The room went still at Sora's words. Five heartbeats passed in silence, each one thundering in the practice room's dead air. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead, the only sound willing to break the standoff.
Ryota's nostrils flared first.
[Ryota Image]
"Show us, then," he growled, hands clenching into fists. "Ryota wants to see these so-called talents."
Ryuu stepped forward. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, a gesture that seemed to reset his composure.
[Ryuu Image]
"We should approach this professionally," he said. "Regardless of how... unconventionally you've joined us."
Seiji glanced between them all, his bright pink hair catching the harsh overhead lighting.
"Guys, come on! Let's at least give him a chance!"
Against the far wall, Daisuke remained silent, his thoughtful eyes taking in the scene without judgment. He tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear, his posture relaxed despite the tension radiating through the room.
Ichigo sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a man who had better things to do than referee teenage drama.
"Practice resumes tomorrow at nine sharp. Don't be late." His eyes lingered on Sora for a beat longer than necessary before he turned to leave.
Kotaro pumped his fist in the air. "DID YOU HEAR THAT CONFIDENCE? THAT'S MY SUPERSTAR!"
Ichigo grabbed him by the collar of his ridiculous jacket-cape. "Contract details. Now." He practically dragged his brother toward the door, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. "We'll discuss the paperwork later, Sora."
The door clicked shut behind them, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense room.
Sora stood with his hands in his pockets, weight shifted to one hip, the picture of casual indifference. He glanced around at the practice space—mirrors lining one wall, a sound system in the corner, water bottles and towels scattered on a bench. Basic but functional.
So this is where the magic happens, he thought. Or where it's supposed to happen, anyway.
Ten seconds of silence stretched into fifteen before Ryuu broke it, stepping forward with his tablet held like a shield.
"Amamoto-san," he began, his voice as starched as his button-down shirt. "While your confidence is... noted, perhaps you could enlighten us. Your file is remarkably thin." He glanced down at his tablet. "What agency did you train under? What was your performance history before the... festival in Hokkaido?"
Sora gave them a slow, lazy smile that stopped short of his eyes. "Does it matter? You saw the President's face. The only history that counts is the one we're about to make."
My training history? Let's see... advanced course in 'Singing Louder Than a Train Station' with a minor in 'Avoiding Bottles Thrown at My Head.' The graduation ceremony involved sleeping under a bridge.
You wouldn't enjoy the alumni events, Glasses.
Ryuu's jaw tightened. "It matters for formations. For harmonization. For understanding your technical background so we can integrate you properly."
"Ryota doesn't care about paper!" The muscular dancer pushed off from the wall, stalking toward Sora. He stopped a foot away, forcing Sora to look up slightly at him. Despite his delicate facial features, there was nothing soft about his presence. "Ryota cares about strength. This group almost died. We practice until we collapse. Can a pretty boy like you even keep up?"
Sora didn't flinch. He studied Ryota with cool assessment, taking in the powerful shoulders, the simmering anger, the wild dark hair with its blue tips.
"Keeping up won't be the problem," he said. "The question is, can you follow my lead?"
Seiji jumped between them, hands raised in a placating gesture. His smile was strained but determined. "Hey, hey! Come on, guys! We're a team now, right? We should be—"
[Seiji Image]
"We were a team," Ryuu cut him off sharply. "Before he got here."
Sora's charming façade dropped instantly. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as his green eyes hardened into gemstones. When he spoke, his voice had lost all its warmth, becoming cold and sharp.
"Let's get one thing straight," he said, gaze sweeping over each member, pinning them in place. "I'm not here to fill anyone's shoes." His eyes lingered on Ryuu and Ryota, a direct shot at their wounded pride over their former center. "I'm here to take this group to heights your last leader couldn't even dream of."
He took a step back, creating space, asserting his own power.
"You think I need this? You think I need you?" He let out a soft, humorless laugh. "With the voice I have, I could walk out that door right now and have a solo contract on the table by sunset. I'm here because your manager made a compelling argument."
He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final blow, his voice a soft, condescending purr.
"So don't get it twisted. This isn't a partnership. Consider it... charity."
And it's all true. I've got a universe of hits in my head just waiting to be unleashed. I could bury these guys tomorrow.
But… that idiot with the squid in his pocket is kind of growing on me. I guess I'm stuck playing with the backup dancers for now.
The room went dead silent. The insult hung in the air, thick and poisonous.
Ryota actually took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists, murder in his green eyes. His chest heaved with barely controlled rage. "Ryota will show you who needs charity!"
Ryuu stood pale with fury, his tall frame rigid. His entire sense of order, professionalism, and group hierarchy had been detonated. "This is completely unacceptable," he managed, voice tight. "This level of disrespect—"
Seiji looked genuinely heartbroken. His bright eyes dimmed, and his shoulders slumped. The vibrant pink of his hair seemed to lose its luster under the harsh fluorescent light. "But... we're supposed to be brothers now," he said quietly.
Just as Ryota looked ready to lunge, a quiet voice came from the side.
"Arrogance is a heavy thing to carry."
Everyone turned toward Daisuke, who hadn't moved from his spot against the wall. His arms remained loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, but his dark eyes were fixed on Sora with quiet intensity.
[Daisuke Image]
"I hope you have the strength for it," he added softly.
Something about his calm assessment sliced through Sora's armor. Not enough to wound, but enough to notice.
