The fifteen minutes before my performance were a strange, silent pocket of time. I sat on a stool in the dim, chaotic space behind the stage, a world of tangled cables and half-empty water bottles. Students and teachers rushed around me, their faces a blur of festival-induced panic and excitement, but they gave me a wide berth, as if I were a sacred, untouchable object. My kimono, a ghost from a hundred years ago, felt less like a costume and more like a second skin. My heart was a slow, steady drum, not a frantic bird. The ghost of Hoshiko had taken the controls, and she was a master of the pre-show calm. I put on my idol mode.
Then, a teacher with a headset tapped me on the shoulder. "Abe-san. You're on."
I stood. I walked from the dimness of the backstage area toward the rectangle of brilliant, blinding light. With every step, the roar of the festival—the laughter, the games, the announcements—seemed to fade, replaced by the low, expectant hum of the crowd waiting for the show to begin.
I walked to the center of the stage, the cheap wooden planks solid beneath my boots. A single microphone stood waiting for me in a pool of white light. I took it from its stand, the metal cool and familiar in my hand. I looked out, and the world was a sea of upturned, anonymous faces, their features blurred by the stage lights. Everyone suddenly became quiet when I was on stage. A deep, profound silence fell over the schoolyard, a collective holding of breath.
I brought the microphone to my lips. "Thank you for coming tonight," I said, my voice clear and steady, amplified to fill the night. "My name is Hotaru Abe. This is a new song. It's called 'A Song for the End of Summer'."
I gave them a small, polite nod. And then, in the deafening silence, I began to sing.
The first verse was a whisper, a cappella, a ghost's confession in the dark. "Born in the rain, a forgotten name / In a cardboard box of city shame..."
My voice was pure, clean, and perfectly pitched, but underneath the technical perfection was a tremor of truth, a raw, fragile thing I had never allowed myself to show before. The crowd was utterly still, captivated. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them, people putting down their takoyaki, parents pulling their children closer, their faces illuminated by the lantern light, their expressions shifting from curiosity to a deep, focused empathy. The crowd was slowly erupting, not with noise, but with an intense, communal silence that was far more powerful.
The song built, the imagined music in my head swelling as I moved into the second verse, the story of my gilded cage. "Then a stranger's smile, a perfect lie / Said she'd give me wings, but she taught me how to die... in a cage of blinding light."
My voice grew stronger, the notes soaring into the night sky, a cry of defiance that echoed off the school building. I was no longer just telling a story; I was testifying. My body moved with the music, a natural, fluid grace that was born of a decade of training but was now fueled by my own will. I was Hoshiko and Hotaru, fused into one, an alloy of skill and soul.
And then, in a short instrumental break where only the melody existed in my head, I let my eyes scan the crowd, to truly look at everyone. I saw Emi and Yui in the front row, their faces shining with a mixture of pride and awe. I saw Chiyo and Akira standing near the back, their expressions quiet, watchful. I saw Mio and Kaito, their faces a storm of confusion and reluctant respect.
And I saw him.
Ren was standing off to the side, near the sound booth, his arms crossed, the chocolate stain still a faint shadow on his white shirt. He wasn't looking at me with anger or pity. He was just... watching. Listening. And in his eyes, I saw the reflection of my own story. I saw the boy on the rooftop. The boy in the alley. The boy who knew what it was to be alone.
In that single, shattering moment, the world narrowed to just the two of us. The crowd, the stage, the lights—they all disappeared. There was only him. And a ghost, a muscle memory from a thousand concerts, took over. My free hand came up, and for a fraction of a second, my fingers formed a small, quick, almost imperceptible heart, aimed directly at him. It was an accidental idol move.
The second I did it, the world rushed back in. A jolt of pure, cold horror went through me. What did I just do? That was her move. Hoshiko's move. A cheap, manufactured piece of fan service.
I quickly brushed it off, my hand dropping back to my side, my expression smoothing back into a mask of professional calm, my voice seamlessly picking up the next line of the song, hoping no one noticed.
But the damage was done. The wall between the performer and the person had been breached. And now, I had to finish the song, my heart hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic bird in a cage of my own making.
