As evening falls over the near-silent streets of a suburban Tokyo ward, the kind of hush usually associated with polite whispers and sliding shōji (障子) is punctuated by something far less demure: two tattooed, burly figures standing beside a woman at the mouth of a café. She didn’t call them for a drink. She hired them. The service contracts them to patrol her marital battlefield — the realm of the husband’s “other woman.” In modern Japan, the traditional fault-line of infidelity is being met with a new kind of deterrent: the “scary person rental service”.
A recently viral story revealed that a Tokyo start-up began offering what they called a “scary person rental service” (恐い人レンタルサービス). For around ¥20,000, a client could rent a menacing-looking tattooed man to accompany her into personal disputes: from debt collectors to unfaithful husbands to persistent bullies. One wife reportedly brought such a figure alongside her when confronting her husband’s mistress—and the mistress “confessed on the spot”. The website emphasised that these rental “scary people” weren’t gangsters and would not carry out actual illegal acts; they simply provided presence, intimidation, the aura of “someone serious is watching”. By the end of August, however, the company abruptly announced it would discontinue the service. Speculation suggests regulatory pressure or licensing issues may have forced the pause.
Why does this odd service ripple through Japan’s social fabric? In a society where open confrontation is culturally uncomfortable, the concept of meiwaku (迷惑, “trouble”/“nuisance”) looms large: marital discord is meant to be contained, shame-bound, quiet. The notion of publicly humiliating a mistress is not new—Japan has long had firms known as wakaresase-ya (別れさせ屋) that specialise in breaking up relationships, gathering incriminating evidence, or otherwise influencing unfaithful parties. The rental of menacing figures takes a more theatrical, self-assertive route: the wife takes matters into her own hands, buys visible muscle, and flips the script.
For many women in Japan the symbolic weight of a husband’s affair is heavy: the ideal of ie (家, household/family) still resonates, even in more progressive times. A wife may feel betrayed, socially vulnerable, trapped by giri (義理, social obligation) and enryo (遠慮, restraint). Hiring such a service is an act of both desperation and empowerment: desperation that one must resort to such theatrics, empowerment that one refuses to be the silent sufferer. In this sense, the rental “scary” man becomes a tool of ritualised social justice within intimate spheres.
Critics argue this is performative, borderline coercive, and may contribute to a climate where intimidation substitutes for communication. Indeed, the rental firm itself emphasised it would not engage in illegal acts—“we are not gangsters”—yet the optics remain gnarly. Some observers remark that the service may function less to threaten the lover than to give the wife emotional support, a physical embodiment of “I’m not alone”. One user online put it simply: “It is human nature to bully the weak and fear the strong.” Malay Mail
The phenomenon speaks to larger shifts in Japanese marital culture. Labor patterns and urban isolation have altered the way couples connect; as women gain financial independence, the tolerance for silent suffering shrinks. At the same time, traditional confidantes and neighbourhood social networks are weaker, so new forms of “outsourced” personal conflict resolution fill the void. The rental of a “big brother”-figure taps into the old yakuza-aesthetic and the under-world mythos, reframed into a legal (or semi-legal) service. It also resonates with Japan’s quirky “rent-a-…” industry—renting family members, friends, even mourners—an adaptation to modern urban social alienation.
Whether the service will return or the idea will spread remains to be seen. But it shines unpredictable light on marital power dynamics in Japan: the wife as contract-holder, the lover as target, social shame as currency, and the hired enforcer as silent witness. In a society where direct confrontation is often avoided, this shadow-theatrical solution flips the script and dares the unfaithful to face public reality. The ‘scary’ figure doesn’t have to speak; his mere presence says the wife has chosen neither silence nor invisibility.
In the end, this rental-service episode is less about the tattoos and menace than about visibility: in the classic culture of silent suffering, someone showed up, stood tall, and said: I am watching. And in that, the modern Japanese wife found a way to reclaim voice—even if wrapped in the suggestion of danger.
My dear sisters of Japan—what are we doing? Hiring “scary men” to frighten the mistresses? No, no, no! That’s exactly how our men operate—through fear, silence, and intimidation. We’ve suffered long enough under that system; let’s not copy it with prettier manicures and credit cards in hand.
I understand the fury, trust me. You discover that your husband has been sneaking around, and suddenly every polite sumimasen (excuse me) turns into a growl. You want to shout, break dishes, storm into his lover’s apartment and make her disappear. But instead, you call an agency, transfer some yen, and voilà—an intimidating man with tattoos appears, ready to be your “scary presence.” Sisters, when did emotional healing turn into outsourcing vengeance?
Dialogue, not intimidation, is what we need. Communication, not hired muscle. Japanese society already traps women in layers of gaman (endurance) and enryo (restraint). For generations, wives were told to stay quiet, bow low, smile politely while their husbands wandered off to their mizu shōbai (nightlife) escapades. Now that women are reclaiming their agency, the answer can’t be to play the same macho game in reverse.
A truly modern woman doesn’t scare her rival—she confronts her partner. The problem is rarely the other woman; it’s the man who lied, the man who broke the promise, the man who hides behind shame and excuses. The wife who hires a “scary” man might win a small battle, but she loses the bigger war—the fight for open, honest communication. The moment we start using fear as a tool, we legitimize the same patriarchal tactics that kept us quiet for centuries.
Besides, think about the symbolism: women renting men to fix emotional pain. Haven’t we had enough of men controlling the narrative? Enough of power being defined by muscle and intimidation? Power can be gentle, firm, strategic, even kind. Real courage is walking into that café alone, looking your husband in the eye, and saying, “We need to talk.”
So, my lovely Japanese sisters, please—don’t act like your men. Let them keep their fear and their ghosts of control. We, the women of this new Japan, should speak—not scream. Heal—not scare. And if you need company, call a friend, not a thug. Auntie will even come with you, in her red dress and fiery spirit—not to threaten, but to remind you: your voice is scarier than any tattooed man.