Evening — Group Call | 10:07 PM

  The call was already loud when Kazuki joined.

  “—I’m telling you, studio time isn’t cheap,” Naomi said, voice clipped but focused. Her camera was angled slightly downward, the glow of her desk lamp catching the edge of a notebook filled with scribbles and crossed-out numbers.

  Kenji’s mic crackled. “Define cheap. Because I’ve spent more on skins in this game than I care to admit.”

  “That’s not something to be proud of,” Shun muttered.

  Hana’s camera was on but pointed at her ceiling fan, the steady hum filling the background. “So we’re talking studio, costumes, maybe transport… anything else?”

  “Sound engineers,” Naomi added quickly. “If we want it mixed properly.”

  Naomi rubbed her temple. “Okay. Let’s slow down. We need a baseline.”

  Ayame’s screen flickered as she adjusted her setup. Unlike everyone else, she looked… busy. Multiple tabs open behind her, papers spread across her desk.

  “Studio cost estimate?” she asked calmly.

  Naomi blinked. “Uh—”

  “I’ve got it,” Ayame continued. “If we book locally, four hours minimum. Anything beyond that doubles.”

  Kenji whistled. “We are so broke.”

  Ayame didn’t react. “Costumes?”

  Hana’s fan clicked off as her camera finally tilted down to her face. “We keep it simple. Uniform-inspired. Custom touches.”

  “Good,” Ayame said. “Cheaper.”

  Kazuki listened quietly, phone resting against his knee. The conversation flowed around him—numbers, plans, logistics—but something tugged at his attention.

  Almost absentmindedly, he opened the festival site.

  A list loaded.

  Schools.

  At first, nothing stood out.

  Then—

  His thumb stopped.

  “…No way,” he muttered.

  “What?” Hana asked immediately.

  Kazuki scrolled again, slower this time. Names stacked one after another.

  Hikarisawa Performing Arts Academy.

  Kanto Institute of Sound & Media.

  Seishin Music Prep School.

  Not just regional standouts.

  National.

  His chest tightened.

  “Guys,” he said, voice quieter than intended. “You might want to see this.”

  Naomi leaned closer to her screen. “See what?”

  Kazuki shared his screen.

  The reaction was instant.

  Kenji leaned back in his chair. “Okay. That’s… a lot.”

  Shun frowned slightly. “Those schools don’t enter things unless they’re serious.”

  Ayame adjusted her glasses.

  “So,” she said evenly, “this isn’t just a school festival.”

  Naomi exhaled slowly. “It’s a proving ground.”

  Kazuki felt his pulse spike.

  This wasn’t just pressure anymore.

  This meant competition.

  Real competition.

  For the first time since he’d come to Japan, the thought surfaced clearly and unavoidably—

  I’m going to have to try.

  The realization scared him more than he expected.

  Kenji suddenly slammed his desk.

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHY WOULD YOU TOWER DIVE—”

  Shun sighed. “Kenji.”

  “I WAS WINNING—”

  “Kenji.”

  “I SWEAR THIS GAME IS RIGGED—”

  “It’s 10:30,” Shun said flatly. “We have maths homework.”

  Kenji froze. “…We do?”

  “Yes.”

  “…Wow. Tragic.”

  Ayame cleared her throat. “Focus.”

  Everyone snapped back.

  “We meet tomorrow,” she said. “Lunch. Rehearsal classroom.”

  Naomi nodded. “We finalise direction.”

  “Hana,” Ayame added, “can you ask Mika and Aoi to come?”

  Hana gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. I’ll tell them.”

  One by one, cameras began to blink off.

  “Night,” Naomi said.

  “Don’t forget page seventy-three,” Ayame added.

  Groans echoed through the call.

  Kazuki logged off last.

  The final sound that reached him was Kenji yelling—

  “WHO PICKS SUPPORT AND DOESN’T WARD—”

  The call disconnected.

  Kazuki stared at his dark screen for a moment longer than necessary.

