The shy first-year came out of the AV room looking like he'd just faced a firing squad. His face was pale, and he clutched his guitar to his chest like a shield, refusing to meet anyone's eyes as he scurried away. The twins went next, their harmonies pretty but forgettable.
Then, the teacher called my name. "Abe-san? You're up."
As I stood, a war broke out inside me. Three different people, all trapped in one body, screaming for control.
This is a lie, Hotaru, the girl from the pier, whispered in terror. This isn't your song. This isn't your voice. It's a trick.
Analyze your audience, Hoshiko, the ghost, countered, her voice cold and clinical as a surgeon's scalpel. Three amateurs with inflated egos. They don't want truth; they want to be impressed. Give them a technical showcase. Overwhelm them. Make their decision easy.
And then there was the third voice, the new one, the alloy. The girl with the silver hair. She was silent, but it was her hand that reached for the door. She would use the ghost's skill, but it would be for Hotaru's purpose. She would not be a victim of the performance. She would be its master.
I stepped inside. The room was exactly as pathetic as I'd imagined. Small, windowless, and smelling of dust and old plastic. A cheap projector hummed in the corner, casting a weak, lonely beam of light through the air. The three judges sat behind their folding table, trying their best to look like seasoned music industry veterans.
"Your name, and the title of your song, please," the third-year said, his voice dripping with a laughable, manufactured authority.
"Hotaru Abe," I said, my voice calm and even. I gave them the title of a famous, technically demanding ballad—a song known for its soaring chorus and dramatic key changes. It was a song that was all technique and no heart. A perfect Trojan horse.
I walked to the center of the room, where a single microphone stood on a cheap, wobbly stand. I didn't need a backing track. I took the microphone from its clip, the muscle memory in my hand absolute. The weight was familiar. The cold metal, a weapon.
I let the silence hang for a beat, drawing their full attention. The projector light caught the silver of my hair, creating a halo effect. It was a calculated, theatrical touch.
And then I sang.
The first note was a perfect, clear, crystalline thing that cut through the stuffy air of the room and silenced the hum of the projector. The three judges, who had been slumping with bored self-importance, all sat bolt upright. Their faces, which had been masks of critique, went slack with pure, unadulterated shock.
This wasn't Hotaru's voice. It wasn't even Hoshiko's voice. It was a fusion of the two. It had all of Hoshiko's power, her perfect pitch, her flawless breath control, her years of relentless, agonizing training. But it was fueled by Hotaru's raw, desperate need to be on that stage.
I didn't just sing the notes; I owned them. I moved with a subtle, practiced grace, my body a vessel for the sound. In the cramped, dusty room, I created a stage where there was none. My eyes were closed, not in emotional reverie, but in absolute, focused control.
I built the song, line by line, from a soft, breathy verse into a powerful, earth-shattering chorus. I could feel the other performers crowding the doorway behind me, their own nervous ambitions forgotten, replaced by a stunned, reverent silence.
I hit the bridge, the song's most difficult passage, a series of cascading notes that climbed higher and higher. I didn't just sing them; I ascended them, my voice a flawless instrument. I saw the university girl's hand come up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief. The third-year had forgotten his notepad, his pen frozen in mid-air.
I reached the final, soaring note, the one that had made the song famous. I poured every ounce of Hoshiko's training into it, holding it with a power and clarity that was almost violent in its perfection. I let it hang in the air, a burning, unforgettable fire, for a beat longer than humanly possible. And then, I cut it off, the silence that rushed back in was as shocking as the sound had been.
I opened my eyes and gave them a small, polite, professional bow.
The room was utterly, completely silent. I had not given them my heart. I had not told them my story. I had simply reminded them that they were amateurs, and I was not.
I placed the microphone back in its stand, turned, and walked out, my expression a perfect, calm mask. I didn't need to hear their decision. The war was not over. But I had just won the first, decisive battle.
I walked out of the AV room and didn't look back. The other performers, who had been crowded in the doorway, shrank away from me as if I were radioactive. I was no longer one of them. I was something other.
I didn't wait for the official announcement. I didn't need to. I walked straight out of the old building and into the golden light of the late afternoon, leaving the aftermath to the amateurs.
Emi and Yui found me by the shoe lockers a few minutes later, their faces flushed with a vicarious victory. "You did it!" Emi shrieked, throwing her arms around me in a hug that almost knocked me over. "The list is up! You got the first solo spot! The university girl looked like she was going to cry!"
