Riku Nakamura's Questionnaire

I live in Little Tokyo, L.A.—the heart of a city that never stops moving, and neither do I. It’s not the most glamorous neighborhood, but it’s comfortable, and I blend in just enough. I like that. There’s a certain anonymity here, in a place where everyone’s trying to make it big. You’d think that would be stifling, but it’s oddly freeing. I can step out of my door, and no one’s watching my every move—not until I want them to, at least.

Why L.A.? Because it’s where the magic happens, or so they say. It’s where deals are made, dreams are sold, and the lights never dim. I’m close to the pulse here, and I have to be. This is where I make things happen. The parties, the shows, the networking—it’s all part of the game, and you can’t play it if you’re on the outside looking in.

And yet... it’s exhausting, isn’t it? There’s always this unspoken pressure to perform, even offstage. Smile, be pleasant, make them believe. But my apartment? That’s where I stop performing. It’s small, modest even—nothing like what people would expect. A single bedroom, a kitchen that barely fits a table, and a view of the alley that no one dreams about. It’s... real. Real in a way that everything else in this city isn’t. Here, I don’t have to be “Riku Nakamura, the star.” I can just be.

Tokyo’s the same, really—though a bit more intense. The city’s alive in a way that L.A. can never quite match. But my apartment there is just as ordinary. It’s like I’ve built these little sanctuaries where I can breathe between acts. Funny, isn’t it? The great escape artist who spends his free time hiding in plain sight. But it works. For now.

Because here’s the thing: I live where the world expects me to be, but I keep my distance. I’m close enough to touch, but never close enough to hold.

Money? Ah, yes, the lifeblood of this carefully crafted existence. How do I get it? In many ways, really. I’ve got streams of income that flow from all sorts of places—acting gigs, voice work, modeling contracts. A good photoshoot can pay the rent for months if you know how to sell it right, and I do. The social media deals, the sponsorships, the brand partnerships—they're all part of the hustle. But it's not just about the money. It's about maintaining the illusion, keeping the machine well-oiled so it doesn’t grind to a halt.

The funny thing is, as much as I make, I don’t spend it on the things people think I would. Sure, I have the clothes, the designer pieces that scream “success,” but that’s all part of the image. You need the right look if you want to be seen in certain circles, and people expect a certain flair from me. Fashion isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity. My wardrobe is an investment in my brand, and trust me, I know how to make a statement.

But outside of that? I don’t throw money around like some of my peers. I’m careful. I spend on the essentials: travel, keeping up appearances, and maintaining my apartments. I’ll indulge here and there, a night out at the right club or a gift for someone who matters in the moment, but I’m not reckless. I know the difference between what I need and what others think I need.

The truth is, most of my money goes into sustaining the act. Keeping the stage lights on, so to speak. Behind the scenes, it’s all about making sure I can keep moving, keep performing, without getting caught up in the excess. It’s funny—everyone thinks I live for the spotlight, but really, I’m just making sure I can slip away whenever I need to.

What am I striving for? That’s the question, isn’t it? Everyone has their little ambitions—the next role, the next paycheck, the next fleeting moment of glory. But those things... they fade, don’t they? They slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you try to hold on. I suppose what I’m truly after isn’t so easy to define.

I’m chasing something real, something lasting, something that can’t be taken away with the changing tide of public opinion or the next big trend. I want to be more than just a face on a screen or a voice in the airwaves. I want power, but not the kind that comes with fame. Fame is fragile, brittle. I want power that roots itself deep, something that fills the emptiness and makes it impossible to be ignored.

How far would I go? Well, that’s a dangerous question, isn’t it? People will say they’d do anything, but when the stakes are high—truly high—you find out what “anything” really means. I’m not the type to rush headlong into danger without thinking. I’m more... deliberate. I plan. I calculate. I charm. But if the path to what I want is perilous, well, I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.

Would I risk my life? I already do, in a way. Every contract, every step into the unknown, it’s all a gamble. But if the stakes are high enough, if the reward is what I’m truly after... I suppose death is just another player at the table. As for killing? Let’s just say I know how to get what I want without making a mess of things. Most of the time.

But there’s a line there, isn’t there? A line between who I am and what I might become. I haven’t crossed it yet. At least, not fully.

The most defining event? I’d say it was the day I first truly felt the weight of the emptiness. Funny, isn’t it? You’d expect me to say it was a success story—a breakthrough role, a moment in the spotlight that set everything in motion. But no, it was a night much quieter than that.