The ghost of the idol move, the small, accidental heart, lingered in the air between me and Ren, a shared, shocking secret. The terror of the mistake was a jolt of pure adrenaline, a current that I channeled directly back into the song. I was no longer just performing; I was fighting, wrestling with the two halves of myself on a public stage.
My voice soared into the bridge, the lyrics a raw, desperate plea for understanding. "And a boy with sad eyes showed me how to stand / in a broken world with a broken hand..."
This was it. The climax of the story, the emotional peak I had been building towards. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my entire life, my entire being, focused on the final, soaring chorus. I poured every ounce of Hoshiko's training and Hotaru's pain into a single, earth-shattering note, a cry of both despair and hope that I held, letting it burn into the night sky.
And then, a sound like a gunshot.
CRACK!
A violent, screeching wave of feedback ripped through the speakers, a physical assault of noise that made the entire crowd flinch. It was followed by a sharp, electric pop. And then, absolute, deafening silence. Everything stopped working.
The backing track in my in-ear monitor was gone. My voice, which a second ago had been a giant, amplified force, was now just a small, human thing, swallowed by the vast, shocked silence of the schoolyard. I stood there, my mouth still open, the final note dying in my throat, a fool in a spotlight that was suddenly a harsh, unforgiving glare.
My mind raced, a chaotic scramble of technical failures and panicked thoughts. A blown fuse? A kicked cable? Then, my eyes, scanning the sea of shocked and confused faces, found her.
Ayame.
She was standing near the front, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of calm, satisfied victory. And as our eyes met, she gave me a small, slow, deliberate smile. She was smiling.
And I knew.
It wasn't an accident. It was an execution. I knew it was her fault. The scored wire. The perfectly timed failure. This was her checkmate.
A wave of pure, cold nausea washed over me. I could walk off the stage. I could accept the defeat, the humiliation. It would be so easy.
But then I saw the faces of my friends, Emi and Yui, their expressions a mask of horror and disbelief. I saw Akira and Chiyo, their quiet strength a distant anchor. And I saw Ren, his face a storm of fury, his eyes not on me, but on Ayame, a look of dawning, murderous comprehension on his face. He knew, too.
No. I wouldn't run. Not this time.
I took a step closer to the edge of the stage, leaving the dead microphone on its stand. I took a deep breath, and I continued the song, my voice raw, unamplified, a desperate, small thing against the vastness of the night. I pushed from my diaphragm, using every trick Hoshiko had ever been taught about projection, about acoustics, trying to switch it up to an orchestral show using just my voice, my voice the violin, the cello, the entire symphony.
For a moment, it worked. The sheer audacity of it held the crowd's attention. But it couldn't last. My voice, no matter how well-trained, was just a voice. It couldn't compete with the rustle of a thousand people, the distant pop of a firework, the low murmur of confusion. Everyone started to lose interest. People started talking, turning to their friends, their attention drifting away. The performance was dying. My story was dying. I was losing them.
And then, a sound.
Quiet, at first. The gentle, hesitant notes of an acoustic guitar, picking up my melody from the darkness backstage. I heard an instrument. My eyes darted to the wings. The shy first-year, the boy who had been terrified at the audition, was standing there, his guitar in his hands, his eyes fixed on me with a look of fierce, determined solidarity.
A moment later, a harmony joined him. The twin girls, their voices blending in a soft, supportive counter-melody. Then a keyboard. The enka singer, clapping out a simple, steady rhythm. The next contestants backstage slowly started playing. They had seen the sabotage. And they were refusing to let it happen.
The sound swelled, a makeshift, glorious, and utterly real orchestra rising from the darkness. The crowd, hearing the new, unexpected music, turned back. The murmuring stopped. Everyone in the crowd came back, their attention now fixed on the strange, beautiful, and completely unplanned collaboration unfolding before them.
I looked at the students backstage, these strangers who had become my unlikely saviors, and a wave of gratitude so profound it almost buckled my knees washed over me. I wasn't alone on this stage. I turned back to the crowd, my voice no longer a desperate whisper, but a triumphant roar, joining the beautiful, chaotic, and wonderfully imperfect noise that we were all making together.