This one's different.
Sora shrugged. "I've carried heavier things."
Ryota snorted. "Like what? Your ego?"
"Ryota," Daisuke said quietly, and something in his tone made the dancer step back, though he continued to glare.
Ryuu cleared his throat, visibly struggling to reassert his usual composure. "Perhaps we should... demonstrate our current routine. Show Amamoto-san where we stand professionally." The emphasis on the last word was pointed.
Seiji perked up slightly. "Yeah! Let's show him what PRISM can do!" His enthusiasm seemed forced, a brave attempt to salvage the situation.
Sora raised an eyebrow. "By all means."
Let's see what I'm working with here. Might as well know if I'm polishing gold or garbage.
Ryuu moved to the sound system, tapping at his tablet. "We were working on our debut single before... recent changes." The music started, a bass-heavy track with a catchy but conventional melody.
Sora took a seat on the bench, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He watched with calculating eyes as the four took their positions.
What happened next caught him off guard.
As soon as the music hit, Ryota transformed. His body became liquid lightning, executing moves that should have been physically impossible with explosive power and uncanny grace. Every movement was sharp yet fluid, his control absolute despite the raw energy he channeled. His delicate face took on an almost trancelike intensity, completely at odds with his earlier aggression.
Seiji matched him with a different kind of energy—bright, kinetic, and utterly joyful. His movements weren't as technically perfect, but they carried a natural athleticism and infectious enthusiasm that demanded attention. He rapped his verse with surprising skill, his youthful voice carrying conviction and perfect rhythm.
Ryuu's dancing was precise and elegant, every movement exactly where it should be. But when he sang, his voice revealed a depth Sora hadn't expected—clear, powerful, and masterfully controlled. His high notes soared with effortless beauty.
And then there was Daisuke. His dancing was good, but not extraordinary. It was when he delivered his verse that Sora felt something unexpected—an actual shiver. Daisuke's voice wasn't the most technically powerful, but it carried an emotional weight that transformed the generic lyrics into something that felt genuine and intimate.
Well, shit, Sora thought, leaning forward despite himself. They're actually good.
The song ended with the four of them in a tight formation, breathing hard, waiting for his verdict.
Sora stood slowly, clapping three times, deliberately spaced.
"Not bad," he said, the understatement obvious. "The song is generic trash, but your performance almost made me forget that."
Ryota bristled, but Daisuke spoke first. "What would you suggest instead?"
The question seemed genuine, without defensiveness or challenge.
Sora considered for a moment. "Your choreography focuses too much on uniform movement. You're all different physical types with different strengths. Ryota moves like a predator. Seiji has natural athleticism. Ryuu has technical precision. Daisuke has..." he paused, "presence. You should be highlighting those differences, not hiding them."
He turned to Ryuu. "And the vocals need to be completely rearranged. Your harmonies are textbook but forgettable. There's no moment that grabs the listener."
Surprisingly, it was Seiji who responded first, his eyes wide. "You got all that from watching us once?"
"I don't waste time when I'm working," Sora said.
"And is that what this is to you? Work?" Daisuke asked quietly.
Sora met his thoughtful gaze. "What else would it be?"
"Family," Seiji offered, his voice small but determined. "We're supposed to be a family."
A bitter laugh escaped Sora before he could stop it. "Family is just another word for people who haven't disappointed you yet."
Damn it. Control yourself. These aren't your friends. They're your stepping stones.
"You speak from experience," Daisuke observed, his tone neither judgmental nor sympathetic. Simply stating a fact.
Sora narrowed his eyes. "We all have our stories." He deliberately changed the subject, turning to Ryuu. "Who wrote that song? Your former center?"
Ryuu's jaw tightened. "No. It was a contract songwriter from the original company."
"Then it's garbage," Sora said decisively. "We need something original." He glanced at Daisuke. "You're the composer, right? What have you got?"
Daisuke studied him for a long moment before answering. "Several pieces in progress. Nothing I would call finished."
"I want to hear them," Sora demanded.
"Excuse me," Ryuu interjected, his composure partially restored. "We have a schedule. We can't just abandon months of preparation because you—"
"Because I what? Have better ideas?" Sora cut him off.
"Because you think you're better than us," Ryota growled.
"I don't think it. I know it." Sora shrugged. "But that doesn't mean you can't get better."
Seiji looked between them all, his expressive face full of conflicting emotions. "So... are you going to help us? Or just look down on us?"
"That depends," Sora said finally. "Are you willing to throw out everything you think you know and start fresh? Because if you want my help, we do this my way."
"Your way," Ryuu repeated, his tone skeptical. "And what exactly is 'your way,' Amamoto-san?"
Sora smiled then, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"My way is we become so good, so undeniable, that when we're done, no one will remember there was ever a PRISM before us."
The four looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. Years of working together had given them a connection Sora didn't share.
Finally, Daisuke spoke. "Bold words." He pushed off from the wall and walked to his bag, pulling out a small notebook. "I suppose we should see if you can back them up."
He held out the notebook to Sora. "My compositions. If you want to hear them, you'll have to ask nicely."
Sora blinked, taken aback by the quiet challenge. Then he laughed, a genuine sound that surprised even him.
"Daisuke-san," he said, deliberately formal, "would you please share your music with me? I promise to listen with an open mind."
Daisuke held his gaze for a long moment before the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"