening,” Amai said. “If you find them, I'll do whatever it takes, but until that happens the news cannot get out. I can't make an entire police department sign NDAs.”
Zed sighed, and ran his hand over his short hair. Amai caught a whiff of sugar, as if he'd been trying to combat the cigarette smell with some kind of sweet cologne.
“What's going to happen if this person gets to you before I find them?”
“I'll be dead, what will I care?”
Zed let out a huff that was almost a laugh. Amai felt oddly pleased at that.
“My career is too important,” Amai said. “A scandal like this-”
“Being harassed isn't a scandal. You haven't done anything wrong, Amai-san.”
A little more tension slipped away. “All the same.”
“Okay,” Zed said. “I can tell when I'm in a losing battle. But if you don't mind me asking, why did you wait this long? If you've been saving the letters you must have known you'd need to call somebody eventually.”
“I... didn't see a need to. Until it escalated. Saving the notes was just insurance.”
Uh-oh. The detective's head rose, like a dog catching a scent. “Insurance? For what?”
“It- For if the culprit was caught. I could prove how long it had been happening.”
“And how long has it been happening?” Zed took his phone from his pocket and rested it on his knee.
“Don't- I didn't say you could record this. If someone else hears it and recognizes my voice-”
“I have it set to speech-to-text,” Zed assured him. “It's probably going to be misspelled, but I can correct that later.”
“Let me see,” Amai demanded, holding out his hand. Zed shrugged, and leaned forward to pass him the device.
There was that sweet aroma again. Too sweet to be cologne. Perfume? Or had he spilled syrup on his clothes? All of it was wrinkled, but looked clean enough.
The phone was, indeed, set to transcribe instead of record. It was also oddly heavy, and inside an absolutely hideous case, but none of those were suspicious of themselves. Amai handed it back and tried not to notice the way Zed avoided touching his fingers as he retrieved it.
“So,” Zed said, and Amai saw the word appear on the screen, tiny and upside-down. “When did you first start receiving these letters?”
“I... I'm not sure.” Amai said. “After my career took off, so... two and a half years? Maybe two years and eight months.”
“You didn't save the first letter's envelope?”
“No. I didn't save the first letter at all. I didn't think it would become a pattern, I...” Amai looked to the side, back at the window. “I hoped it would go away.”
Zed leaned forward a little. “That's completely normal, Amai-san. Most people would do the same.”
“Would you?” Amai muttered.
“I'm a private detective, I'm an outlier.” He saw Zed start to reach out, then pull his hand back again. “Please go on. When did you realize the letters were a pattern?”
Amai took a slow breath. “Within a month. The letters were consistent at first, once a week-”
“Once a week?” Zed repeated, surprised, and looked down at the binder. He'd flipped through it, he would have seen that it only held about forty pages. “That would be…” He pursed his lips as he thought. It really was a shame he wasn't an actor, looks like that shouldn't be wasted on someone who worked to go unnoticed. “Over a hundred at least. How many did you throw away?”
"Only the first couple, but they slowed down. Now I only get one once a month at most. Always typewritten, always saying similar things, always on different envelopes but always fan merchandise of some kind.”
Zed's lips pursed again. He was even handsome while confused. “They make envelopes as fan merch?”
Amai had to bite his tongue not to blurt out his surprise that Zed didn't know. It was easy to forget when you were caught up in it that not everyone understood idols and their world. “Stationary sets. They're cheap, easy to produce, and recyclable if they don't sell.”
“I'm assuming yours do.”
“Always.”
Zed smiled, a little. Amai couldn't tell what emotion was behind it. “So what tipped you off about the letters?”
“Ah...” His gaze flicked down to the binder, closed on Zed's knee. “The wording, I suppose. It was always along the same lines. I get hate mail, I think most famous people do, but usually it's less specific. About how I'm a talentless hack and should jump off a building.” Amai sighed. “Or die in a fire, or crash my tour bus, or-”
He looked up to see Zed's eyes wide in shock.
“What?”
“You make it sound like that's boring.”
“Well it doesn't mean anything. It was a little alarming the first time, but I'd already been warned about it.”
“Can't you have somebody screen your fanmail for that kind of thing?”
He shook his head. “It would take too long and I can't afford to hire another personal assistant.” Amai frowned slightly. “Not one that I could pay what they're worth, anyway.”
“The company doesn't handle it?”