It was after my first real success, a performance that had people talking for weeks. I was the darling of the moment, all eyes on me, everyone wanting a piece of Riku Nakamura. And yet, after all the lights dimmed and the crowds dispersed, I went home to my little apartment, sat on the edge of my bed, and felt... nothing. Just a cold, hollow space where all that excitement should have settled.

That night, I realized something terrifying. No matter how much adoration I received, no matter how high I climbed, it never filled that space inside me. It was as if everything I’d been striving for was just smoke, slipping through my fingers the moment I touched it.

That moment changed me. It was the first time I truly understood that fame, attention, and success were just distractions, temporary highs that could never truly satisfy. I started looking at the world differently after that—people, opportunities, ambitions. I became more careful, more deliberate. I realized I couldn’t rely on external validation to fill the void, that I needed something deeper, something real.

And that’s when the pursuit began. The pursuit of something beyond the surface, something that could make me feel whole. That’s why I do what I do now—why I take risks others wouldn’t dream of, why I’ve walked into dangerous contracts with eyes wide open. Because that night taught me that I can’t live on illusions forever.

1. Kazuo Nakamura (Father)

Kazuo is a stern, reserved man, an embodiment of traditional Japanese values—discipline, honor, and hard work. He’s a businessman who built a modest but stable company from the ground up, and he always expected Riku to follow in his footsteps. Kazuo is not unkind, but he’s distant, practical, and very matter-of-fact. He doesn’t understand Riku’s world of entertainment, seeing it as frivolous and shallow, and he’s never quite approved of his son’s choices. Their relationship is respectful but strained, filled with unspoken disappointment and the weight of unmet expectations. Kazuo’s presence in Riku’s life is like a shadow—a constant reminder of a path not taken.

2. Aiko Mori (Closest Person)

Aiko is Riku’s longtime friend, one of the few people who has known him since before he became “Riku Nakamura, the star.” She’s a photographer who’s made a name for herself in the art world, and she’s always been fiercely independent, much like Riku. Aiko sees through the layers of Riku’s persona, understanding the duality he lives with. She’s the one person Riku feels he can drop the act with, even if only for a moment. Their bond is deep, built on years of shared experiences and a mutual respect for each other’s boundaries. Aiko is perceptive and no-nonsense, offering Riku the honesty he craves but rarely gets. She’s his anchor, someone who keeps him grounded when the world feels too chaotic.

3. Kenta Yamada (Manager/Handler)

Kenta is Riku’s manager in Japan, a sharp, business-minded individual who’s always looking for the next opportunity. He’s the one who helped catapult Riku into the world of voice acting and modeling, and he’s been instrumental in building Riku’s brand. Kenta is ambitious, driven, and always two steps ahead, making sure Riku’s schedule is packed and that he stays in the public eye. Despite their professional relationship, Kenta sees Riku as more than just a client—he respects his talent and understands the pressures of the industry. However, he’s also pragmatic and isn’t afraid to push Riku harder when needed. There’s a sense of camaraderie between them, though it’s often tinged with the tension of business.

My childhood was... complicated. I wouldn’t call it bad, but it wasn’t exactly warm either. My father, Kazuo Nakamura, was a stern man—a businessman who believed in discipline and hard work above all else. He built his life on those principles, and he expected the same from me. My mother wasn’t around much; she left when I was young, so it was mostly just me and my father. He provided for me, made sure I had what I needed, but emotional connection? That was something I never really got from him.

Kazuo was practical, maybe too much so. He never understood my interest in the arts, in entertainment. To him, it was frivolous, a distraction from what he thought really mattered—things like stability, tradition, and honor. He wasn’t unkind, but everything was measured, controlled. He always seemed to expect more from me, something I couldn’t quite give. In time I came to agree with him that entertainment had an intrinsic emptiness, but looking at his life I did not find anything better - or different, to be exact.

I did go to school, both in the U.S. and Japan. Academically, I was fine—good, even—but socially? That was a different story. I never really fit in anywhere. In Japan, I was the American kid, and in the U.S., I was the Japanese kid. I learned to adapt, though. I had to. I became the quiet observer, always watching, always figuring out how to fit into the space around me without drawing too much attention. It wasn’t until later—until I found my footing in entertainment—that I realized I could use that same adaptability to my advantage.

