Hikarisawa Performing Arts Academy — Main Auditorium | 8:04 AM

  Silence here felt… deliberate.

  Rows of students sat perfectly aligned, uniforms crisp, posture immaculate. No restless shifting. No whispering. Even the air seemed to hold its breath beneath the vaulted ceiling of the auditorium.

  A massive banner hung behind the stage.

  HIKARISAWA PERFORMING ARTS ACADEMY

  Excellence Is Expected.

  The head instructor stood at the podium, hands folded behind his back, gaze sharp as it swept across the room.

  “This year,” he began, voice steady and unyielding, “Hikarisawa will be participating in the Regional Student Music Festival.”

  No cheers.

  No gasps.

  Just a subtle tightening of attention.

  “This is not an opportunity,” he continued. “It is an expectation.”

  A screen behind him lit up, displaying a list of participating schools. Prestigious names. Familiar names.

  And then—

  Sakuramine Academy.

  A murmur rippled through the hall.

  Not excitement.

  Recognition.

  “Some of you may see this as a chance to showcase yourselves,” the instructor said. “Others may see it as competition.”

  He paused.

  “You should see it as both.”

  From the side of the stage, someone shifted.

  A figure stepped forward.

  He didn’t rush. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge the audience at first.

  He was tall, posture relaxed in a way that came from certainty rather than comfort. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to suggest he didn’t need to prove discipline.

  When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharp.

  Focused.

  “Many schools will attend this festival,” the instructor said. “But Hikarisawa will be represented by one lead performer.”

  The room leaned in without meaning to.

  “This student has already been selected.”

  The figure stepped fully into the light.

  A low murmur spread—this time unmistakable.

  Some students straightened. Others glanced at one another. A few smiled knowingly.

  The boy at the front tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the reaction without feeding it.

  “Rei Tachibana,” the instructor said. “You will lead.”

  Rei’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  He took the microphone.

  “I don’t expect this to be difficult,” he said calmly. “But I do expect it to be interesting.”

  His gaze drifted back to the screen.

  To Sakuramine’s name.

  “To the smaller schools beneath it.”

  “I’ve been listening,” Rei continued. “There’s talent this year.”

  A pause.

  “And rumors.”

  A few heads turned.

  Rei’s eyes gleamed—not cruel, not amused.

  Curious.

  “If someone thinks they can hide behind a new name,” he said lightly, “I hope they perform beautifully.”

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Rei handed the microphone back without another word and stepped away from the light, already finished.

  On the screen behind him, Sakuramine Academy remained highlighted.

  And somewhere far across the city—

  Kazuki Yamada unknowingly felt the first true pull of the storm coming for him.

  West Tokyo — Recording Studio | 5:41 PM

  The studio sat tucked between a ramen shop and a narrow alley, its sign half-faded and humming softly against the evening air.

  Inside, it felt like another world.

  Warm light glowed from overhead fixtures, reflecting off polished wood panels and soundproofed walls. Gold and platinum records lined one side of the room—vinyls framed carefully, plaques engraved with names Kazuki recognised even if he pretended not to.

  Kenji’s eyes went wide.

  “No way,” he breathed. “This is insane.”

  Shun stepped in more cautiously, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze drifting over the equipment. “I’ve never been in a studio before.”

  Kenji immediately wandered toward the wall of records, fingers twitching. “Imagine owning one of these—”

  Smack.

  Naomi grabbed his wrist mid-reach and lightly—but decisively—smacked the back of his head.

  “Hey!” Kenji yelped.

  “Those are awards,” Naomi said sharply. “Precious ones. Your little gamer fingers do not touch.”

  “They’re clean!”

  “They are not certified.”

  Shun snorted. “You are a gamer.”

  Kenji scoffed. “Says the guy who didn’t sleep last night because he was grinding to World Master One.”

  Naomi’s head snapped toward Shun. “You promised me you’d sleep.”

  Shun blinked. “…I might have lied.”

  Kenji nodded solemnly. “The grind cannot be interrupted by rest.”

  Shun muttered under his breath, “Is that why you’re back in Silver Five?”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then Naomi lunged.

  “UNCLE—UNCLE—STOP—”

  Kenji doubled over laughing as Naomi smacked his arm repeatedly, fury radiating off her in waves.

  In the background, Ayame, Mika, and Aoi were already at work.

  The producer—a woman in her early thirties with sharp eyes and headphones slung around her neck—listened intently as Ayame explained their vision. Mika pulled up files on a tablet. Aoi hovered nearby, buzzing with excitement.

  Kazuki sat slightly apart, headphones on.

  The sound leaking faintly—just enough that Hana, leaning against the doorframe, could hear fragments.

  An early version of the song.

  Rough. Bare. The first version.

  His 0.5v lyrics—unfinished lines, half-formed metaphors, emotion poured out before it knew how to protect itself.

  He remembered writing it.

  Late nights. Quiet rooms. The feeling of finally getting something right.

  “…I’ve worked on something like this before,” the producer said casually.

  Kazuki froze.

  The audio bled louder through his worn headphones.