“Official fan mail, yes, not what comes to my home, or temporary addresses.”
“How did anybody get your home address?”
The question confused him for a moment, before he once again had to remember the idol bubble didn't cover the entire world. “It's considered impolite to mail things to an idol's home, but that doesn't stop everyone.”
“Your address is just public knowledge? Even though you've been getting threats?”
Amai shrugged. “It's the business. I'd have to quit to make it stop.”
Zed opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded.
“You were going to ask why I don't quit.”
“No,” Zed said.
“I don't believe you.”
“You don't have to believe me.” Zed leaned back and cleared his throat. “What I do want to know is who you thought was sending these at first?”
Amai froze. He forced a smile, aiming for confused-but-polite. “I don't know, I never knew.”
“No, you didn't, but you suspected didn't you? And you don't now, or at least you're more afraid of being hurt than you are of them.”
Amai shook his head. “No.”
“I don't believe you,” Zed said, with a smile, and Amai couldn't stop himself from glaring.
“I... may have... had a suspicion.”
“Who?” Zed said.
Amai scowled at the phone, still lit up and transcribing their words. “Turn that off.”
“I won't tell anyone.”
“Turn it off or I'm not talking.”
“I need this information to do my job.”
Amai leaned forward, shoving his hands under his bangs and resting his elbows on his knees. “You signed an NDA,” he said.
“Yes, and I'm taking it seriously.”
“You signed one,” Amai said. “So did I. Six years ago.”
“Ah,” he heard Zed say. A moment later, Zed cleared his throat. “Off,” he said, when Amai looked up, holding the phone up so Amai could see.
He sat up again, slowly, absently smoothing his hair down.
“I'm sorry,” Zed said. “This is hard for you, and I'm here to listen, but I do need to know anybody you think might have a grudge against you. Even if you don't think they'd ever go this far, the more suspects I can eliminate the closer I'll get to the real culprit.”
Amai nodded, still tugging on strands of his hair. “As I said, six years ago, I...” He took a breath. “I can't tell you the details.”
“I understand.”
“I... I have had...” He hadn't said this out loud in years. Never, in fact, outside a doctor's office. He dropped his voice, even though he was certain no one could hear through the door. He'd tested it. “Plastic surgery.” His heart was pounding as if he were fleeing a wild animal. “Reconstructive surgery, mostly. I didn't pay for it myself. And if I say any more...”
Zed waved his hand to cut Amai off. “I get it. There's a reason you needed it, right? And somebody caused that. Somebody did that to you.”
Amai swallowed, and nodded.
“You thought that person was writing the notes?”
Amai nodded.
“And you don't now?”
“I looked into it myself,” Amai said. “Social media. If that person's life was negatively impacted at all by what happened to me, it isn't anymore.”
“Ah,” Zed said, his eyes darkening. “How old are you again? Young.”
“Twenty-four,” Amai said. “Not young for an idol.”
“That's not- Okay.” Zed shook his head, disbelief etched on his features. “So six years ago you were eighteen.”
“Yes, but-”
“Okay, okay, just one last thing. What led to you needing reconstructive surgery, was it... an attack? Or an accident?”
“Accident,” Amai said quickly. “I can't say anything else.”
“Okay. Moving on to other suspects then.”
Amai sighed, relieved. It was enough to no longer be talking about it, but Zed hadn't even batted an eye at Amai's admission. He didn't care that Amai had plastic surgery.
Him living outside the idol bubble was a blessing, this time.
“Anybody you've ever dated,” Zed said. “And I do mean anybody. One date counts. A blowjob in a bar bathroom counts.”
Amai felt himself flush.
“Also your rivals in this business, anybody that would benefit from your performance suffering.”
“Everyone in this business is my rival.”
“Hm.” Zed looked thoughtful, tapping his finger on the side of his phone. “You mentioned temporary addresses.”
“Yes?”
“What does that mean?”
“Touring,” Amai said. “I can be away from home for months at a time. For business and press, I'll still get mail at theaters where we have longer engagements.”
“And the fan letters find you there?”
“My tour dates are announced well in advance.”
“Still, that sounds like insider knowledge. I'd certainly never think of mailing something personal to a concert venue.”
“Well...” Amai thought about it. Had he known about it when he was just a fan? “Maybe.”
“I'll look into it,” Zed said. He picked up the binder again. “You remember the dates you got all these?”
“More or less. I remember what was happening at the time, so if I don't remember the exact date I can check my old schedules.”
