Chapter 31: The Manager's Ultimatum
The morning after was not quiet. It was a clamor of alarms, group chat pings about a sudden mandatory meeting, and the brittle silence that had settled between them in the elevator down to the company offices. Taichi vibrated with a new, confusing energy. Every brush of Yamato’s shoulder against his in the confined space felt like a live wire. He kept sneaking glances, looking for a sign, any sign, of what happened next.
Yamato was a statue, staring straight ahead at the descending numbers. But his knuckles, where they gripped the strap of his bag, were white.
The manager’s office was a jarring shift from the warm chaos of their dorm. Everything was glass, steel, and cold, hard lines. Manager Okuda, a man built like a disapproving brick, did not look up from his desk as they entered. He merely gestured to the two chairs opposite him. The skyline of Tokyo sprawled behind him, a indifferent panorama of success and pressure.
“Sit.”
They sat. Taichi’s leg bounced. Yamato crossed his ankles, the picture of casual defiance, but Taichi could see the tightness in his jaw.
Okuda finally looked up, his eyes like flint behind wire-rimmed glasses. He slid a folder across the glass desk. It was thick. Inside, Taichi could see a cascade of printed images—blurred shots from last night’s walk home, their bodies close. Endless screenshots of tweets. The hashtag #TaiYama screamed up from the page in multiple fonts.
“Do you have any idea,” Okuda began, his voice low and smooth as grinding stones, “what this could do?”
Taichi opened his mouth, a reflexive apology on his lips, but Yamato spoke first.
“What ‘this’ is, exactly?”
Okuda’s gaze snapped to Yamato. “This speculation. This… narrative. Starlight is built on fantasy, Ishida. Accessible fantasy. You are the unattainable prince,” he said, nodding at Taichi, “and you are the dangerous, aloof heartthrob.” He pointed a blunt finger at Yamato. “You are not a couple. You are concepts. This—” he slapped the folder, “—muddies the concept. It turns accessible fantasy into exclusive reality. It tells the fans they’ve lost.”
Taichi’s chest felt tight, and not from his usual claustrophobia. This was a different constriction. “We were just walking home,” he said, his voice smaller than he intended.
“After an improv performance where you two looked ready to devour each other on stage,” Okuda corrected coldly. “The label has invested millions in you. Your contracts have morality clauses. This kind of scandal doesn’t just damage your image; it jeopardizes endorsements, future tours, the viability of the entire group. Jun, Ryo, Kenta, Hiro—their futures are in your hands. Are you willing to throw that away for a… dalliance?”
The word hung in the air, ugly and cheap. Taichi flinched. A dalliance. What happened in Yamato’s room, the taste-song promise, felt like the opposite of that. It felt foundational.
Yamato leaned forward, his blue eyes glacial. “Are you threatening to fire us?”
“I am explaining consequences.” Okuda leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Effective immediately, you will have separate dorm assignments. Your schedules will be decoupled. No more joint appearances unless absolutely necessary and heavily supervised. You will issue a statement, drafted by PR, denying the rumors and affirming your close, platonic, brotherly bond.”
The walls of the glass room seemed to press inward. Separate dorms. Denials. Platonic. Taichi’s breath hitched. The air conditioning hummed, a sterile drone.
Before Yamato could unleash what was clearly a volcanic response, the office door flew open.
Sora didn’t enter; she arrived. Her heels clicked a rapid, angry tattoo on the polished floor. She didn’t look at Taichi or Yamato. Her green eyes were fixed on Okuda, and in her hands was a tablet glowing with data.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her voice not sorry at all. She came to a halt beside their chairs, a flash of auburn and fury. “I was just compiling the analytics from the last eighteen hours. You know, since the ‘scandal’ broke.”
Okuda’s expression soured further. “Takenouchi, this is not—”
“Streams of ‘Honey Eyes’ are up four hundred and seventy percent,” Sora interrupted, swiping her finger across the tablet screen. “The ‘Heat and Honey’ performance clip is the most-viewed video on the channel’s platform in six months. Pre-orders for the next single spiked thirty percent overnight.” She swiped again. “Here’s a fan petition. Sixty thousand signatures and climbing. Title: ‘Give Us More TaiYama Chemistry.’” She tilted the screen toward him. “The comments are… illustrative. They’re not angry, Okuda-san. They’re invested.”
Okuda’s face was turning a blotchy red. “Fan whims are not a sustainable business model.”
“No,” Sora agreed coolly. “But money is. Merchandise sales linked to their duo stages have sold out. Three brands have emailed me, not PR, inquiring about potential couple-based endorsement opportunities. The data suggests this isn’t a scandal.” She paused, letting the word linger. “It’s a catalyst. Firing them, or even suspending them, wouldn’t be damage control. It would be a PR disaster of your own making. You’d be punishing the group for its biggest surge in engagement in years.”
The silence was absolute. Taichi stared at Sora, his mouth slightly open. Yamato had gone very still beside him.
Okuda looked from Sora’s impassive face to the damning glow of the tablet. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a cold, calculating exhaustion. He looked at the folder of tweets, now seeming pathetic next to Sora’s column of numbers.
“Separate dorms are non-negotiable,” he muttered finally, a retreat masquerading as a stand.
Sora shrugged one shoulder. “Fine. But the joint schedule stays. The fans want what they saw last night. Give them a controlled version of it. Let the rumor mill run. It’s free marketing.” She finally glanced at Yamato, her eyes holding a warning, then at Taichi, a flicker of something softer. “They’re professionals. They can handle it.”
She placed the tablet gently, pointedly, on top of his folder of tweets. The silent dismissal was louder than any shout.
“The meeting is over,” Okuda said, waving a dismissive hand, his authority reduced to ashes.
Outside in the hall, the heavy door clicking shut behind them, the three of them stood for a moment in the sterile calm. Taichi’s heart was pounding against his ribs.
Sora exhaled, long and slow, rolling her shoulders. “You two are going to give me ulcers.”
“Sora—” Yamato started, his voice rough.
“Don’t,” she cut him off, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just… don’t do anything stupider than you already have. The leash is longer, but it’s still a leash. Got it?” She looked at Taichi, her expression shifting to something almost gentle. “You okay, Tai?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice. He was okay. He was also terrified, elated, and deeply confused.
Sora gave a tight, approving nod. “Good. Now get to practice. You’ve got a new, very closely watched duo routine to learn.” She walked away, her heels echoing down the corridor.
Taichi turned to Yamato. The facade was back, the cool mask settling over his features, but his eyes gave him away. They were still the storm from last night.
“Separate dorms,” Taichi whispered.
Yamato’s hand twitched at his side, as if fighting the urge to reach out. “It doesn’t change anything,” he said, his low voice meant for Taichi alone.
But it changed everything. The world knew a secret Taichi was only just beginning to understand himself. The fantasy was cracked open, and the reality inside was terrifying, and brilliant, and theirs. For now, that had to be enough.