The final chorus of the song was no longer a solo. It was an anthem. My voice, now supported by the beautiful, chaotic, and wonderfully imperfect orchestra behind me, was a triumphant roar. I sang the final lines, my story, our story, pouring out into the warm night, a testament to the fact that I was not, and had never truly been, alone.
"And a boy with sad eyes showed me how to stand..."
I held the final note, my voice blending with the swelling sound of the acoustic guitar, the twins' harmony, and the steady, heartfelt rhythm. The music rose, a wave of pure, unadulterated emotion that washed over the entire schoolyard. It wasn't perfect. It was raw. It was real. And it was the most beautiful sound I had ever been a part of.
The final chord hung in the air for a perfect, breathless moment, and then faded, leaving behind a silence that was not empty, but full. Full of the story we had just told together.
For a second, the crowd was utterly still, processing the raw, emotional spectacle they had just witnessed. And then, a single person started to clap. It was Emi, her face a mess of mascara-streaked tears of pure, unadulterated joy. Then Yui joined her. Then Akira. And then, the entire schoolyard erupted.
It wasn't the polite, manufactured applause I was used to. It wasn't the deafening, hysterical screaming of a stadium full of fans. It was something else entirely. It was a roar of approval, a wave of genuine, heartfelt support for the girl who had been silenced and had refused to stay quiet. They weren't just clapping for a song. They were clapping for the story. For the defiance. For the unexpected, beautiful community that had risen up on that stage.
I stood there, my chest heaving, my body trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and pure, overwhelming gratitude. I turned to the students who had joined me, these strangers who had become my band, my saviors. The shy first-year was grinning, his face flushed with a newfound confidence. The twins were hugging each other. We were all just a bunch of kids on a stage, but in that moment, we had been a part of something magical.
My eyes scanned the crowd, past the cheering students, and found the two people who mattered most in this war.
Ayame was still standing in the same spot, but the mask of calm, triumphant victory was gone, shattered. Her face was a pale, tight mask of pure, humiliated fury. Her perfect plan had not just failed; it had backfired spectacularly, turning me from a victim into a hero. Her eyes met mine for a single, searing second, and the look in them was one of pure, undiluted hatred. And then, with a flick of her hair, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, a queen retreating from a battle she had already lost.
Further back, near the edge of the festival grounds, I saw another figure. A man who did not belong. He wasn't wearing a festival yukata, but dark, clean city clothes—jeans and a polo shirt that looked too new, too expensive for this small town. He was holding a phone to his ear, his expression cool and detached as he surveyed the scene. He wasn't watching the show; he was watching me. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and a cold shiver of unwelcome familiarity went down my spine. Then he turned and melted back into the shadows. I didn't know who he was, but I knew what he represented. The outside world. The next war was already on the horizon.
But I didn't care. Because the last person I looked at was Ren.
He was standing by the sound booth, no longer a part of the crowd, but a world unto himself. The anger was gone from his face, replaced by a look of such profound, quiet awe that it made my heart stop. He wasn't looking at a performer. He was looking at me. And in his eyes, I saw not just understanding, but a deep, overwhelming respect. He gave me a single, slow, almost imperceptible nod. It was a shared victory. A promise.
I turned back to the makeshift orchestra behind me and gestured for them to join me at the front of the stage. We stood in a line, a ragtag collection of misfits and strangers, and as the roar of the crowd washed over us, we took a bow together.
We took our final bow, and the roar of the crowd washed over us, a physical wave of sound and approval. I had been on a thousand stages, but I had never felt anything like this. This wasn't the adoration for a product; it was a shared victory, a celebration of a moment we had all created together.
We stumbled off the stage into the dim, chaotic backstage area, our bodies buzzing with a shared, electric adrenaline. The moment we were out of the spotlight, the fragile composure I had maintained shattered, and a wave of pure, giddy exhaustion hit me.