“Great, that will help a lot.” Zed poked his phone, and the screen came to life again. Black text on stark white. “For now, the very first thing I want to do is eliminate all your exes. They're the obvious suspects, they'd have been close enough to you to know your schedule, and-”
“No need,” Amai blurted.
God, two dark secrets in one day. This man was so businesslike about it that Amai could almost forget to be humiliated. Almost.
“I know you don't want to think somebody you care about would do this to you, but-”
“No need,” Amai repeated. “I don't have any.”
He face felt so hot it might melt off his skull.
Zed raised his (thin) eyebrows. “Casual counts.”
“None.”
“Schoolboy crushes? Somebody you walked home with?”
“No,” Amai said. “Are you happy? There's never been anything.”
Zed blinked. “None at all?”
“No!”
Zed's face was carefully neutral. He could almost be a mannequin if his clothes were in better condition.
“Saves me time,” Zed said at last. “Rivals, then. The ones who you're the most directly competing with. The ones whose fans your fans get in fistfights with in the school parking lot.”
That nearly got Amai to smile again. Thinking about all the other idols that he beat out in the rankings (younger, funnier, born with their looks and not-) was enough that he was fairly sure he'd stopped blushing. He listed a few names, and corrected the spelling when Zed asked.
“It's enough to start with,” Zed said. “If you want me to start tonight, that is.”
“Ah...” He hadn't thought about it. Zed had gotten right into the details, but this was supposed to be a meeting to decide. “If I say yes, what will happen?”
“I'll head back to my office, draw up a standard contract, and send it to you. You read it, we'll discuss the details, and if you approve I can start right away. Won't take more than half an hour.” Zed tapped the binder. “It might be good to talk in person again, since I'll want to come back for this. If you let me take it we can have our tech expert make scans and-”
“No!”
“We've got a big scanner at the office,” Zed said, reassuringly. “Can do four pages at once, it won't take long.”
“I do not want you sharing information about this with anyone. I know you work for an agency, but you can do that, can't you? Scan it yourself. Or just take it, I don't care. It will be nice not to have it in my possession for a while.”
A little bit of exasperation crept into Zed's expression. Amai knew that look. He didn't get it much anymore, but he had quite often when he was starting out. He'd probably given it several times in the last conversation alone.
The “I can't believe I have to explain this to an adult” look.
“Hiring an agency means you've got a team on your case. I'll be doing most of it, but there's a lot of tech in modern detective work. For example,” Zed tapped the binder, “Chizu can pick up on notable turns of phrase in these letters and search social media for people talking the same way.”
Amai found himself blinking in surprise. “Really? That's... that's a real thing?”
“Hell yeah. But I couldn't do it.”
“I...” Amai shook his head. “I can't. This- you're bad enough, I can't risk anyone else finding out.”
“We will all sign NDAs if you want us to.”
Once again, Amai was speechless for a moment. “You... will?”
“Yes.”
“The whole agency?”
“To the last man.” Zed gave Amai a knowing smile, like they were sharing an inside joke. “This isn't the kind of job you get into if you like to gossip. I don't know a single thing about any of the cases my coworkers are working on, and that's how we all expect it.”
Amai hesitated. It sounded so easy, but…
“Sleep on it,” Zed said. “I'm sure this is a lot of shit to process. But if I don't hear from you by the end of tomorrow I'm not going to keep my schedule free, and you might have to go through all this again.”
Amai nodded, relief making his shoulders sag. He never let his posture slip in front of people, and now here he was practically slouching. “I understand,” he said. “I'll let you know tomorrow, one way or the other.”
“Good.” Zed stood, tucked his phone into a chest pocket, and held out the binder for Amai to take. All those letters, all those hateful words… If he hired Zed, he might not ever have to think about them again.
He didn't need a day to decide. But it was always good to leave them waiting.
Amai walked Zed to the door, though it was only a few steps. It locked electronically, and Amai had to reach around his shoulder to let him out. He barely thought about it, already used to the cigarette stench, until that sweet scent was in his nose once more. What was it? Sugary and earthy, almost like…
“Can I ask one more thing?” Zed said, hand hovering over the doorknob.
“Yes.”
“You said you couldn't afford a second assistant, but Ebina-san works for the company, doesn't she?”
“No,” Amai said. “There are assistants and producers and stylists that do, but I pay Ebina out of my own pocket.”