  He pulled them off slowly. “How?”

  Everyone turned.

  Even Hana straightened.

  The producer tilted her head. “Couple months ago. A kid came in, recorded a verse. Said KAZ had cleared it. Claimed it was for a remix.”

  Hope sparked instantly around the room.

  “So he’s still making music?” Aoi said.

  “Guess so,” the producer shrugged. “He came with agents and everything.”

  Kazuki’s chest tightened.

  That didn’t make sense.

  None of it did.

  “Who was it?” he asked quietly.

  The producer frowned, thinking. “Didn’t catch his real name. Stage name, I think. Marei?”

  Ayame’s eyes lit up.

  “Marei?” she repeated, breathless. “The Marei? The one who made Kyoto?”

  The producer shrugged again. “If that’s him.”

  Ayame squealed, immediately pulling up his music, bouncing on her heels as it blasted through her phone speakers.

  “He’s incredible—his chord progressions—his production—”

  Kazuki’s jaw clenched.

  Hana noticed instantly.

  She grabbed his arm. “Hey. You okay?”

  He nodded.

  But inside, his thoughts burned.

  How did he get the file?

  Who approved it?

  If that song releases in Japan…

  Copyright. Rights. Ownership.

  A mess waiting to explode.

  Shun slumped onto the couch. “Ayame. Chill. Fan later. Right now, we need to focus.”

  She stopped, flushed. “…Right. Sorry.”

  She glanced at him. “Thanks.”

  Shun looked away, ears pink. “No problem.”

  Naomi watched Kazuki closely.

  He looked different.

  Too familiar.

  She remembered the day he came to school after finishing Long Time—quiet, proud, glowing in a way he never let himself be again.

  For someone to take that—

  Kazuki stared at the engineering board on the wall.

  Then he turned.

  “I have a better idea,” he said.

  The room fell silent.

  Hana looked up at him.

  For the first time, she saw it clearly—anger, hurt, something sharper underneath.

  “Let’s make our own song,” Kazuki said. “From scratch.”

  Aoi gasped. “YES—”

  “Wait,” Kazuki added, holding up a hand. “I want Naomi to be the feature.”

  Naomi froze. “Me?”

  Everyone turned.

  Hana blinked, confused.

  Kazuki stood still, expression unreadable.

  “They used my creation like a pawn,” he said quietly. “So we don’t play their game.”

  For the first time since coming to Japan, he didn’t push the feeling down.

  He let it rise.

  KAZ didn’t take over.

  But he stepped forward.

  Just enough.

  West Tokyo — Evening | 6:12 PM

  Rei walked through town with his hands in his pockets, the city unfolding around him in muted colour.

  Neon signs flickered to life one by one. Shops closed their shutters. Voices rose and faded as people passed him by, none of them sparing more than a second glance.

  His friends lingered near the station entrance.

  “You heading out already?” one of them asked.

  Rei nodded. “Studio.”

  “Again?” another laughed. “Man, you’re obsessed.”

  He smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

  They waved him off, teasing still echoing as he turned down a quieter street, one that narrowed as it approached the studio tucked between buildings.

  The sign hummed softly.

  Inside, voices carried—loud, animated.

  Rei slowed.

  He reached the studio door just as raised voices cut through the walls, muffled but unmistakable.

  “…you can’t just do that—”

  “…it’s not about Aoi, it’s about—”

  Rei hesitated only briefly before pushing the door open.

  The conversation stalled instantly.

  Inside the soundproof booth, the Sakuramine group stood clustered together, mid-argument. Naomi’s hands were raised like she was trying to referee. Hana stood with her arms crossed, jaw tight. Aoi and Mika hovered nearby, eyes wide.

  And in the corner—

  Kazuki sat with studio headphones on, listening intently to something only he could hear.

  Rei lifted both hands slightly. “Sorry. Didn’t realise anyone was in here.”

  Mimi’s voice came from behind the mixing desk. “It’s fine.”

  He turned toward her. “Hey.”

  She didn’t look back at first.

  “What’s going on?” he asked casually.

  That’s when she turned.

  “…Marei?” Mimi blinked. “What are you doing here today? I thought your slot was tomorrow.”

  Rei shrugged. “Couldn’t stop thinking about the song.”

  Ayame shot upright like she’d been struck by lightning.

  “M-Marei?” she gasped, already darting toward him. “As in that Marei? The one who made Kyoto? And the EP with the shifting time signatures? And—”

  He chuckled. “That’s me.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I knew it!”

  Hana stepped in front of Ayame before she could spiral further.

  “Hold up,” she said sharply, staring straight at Rei. “Why do you think you can just jump on a song with KAZ?”

  The room tensed.

  Rei met her gaze calmly. “Because he asked me to.”

  Hana scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  “He said he didn’t believe he was better than anyone,” Rei continued evenly. “Or above collaboration.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Hana snapped. “KAZ is the best artist I know.”

  Ayame immediately countered, “Marei is just as good—maybe even better.”

  They turned on each other.

  Naomi stepped between them. “Enough.”