"You were... I mean... that was..." Emi was the first to reach me, her face a mess of joyful, mascara-streaked tears. She couldn't even form a coherent sentence before she just threw her arms around me in a hug that was pure, unrestrained joy. Yui was right behind her, her usual quiet composure gone, a wide, beautiful smile on her face.
But then, other people were there, crowding around me, their faces bright with excitement. It was them. The makeshift orchestra. My saviors.
"That was the coolest thing I have ever done in my entire life," the shy first-year said, his face flushed, his eyes shining. He was clutching his acoustic guitar like a trophy. "I'm Kenji, by the way. Kenji Tanaka."
"Not another Tanaka," I thought with a flash of humor, but I just smiled. "Hotaru. Thank you. I... I don't know what I would have done."
"We're Akemi and Emiko!" the twins said in unison, their voices a cheerful, bubbly harmony even when they were speaking. "When we saw that cord spark, we knew it was that snake Kurokawa's doing."
"The name's Tatsuya," the boisterous enka singer added, giving me a cool, respectful nod. "Couldn't just let her get away with that. Not on our stage."
She's been a new kid in the town for a while but never talked to other kids in the school yet. These were faces I had passed in the hallways a hundred times, members of the anonymous student body that I had seen as a single, whispering entity. Now, they had names. They had voices. They were the people who had stood up for me when they had no reason to at all.
"But why?" I asked, the question a genuine, heartfelt whisper. "You didn't even know me."
Kenji, the no-longer-shy guitarist, shrugged, a newfound confidence in his posture. "Doesn't matter," he said. "We're the musicians. We stick together. And besides," he grinned, "your song was really good. We couldn't just let it die."
The simplicity of it, the pure, unadulterated solidarity, was a feeling so new and overwhelming it almost made me cry again. In Ryouko's world, other artists were competition, threats to be neutralized. Here, they were an alliance.
"Well," Tatsuya said, clapping his hands together with a loud, decisive smack. "The show's over, but the festival isn't! The sumo club's takoyaki is legendary, and I say we go eat all of it."
A cheerful, chaotic chorus of agreement went up from our small, unlikely group. Emi grabbed my hand, Kenji slung his guitar over his shoulder, and Tatsuya led the way, parting the backstage crowd like a cheerful bulldozer.
For the first time, I wasn't being led by a handler or a manager. I was being swept up in a wave of new, unexpected friends. As we stepped out from behind the stage and back into the warm, lantern-lit magic of the festival, I felt a sense of belonging so profound it was a physical ache in my chest. I wasn't Hoshiko, the star. I wasn't Hotaru, the runaway. I was just a girl with a borrowed kimono and a group of friends, heading off to eat octopus balls. And it was the greatest performance of my life.
We descended upon the takoyaki stall like a conquering army, a laughing, chaotic mob high on adrenaline and the promise of free food. The world was a warm, blurry haze of lantern light, savory smells, and the easy, comfortable chatter of my new friends. I was in the middle of it all, a part of it, and the feeling was so wonderfully, beautifully normal it was intoxicating.
I was laughing at a joke Kenji was telling when a shadow fell over our small, happy circle.
"Excuse me."
The voice was smooth, professional, and utterly out of place. It was the man from the edge of the crowd. The man in the clean, dark city clothes. He was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his expression a mask of polite, professional interest. He was looking directly at me.
My new friends fell silent, their cheerful energy instantly evaporating, replaced by a wary, protective curiosity.
"That was quite a performance," the man said, his eyes scanning my face with a cool, analytical appraisal that made my skin crawl. "A very... unique voice."
He pulled a sleek, minimalist business card from his wallet and held it out to me. "My name is Saito," he said. "I'm an A&R scout for a new label, 'New Leaf Records'. We're looking for artists with a story to tell. We think you have one."
It was the same pitch. The same promise of a gilded cage, just with different bars. A "new leaf." An "authentic" voice. It was Ryouko's language, translated for a new generation.
"We'd like to offer you a spot on our record label," he continued, his voice a smooth, seductive poison. "A full recording contract. We'll give you complete creative control, of course. We just want to help you share your story with the world."
