The gray sky draped over the city like a shroud. Among the concrete blocks and forgotten streets, color and scent had long vanished. Everything had been silenced. The air was dry, and the silence—sticky. Only a single, monotonous command echoed from the digital billboards:
"Only state-approved voices are permitted to sing."
This sentence was etched into every corner of the city. Each word scratched at the eardrums, smothered the mind. Emotion had become a crime; melody, a threat. Mizue stared out through a dust-covered window. There was a weight on her chest, as if even breathing had become a sin. A knot in her throat held the first note of a song that hadn't been sung in years. She placed her hands over her heart. Her fingers trembled. Itsuki came beside her, wordless. His guitar strings were wrapped tightly, as if afraid to forget the sound. He looked into Mizue's eyes, but said nothing. In this city, they existed only in silence—only in the flicker of digital posters. Then, a single drop fell from the sky. Rain.
Mizue's eyes widened. At that very moment, the song inside her rose to her throat— Like a melody she had once heard in her mother's voice. She tried to hold it back. She couldn't. The sound found its own path. As the first syllable slipped from her lips, time slowed. Raindrops hung in the air. The scent of earth returned. And right then, from a crack in the pavement, a lotus flower bloomed. Itsuki's guitar vibrated. The earth had felt the resonance of her voice. And it understood. This wasn't an ordinary sound. Yes, it was forbidden. But it was also a reminder. A whisper of the colors that had been lost, the emotions that had been buried, and the past that had been silenced.
The song that had once begun with her soprano mother's voice now rose from within Mizue like a new breath of life. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the city exhaled.
"Every song leaves a trace. And every trace touches another soul."
---
In the basement of a building that felt more like a shelter than a place, the air was thick with the scent of rust and damp. When the lights flickered, shadows danced across the walls— echoes of silenced pasts. Mizue had come here following a coded message, sent only to those who could be trusted. At the bottom of the note, a single hand-drawn symbol had been added: a broken musical note.
The door creaked open slightly. A young figure entered, carrying an old guitar case on his back. His eyes were cautious, but not weary. At first glance, Mizue had thought he was just another stranger. Until she noticed the earth symbol—engraved in metal—on the neck of his guitar.
"You one of those who haven't forgotten sound?" Itsuki asked, his voice low. Mizue didn't respond. She took a step back. "Who gave you this address?"
Itsuki shrugged. "Wasn't it you who called me here?"
Silence.
Mizue pulled a small card from her pocket. At the corner of the note, written in fading pencil, were the words:
"Only those who hear your heart can truly understand you."
Itsuki exhaled. "My sister found this note. Someone placed it in her bag. I… followed it here. She didn't do anything wrong. She just—" His voice trembled. "—dreamed. That's why they silenced her."
Mizue's face darkened. She stepped forward slowly. "I don't want you to understand me," she said.
"But… will you help my voice be heard?" Itsuki took out his guitar. The strings were old, but the soul was alive. He touched it lightly. The stones behind the wall seemed to shift. Mizue flinched. "I hear the earth," Itsuki said.
"Only real sounds. I heard yours. Last night, in the rain." For the first time, Mizue smiled—just a little.
"So you were there…"
---
A few days later…
Mizue and Itsuki begin to work together. Her voice awakens the earth. His guitar stirs the city. But something is still missing… A rhythm. The song cannot be complete without playing with time. And that's when he appears.
Makoto. Black hood. Professional stance. A glint in his eyes that whispered: untrustworthy. "I heard your sound," he said. "I was supposed to suppress it. But I couldn't." Itsuki's hand moved instinctively toward his guitar.
Mizue tensed. Makoto dipped his head slightly. "I'm a drummer. I can bend time. But there's something in my past… I still don't know why I can't tell you." Mizue's inner voice echoed her mother's warning from long ago:
"Don't trust those who play with time too quickly. They are the ones who steal the most of it."