  Prestigious schools.

  Real judges.

  Real eyes.

  For the first time since arriving in Japan…

  He wasn’t sure hiding would be possible anymore.

  Sakuramine Academy — Rehearsal Classroom | 12:31 PM

  The rehearsal classroom greeted them with its familiar stillness.

  Dust hung faintly in the air, visible where sunlight spilled through the tall windows and stretched across the scuffed wooden floor. Old tape marks clung stubbornly to the boards—ghosts of past formations that never quite faded. The mirrors along one wall reflected the room back at itself, cracked at the corners, dulled by time and fingerprints.

  It wasn’t impressive.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  But it was theirs.

  Kazuki slipped in just behind Hana, the noise of lunch hour muffling as the door shut with a hollow click. The quiet pressed in immediately, broken only by the hum of the building and the distant echo of voices from somewhere below.

  Naomi was already there.

  She stood near the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly out of place, writing quickly—like she’d been holding the plan in her head all morning and was finally letting it breathe. The marker squeaked faintly as she underlined something twice.

  Ayame sat at one of the desks nearby, notebook open, posture straight despite the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Papers were neatly stacked beside her, colour-coded tabs peeking out like she’d prepared for three different futures at once.

  Kenji dropped his bag with a dull thud. “Wow. This room again,” he said, glancing around. “Nostalgic.”

  Shun leaned back against the wall, arms folded, gaze drifting over the mirrors. “It hasn’t even been that long.”

  “It has emotionally,” Kenji replied.

  Naomi turned, uncapping another pen. “Okay. Everyone’s here?”

  “Mostly,” Hana said, checking her phone. The glow lit her face briefly. “Aoi and Mika said they’re on their way.”

  Ayame nodded once. “Good. We don’t have much time.”

  Kazuki drifted toward the windows, resting his back against the sill. The glass was cool through his shirt. Outside, the courtyard moved in fragments—students crossing paths, laughter spiking and fading, someone calling out a name.

  His body was here.

  His thoughts were still catching up.

  National schools.

  Live streams.

  Judges who didn’t know him—but would.

  Naomi cleared her throat. “First things first. Direction.”

  Kenji raised his hand immediately. “Winning.”

  “That’s not a direction,” she said without looking at him.

  “It’s a goal.”

  Ayame closed her notebook with a soft tap. “Direction informs the goal.”

  Kenji stared at her. “…I hate when you’re right.”

  Naomi gestured toward the whiteboard, where arrows and half-written notes already crowded the surface. “We’re not just performing. We’re competing against schools that do this as their entire identity. Which means cohesion matters.”

  Shun nodded once. “We can’t look messy.”

  Hana crossed her arms, shifting her weight. “So what—less chaos, more control?”

  “Controlled chaos,” Naomi corrected.

  The door creaked open.

  Aoi slipped inside first, breath a little quick, hair slightly wind-tossed. Mika followed close behind, offering a small wave before setting her bag down neatly beside a chair.

  “Sorry,” Aoi said. “Got held up.”

  “You’re right on time,” Ayame replied. “Sit.”

  Aoi blinked, then did so, posture alert.

  Naomi tapped the board. “We’ve talked about a duet. That idea’s solid. But it needs structure.”

  Aoi leaned forward, eyes bright. “I’m in. Fully.”

  Mika nodded. “Same. Whatever helps.”

  Kazuki’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

  Hana noticed. She always did.

  “You okay?” she murmured, not turning her head.

  He nodded once. “Yeah.”

  Naomi’s gaze lingered on them for half a second longer than necessary before she continued. “If we do this, it’s not just vocals. It’s staging, timing, energy. Everyone has a role—even if they’re not singing.”

  Kenji grinned. “So I can dance badly with purpose?”

  “Yes,” Naomi said. “Exactly that.”

  Shun let out a quiet snort.

  Ayame stood, pushing her chair back with controlled precision. “We also need to be realistic. The other schools won’t be holding back.”