The world. I had just shared my story with my world, with the people of this small town, with the kids on this stage. His "world" was a different thing entirely. It was a world of sales figures and marketing campaigns and carefully constructed authenticity.
I looked at the card, at the clean, corporate font. And then I looked at the faces of the kids around me—at Kenji's nervous loyalty, at the twins' fierce protectiveness, at Tatsuya's wary glare. This was my world now. I didn't take the card.
"No, thank you," I said, my voice quiet, but firm as steel. I turned my back on him, a clear, final dismissal. I walked away, back into the warmth of our small, protective circle.
The man's professional smile didn't falter, but a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. He let out a small, amused chuckle. "A shame," he said to my back. "But I understand. Loyalty is an admirable quality."
He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "Perhaps your bandmates would be more interested."
I froze mid-step. My new friends looked at him, confused. "What's he talking about?" Kenji asked. "We're not a band."
"Not you," the scout said, his smile turning sharp, predatory. He looked right at me, his voice clear and carrying. "I'm talking about the band that was supposed to be on this stage. Takanashi-kun on guitar... he has a raw, marketable talent. And the rhythm section... Mio and Kaito, was it? They have potential."
The blood ran cold in my veins. The names, spoken so casually by this stranger, were like gunshots in the warm festival night.
"My offer stands," the scout said, placing his card on the now-empty takoyaki counter. "For all of you. We'd be happy to sign the band, too."
He gave me one last, knowing look, a look that said I see all the pieces on your board, before turning and melting back into the crowd, leaving his business card and a toxic, radioactive silence in his wake.
The laughter was gone. The warmth was gone. My new friends were staring at me, their faces a mixture of confusion and dawning suspicion. "What band?" Tatsuya asked, his voice low. "Who are Mio and Kaito?"
But I couldn't answer. I was staring at the small, white business card, my mind reeling. It wasn't a question of whether or not to take the deal. The only question, the one that was screaming in the sudden, terrifying silence of my own head, was: How did he know?
The festival was a ghost of what it had been a minute before. The lantern light seemed colder, the happy shouts of the crowd a distant, mocking echo. My new friends were staring at me, their faces a mixture of confusion and a dawning, hurt suspicion. "What band?" Tatsuya repeated, his voice low and serious.
I couldn't answer. I couldn't look at them. I was trapped in a sudden, cold vortex of paranoia. How did he know? How did a scout from a "new" label in Tokyo know the names of the members of a defunct, unknown high school music club in a town he'd never been to?
The answer was a single, terrifying name: Ryouko. This wasn't a scout. This was a soldier. And "New Leaf Records" wasn't a record label; it was a cage, freshly built and waiting for my return.
But then, a second thought, a treacherous, hopeful little weed, pushed its way through the concrete of my fear. She wanted the band to shine. My fault. It was all my fault their festival was ruined. This offer... it was a way to fix it. A way to give them the chance they deserved, the chance Ayame had stolen from them. And 100% creative control sounds good, too. It was the one thing I had never, ever had.
The conflict was a physical war inside me, a tearing of flesh and spirit. I wanted to protect them. But to do that, that means if she accepts, she would have to go back to Tokyo. The thought was a physical wave of nausea, a phantom taste of recycled airplane air and sterile hotel rooms. I couldn't go back. I couldn't.
"I... I have to go," I stammered, turning away from the hurt, confused faces of my new friends. I fled, pushing through the cheerful festival crowd, my mind a screaming chaos.
I found a quiet spot behind the gymnasium, where the darkness was thick and the only light was a single, bare security bulb high on the wall. I leaned against the cool brick, my breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps.
"It's a difficult decision."
The voice was right behind me. Saito. He had followed me.
He stepped out of the shadows, his expression no longer one of professional interest, but of a quiet, predatory sympathy.
"You're a smart girl, Abe-san," he said, his voice a low, confidential purr. "You know this isn't a random offer. You know we see your potential. And theirs."
"Stay away from me," I hissed, my voice trembling.
"You can say no, of course," he continued, completely ignoring me. "You can stay here, in this charming little town. And Takanashi-kun can continue working himself to the bone."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I froze, my eyes wide.
