Friday night. Released from his office in Marunouchi, Ryuichi Tanaka opened the door to his apartment with heavy steps.
“…God, I’m exhausted,” he spat out to no one, violently loosening his tie.
Ryuichi had been raised in a traditional household in the countryside, watching the back of a father who embodied the values of the Showa era. Men work outside; women protect the home. He believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was the only harmonious shape for a family. Of course, he knew that voicing such thoughts in the Reiwa era would get him branded as a “fossil,” but deep down, a sense of entitlement clung to him like sludge—the belief that he, who ground his nerves down at work, deserved to be the priority for care at home.
When he entered the living room, he saw his wife, Misaki, typing away at her laptop in the dim light.
“Oh, welcome home. There’s food in the fridge. Just heat it up in the microwave,” Misaki said, without taking her eyes off the screen.
She worked as a freelance web designer, and her values were thoroughly modern. To her, housework was something “the person who notices does” or “should be shared.” Marriage was not a contract where one party served the other.
Ryuichi felt frustration pooling in his hands as he opened the refrigerator. “…This again today, huh?”
“What do you mean, ‘this’?” Misaki finally looked up, sliding her blue-light-blocking glasses down.
“I mean, after a whole week of work, I come home to find I have to warm up my own cold leftovers. When I was a kid, the moment my dad came home, hot food was on the table, and my mom was there, kneeling to greet him…”
“That story again? Ryuichi, it’s the 2020s. I was just dealing with client revisions a minute ago. You’re not the only one working ‘outside.'”
“I know that. But in terms of earnings, I’m the one who—”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that today.” A cold, clear light of rejection flickered in Misaki’s eyes. Ryuichi dismissed the look as “womanly selfishness” and sank deep into the sofa to avoid further argument.
“I just want to rest. At least on the weekends, let me spend my time quietly, being served.”
“I want to spend my time quietly too.” Misaki closed her laptop and stood up. There was a sharp resolve in her movements. She headed to the bedroom closet and returned a moment later carrying a “box” Ryuichi had never seen before.
“Ryuichi. You always say it, don’t you? That housework is ‘easy’ compared to fighting in the outside world. That it’s just women moving around a little bit in the house.”
“…Well, practically speaking, that’s true. The weight of responsibility is different.” Ryuichi snorted.
At that moment, a distorted, luscious smile played across Misaki’s lips. “Then, how about making a ‘contract’ with me for this weekend?”
From the box, she pulled out a heavy maid uniform. The jet-black fabric and snow-white lace created a vivid contrast. This was no cheap cosplay outfit found in Akihabara. It possessed the luster of high-quality silk and delicate embroidery on the hem—it radiated the dignity of a true “uniform.”
“What is that? You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious. This is a ‘ritual garment’ passed down in my family. If you wear this and serve as my perfect maid until Sunday night… I will never complain about housework to you again. I’ll return to being the submissive wife of your ideals.”
“…You want me to wear that?” Ryuichi tried to laugh it off. But for some reason, he couldn’t look away. The black fabric seemed to pulse slightly, as if it were breathing.
“If you refuse, I’m going back to my parents’ house tomorrow. I’m leaving. I mean it.” Misaki’s voice was low, echoing in a way that blocked all exits.
Ryuichi wavered. If Misaki left, his life would literally collapse. He didn’t know how to run the washing machine, nor did he know which day of the week the trash was sorted.
“…Fine. I’ll wear it, alright? I’ll wear it. But in return, don’t you ever complain again.” Ryuichi grabbed the discarded maid dress in a fit of desperation.
“It’s a promise. Now, put your arms through the sleeves. …All the way in.” Misaki’s words felt strangely sweet, clinging to his eardrums.
The moment Ryuichi slid his arms into the jet-black dress—
“—!?”
His heart leapt. The clothes were alive. The cold silk suctioned to his skin, tightening around his entire body like suckers.
“Hey, what is this… I can’t get it o—” He tried to scream, but no sound came out. His field of vision plummeted as the furniture around him grew gigantic. He heard his bones creak; his shoulders narrowed, and a dull shock ran through his waist as it was pushed outward from within.
“A-aaaaahhh!”
What leaked from his throat was not the gruff, familiar roar of a man. It was a bell-like, yet terribly seductive “woman’s voice” he recognized all too well. As his consciousness began to fade, Ryuichi saw one last thing: his own reflection—the body of “Ryuichi Tanaka” with its unshaven stubble—looking down at him with a devilish, satisfied grin.
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