The night had fallen upon them like a silent requiem. Gray buildings disappeared into the heavy mist descending from the sky. Mizue was doing vocal exercises in a distant corner. She was trying to suppress her voice, but the trembling notes betrayed the cracks in her heart. Itsuki sat on the old stones with his guitar, eyes fixed on Makoto. He was silent. Not cold, but alert. Makoto leaned against a metal pillar of the abandoned subway line, his eyes locked on his drum pad. But he wasn't looking at the drum — he was staring into the conflict inside him.
"Being in this group… will either set me free… or completely destroy me." That was the sentence in his mind. He didn't speak it aloud, but it echoed within. He had grown up under his father's commands since he was a child. With every strike, he hadn't learned to control time — he had learned to bring it to its knees. His family, who supported the state's music law, had always told him to use his talent for the "right purposes."
"One who can bend time cannot take sides. He only disrupts balance," his mother had once said.
But these kids…
Mizue made flowers bloom with her voice. Itsuki made the earth tremble. And Makoto… he only bent time. He paused. His eyes caught Mizue. The girl was softly humming an old melody. It was so familiar... It sounded like a secret song he had once heard in his mother's room. "How do you know that melody?" Makoto asked, involuntarily.
Mizue hesitated. "From a memory I've kept… Maybe from my mother." Makoto's heart raced. A sharp ache bloomed inside him. He had heard that melody, too — years ago. On hidden tapes, in forbidden hours.
"Was your mother… a former soprano?" he asked with a trembling voice.
Mizue lowered her head. She didn't answer — but her eyes had already said "yes."
Itsuki stood up. He approached, skeptical. "We know little about your past, Makoto. You can bend time… but how far can you walk with us?" Makoto bit his lip, avoided their eyes. He didn't want to answer — because he didn't know either. He only whispered: "If I, too, have been silenced… and yet I can still play with time… maybe I can steal a moment for those like you who struggle. Just a breath's worth of time."
Itsuki's gaze softened, but doubt still lingered. Mizue felt unsettled — familiar melodies, lost voices, missing memories… They all began to connect her to Makoto — but she still couldn't fully trust him.
That night, even the wind dared not make a sound. Rusted metals had surrendered to the silence. Mizue's voice was pulled back into her throat, so it wouldn't echo beneath the stones. Itsuki didn't touch the guitar strings; his fingers merely traced their outlines. Makoto was about to start the time loop, but… there was something in the atmosphere. A strange trembling. Invisible, yet it seeped into the marrow.
Suddenly, the sky shifted from gray to black. A digital crackle… A red light blinked on the metro system they thought had been dead for centuries. "Illegal frequency detected. Area is quarantined. Sound sources are being located." Mizue flinched. Makoto narrowed his eyes. Itsuki slung the guitar over his shoulder, like a soldier going to battle. "They're watching us," Itsuki said. "But how? This area was supposed to be isolated from external frequency scans."
Makoto hesitated. "Only one person called us here…" His gaze involuntarily shifted to Mizue. Mizue squinted and took a step back. "You think it's me…?"
Makoto immediately took a step back. "No! No… It's just… maybe someone was watching us all along. From the very beginning."
Three figures appeared on the edge of the rooftop, clad in digital camouflage. Their faces were hidden. Only white-gray masks covered their ears.
Known as the "Sound Hunters," this unit was the state's deadliest agents. They could see sound and cut melodies.
"Run," Itsuki said. "Don't use your voice, Mizue. They're hunting it." Mizue held her breath. But the vibration in her throat betrayed her. With every beat of her heart, the melody she had suppressed inside wanted to rise. In that moment… her lips parted involuntarily. "A drop of rain…" A lotus flower bloomed.
The Sound Hunters sprang into action. Symbols glowed on the gray ground. Makoto triggered the time loop, but it was limited. Itsuki slammed his guitar on the earth, shaking the soil. Mizue's voice was choked off. It stopped along with her tears.
But it was too late.