"Oh, yes," Saito said, a small, sad smile on his lips. "We do our research. A boy with his talent shouldn't have to spend his nights running deliveries just to pay for his grandmother's medical bills. It's a shame. It's a waste."
This was it. The other shoe. The hidden knife. This was Ryouko's true power—not just control, but information. She had dug into our lives, found our weakest points, and was now preparing to press on them until we broke.
"But I can give you an offer you can't refuse," Saito said, his voice a silken trap. "Sign with us. Not just you. The band. We'll provide a generous monthly stipend, enough to cover all their living expenses. We will fly Takanashi-kun's grandmother to the best private hospital in Tokyo and cover every single one of her medical costs for the rest of her life."
He took a step closer, his eyes pinning me in place. "He will be free. Free to create, to make the music he was born to make, without the burden of worrying if his grandmother will have the medicine she needs. All you have to do is say yes."
He let the offer hang in the air, a beautiful, perfect, poisonous fruit. It wasn't about my career anymore. It wasn't about fame or money or creative control. It was about Ren's life. His future. His family.
He had shouted my name in the dark and saved me. Now, Ryouko had given me a way to save him. But the price was my own soul.
"And if I say no?" I whispered, my voice a dead, hollow thing.
Saito's sympathetic smile never wavered. "Then things continue as they are. And who knows," he added, a hint of steel in his voice, "what other opportunities might... dry up for a boy with his record."
It was a checkmate. A perfect, brutal, inescapable trap. I could refuse, and in doing so, I would be condemning Ren to a life of struggle, all while Ryouko's invisible hand made sure it was even harder than it needed to be. Or I could walk back into the cage, and in doing so, set him free.
There was no choice. There had never been a choice.
He held out the business card again. This time, my hand, trembling, reached out and took it.
The business card was a small, white rectangle of damnation in my hand. Saito gave me a curt, professional nod, the look of a manager who has just successfully closed a difficult transaction. His work was done.
I didn't watch him leave. The moment the card touched my palm, the world snapped into a new, terrifying focus. The cheerful noise of the festival, the laughing faces, the warm lantern light—it all became a distant, irrelevant blur. There was no time for grief. There was no time for fear. There was only the mission.
I turned and ran.
Not away. Not to hide. I ran through. Through the wall of cheerful, oblivious bodies, my borrowed kimono and leather boots a strange, anachronistic uniform for a soldier on a desperate charge. I pushed past startled couples and laughing children, my ears deaf to their surprised shouts. The sweet, cloying smell of cotton candy was the smell of a world she was about to leave behind.
I had to find him.
My eyes scanned the swirling, chaotic sea of the festival, searching for that familiar, slouching silhouette. I found them near the ring-toss game, a small, miserable island in an ocean of joy. Mio and Kaito were bickering, their anger a pathetic, wounded thing. And Ren was just standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the lights of the Ferris wheel with a look of profound, empty despair.
I didn't slow down. I didn't hesitate. I crashed into their small, sad circle like a meteorite, a ghost in a borrowed kimono.
"Hotaru?" Kaito stammered, his eyes wide with shock. "What do you want?" Mio spat, her anger an automatic, reflexive defense.
I ignored them. My eyes were locked on Ren. He was staring at me, his face a mask of pure, startled confusion. This wasn't the girl from the goldfish stall. This wasn't the girl who had cried in his arms. This was someone else entirely. This was a commander.
"We need to talk," I said, my voice a low, urgent command that cut through the noise of the festival. "All of you. Now."
"We have nothing to say to you," Mio hissed.
"This isn't a request," I said, my gaze never leaving Ren's. "I have an offer. One that changes everything."
I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, confusion, a dawning understanding that the rules of the game had just been completely rewritten.
"Meet me at the music room," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "In five minutes. Don't be late."
And then I was gone, turning and disappearing back into the crowd before they could say a word, leaving the three of them standing in the middle of the festival, the echo of my impossible command hanging in the air between them.