School wasn’t about fitting in for me. It was about finding the spaces where I could be myself, even if those spaces were few and far between. I floated between groups, never fully committing to any one clique. I learned early on how to be everything and nothing at the same time—visible, but untouchable. In time, the nerdy interests became a profitable career and the adaptability of the persona became the persona, I guess. I lost myself in my characters a number of years ago.

Have I ever been in love? That’s... a tricky question. I’ve certainly felt infatuation, desire, connection—but love? Real, deep, soul-baring love? I’m not so sure. I’ve had relationships, of course. Some of them even felt like they were on the verge of becoming something more, but they never quite made it there.

There was one, though. Her name was Aiko. We met in Japan, back when I was just starting out. She was different—sharp, independent, saw through all the noise. A photographer, and a damn good one at that. Aiko had this way of cutting through my façade, making me feel... seen, in a way that no one else could. She didn’t care about the public persona or the glamour. She wanted to know the real me, the parts I kept hidden. For a while, I thought maybe this was it—maybe this was love.

But I kept her at a distance. I couldn’t let her get too close, not with everything else going on. My walls were too high, my life too fragmented between what people saw and what was really happening. Eventually, it fell apart. Not because of anything she did, but because I couldn’t let her in. I wanted to, but I was terrified of what might happen if I did.

So, love? Maybe. But I never let it grow into what it could have been. And that’s been the story of my life, really—always keeping people at arm’s length, never quite letting them get close enough to hurt me. It’s safer that way. But it’s also lonelier.

I don't fear much, but there’s the fear of the inner void. That emptiness I feel, the one I’ve been chasing and trying to fill for so long — I fear that it might be permanent. That no matter what I do, no matter how many contracts I take or powers I gain, nothing will ever truly fill it. What if I’m just... hollow? What if this emptiness is who I am at my core? The idea that I’ll keep running, keep searching, and never find anything to make me feel whole—that’s a fear that grips me in the quiet moments when no one’s around.

To a lesser degree, I fear losing control. I’ve built so many walls around myself to keep things in check, to maintain the persona, the balance. But what happens if those walls crumble? If I let someone in, or if the chaos of this new world overwhelms me? Losing control means being vulnerable, and that’s something I’m not sure I can handle. Vulnerability leads to pain, to exposure, to the rawness I’ve been avoiding for years and that I also yearn for.

Hm. I guess the guy that says the pathway to the life you want lies where your fears reside was correct. I wonder if he is now feral and homeless, living under some bridge somewhere.

My most prized possession? That would have to be my journal. It’s a small, leather-bound thing, nothing fancy or elaborate, but it’s been with me for years. I’ve filled its pages with thoughts, sketches, ideas—things I can’t say out loud. It’s my way of processing everything, of keeping track of who I am beneath the layers of performance. It’s private, intimate, the one place where I can be honest with myself without worrying about how it looks to the outside world. It’s not about sentimentality; it’s about survival. Without that space to reflect, I’m not sure how I’d hold it all together.

Among other important things - such as myself - my mother left behind when she fled the marriage, there were a number of jewelry pieces, including a very pretty silver osmium bracelet. My father gave me that one when I left home. I don't keep it to remind myself of my mother - I don't even remember her - but to remember my father and also as a cautionary tale: human connections are fragile. One day, you’re close to someone, and the next, they’re gone. It’s a reminder that no matter how deep a bond might seem, it can break, leaving you alone. I keep it on me as a constant reminder: don’t get too comfortable, don’t let your guard down, and always be ready to stand on your own.

The biggest problem in my life right now? I’d say it’s trying to adapt to this contractor lifestyle. I’m still getting used to the idea that this is my reality now—contracts, strange harbingers, and life-or-death situations on a regular basis. It’s not exactly what I had planned for myself, but here I am, stuck in prison and trying to make sense of it all.

I’ve nearly died a couple of times already, and that’s a sobering thought. But I know this is just the beginning. If I’m going to get where I need to go, I have to transcend who I am right now. I need to become something... more. The problem is, I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this. Being a contractor isn’t exactly something I’ve got a natural knack for, but if I’m going to survive—if I’m going to find what I’m really looking for—I have to figure it out.

So yeah, that’s where I’m at. Trying to become something better while dodging bullets—literally and metaphorically.

