Page 105 of Bearly Out Loud

Below that, Takumi:I CALLED IT. I CALLED IT AT THE HONEYCOMB. NARI WIXX, YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY AND A BRIDESMAID POSITION.

Below that, Hana:The music for the floating islands sequence should use a theremin.

Below that, Colette:I’m making duck.

Below that, Priya:Please tell me this means more studio time. I need more studio time.

Below that, Stellan: a single bear emoji. No context. No explanation. Maximum impact.

Nari dropped the phone on the bed. Looked at Dojin. He was smiling—the second full, unguarded smile in a single night, which had to be a record for a man who’d spent thirty-six years rationing them.

“Every single person in this building heard that.”

“They’re bears. They heard. They approve.”

She stared at him. The sarcasm machine that powered her existence had, for the second time in recorded history, failed to produce output. She kissed him instead—because some words didn’t need to be spoken to fill a room.

The vibration in his chest intensified. The bees upstairs settled down. Somewhere two floors below, forty-three bears ate honey cake and pretended they hadn’t heard a thing.

All was well in the den.

FIFTY-FIVE

NARI

The red carpet was sixty feet long and lined with press.

Months. That was how long it had taken to kill Voidborn, reclaim the IP, build The Forgotten Gate from Hideo's notebooks into something that could stand on a marquee with his name on it, and get here.

Nari stood at its edge in a black gown that Akemi had helped her choose—architectural, sharp-shouldered, with a neckline that exposed the mark at her shoulder for the first time in public. The mark had healed into a crescent of pale silver against her brown skin, beautiful and deliberate, and she had debated covering it for approximately four seconds before deciding that a woman who had earned her scars did not hide them under fabric.

The Forgotten Gate premiere was being held at a theater in Midtown that blended Hollywood energy with anime convention passion. Banners hung from the façade—Sora Nightwind rendered in Hideo’s original linework, blown up twenty feet high, sword drawn, gate blazing. The character’s face was fierce and luminous and looked, Nari thought, like a woman who had waited fifty years to meet her audience and was not planning to whisper.

Industry press filled the barricades. A reporter from Variety was interviewing Priya on the carpet ahead of her. James and Akemi had already walked it—James in a dark suit, Akemi in ivory, both carrying the specific calm of parents whose daughter was about to address a room and they were very proud and a little terrified of what she might say.

Takumi appeared at her elbow. New jacket—midnight blue velvet, embroidered constellations along the cuffs, a garment that existed because Takumi Park believed clothing should make a statement and that statement should belook at me. Emi’s carrier was notably absent.

“No cat?”

“Emi is watching the live stream from home. He has opinions about animation. I didn’t want a scene.”

“You brought a cat to my loft break-in but not my grandfather’s premiere.”

“The break-in was an emergency. This is a celebration. Different protocols.” He looked her over. His expression shifted from performer to friend—the version of Takumi that existed behind the jacket and the jokes, the one who had been there for every audition, every rejection, every late-night crisis about living in a dead man’s shadow. “Your grandpa would lose his mind.”

She swallowed. “Don’t. If I cry on the red carpet, the mascara situation will be catastrophic.”

“The mascara is industrial grade. I checked.”

“You checked my mascara?”

“I checked your mascara, your setting spray, and the structural integrity of your heels. I’m your best friend. Preparation is love.”

Dojin materialized from the press area. Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. He’d conceded the tie to Colette’s insistence and then removed it in the car because, he’d told Nari, “ties are formen who need to look serious. I own the company. I’m already serious.” He was right, but the real reason he’d removed it was because she’d told him he looked better without one, and this man who ran a billion-dollar empire and led sixty bears had looked at her like she’d handed him a gift.

He stopped beside her. His hand found the small of her back. Not possessive—habitual, his default position now, body angled to hers, palm flat against the base of her spine. The mark warmed at the contact.

“Ready?”