#misapprehension

Reigen thinks it’s only appropriate, for a business, to branch out and follow the latest trends—to come up with new ways to put himself, and his name, and his office out there. Yes, he’s stood out on the street and handed out flyers, made a website, shot peace signs at passing cameras, but he still found that business was slow lately, boringly so; only emails and articles to fill the time.

When it was only him and Mob, a quiet day at the office usually saw him sending the kid home early. Now that he had an additional name in the lineup, there was only so many times a week he could send Serizawa to reorganize the massage oils before the man would mutter that there wasn’t much left to do. The fact of the matter was: there hasn’t been much of anything to do for quite the while, and Reigen was starting to get just a tad bit worried about how he was supposed to pay the upcoming bill.

He decides to download a dating app. That seemed new and innovative enough to gain a decent attraction. Plenty of people used those platforms to form various types of relationships, not just of the romantic kind. So he’s heard, that is—it’s not like he’s ever actually used a dating app before.

Successfully, anyway.

Besides the point—Reigen entered his login information and got to work rebuilding his profile; spending a lot of time scrolling through his camera roll to find the most appropriate photos to use and typing up the best imaginable pitch for the office he’s ever come up with. It took an entire afternoon—“Sl-slow day isn’t it, sir?”—but by closing time, he got the account up and running. It was under his name, with his face, but he figured it would do well to get potential customers well acquainted with his physical appearance—so they could associate him with his brand, of course. There was no Spirits and Such without the greatest psychic of the twenty-first century, after all.

He spent the rest of the night and most of the following day swiping right. Statistically speaking, if he set his range at the largest possible amount and liked every account that came his way, he was bound to get at least a couple of matches. And once he did, only a handful of those would actually interact with him, and out of those, only a fraction would come to see him. That had been his previous strategy with the app, anyway. It would have been, if he had ever used it before, of course.

His hand was starting to cramp when Mob asked him—“What game are you playing, Master? You’ve been playing it all day, is it that interesting?”

Suddenly, it felt extraordinary hot in the room. His back was wet, like he ran ten marathons and was about to start another one immediately afterwards. His mind went blank, and he found that he was lost without words. This was a very uncommon occurrence for Reigen—for you see, he was able to talk himself out of just about any situation he found himself in, and was quite known to be capable of talking a mile a minute if he really wanted to—so to be left so utterly tongue-tied without an idea on exactly why he felt such a way burned him up. Badly. Like he needed to throw his phone against the wall, fast, before it was too late.

This was about the same time that Serizawa found his voice. “I probably have the same game…do you want some tips?” And when he started to lean in over his shoulder to see what exactly was on Reigen’s phone, the device did, in fact, find its way across the room; crashing against the wall opposite, ricocheting around, before bouncing to the floor, where it clattered to a stop at the foot of his desk.

Silence filled the space. It felt like a record-breaking summer.

Finally, like a switch had been flipped, he regained some of his bearings. “Oops!” he exclaimed, “I dropped my phone! How clumsy of me!” He laughed, getting up to retrieve the device; and it was an achievement in itself that the two psychics in the room couldn’t have stopped the phone in time—but to have them both so stunned by his behavior that they didn’t pick it up for him was award-worthy, truly. He outdid himself this time.

A quick inspection found nothing amiss, so he snapped it shut, and slipped it into his pocket. He swiped at his bangs—to wipe away the lingering sweat—and smiled. “It’s just some gatcha game I saw an ad for. I was grinding for crystals so I could do some more pulls.” A wink to Serizawa saw the man blushing and turning away, so he didn’t catch the thumbs up he gave him. “You know how it is.”

“I-I do—I do. Good luck, sir.”

“Oh,” was all Mob said, and nothing more; and they left it at that.

---

It took about a week before he got his first match. He was so ingrained in typing up an email one-handed while using his other to simultaneously consistently swipe that he almost missed the notification. He scrambled into the chatroom.

[[ hello!! ]]

He waited.

He waited all day, but got left on read.

---

This happened six more times over the course of the next month before he actually got a reply. It took another two for him to realize that he couldn’t wait for a reply back to start his spiel, he had to lead with it instead. That got some conversations going, but no one actually agreed to come out to see him. He was getting traction, but stumbled halfway out.

This was familiar. Achingly so. 

---

The day after he matched with you, he was about to shut the whole venture down and come up with a new one. Maybe focus more on the website, maybe find some bulletin boards and scatter some posters in the local area. He was laying in bed, contemplating some ideas when you messaged him.

(( Hi ))

He stared at the message. He had already sent the pitch beforehand; such a simple response must mean that this was a potential future client, surely. A quick look through your profile was enough to tell him he should take the friendly approach.