"Your performance was... technically perfect," Yui said, her voice full of a quiet, analytical awe. "It was like watching a different person."
A cold, professional satisfaction settled in my chest, a feeling I recognized all too well. It wasn't joy. It was the feeling of a successful transaction. The stage was mine.
I walked out of the school building alone, leaving Emi and Yui to their celebration. I needed to be by myself, to let the ghost of the performance settle. But as I approached the main gate, a figure detached itself from the shadows of the large cypress tree.
Ayame Kurokawa was leaning against the gatepost, her arms crossed, a look of detached amusement on her perfect face. She had been waiting. She had been watching all of this unfold.
"Congratulations, Abe-san," she purred, her voice a silken thread in the quiet air. "A truly... flawless performance. You proved you're a professional playing with children."
It was a compliment, but it was also a test. An assertion of her knowledge, her power. The old me, the frightened Hotaru, would have flinched, would have given a noncommittal, mumbled thank you. But the old me was gone.
I stopped in front of her, my school bag held loosely in one hand, and met her gaze. "I'm not playing," I said, my voice as calm and cool as hers. "And I'm not a child."
For the first time since I'd met her, Ayame's perfect, condescending smile faltered. It was just for a fraction of a second, a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise in her dark eyes. I had just bitten the hand that was trying to hold me. I had refused to follow her script.
Then, the surprise was gone, replaced by something else. A slow, deep, genuine amusement. She laughed, a soft, musical sound that held no warmth at all. It was the sound of a queen watching a pawn that had suddenly decided to move on its own. It wasn't a threat; it was a new, interesting development in the game.
"Cute," she said, the single word dripping with a chilling, predatory admiration. She pushed herself off the gatepost and took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, let's see how this goes."
The line, the exact cadence and the cold, dismissive tone, was a perfect echo from my past. It was what Ryouko had said to a producer who had dared to question one of her marketing decisions, right before she had him professionally ruined.
Ayame walked past me and disappeared down the street, leaving me standing alone, my heart hammering in my chest.
It was uncanny. This life I was living now was an exact parallel of my old life. A powerful, manipulative woman trying to mold me, trying to control my every move, seeing me as a project, a vessel for her own ambitions. The quarantine of my classmates, the threats against the music club, the condescending praise—it was the same strategy, the same game, the same cage.
But there was one difference. A crucial, exhilarating, terrifying difference.
In my old life, when Ryouko had laid down the law, I had bowed my head and cried in secret. This time, I had looked the monster in the eye and bitten back. This time, I wasn't just a pawn. I was a player.
The final week before the festival descended on the school like a fever. The hallways were buzzing with an excited, chaotic energy. Colorful, handmade posters advertising the various class booths and activities covered every available surface. The air was thick with the scent of fresh paint, simmering takoyaki from the home economics club's trial run, and the palpable thrum of anticipation.
For me, the week was a tightrope walk over an abyss. I practiced my song in the solitude of my room at night, the melody a secret weapon I was sharpening in the dark. During the day, I wore the mask of the cool, silver-haired solo act, a role the entire school now seemed to accept as fact. I was an island, and the sea of whispers around me was a mixture of awe, envy, and intense curiosity.
The band was a ghost. I saw them in the hallways, three solitary figures who used to be a unit. Kaito would give me a small, sad, apologetic smile before looking away. Mio just glared at the floor whenever I was near. And Ren... Ren was a black hole. He didn't look at me, he looked through me, his face a mask of cold, impenetrable fury. The brief, fragile connection we'd had was severed completely. The wall was back up, higher and thicker than ever.
On Wednesday, three days before the festival, the fever broke. The buzz of excitement was replaced by a wave of stunned, confused silence.
It started with a single, sterile sheet of white paper, pinned to the main bulletin board in the entrance hall. It was an official notice from the student council, printed in a cold, unforgiving font.
NOTICE REGARDING THE END-OF-SUMMER FESTIVAL MUSIC PROGRAM
Due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts and a new student council directive to streamline the festival's evening program, the traditional performance slot for the Light Music Club has been cancelled for this year. The school will be represented by the winner of the solo audition, Hotaru Abe.
We thank you for your understanding.
The notice was a bomb, detonated in the heart of the school. The Light Music Club performing at the festival wasn't just a tradition; it was the tradition. It was the emotional climax of the entire event. For the council to cancel it, and so close to the date, was unthinkable.
A crowd had formed around the board, the students murmuring in shocked, angry whispers. "Cancelled? But they play every year!" "What 'scheduling conflict'? There's nothing else happening on the main stage." "This is Kurokawa-senpai's doing, isn't it?"