They took refuge in a narrow underground passage. Breaths uneven. Hearts panicked. "They found us," Itsuki said. "And they won't let us go now." Makoto was silent. Thinking. "What if one of us accidentally gave away our location?"
Mizue lowered her head. In her eyes, for the first time, there was more than just fear. Questioning. Guilt. And the pain of never being able to tell anyone about her voice.
Mizue's melody stirred the slumbering nature once again. But at the same time, it drew the state's watchful eyes upon them. Now, it wasn't only their sounds they had to hide — their very existence was at stake. The dim lights of the underground passage struck the cold stone walls. Breaths quickened; hearts pounded in panic. Itsuki listened intently to the footsteps trailing behind. Mizue felt the tightness in her throat caused by the suppressed melody trapped inside her. Makoto was silent, scanning the surroundings with sharp focus. Suddenly, a worn symbol caught his eye at the corridor's corner. On a broken metal plate, an elegant lotus flower rested above an ancient soprano musical note. Mizue's eyes widened. "This... it's the same symbol my mother had..." "That's why she had to hide her voice," she whispered.
Itsuki and Mizue exchanged a glance. Makoto seemed to ignore the moment, averting his eyes. As they stepped outside, Mizue turned toward Makoto. "Did you see this symbol? You acted like you didn't..." Itsuki joined in,
"Why have you been silent? Are you really one of us?"
Makoto hesitated briefly. "I don't know... but now isn't the time to argue. The state's pursuit is on us. Trust is a dangerous word right now."
"But we're a team," Mizue said, "and hiding secrets pushes you to a side away from us."
Itsuki shook his head sharply, "If you're our enemy, we need to know immediately."
Makoto lowered his gaze, carrying both helplessness and a mysterious secret. The gray city was silent but watching. The lotus symbol was a key from the past. Makoto's secrets would shape the team's future.
---
From Makoto's past...
A cold room. State emblems hung on the walls; heavy electronics hummed. Makoto, dressed in a black uniform, sat opposite a large screen streaming frequency waves. "Is the mission complete, Makoto?" A cold, harsh voice pierced the silence. The state official's eyes bore into him. Makoto pressed his lips tight.
"No, sir. The frequencies are more unstable than expected."
"This level of failure is unforgivable."
"You know about my family's situation…"
"You know nothing of family or personal feelings. Only the mission matters."
Makoto closed his eyes, recalling the moment his little sister clung to him — her voice singing an old forbidden lullaby the state had outlawed. In trying to protect her, he was severed from his family and pushed under the state's shadow. "We need you, Makoto. You can't silence the voice inside you."
Those words echoed like an old recording from his mother years ago.
---
The red alarm light on the screen blinked while Makoto's face hardened with indecision and regret. He was forced to be the state's shield while hiding a burning rebellion inside. Makoto quietly stood up. Looking into the darkness, he wondered, "Can I trust anyone?"
The wind howled through the ashes of the old city streets as the three took refuge in a ruined building. Mizue remained wary of Makoto; Itsuki watched his steps but said nothing. Inside, they found a half-buried mural, barely visible unless closely examined — a faint but familiar symbol: a woman who once sang, a lotus blossoming over her chest. Mizue's fingers reached out unconsciously. Suddenly, a whisper echoed: "Sopranos never fell silent. You cannot erase us from the frequencies."
A spark ignited within Mizue. This recording, sealed in the wall, sounded so much like her mother's voice. As if it replied back... For the first time, the sky cracked. A tear in the gray veil appeared, a sliver of light sneaking through.
Itsuki gripped his guitar. "This isn't an ordinary reaction. Someone's watching us."
Makoto took a step back. His hand reached into his pocket. The old device — a frequency scanner — vibrated. Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched hum pierced from outside. A patrol drone hovered before the building. The state had sent its first threat. As sirens grew nearer, Makoto's eyes narrowed — but the other two still didn't trust him.
"How did they find us?" Mizue asked. "Makoto... what are you hiding?"
"If the voice was a lie, how dangerous will the truth be now?"