  The room stilled.

  Even the dust seemed to settle.

  Kazuki straightened, fingers curling lightly at his sides.

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  Everyone turned.

  He met their eyes—steady, honest, no theatrics.

  “But if we’re doing this,” he continued, “then we do it properly. No shortcuts.”

  Hana’s lips curved into a faint smile.

  Naomi nodded. “Good. Then that’s settled.”

  Ayame checked the time. “We draft a plan today. Rehearsals start tomorrow.”

  Kenji cracked his knuckles. “Guess we’re really doing this.”

  Kazuki looked around the room—at the scuffed floor, the mirrors, the sunlight catching on familiar faces.

  Yeah.

  They were.

  Sakuramine Academy — Rehearsal Classroom | 12:47 PM

  The whiteboard was full now.

  Lines, arrows, circled words layered over one another like a mind trying to organise itself too quickly. Naomi stepped back, marker still in hand, studying it with narrowed eyes.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “This is… workable.”

  Kenji squinted. “That doesn’t sound like confidence.”

  “It’s realism,” Ayame replied. “There’s a difference.”

  Kazuki shifted his weight near the window, arms folded loosely, gaze drifting over the board without really seeing it. The sunlight had shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor. Dust stirred every time someone moved, catching the light before settling again.

  Aoi raised her hand halfway, then dropped it. “Can I say something?”

  Naomi nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Aoi took a breath. “If we’re going up against schools like that, then we can’t just rely on concept and teamwork. People will be listening for… ability.”

  The word landed heavier than she probably meant it to.

  Mika glanced at Kazuki, then away just as quickly.

  Hana’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”

  Aoi hesitated, then met her gaze. “Meaning vocals. Precision. Presence.”

  The room went quiet.

  Kenji opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

  Shun broke the silence instead. “We know that.”

  “I know,” Aoi said quickly. “I’m not saying anyone’s lacking. I just—if this is regional, people are going to compare.”

  Naomi capped the marker slowly. “Compare to what?”

  “To other leads,” Aoi answered. “Other singers.”

  Her eyes flicked to Kazuki. Not accusatory. Just… expectant.

  Kazuki felt it then.

  That subtle shift.

  The way attention rearranged itself.

  “I can handle my part,” he said evenly.

  No edge. No hesitation.

  Hana turned toward him, studying his profile. “We know.”

  Aoi nodded. “I wasn’t questioning that.”

  But the room didn’t quite relax.

  Ayame folded her arms. “The issue isn’t whether Kazuki can lead. It’s whether we structure the performance to support everyone.”

  Naomi nodded. “Exactly. We don’t build this around one person.”

  Kazuki exhaled quietly.

  Still, the word lead echoed in his head.

  Lead meant focus.

  Focus meant scrutiny.

  Outside, a group of students passed the windows, laughing loudly. One of them glanced in, eyes lingering just a little too long before being pulled away by a friend.

  Kazuki noticed.

  He always did.

  Kenji clapped his hands together suddenly. “Okay! New rule. If we start spiralling, we take a break.”

  Shun murmured, “Too late.”

  Hana hopped down from the bench and walked closer to Kazuki, stopping just short of his space. “Hey.”

  He looked at her.

  Her voice dropped. “You don’t have to prove anything today.”

  Something in his chest eased—just a fraction.

  Naomi cleared her throat. “We’ll run a low-pressure test tomorrow. No full vocals yet. Just structure.”

  Ayame nodded. “Agreed.”

  Aoi relaxed slightly. “That works.”

  Mika smiled faintly, tension easing from her shoulders.

  Kazuki leaned back against the window again, cool glass pressing into his spine.

  Low pressure.

  He told himself that was fine.

  But somewhere deep beneath the calm surface, something stirred—familiar, restless.

  Like a stage light warming up.

  West Tokyo — After School | 4:58 PM

  The walk home felt familiar.

  Too familiar.