I stood at the back of the crowd, the blood running cold in my veins. I didn't need to hear the whispers to know the truth. This was Ayame's checkmate. She hadn't just quarantined me; she had burned down the entire forest to make sure I was the only tree left standing. It was an act of such breathtaking, absolute ruthlessness that it almost stole my breath. She hadn't just eliminated her rival for my attention; she had destroyed their reason for existing, all while elevating me as the school's sole representative. She had made me the unwilling beneficiary of their execution.
Emi and Yui found me, their faces a mixture of outrage and horror. "This is insane!" Emi hissed, her fists clenched. "She can't do that! It's not fair!"
Yui just looked at me, her eyes full of a deep, sorrowful understanding. "She's isolating you," she whispered.
I didn't answer. I pushed through the crowd and walked, my feet moving on autopilot, toward the old building. I had to see them.
I found them standing outside the music room, their gear half-packed, looking like the survivors of a shipwreck. Kaito was sitting on an amp case, his head in his hands. Mio was leaning against the wall, her face streaked with tears, her usual spiky anger replaced by a raw, broken devastation.
Ren was standing in the middle of it all, his back to me, staring at the closed door of the room that was no longer his stage. He wasn't moving, but I could feel the violence rolling off him in waves. He was a tightly wound coil of pure, helpless rage.
He must have sensed me, because he slowly turned around. His eyes met mine, and the look in them was a physical blow. It wasn't hatred. It was something far worse. It was a look of utter, complete defeat, tainted with the bitter poison of knowing that I was the one left standing on the rubble of his dreams.
I opened my mouth to say something—I'm sorry, I didn't want this—but the words were a useless, pathetic puff of air. What could I possibly say? The stage was now a battlefield, and Ayame had just made me the sole, lonely victor.
From a second-story window in the main school building, Ayame Kurokawa watched the pathetic little tableau unfold on the path below. The weeping drummer, the miserable bassist, the silently raging leader. And in the middle of it all, her silver-haired project, looking small and lost. It was perfect. A beautiful, miniature tragedy of her own design.
A slow, deeply satisfied smile touched her lips. She had thrown a single, perfect piece of meat—the festival stage—into the middle of the pack. Great, she thought, a cold, clinical amusement washing over her. Now let the two dogs bark at each other. Let the boy's wounded pride and the girl's ambition tear them apart. It was so simple, so predictable. It was the only language the common people understood.
I stood before them, the words "I'm sorry" a useless puff of air in the heavy, charged silence. I looked at their faces—Kaito's, crumpled with a misery that was hardening into bitterness; Mio's, streaked with tears that were now tears of pure, unadulterated rage.
"Sorry?" Mio finally spat, the word a venomous hiss. She took a step forward, her small frame radiating a fury that made me flinch. "You're sorry? You knew, didn't you? This was your plan all along!"
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "I didn't, I swear..."
"Don't lie!" she screamed, jabbing a finger in my direction. "That whole act! 'I just want to find my own voice'! 'It wasn't for me, it was for a ghost'! What a load of crap! You're a fake!"
The words, my own words, twisted into accusations, were like a physical blow.
"We shouldn't have trusted you," Kaito said, his voice low and full of a quiet, profound disappointment that hurt more than Mio's anger. "We actually thought you were one of us."
"She's not one of us," Mio seethed, her eyes burning with a righteous fire. "She's a performer. She saw a bigger stage and she took it. That's all there is to it." She took another step, her voice dropping to a low, contemptuous growl. "You're not a musician. You're just Ayame's lapdog. Was it worth it? Did you enjoy the treat she gave you?"
My head swam. I couldn't breathe. My eyes darted to the one person who hadn't spoken, the one person whose judgment felt like it could shatter the world. Ren.
He was still standing in the middle of it all, a black hole of silent fury. I pleaded with my eyes for him to say something, anything. To deny it. To defend me. To at least look at me.
He stayed silent.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at the closed door of the music room, his face a mask of stone. His silence was an answer. It was a verdict. In the court of their broken trust, he was the judge, and he had just pronounced me guilty.
There was nothing left to say. There was no defense against a truth that wasn't true. They had their story, a neat, simple narrative of ambition and betrayal, and I was the villain.
I lowered my head, the weight of their hatred a physical force. Without another word, I turned and walked away from the music room, away from the wreckage of the only thing that had ever felt real. I walked away from the silent boy who I thought had seen the real me, and who now saw nothing at all.