The music room was dark, the only light a pale, milky rectangle cast from the festival's glow through the grimy window. I didn't turn on the lights. This was a conversation for the shadows. I stood in the center of the room, the business card a cold, sharp-edged weight in the pocket of my kimono.
My mind was a still, quiet lake of pure, cold clarity. The offer was too good to be true. I knew that. It was a lie wrapped in a beautiful, seductive truth. But I knew Ryouko's game. The lies were for the public. The truths were for the cage. She wouldn't promise something like Ren's grandmother's care and not deliver. A debt of gratitude was a far stronger chain than any contract. She would definitely send his grandmother to the best hospital. That part was real. It had to be.
And for that, I was willing to pay the price. I was willing to walk back into the fire. I was willingly going back to my original self for him.
The door slid open with a rattling groan, silhouetting the three of them against the distant, cheerful lights of the festival. They filed in, their expressions a mixture of confusion, hostility, and a reluctant, wary curiosity.
"Five minutes are up," Mio said, her arms crossed, her voice sharp. "What's so important that you had to drag us away from doing nothing?"
I didn't waste time. I pulled the business card from my pocket and held it out. "I was approached by a man tonight," I said, my voice calm, even. "An A&R scout from a new label in Tokyo called 'New Leaf Records'."
Kaito scoffed. "A scout? Here? What, did he get lost on his way to a real city?"
"He made an offer," I continued, ignoring him. "A recording contract. For all of us. As a band."
The silence that followed was heavy, stunned. "You're lying," Mio finally spat, but the accusation lacked its usual fire. It was a desperate, confused denial.
"He knew your names," I said, my gaze fixed on Ren, who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, his face a mask of stone. "He said you had a 'raw, marketable talent'. He said Mio and Kaito were a rhythm section with 'potential'. He wants to sign the band."
"That's... insane," Kaito stammered. "How would he even know about us?"
This was it. The final, terrible truth. "He knew because he was sent here to find me," I said. I took a deep breath, and I let the ghost, the idol, the truth of my entire, fractured life, fill the room.
"My real name isn't Hotaru Abe," I said. "It's Hoshiko."
Mio and Kaito just stared, their faces blank with a disbelief so profound it was almost comical. But Ren... Ren didn't look surprised. He just looked... sad. As if some terrible, unspoken suspicion had just been confirmed.
"The man wasn't a scout," I explained, the words coming out in a flat, steady rhythm. "He works for my former producer. The woman I ran away from. 'New Leaf Records' is just another cage she built for me. And she knows that I won't come back willingly."
I looked at Ren, at the boy who worked himself to the bone every single night, at the boy who had shown me a kindness I had never known.
"So she made me an offer I couldn't refuse," I said, my voice breaking for the first time. "She offered to pay for your grandmother's medical bills, Ren. All of them. For the rest of her life. The best doctors, the best hospitals in Tokyo. All you have to do is be in the band."
The air went out of the room. Kaito looked like he was going to be sick. Mio's face was pale, her anger forgotten, replaced by a dawning, horrified understanding.
"She wants me back," I said, the final, simple truth. "And I'm going. This whole thing... the festival, this town, being a normal girl... it was just a dream. And it's over now. But I can make sure that when I go back, you guys get the chance you deserve. That you," I looked at Ren, "get the life you deserve."
I am willing to go back to my original self for him. That was the confession. That was the price. I was going to let Hoshiko win this time.
The finality of my words—so that Ren Takanashi wouldn't have to lose—sucked all the remaining air out of the room. I stood there, my confession laid bare, my soul offered up as a bargaining chip in a game I had already lost.
Mio and Kaito were frozen, their faces pale in the dim light. They were like children watching a messy fight between their parents, trying to process two impossible, contradictory truths at once: that the quiet girl they knew was a famous idol, and that her life was now somehow tangled up with the fate of their own silent, angry leader.
It was Ren who finally moved. He took a single, slow step out of the shadows, and the look on his face wasn't one of gratitude or relief. It was a look of pure, cold fury.
