The Kyoto Hair Heist
The crowded streets of Kyoto bustled with the rhythm of late afternoon, the sunlight glinting off rows of bicycles parked neatly outside storefronts. Yuto adjusted his black mask, blending effortlessly into the crowd as he approached the modest neighborhood salon nestled between a tea shop and a stationary store. His heart raced beneath his calm exterior, but he had planned every detail of this moment.
The target: a local high school girl with long, jet-black hair that shimmered like silk under the sun. He had first noticed her weeks ago while she walked home from school, her hair swaying with every step. She was a regular at this salon, something Yuto had carefully observed during his reconnaissance visits, where he pretended to browse hair products while silently noting the staff’s routines and the clientele.
The Setup
Yuto pushed open the sliding glass door, the bell above chiming softly. Inside, the salon was small but welcoming, with pastel walls and an array of sleek styling chairs. Two stylists were busy with clients, their chatter mingling with the hum of blow dryers. A young girl, still in her school uniform, sat in the waiting area scrolling on her phone, her black hair flowing down her back like a river.
He approached the front desk, where a receptionist glanced up briefly. “Welcome,” she said politely, bowing slightly.
Yuto nodded, speaking in a practiced tone. “I’m here to assist today. The manager asked me to cover for a last-minute absence.”
The receptionist hesitated, but his demeanor and neatly pressed black shirt exuded authority. “Ah, I see. Please, go ahead,” she said, motioning toward the back.
The Heist Begins
He approached the girl, his voice calm and composed. “Excuse me, miss. Are you ready?”
She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his briefly before nodding. “Yes.”
He led her to one of the washing stations, where she reclined in the chair. As he adjusted the water temperature, his hands trembled slightly, but he steadied himself. This was it—the moment he had meticulously planned.
The warm water cascaded over her hair, and he began massaging shampoo into her scalp. His fingers worked through her strands methodically, savoring the texture. Her hair was everything he imagined: thick, smooth, and impossibly soft. He lingered longer than necessary, his hands gliding through the lather, careful to mask his fascination with practiced professionalism.
“Is the temperature alright?” he asked, his voice steady.
“Yes, it’s perfect,” she replied softly, her eyes closed.
He rinsed the shampoo and applied conditioner, combing it through with his fingers. The floral scent filled the air, and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to inhale deeply but restrained himself. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to appear as though he belonged.
The Blowout
Once her hair was washed and towel-dried, Yuto guided her to a styling chair. He began brushing her hair, the long strands gliding through the comb like water. The hum of the blow dryer filled the space as he worked, creating soft waves that framed her face. His hands occasionally lingered, his fingertips grazing her scalp in what he hoped appeared to be absent-minded precision.
“You have beautiful hair,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she replied, blushing slightly.
Yuto couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride, even if the praise wasn’t truly his to give. As he finished the blowout, he stepped back to admire his work. Her hair was perfect—sleek, glossy, and cascading down her back in soft waves.
“All done,” he said, forcing a polite smile.
She turned to the mirror and gasped softly. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Yuto nodded, his heart pounding. “I’m glad you like it.”
The Escape
As she returned to the waiting area to pay, Yuto made his move. He slipped toward the back of the salon, where he had memorized the location of an employee-only exit. Pushing open the door, he stepped into the alley behind the building, his pulse racing.
The streets were as crowded as ever, and he disappeared into the throng of people, blending seamlessly into the flow of pedestrians. The entire operation had taken less than 30 minutes, but to Yuto, it felt like an eternity.
He reached a quiet park several blocks away and sat on a bench, his hands still tingling from the sensation of her hair. Pulling out his phone, he opened an anonymous messaging app, where a small group of like-minded individuals awaited his report.
“It’s done,” he typed. “Perfect execution.”
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