“And is that how my agency will be paid too?”
“Yes,” Amai said firmly. “You'll be working for me, not the company.”
Zed's eyebrows rose, just a little, and he nodded. "You know I don't come cheap." He smirked. “Not on the clock, anyway.”
“It's fine, I'll just have to do my own manicures for a while.”
Zed's eyes fell to Amai's hands. “I can't tell if you're joking or not.”
“Good,” Amai said.
Zed chuckled, a warm sound, and Amai found himself gazing into those eyes as he breathed in the sweet musk of-
He jerked back. His mouth was full of saliva and his heart had begun to pound, and he could tell by the look on Zed's face that he'd seen the reaction too.
Amai swallowed, and said, "You didn't tell me you were an omega."
Zed's face was expressionless now, no sign of the apprehension from a second ago. He was good at that. But then, omegas had to be. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Amai lied. “It surprised me, that's all. I apologize.”
Zed gave a curt nod. “I'll hear from you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Zed walked through the door, Ebina visible for a split second looking up from her laptop with concern on her face, before Amai shut the door behind him.
He buried his face in his hands. The scent lingered, sugary sweet, more like a dessert than a human being. Why hadn't Amai noticed? How long had it been since he was alone in a room with an-
He knew the answer before he completed the thought. Never. Amai had never been alone in a room with an omega. In school they'd avoided him, and he spent a long time with no one but his parents and medical professionals for company as he recovered from the accident, and then he'd been working on his songs and his appearance and his deportment, and then…
And then he became Amai Mask. An idol. An idol who couldn't do anything that might make him look “impure” to the fans, especially not the way he was marketed.
Amai Mask was a nice guy. Amai Mask was a prince. Amai Mask didn't get hot and bothered over omegas who smoked and swore and made innuendos and…
He took a slow deep breath, and went to fix his hair.
The number one keyword in the PI business was “verify.”
Trust, but verify. Sympathize, but verify. Never take anything a client tells you at face value, always, always do your own research.
So Zed didn't head straight back to the office, or even back home. He made a pit stop at a department store, one of the mid-tier ones, where a teenager might shop unsupervised but would probably have to save their allowance.
He found accessories and school supplies, and along with backpacks and binders and gel pens in a hundred colors, there were stationary sets. Cute animals, fruit, anime characters. And people. Pretty, perfect, photoshopped into the uncanny valley, but people nonetheless.
“Are you looking for a gift?” a clerk asked.
Not even fellow omegas tended to clock him at first glance. “Yeah,” Zed said. “For my niece.”
He plucked a set of sticky notes from the shelf. Amai's head was in a corner and they were printed to look like speech balloons, like you could write whatever you wanted him to say. It was almost creepy.
“Is this guy still popular?” Zed asked.
The clerk seemed surprised by the question. “Amai Mask? Absolutely. He's even got mainstream play.”
He scanned the shelves. There were plenty of handsome faces on the packaging, but Amai seemed to have the most variety of products. “Nobody more popular than him?”
“Well, it all depends on personal taste, but I don't think so.”
Zed nodded. “Thanks.”
So getting the envelopes wasn't hard at all. No leads there.
He bought the sticky notes, wincing at the price, and once he was in his car wrote a reminder to himself on the top one to expense them as office supplies.
The next stop was a music store. Zed liked oldies, classics, even had a record player, so he knew where to find physical media. There was a decent chance idols didn't put out CDs anymore, but a music store would still be a place to start.
Besides, it had been a while since he treated himself.
But to his shock there was an idol section, tucked away as if the shopkeeper were ashamed of it. All metallics and glitter and candy colors. Along with the discs there were posters and t-shirts, most of them more expensive than the music itself.
Ah, Zed thought to himself. Because the music is the advertising.
He snagged Amai's latest release, spent a while going through his favorites until he found something he didn't already have, and gave the clerk a flat stare as he checked out, daring the man to say anything about his choices.
Zed listened to Amai Mask on the drive back to the office, taking the long way so he could get through most of the album. It was… not for him. He couldn't call it bad, though he didn't know enough about pop to tell if it was good, but god, if he never heard another note of this he would consider that a life well spent.
The worst part was he realized he had heard some of this before. The clerk at the department store had been right, this bubblegum bullshit had made its way mainstream. It was with a god-awful couplet rhyming “love” with “above” stuck in his head that Zed finally headed back in to work.
