Rain blurred the skyline like spilled ink.
Tokyo at night was supposed to shimmer. Instead, everything outside the apartment window looked like static on a broken screen—glass towers shimmering through mist, traffic lights bleeding color, distant shapes flickering in and out like ghosts. Nagi Seishiro stood at the sill in someone else's sweatpants, sipping room-temperature tea he hadn't made.
The silence was thick. Just him, the cactus on the windowsill (named Zetsu, for reasons he'd forgotten), and the faint digital hum of a city that never slept. He touched the phone again. It was sleek, black, no brand logo. The moment he'd opened his eyes on the futon, it buzzed like it had a pulse.
Welcome to Management.Soul transfer complete.Audition 001: Strawberry Productions, 10:00 a.m.Objective: Emotional resonance through performance.
He scrolled down.
There were modules labeled Lyric Synthesis, Resonance Output, Third Eye Activation. There was a talent graph shaped like a tree, with nodes branching into categories like Stage Presence and Trauma Projection. Everything was grayscale except one pulsing dot:
Dormant Potential: 99%
"Cool app," he muttered, leaning against the fridge. "Shame I'm not using it."
He wasn't panicking. That would've taken too much effort. Instead, he walked the apartment like a lazy ghost. The layout felt borrowed—neutral furniture, pristine counters, a closet filled with clothes that fit too well. Like someone had reconstructed his body to specification, down to the V-shaped fringe hanging between his eyes.
On the desk was a single paper note. Just five words:
"Don't waste it this time."
He blinked at it. Read it again. Then shrugged.
The knock came at midnight.
A man stood outside in a powder-blue hoodie with an embroidered star on the shoulder, clipboard in hand, smile tight. Nagi didn't ask who he was. Didn't care.
"You're awake," the man said.
"Unfortunately."
"You've been selected. Management believes in maximizing potential. Your audition is scheduled."
"I'm not interested."
"You will be."
The door clicked shut before Nagi could respond.
Back on the couch, he opened the app again. This time, he noticed something new: a tab labeled Memory Fragments. It contained brief, blurry clips—his face on stage, hands gripped around a mic, cameras flashing. One scene showed cherry blossoms falling in slow motion as fans screamed. Another showed his body slumped backstage, eyes hollow, lips curled in something close to pain.
He watched in silence, thumb hovering over the fragment labeled "Echo_003."
Blood. Petals. A stage light exploding.
Nagi put the phone down.
This wasn't his life. Not really. He didn't chase dreams or followers. Didn't need applause. All he wanted was a life simple enough to be ignored—maybe a job that paid just enough to keep his cactus fed and his fridge cold.
So why did it feel like something inside him was stirring? Not fear. Not hope. Something darker. Something deeper.
He glanced at Zetsu. The cactus was flowering—something it hadn't done since middle school. A soft, blue bloom.
The phone buzzed again.
Audition in: 9 hours, 14 minutes.Warning: noncompliance triggers Memory Drift.
"…What the hell is Memory Drift?"
No answer.
Just the fan spinning overhead, slow like a countdown.