  The same cracked pavement. The same convenience store with the flickering sign. The same narrow street where the trees leaned inward just enough to make the afternoon light spill in gold streaks across the ground.

  But this time, Kazuki wasn’t alone.

  Hana walked beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, steps falling naturally into sync with his. Their shoulders brushed once, then again, neither of them commenting on it.

  Kazuki watched the street roll past and tried not to think too hard.

  About leading.

  About expectations.

  About what it meant to stand at the front again.

  Do I have to become KAZ to protect them?

  The thought surfaced uninvited.

  He swallowed.

  “I keep thinking about the festival,” he said quietly.

  Hana glanced at him. “Yeah?”

  “What if I mess it up?” he asked. “What if I’m… not cut out to lead?”

  She didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, she slowed her pace just a little, forcing him to do the same.

  “You’re overthinking,” she said gently. “You don’t have to worry about the performance.”

  He looked at her. “You say that like it’s easy.”

  She shrugged. “It is. For me.”

  He let out a small laugh. “I’ve never been good with performances.”

  That got her attention.

  She stopped walking.

  “Hold on.”

  He turned back to face her.

  She smirked, eyes lighting up like she’d just found a weakness. “YOU have performance anxiety?”

  Before he could react, she started circling him, pointing dramatically.

  “Guys,” she said in an exaggerated whisper to absolutely no one, “did you hear that? Kazuki gets nervous.”

  “Hana—”

  She kept going. “What, do you freeze up? Forget your lines? Trip over your own feet?”

  He waved her off, trying not to smile. “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, it’s exactly like that.”

  He almost said it then.

  Almost told her that he’d stood on stages bigger than this city. That he’d sung into crowds so loud they drowned out his own heartbeat.

  He stopped himself just in time, hand flying up to cover his mouth.

  Hana halted mid-tease.

  “…What?” she asked, brow lifting. “You okay?”

  He dropped his hand quickly. “Yeah. Just—nothing.”

  She studied him for a moment, suspicious, but then shrugged and turned back toward the road. “Weirdo.”

  They walked on.

  The street curved slightly, and the music shop came into view.

  Kazuki slowed instinctively.

  The poster was still there.

  KAZ — Still Echoing.

  The glass caught the setting sun, bathing the display in warm gold.

  Kazuki gave it a quick side glance.

  Hana stopped completely.

  He noticed when she didn’t keep walking.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer at first.

  Her eyes were fixed on the poster, expression soft—almost fragile.

  “I wonder where he’s gone,” she said quietly.

  Kazuki’s chest tightened.

  She turned to him, and he saw it then—the faint shimmer in her eyes.

  “Was he your favourite artist?” he asked gently.

  She nodded. “Yeah… he got me through a lot.”

  She laughed softly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I used to get bullied for liking his songs. People said I had a crush on him because I’d quote his lyrics whenever something happened.”

  Kazuki didn’t know what to say.

  So he listened.

  “Every day,” she continued, “I listen to his music like it’s some kind of ritual. Like if I do it enough, he’ll come back.”

  She exhaled shakily.

  “What I’d give to just hear him live. Just once.”

  She stared back at the poster.

  Kazuki stepped closer, shoulder brushing hers, then gently bumped into her side. Without thinking too hard, he wrapped an arm around her.

  “I’m sure he’s not as far away as you think,” he said.

  The words hit her harder than she expected.

  She froze.

  They felt… familiar.

  Kazuki let go, stepping ahead a few paces before turning back.

  “You coming or what?”

  Hana’s breath caught.

  Dream about me.

  Her eyes widened.

  A tear slipped free before she could stop it.

  She wiped it quickly and ran after him, shoving his shoulder.

  “Slow down, asshole!”

  He laughed. “You’re the one who stopped.”

  “Goofy,” she muttered, voice breaking just a little. “Absolute idiot.”

  But she stayed beside him.

  And as they disappeared down the street together, the poster behind them glowed quietly in the fading light.

  Still echoing.