“How'd it go?” Tamako said when he passed her desk.
“Dunno yet,” Zed said. He took off his coat and grabbed a bottle of odor-eater out of the supply cabinet. “I thought I had it locked down, but he noticed I was an omega right as I was leaving.”
“And he didn't take it well?”
Zed shook his head. “Let me ask you something,” he said, Tamako obligingly following him to his office. “When you were 24, did the scent of an omega still send you reeling?”
“Honestly?” Tamako said. “Yes. But I'd learned to hide it better by then.”
Zed nodded to himself. “If he's been under a purity clause thing, he might have lost his tolerance.”
“Could be,” Tamako said. “It still hits hard once in a while. If I smell somebody really…” She trailed off. “Y'know, they say that the better somebody smells to you, the more biologically compatible you are.”
“Hm,” Zed said. He started spritzing down his coat, nose wrinkling at the artificially sweet scent. Compared to this Amai had smelled downright heavenly, but it didn't make Zed pant and stumble.
“One time in my first year of high school I skipped math for almost a month because an omega caught me sniffing.” Tamako grimaced. “I was too embarrassed to face them. Still kinda want to jump off the building thinking about it.”
Zed laughed. “Don't do that. Where are we going to get another office manager on short notice?”
Once on his own Zed set about researching his prospective client. Amai Mask's wikipedia page was almost disturbingly thorough for a three-year career, especially without an Early Life section to fill it up. Nobody knew his real name, apparently. Made sense. If they did, they might stumble across pictures of him pre-surgery online. Even if Amai had deleted his entire social media history, he'd have friends and classmates who didn't. There would be a trail.
That, in fact, was what Zed was looking for now.
Six years ago Amai was eighteen, and an “accident” of some kind hurt him so badly he needed reconstructive surgery on his face. There would be a record of that. There was always a record, no matter how rich the perpetrator. Zed might not be a tech specialist but even he could do basic research like this.
He worked through his lunch break, searching through police reports and accident records and even the smallest local papers. It wasn't easy, not with the glut of information and so little to go on, but any time he got a name he checked it out.
By the end of the day Zed had a couple of prospects. The best was a drunk driving incident that vanished after the initial report; one driver, one victim. Judging by his social media the driver was doing very well for himself, with a smoking hot wife and at least one beautiful vacation home, but the company he worked for was owned by a man with the same surname.
It wasn't hard to fill in the blanks. Drunk asshole hits a teenager, his rich daddy pays the kid off by covering all his medical expenses, and the drunk asshole doesn't learn a thing.
There was a gap in his internet footprint six years ago, for a few months after the accident. Rehab maybe, or simply a punishment from his father. Zed didn't spare a thought wondering if the man had actually felt bad about what he did.
That was the main reason Zed was willing to cross him off as a suspect. People like this didn't care enough to torment people from their past. Maybe – if what happened really impacted his life – he might have resented Amai's success.
But it sure didn't look like it from here.
Zed leaned back in his chair and stretched. This was good. This was progress. At least he was reasonably sure Amai hadn't lied to him. Verification.
He'd never gotten a call from his last client, but the payment cleared. Whatever happened next was none of his business. Literally no longer his business.
On his way out the door Duran flagged him down. He looked ragged – Tamako had left an hour ago and anybody else still in the office would be busy with their own tasks. For a split second Zed wondered if he'd be asked to get him more tea (because of course an omega would drop everything to help an alpha), but Duran gestured at the chair in front of his desk.
“I'm sending out an office email, but since you're here I'll let you know. We're blacklisting my last client.”
“I figured,” Zed said. “Good. Should we let the other agencies know?”
“Yes, I'll email them too.” Duran sighed.
“What's the name?” Zed asked. He patted his pockets until he found a pen and the sticky notes from earlier. Might as well use the things.
Duran told him, and Zed wrote it down. It was vaguely familiar. Maybe a past client, or he'd heard of them in the news.
“Got it,” he said, showing Duran to make sure he'd spelled it right. The blacklist was extensive and he'd hate to mix them up with someone innocent with a similar name.
“Who's that?” Duran said, cracking a smile and pointing at the corner outside the speech balloon. “I didn't know you were a fan of idols.”
Zed looked at the notes, and shook his head with a chuckle. Each one had a slightly different expression on Amai's tiny face, but none looked like the stoic, exhausted, human young man Zed had talked to.
“I'm a fan of one of them,” he said.