[[ hello!! ]]

[[ how may i help you? ]]

The friendly approach included lots of emojis. According to research, frequent amount of emoji use made people appear more sociable and less intimidating. He hoped he wasn’t overdoing it, less he appeared corporate instead.

The symbol indicating you had seen his messages popped up, and he gripped his phone a bit tighter.

(( You’re a psychic? ))

[[ yes i am!! ]]

There was a pause. He felt himself gulping, despite himself.

(( Do you do curses? ))

In the privacy of his own bedroom, he allowed his tongue to click. If this was where your mind went after seeing the word psychic, he better let you down as quickly as possible, as easily as possible.

[[ i’m afraid i don’t offer curses ]]

[[ i do offer evil repellent charms if that’s something you’re interested in ]]

Hopefully, that would satisfy you enough. It usually worked as an alternate option for clients; it had to be presented before they got too worked up, though. People who craved curses tend to latch on to ideas quickly and refuse to let go, kicking and screaming.

(( That sounds interesting. Tell me more? ))

Bingo.

---

Over the course of the following week, you were the only one he had matched with. That was a negative. A positive, however, was that your curiosity seemed to grow the more you spoke to each other—and he found himself messaging you throughout the day. You would ask him about his business. What sort of methods he used and what kind of spirits he’s faced. If he was successful, what he would do in hypothetical situations. Easy to answer questions, and even easier to embellish answers.

It was on the seventh day that Mob spoke up. “Master, have you been messaging clients?”

Once more, the office turned into a sauna. From his desk, he stared blankly at his student.

“Because if you are, I don’t think it’s working.” The kid always had such a way with words, truly. “We haven’t had many jobs lately.” It was the truth. Spoken clearly, if not confidently.

He wondered why Mob assumed he was messaging a client specifically, and not someone else. Not a personal matter or another acquaintance of his, family or friend. But when he thought about it, and he looked into his student’s eyes, partially obscured by his cropped hair, Reigen didn’t like the conclusion he got to. Not at all.

“Ah, well,” his hands flew around him, pointing and gesturing to nothing in particular but his vague point. And what was his point? Why was he so flustered? “I set up a messaging line on the website, is all. So I’ve been getting a lot of questions lately. That must be why we haven’t had many walk-ins this week—my online advice is just that good! I impress even myself sometimes, really.”

He was glad Serizawa had class today. He was sure the man would have checked the so-called messaging line on the spot. Mob, for his part, just took his word on it.

“Oh,” he said, and nothing more; and they left it at that.

---

The dating app strategy worked. He hit a breakthrough, and over half of the customers coming in over the following month were those he had matched with—and a good chunk of the other half had been word of mouth from that demographic. Business was flourishing. The safe never looked so good. Clients and curiosities flooded in; his schedule was booked for the first time in ages. He had several interviews with news sites and even a small television segment. The dating app strategy truly was innovative, and he started running across other small businesses during his swiping sessions—he was a trendsetter.

Reigen Arataka, the headlines said in big, bold letters. Greatest Psychic of the Twenty-First Century.

Of course, with the raise in popularity, the truth eventually came out to the rest of the office. Mob labeled him a genius. Serizawa was happy for him. He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed to begin with.

He delegated all the duties of the app to himself. It would be much easier if he had help—but he didn’t want them to see your messages. His face still burned at the thought of it, so he split up the rest of the workload evenly, to keep up with the demand.

One day, in the office, between appointments, in the lull of papers shuffling and a lunch-run, Reigen held up his phone in front of him. The shutter noise was turned all the way down, so Serizawa didn’t hear the photo of himself he took. He was feeling pretty good. Better than he had in weeks.

He sent it to you.

Your curiosity seemed to have peaked a while back, but you had never once come in. You had admitted that the conversations you shared were pleasant and, on a day very much like this one, Reigen was careless, and gave you his number. He enjoyed talking to you, too. He found himself checking his phone more often, these days. And when you sent a photo of yourself back, he felt his heart skip a beat.

Oh.

He couldn’t leave it at that; and he cleared his schedule.

---

The day you finally came to visit him was the day he finally got to touch you. Your moans underneath him was all he could ever ask for, and the fact that this was his workspace didn’t matter much to him at all. Not when your lips parted like that, and your back arched for him. Not with the scent of you, and him, and the oils and incense around you, so much that it made it hard to think. Intoxicating, driving him further and further off the edge, higher, rapidly—

You haven't dated since high school—and even then, it was a bit of a fruitless endeavor. At your age, you have a handful of friends you’ve hung on to since your younger years, but you found there was no room to form new friendships; what with work taking up most of your time and energy. And sure, you’ve gone out for drinks with your coworkers and attended several work functions, but it was more out of obligation than any real attempt at looking to grow closer.