"No," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
I flinched. "Ren, you don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," he cut in, his voice rising, laced with a bitterness that was terrifying to behold. "You shouldn't do that. You finally did it. You escaped. You have friends, you have a life here. You are living your dream now." He took another step, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Why would you go back? For what? For some useless brat's sake who can't even pay his own grandmother's bills?"
The self-loathing in his voice was a physical blow, but my own desperation was stronger. "You're not useless!" I shot back, my voice cracking with a fierce, protective energy I didn't know I possessed. "Don't you dare say that!"
"It's the truth," he spat.
"No, it's not!" I insisted, taking a step toward him, closing the distance between us. "I've seen how you truly are. I saw you with that little boy at the festival, the one with the chocolate. You were kind. You were gentle. I saw you try to teach me math when I was falling apart. You saved me in that alley. You shouted my name in the dark! That person isn't useless!"
My own words hung in the air, a testament to the boy I saw beneath the layers of anger and silence. My voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "This is my choice. I'm willing to do this to make sure you get a life you deserve. A life where you can just... be a musician. A life where you're not trapped."
He just stared at me, the anger in his eyes warring with a deep, profound despair. He saw the sacrifice, and he hated it. He hated me for it.
I looked from his face to Mio and Kaito's, who were watching us, their expressions lost in a sea of confusion and dawning horror. I turned back to Ren, and let the final, terrible truth of my position fall into the silence between us.
"Don't you get it?" I said, my voice a dead, hollow thing. "It doesn't matter what you want. It doesn't matter what I want. Whatever you do, the only one getting tormented is me, anyway."
I looked him straight in the eye, letting him see the bars of the cage that had just snapped shut around me. "If I say no, I spend the rest of my life knowing that your grandmother is suffering because I was a coward. If I say yes, I go back to her. Either way, I'm the one who lives between the bars. At least this way... at least this way, one of us gets to be free."
"Free?"
The word was a short, sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh, devoid of any humor. Ren took another step, closing the space between us until he was standing just inches away, a towering figure of furious despair in the darkness.
"You call that being free?" he hissed, his voice a low, ragged thing. "Going back to her? To that life? That's not freedom, Hotaru. That's a life sentence. And I won't accept it."
His raw, desperate concern for my feelings, for the life I had just started to build, was a kindness so profound it was like a knife in my heart. But my resolve was a wall of ice. I had to be strong. For him.
"And what's your life?" I shot back, my voice a desperate whisper. "Working until you collapse every single night? Giving up on your music, the only thing you care about, because you have to? You call that freedom?"
"That's my burden to carry!" he insisted, his voice rising, his hands clenched at his sides. "Mine! Not yours! You don't get to trade your life for mine!"
"I'm not trading!" I argued, my own voice cracking with a pain I couldn't hide. "I'm choosing the option where one of us gets to win! You have a talent, Ren! A real, beautiful, honest talent! The world deserves to hear your music! My voice..." I trailed off, the admission a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. "My voice was never mine to begin with. It was always a product. At least this way, it can be a product that buys something worthwhile."
"Stop it," he said, his voice dropping, pleading now. "Just stop talking like that. You're not a product. You're not a bargaining chip."
"It's the only move I have left to play!" I cried, the tears I had been fighting back finally beginning to fall. "She will never stop. You know that. She will hunt me, and she will find a way to hurt me by hurting the people I care about. This... this deal... it's the only way to protect you. It's the only way to protect your grandmother."
"This is insane," Kaito whispered from the shadows, his voice a fragile thread in the heavy silence. "This is completely insane."
Ren just stood there, his face a mask of pure, helpless agony. He was trapped. He saw the cold, brutal logic of my sacrifice, and he hated it. He hated me for making a choice that he couldn't refuse without condemning the person he loved most.
The argument was over. There was nothing left to say. We stood in the dark, silent music room, two ghosts locked in a stalemate, a chasm of impossible choices between us. He couldn't accept my sacrifice, and I couldn't accept his suffering. The offer from the man in the city clothes was no longer just an offer. It was a declaration of war. A war not against Ryouko, but against each other.
And as we stood there, in the ruins of our small, shared world, I knew that this was the end. The end of the dream. The end of the summer.