Chapter 13: So
The final note of the vocal drill died in the air-conditioned chill of the studio, leaving a ringing silence in Rena’s ears. His throat felt raw, abraded by two hours of holding pitches he hadn't known existed. He slouched against the cool wall of the vocal booth, the mint-green dress now sticking unpleasantly to the small of his back with sweat. Through the glass, he saw Yuna, headset on, giving a sharp thumbs-up to the sound engineer.
He was about to push off the wall and make a beeline for the water cooler when he saw them. Hikaru and a man in a crisp, slim-fit suit—Akira, and Another Agency's producers. Were standing just outside the booth door, partially obscured by a rack of glittering costume bags.
“…just confirming the final setlist for Shibuya Raito,” Akira was saying, tapping on a tablet. “The venue’s management is pushing for an encore of ‘Digital Heartbeat.’ They say the metrics show it’s a guaranteed crowd-popper.”
Hikaru nodded, her stage-bright smile switched off, replaced by a focused professionalism that made her look older. “The choreography for the second verse transition is still shaky. We have… what, ten days?”
“Twelve. But three of those are full dress and tech rehearsals on the actual stage. So really, nine.”
“Right.” Hikaru’s voice was a low murmur, but it carried the sterile studio air. “We’ll tighten it. The new girl is… coming along.”
Akira leaned in slightly, lowering his own voice. Ren instinctively strained to hear. “Is she? The higher-ups are banking on her visual for the new marketing blitz. They want her center-front for the opener.”
Shibuya Raito. A concert hall. An actual, ticket-selling, crowd-filled concert. In twelve days. The air left Ren’s lungs in a silent whoosh. The vocal drills, the endless dance repetitions, the scrutinizing fittings—they weren’t just hypothetical exercises. They were building toward a cliff, and he was being pushed toward the edge in sequined shoes. Dread, cold and metallic, pooled in his stomach.
He must have made a sound, a choked gasp, because Hikaru’s eyes flickered over Akira’s shoulder and met his through the glass. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze tightened, like she’d just watched him step on a landmine.
Yuna emerged from the control room, clapping her hands. “Good work, everyone! Take fifteen. Hydrate. Rena, with me.”
He followed her on numb legs, the chatter of Mina and the soft click-clack of Suki packing her keyboard fading into a buzzing haze. Yuna led him not to the lounge, but to a narrow supply closet that smelled of lemon cleaner and old fabric. She shut the door, the click of the latch final.
“Okay, spill. You look like you’re about to faint.”
This was his chance. The out. He summoned every ounce of his remaining energy and let his shoulders slump, bringing a hand to his throat. He forced a weak, raspy whisper, layering it with a pathetic cough.
“Yuna… my throat. It really, really hurts. I think I strained it. The high notes. I can’t… I don’t think I should keep pushing it today. Maybe I should go home and rest? For the… for the concert.” He put a slight, hopeful emphasis on the last word, watching her face.
Yuna crossed her arms, leaning back against a shelf of paper towels. Her platinum bob didn’t move. Her crimson lips pursed. She said nothing for a long, terrible moment, her eyes scanning him up and down—the genuine sweat on his temples, the real panic in his (Rena’s) wide green eyes, the contrived weakness of his posture.
Then she sighed, a short, explosive sound. “Ren. You idiot.”
His real name, in that closet, felt more exposing than the dress.
“First,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Your ‘painful’ throat just nailed a B-flat five that made the engineer do a double-take. Second, you’re holding your shoulders like you have a backache, not a sore throat. Third, and most importantly, you just called it ‘the concert.’ Akira hasn’t briefed the group officially yet. Which means you were eavesdropping.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a dry, affectionate menace. “You’re not sick. You’re scared. And that’s normal. But it’s not an excuse.”
The act collapsed. His hand dropped from his throat. The rasp vanished, replaced by his own, lower register, tight with frustration. “Yuna, come on. A real concert? With people? What am I supposed to do out there?”
“Your job,” she said simply. “Sing. Dance. Smile. Be cute. The same thing you’ve been doing here, but with flashier lights. Now, are we done with the juvenile escape attempts?”
Before he could fire back a retort, the door to the supply closet burst open. Mina stood there, backlit by the hallway lights, her face a picture of cheerful urgency.
“There you are! Suki found a weird bug in the corner of the lounge and she’s doing a whole documentary voice-over about it, it’s hilarious, you have to see! Also, we’re sharing melon bread! Come on, Rena-chan, you look like you need sugar!”
She didn’t wait for a response. In one fluid, surprisingly strong motion, she grabbed Rena’s wrist. Her grip was firm, her smile irresistible. Yuna gave a tiny, go-ahead nod, her eyes saying see? This is your life now.
Ren-Rena was dragged, stumbling, out of the closet and into the bright, unforgiving hallway. He cast one last, desperate look over his shoulder at his sister, who merely wiggled her fingers in a mocking wave.“The melon bread is from the expensive bakery!” Mina sing-songed, pulling him along. “Hikaru-chan paid! She said we deserved a treat after working so hard for our big surprise!”
At the mention of the ‘big surprise,’ Mina’s voice dipped into a theatrical whisper, followed by a giggle. Ren’s dread solidified into a hard, cold lump, right next to the phantom sore throat. As he was towed toward the lounge, he caught a final glimpse of Hikaru down the hall. She was accepting a piece of bread from Suki, but her eyes tracked his undignified procession. She took a small, deliberate bite, and as she chewed, the ghost of a smirk touched the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t the bubbly, innocent smile of Hikaru the Idol. It was the look of someone who had just won a small, private bet.