There was no room for a romantic angle in any of your current relationships. You didn’t want that. Even in your online communities, there wasn’t really anyone you were interested with in that type of manner, content to stay as just friends, just acquaintances, coworkers and space-sharers.

So you tried the popular dating app. At the least, you’ve exchanged several messages with people, but nothing ever came out of them; there’s been the occasional talks of potentially meeting up here and there, but they would suddenly ghost you when the prospect actually came up, messages left on read and chatboxes dead.

You entertained the idea of finally finding the person you’ve been searching for, swiping left and right during breaks and curled up in bed for weeks, months on end; slowly and slowly coming to terms with the fact that dating apps were just a waste of time, only for the occasional hookup, only for a quick fuck.

And then you matched with him.

“The greatest psychic of the twenty-first century,” as his bio put it, was an account seemingly run by a real person—but it appeared that he was only there to promote his sketchy-sounding business, based on the wording of the rest of his bio; advertising and proposing various menu options.

He probably likes every profile that comes up, you think as you liked his, just to see what would happen; tired, and jaded, and very much wanting to go to bed. This Reigen Arataka, with his goofy selfie for an icon and an album full of poorly-shot photos of what must be his office, and handshakes, and a map leading from the nearest station.

You scanned his bio again. Seances, and purification techniques, and apparently specialty items and charms—but you didn’t want to copy and paste the website typed at the bottom, didn’t want to see what he sold for what price. You only wanted to roll over and charge your phone.

Sure enough, the notification saying the two of you had matched popped up, prompting you to message him.

He beat you to it.

[[ hello!! ]]

[[ it appears we have found each other. ]]

In the chatbox, you simply stared. Letters encased in emojis, smiley faces and waving hands; you weren’t sure what to say. He must have seen that you’ve seen.

[[ i’ll get straight to the chase. i run the Spirits and Such Consultation Office, we offer various psychic related solutions to your spiritual related problems. ]]

[[ are you interested to hear more? ]]

He didn’t give you time to answer, most likely driven by the little “read” message on his end, followed by the checkmark; prompting him, goading him, encouraging him to prattle on.

[[ of course you are!! ]]

[[ perhaps you would like a Graphic Exorcism? or a Sorcery Crush? ]]

[[ here at the Spirits and Such Consultation Office, we offer the lowest rates with the highest results!! ]]

You closed the app.

---

You didn’t know what prompted you to open up the chatbox again the following night, but you supposed you had nothing else better to do.

He had not sent another message. So, you decided to.

(( Hi ))

His reply was not immediate, but it came quicker than expected.

[[ hello!! ]]

[[ how may i help you? ]]

It was followed by an open-mouthed smiley face. Some customer service.

(( You’re a psychic? ))

[[ yes i am!! ]]

You thought of your boss.

(( Do you do curses? ))

[[ i’m afraid i don’t offer curses ]]

[[ i do offer evil repellent charms if that’s something you’re interested in ]]

It isn’t.

(( That sounds interesting. Tell me more? ))

---

[[ how was your day? ]]

(( My back still hurts ))

You were in bed, with a pillow shoved underneath you in a way that strained your neck but supported your back. You were both off work, retired for the day and chatting the night away.

You don’t know how your conversations turned into this—less selling on his end and more genuine intrigue on yours. You started messaging him during your breaks at work, and he wasn’t always able to respond right away—he has his own business to attend to, after all—but he always replied by the end of the day, answering your questions and responding to your rising curiosity.

It was him who offered to exchange numbers, one day, out of the blue. You would have given it to him freely, had you worked up the courage faster. It was also him who had sent the first selfie, him and his goofy face, unprompted, sitting at his desk, blurry, endearing, in the middle of your lunch break. You had sent one back and he appraised your looks.

You entertained the idea.

(( Maybe the office is haunted. Can spirits follow you back home? ))

[[ yes!! ]]

[[ an evil spirit might be following you home and haunting your poor back. ]]

[[ i could help with that. ]]

[[ perhaps you could go for my super special Aroma Runaway Express technique? ]]

It was followed by a winky face—it made it sound suggestive. You didn’t know how to reply, hot suddenly in the face. Perhaps lower, as well.

[[ sorry. ]]

[[ it’s a massage. ]]

[[ it involves scented oils and soothing incense. it’s meant to help people relax.]]

[[ there’s himalayan rock salt involved as well. ]]

[[ it expels evil spirits, of course. ]]

[[ that’s what it’s actually meant for. ]]

[[ relaxation is just an added bonus. ]]

Oh. You took a moment to reply, retyping and editing your message. You wondered if he was watching—the floating dots appearing and disappearing at infrequent intervals; your indecisiveness closing in on you.

Finally.