My mornings are... structured. Methodical, you could say. It’s the one part of the day where I feel completely in control. I start with a shower—hot water, steam, the kind that wakes you up and clears your mind. Then comes the skincare routine. That’s non-negotiable. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer—each step has its place. Scalp care too. You can’t neglect that. A light touch of makeup follows, just enough to keep up appearances without drawing too much attention. Subtle, but effective.

Breakfast is quick but calculated—a protein shake or some eggs, something light but packed with what I need to get through the day. Then comes the workout. I push myself hard, sweat out the doubts, and remind myself that I’m stronger than I was yesterday. It’s not just about staying in shape; it’s about discipline, about preparing myself for whatever might come next.

Once that’s done, it’s time to work. Whether it’s rehearsing, recording, or handling contracts, I throw myself into it fully. Mornings are all about preparation, setting the tone for the rest of the day. If I can get this part right, the rest of it... well, it doesn’t seem so daunting.

If I’m going somewhere special and I need to look my best, I’m pulling out all the stops. It starts with the usual routine, but everything is dialed up. A long, hot shower to clear my mind and relax every muscle. The full skincare routine—cleanser, exfoliant, toner, serum, moisturizer, eye cream—nothing skipped. Scalp care comes next. I’ll style my hair, make sure every strand is in place, and finish with light makeup to give me that flawless but natural look.

Clothing? That depends on the event, but if I really need to make an impression, I’m going with something bold yet elegant. A tailored suit—something with a modern cut, maybe in deep black or charcoal with subtle details. Accessories are key, so I’d add a slim silver watch, minimalistic rings, and perhaps a statement necklace or bracelet. Shoes? Polished and sleek, probably a pair of high-end loafers or boots.

Getting ready for something like this isn’t rushed—it’s methodical. Every step is intentional, every detail considered. From start to finish, we’re talking about two hours, easy. I’ll make sure I’m not just dressed well, but that I feel ready to command the room. That’s the real goal, after all. Looking good is one thing, but carrying that confidence? That’s everything.

For my next birthday, I’ll probably keep it simple. I’ll call my father—maintain the connection, even if it’s strained. Maybe I’ll spend some time with the fans, let them have their moment, let myself feel their adoration for a little while. But the night? I’ll likely end it alone. If I have to be vulnerable, it’s better to do it by myself. Maybe I’ll call Aiko, talk for a bit, remind myself that not everything is about appearances. But mostly, it’ll just be me. Quiet, reflective, and figuring out what the next year holds: these last days were eventful and maybe some introspection is in order.

My greatest regret? That’s easy: not letting people in when it mattered most. I’ve spent so much time keeping everyone at arm’s length, always making sure I’m the one in control, the one who doesn’t get hurt. But that comes at a price, doesn’t it? There have been moments—important ones—where I should’ve let someone in, trusted them, maybe even relied on them for once.

Aiko comes to mind. I had a real chance there, a chance to build something meaningful. But instead, I pushed her away, kept up the walls because I was afraid of what might happen if she saw the cracks. And now? That connection is gone. I’m left wondering what might’ve been if I had been brave enough to let her in.

That regret doesn’t go away, no matter how far I run or how successful I become. It lingers, a quiet reminder that some things you can’t fix once they’re broken.

The nature of my gifts? They’re a strange blend of elements, not something easily pinned down. Part of it is rooted in my connection to stories. I’ve always been good at crafting narratives—spinning tales, drawing people in, making them believe in things that maybe aren’t entirely real. That skill, that understanding of how stories work, has somehow become tied to my powers. It’s like the lines between fiction and reality blur a little when I use them, bending things to my will, shaping outcomes just like I would with a good story.

But that’s only part of it. The rest? That comes from the parasite. The infection didn’t just leave scars; it changed me, rewired parts of me in ways I’m still figuring out. My physiology isn’t the same as it used to be. I feel stronger, more resilient, but there’s this underlying sense that something alien is still a part of me. It’s not always in my control, and that’s terrifying. Yet at the same time, it’s fascinating. There’s a sense of potential there, something I could tap into if I learn to master it.

No one really knows how far this will go, and that uncertainty eats at me sometimes. But I’ve always had a taste for the unknown, for pushing boundaries. While I’m afraid of what this might turn me into, I can’t help but be intrigued. Experimenting with these gifts, seeing what they can do—it’s dangerous, sure, but it’s also exciting. Life hasn’t exactly been predictable lately, but at least it’s not boring.