  That’s when the booth door slid open.

  Kazuki stepped out.

  The room went still.

  Rei’s eyes landed on him.

  Recognition sparked instantly.

  “…Hey,” Rei said, almost warmly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Kazuki didn’t respond.

  Rei walked past him toward the computer, nodding at Mimi. “You’ve got the file, right? Can we play it?”

  Mimi hesitated, then clicked.

  Rei turned back to the group. “Might as well let the music talk.”

  On the screen, the file name appeared:

  KAZ – Long Time (Final Ver. ft. Marei)

  Kazuki’s breath caught.

  The track filled the room.

  Clean. Polished. Confident.

  Marei’s verse slid in seamlessly—technically flawless, emotionally sharp. The mix was immaculate. The kind of song that sounded finished.

  When it ended, no one spoke at first.

  Rei turned, casual. “So. Ratings?”

  Kenji scratched his head. “Uh… 9 outta 10.”

  Shun crossed his arms. “Three.”

  Ayame whirled on him. “That’s sabotage.”

  “I’m allowed to hate,” Shun replied flatly.

  Ayame beamed at Rei. “One hundred out of ten. Please drop it.”

  Naomi tilted her head. “Six point five. The original didn’t need a remix. Your flow’s good, but the emotional weight was already there.”

  Aoi nodded enthusiastically. “Ten!”

  Mika barely breathed. “Eleven.”

  Hana said nothing.

  Kazuki said nothing.

  Rei smiled, satisfied. “Thanks.”

  He turned back to Mimi. “Send it to my manager.”

  She nodded.

  Rei grabbed his bag and headed for the door. “Sorry for interrupting your session.”

  As he passed Kazuki, he slowed—just enough.

  Quiet enough that only Kazuki could hear.

  “Been a while since I’ve seen you around,” Rei murmured.

  “Old friend.”

  Kazuki stayed stone-faced.

  Rei straightened, voice loud again. “See you all at the festival.”

  The door shut behind him.

  The room stayed silent.

  Kazuki didn’t move.

  But inside, something cracked

  West Tokyo — Recording Studio Exit | 7:03 PM

  The studio slowly returned to stillness.

  Cables were coiled. Screens dimmed. The hum of equipment softened into silence as Mimi saved the session and stood from her chair.

  “Saturday, then,” Naomi said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “We’ll lay vocals properly.”

  Mimi nodded, offering a small smile. “Looking forward to it. Thanks for coming in.”

  One by one, they filtered out into the evening.

  Kenji stretched dramatically as soon as the door shut behind them. “I’m emotionally exhausted.”

  “You’re always emotionally exhausted,” Naomi replied.

  Ayame barely heard them.

  “That was him,” she whispered urgently, clutching Shun’s sleeve as if he might disappear. “Do you understand how insane that is? His chord progressions alone—”

  Shun nodded politely. Kenji nodded less politely.

  Their voices faded as the group split off in different directions, footsteps echoing down branching streets, Ayame’s excited rambling carrying faintly behind her like static.

  Soon, only two remained.

  Hana walked beside Kazuki, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, the street quiet except for the distant murmur of traffic. The sky above them had begun to deepen into purples and soft blues, the sun sinking low enough to cast long shadows ahead of them.

  Kazuki had his headphones on again.

  The beat pulsed faintly, leaking through the worn seams.

  Hana glanced at him. “You alright?”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  Then he slid the headphones down around his neck.

  “I didn’t like him,” he said quietly.

  She waited.

  “When I saw Rei,” Kazuki continued, eyes fixed ahead, “I felt… angry. Not jealous. Just—off. Like he had some other motive. With the song. With the festival.”

  Hana nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  She kicked a loose stone across the pavement. “I didn’t like how confident he was either. Talking like he owned it.”

  She frowned. “He’s a little idiot.”

  Kazuki laughed softly.

  “I kind of want to rip his face off,” she added, very calmly.

  He snorted. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

  She looked at him sideways, then sighed. “I know. But still.”

  They walked a little further.

  “I like it when we agree,” Hana said suddenly.

  Kazuki blinked. “Huh?”

  She shrugged, cheeks warming. “Since we became friends, things feel… lighter. Happier.”

  She hesitated, then laughed awkwardly. “You’re like a drug, you know that? One I can’t stop taking.”

  Kazuki’s ears burned.

  He opened his mouth to respond—

  And realised Hana had stopped walking.

  He turned.

  She was staring at the ground, fingers clenched in the hem of her jacket. Then she looked up at him, eyes steady but unreadable.

  “I’m gonna take a shortcut home,” she said quickly.

  Before he could respond—before he could even say her name—she turned and ran, sneakers hitting the pavement in quick, uneven beats.

  “Hana—”

  Too late.

  Kazuki stood there as her footsteps faded, the street growing quieter by the second.

  The sun dipped fully below the horizon, the moon rising just enough to catch the edge of his face in pale silver light.

  Cars passed. Voices drifted. The world kept moving.

  Kazuki exhaled.

  “Me too, Hana,” he whispered to the empty street.

  “Me too.”