(( I would like that ))

---

Of course you believed in spirits—the gods dwell in the mountains, the rivers, the trees. You used to pray to Tenjin every year during your school breaks. You would be a fool not to believe. If only Ebisu would bless you…

Of course you believed in spirits. That’s what you told yourself as you stared up at the sign of the Spirits and Such Consultation Office. It was located on a building like many others—housing various other businesses and small establishments.

It wasn’t like any other building. This building held Reigen.

Taking the stairs, you realized you didn’t know if you should knock or simply just walk on in. You decided to knock.

The man who opened the door was not Reigen. This man was too big, too small, much too awkward in his stance to be the man behind the messages. In your confusion, you searched for straw drenched in honey, but found only black, curling at the edges and chocolate where the light hit it.

You tried to catch his eyes, dark and fleeting, before he gestured into the room with a stiff hand, arm weak.

“Come, uh, come in!”

Some couches awaited you, a table nestled between, and a television further ahead. You turned the corner.

There he was. Laptop closed and his hands intertwined together on his desk. At the sight of you, his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, like he forgot something, and he almost tripped getting up from his seat. But then he was there suddenly in front of you and he was the same as in the poster on the wall behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that his blazer was too big. Then was his tie, like the last dregs of sunset encased in silver. Your eyes went lower, to his narrow waist. You supposed you were staring.

“Hello!” He looked like it was scalding inside the walls. Maybe it was. “Would you like to sit down? Have some tea? Or—perhaps you would like to get started? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He swallowed, audible, a finger underneath the collar of his tie. Maybe he was the man at the door, after all. “The—massage.”

You nodded. “The Aroma Runaway Express.”

The actual man at the door—the one with the curling hair and the broad shoulders—spoke up from his place near the door. “So! You’re the appointment we’ve been waiting for! Don’t worry! Master Reigen—I’ll get the room ready!”

And with that, he shuffled around you and Reigen, and the couch, and the desk, into a separate door, closing it behind him, and leaving you alone with the greatest psychic of the twenty-first century.

“Well,” Reigen muttered under his breath to himself—but it was so quiet, so suddenly, that you couldn’t help but overhear him. “At least he’s finally taking initiative.” Then he clapped his hands together, once, and gestured rather weirdly to the couches beside you. “I guess we’ll have time for some tea, after all. Please,” his voice dipped, lower, pleasant, smiles and closed eyes. “Have a seat.”

---

His office was bigger than your entire apartment. You wondered how much it costs—you could set up your entire life in a room this big. It wasn’t large by any means, but it was spacious. Bigger than your place with it’s tiny kitchenette settled in the entrance, and it’s single room, and cramped loft.

You wished you were in your loft, curled inside your blanket, phone on the lowest brightness setting, messaging the man seated in front of you, instead of sitting there in front of him.

What am I doing here? Why did I come?

You’ve never met up with someone you only knew online before. You sipped your tea and thought—it’s hot in here. This was Reigen’s office. During his business hours. You were here for a massage. Because of the spirit, you remembered. The spirit that’s haunting me.

Reigen agreed to give you his super special technique, Aroma Runaway Express, and it involves Himalayan rock salt, and incense, and scented oils. Serizawa was preparing the room. He’s taking an awfully long time.

Reigen, for his part, seemed to have cooled off. He adjusted his tie—like the furthest reaches of the sky at sundown—and crossed a leg over his knee. He hadn’t touched his tea, telling you about his uneventful day, what he did to pass the time, what he had for lunch. There hadn’t been any clients.

“Besides you, of course,” he ended it with a swipe at his bangs, strawberry blond, molten. His suit was like rocks, climbing towards the sun.

This was a business transaction. He’ll rub you down, and you’ll go home, and that’ll be that.

What am I doing here? Why did I come?

Serizawa emerged from the side room. “Everything’s ready.”

Reigen was on his feet, fluid, rising like the tide. “Alright!” He clapped again, once, twice, and moved his hands at the front of him. He turned towards his assistant. “You can go home now, Serizawa. I’ll be closing up after this.”

The man looked relieved. “Oh! Thank you, sir! If you’re sure…” but he scurried off, quickly gathering his things and stopping at the front door. He lingered. “Oh!” he looked at you. “Thank you for coming in today! If you’ll excuse me…” And then he was gone.

You sat in silence. A millennium passed.

Slowly, silently, Reigen made his way to the front door. You heard the lock click. You saw him turn the closed sign. He stood there for a moment, hand on the plastic sign, pressed against the door, and saw his shoulders move underneath the large jacket. A millennium more passed. Then he made his way back over to you at an amble pace, aqueous, hands in his pockets, step after languid step, right in front of you.

He had a narrow waist. You moved your eyes up, higher, hot suddenly in the face. Perhaps lower, as well. Maybe you were the rocks.

He extended a hand. “Come on,” the window at his back drew shadows across his face, dark and unknown, like the deepest depths of the sea. “I’ll make you feel good.”