[10 minutes earlier]
Sora watched the pen hovering above the dotted line, suspended between his fingers. This was the moment—the invisible membrane between his past and future stretched thin. One signature away from beginning his climb.
The contract looked innocuous enough. Standard boilerplate stuff about exclusive representation, revenue splits, and obligations. But Sora hadn't survived his previous life by taking things at face value.
Not exactly the lair of an industry titan, he thought, his eyes scanning Ichigo's office. Everything was functional, clean, but with visible compromises. The desk was laminate disguised as hardwood. The chairs were comfortable but showed slight wear. The carpet had been professionally cleaned, not replaced.
Beside him, Kotaro fidgeted with the dried squid in his vest pocket, radiating nervous energy like a human tesla coil. The man couldn't stay still for five seconds, constantly adjusting his bow tie, bouncing his knee, or fussing with his ridiculous cape-jacket.
"Before I sign," Sora said, placing the pen down with deliberate care, "I'd like to discuss a few points."
Ichigo's eyes narrowed slightly. The man was nothing like his brother—all controlled intensity where Kotaro was chaotic explosion.
"Let's be clear, Amamoto-san," Ichigo said, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the desk. "Strawberry Productions is a small agency. We punch far above our weight, but that's almost entirely due to B-Komachi. Our resources are finite. We outsource our top-tier choreography. We rent our best recording studios by the hour. We pay a premium for hit songwriters because we don't have a stable of them in-house."
Sora didn't flinch. "I appreciate the honesty."
Ichigo's eyes sharpened like a knife being honed. "That song you sang earlier... that's the kind of asset we usually pay a fortune for. A song with that kind of emotional depth and commercial appeal..." He paused. "Did you write it?"
Sora met his gaze without hesitation, giving a small, confident shrug. "Yeah. It's one of mine."
Yeah. Me and the ghost of some girl named Nina Simone wrote it over imaginary coffee. She was a real lady about it.
"One of yours," Ichigo repeated, leaning back slightly. "How many do you have?"
Sora allowed a small smile. "More than enough."
Kotaro practically vibrated with excitement. "I TOLD YOU! A DOUBLE THREAT! A TRIPLE THREAT! A THREAT TO ALL HUMAN UNDERSTANDING OF TALENT!"
Ichigo silenced his brother with a look. "I see." He tapped his finger against the contract. "And what points did you want to discuss?"
"Two things," Sora said, picking up the contract. "First, I want a higher percentage of royalties on any songs I write for the group."
"Mmm…"
"And second," Sora continued, "I want a clause guaranteeing me creative input on PRISM's musical direction. Not control—input."
Ichigo's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, certainly. Interest, definitely. But not offense.
"That's... unusual for a rookie contract," Ichigo said carefully.
"I'm an unusual rookie," Sora countered. "You just heard me sing. You know what I bring to the table. I'm not asking for more money upfront. I'm asking for fair compensation for intellectual property and a voice in how that property is used."
In my last life, I watched artists get stripped of their work while suits got rich. Not this time.
Ichigo studied him for a long moment, then reached for a pen. "Twenty-five percent on original compositions, split equally among the members for group performances."
"Thirty-five," Sora countered. "And the creative input clause."
Ichigo's lips quirked. "Thirty. And you get input, but final decisions remain with management."
"As long as my input is genuinely considered, not just heard and dismissed."
"That's subjective."
"We both know when someone's actually listening versus when they're just waiting for their turn to talk," Sora said. "I think we can work with subjective."
Ichigo actually smiled at that. He made handwritten amendments to the contract, initialed them, then slid the papers back across the desk.
"You're not what I expected," Ichigo said.
"I get that a lot," Sora replied, scanning the changes.
"Welcome to the family, Sora." Ichigo pushed the pen across the desk.
Kotaro looked ready to explode with joy, his hands clasped under his chin like a child watching fireworks.
Sora picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the signature line. This was it. The official start of his rise.
Three light, delicate taps sounded at the door. It opened before anyone could respond.
"President, so sorry to bother you, I just—"
A girl stood in the doorway, framed like a painting. The first thing Sora registered wasn't her face but the light she seemed to command. It wasn't physical illumination but a perfectly crafted, radiant charisma that filled the room like oxygen.
Then his analytical gaze locked in. The hair was perfect. The smile was a weapon of mass destruction. And the eyes... he'd never seen anything like them. A gradient of violet to magenta, with literal stars in her pupils.
So... this is her. Ai. The final boss. The one Kotaro thinks I'm supposed to beat.
Heh. This is going to be fun.
The room froze like someone had hit pause. Ai stood in the doorway, her sentence about "bothering Ichigo-san" trailing off as she noticed them. Ichigo looked from Sora to Ai, a headache visibly forming. Kotaro looked like his two favorite action figures were about to fight.
Sora was the first to move. He placed the pen down deliberately next to the signature line—an unspoken "to be continued." He stood up, his tall, lean frame unfolding before he turned to face her fully.
He gave her a smile that was just as charming as her own.
"Nice to meet you," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I'm Sora." He gestured slightly toward the stunned brothers. "The new center for PRISM."
"Sora," she said, her voice like warm honey. "What a pleasure. I'm Ai."
As if I could possibly not know that.
"B-Komachi's center," she added, matching his territorial marking with her own.
"WONDERFUL!" Kotaro finally exploded, clapping his hands together with such force that both Sora and Ai flinched slightly. "The sun and the new moon of Strawberry Productions, all in one room! The universe is singing! The stars are aligning! I'll give you both a ride home!"
Ichigo's expression suggested he'd rather eat the contract than let his brother drive two of his most valuable assets.
"Kotaro—" he began.
"SPLENDID! It's decided!" Kotaro grabbed his jacket-cape, swooping it dramatically over his shoulders. "Our chariot awaits!"
Five minutes later, Sora found himself in an elevator with Ai Hoshino and Kotaro Saitou. The silence between the three of them was deafening. Sora and Ai stood on opposite sides, Kotaro bouncing in the middle, humming off-key.
Just before the doors opened to the lobby, Ai leaned ever so slightly toward Sora.
"Have you... ridden in a car with him before?"
Sora glanced at Kotaro then back at Ai. A flicker of real humor, the first genuine expression he'd shown, touched his eyes.
"I thought I was going to die." he whispered back.
It was a dark joke, but it was the first honest connection he'd made in this world. A tiny smile, real and unpracticed, briefly touched Ai's lips before her mask slid back into place as the doors opened.
Ten minutes later, they were seated in the back of Kotaro's van, a professional distance between them. Kotaro was driving exactly as terribly as before, somehow managing to narrate an elaborate fantasy about PRISM and B-Komachi performing together at the Tokyo Dome while simultaneously running a red light.
"So," Ai said, her voice back to its sweet, idol tone, "where are you from?"
Sora looked out the window at the passing Tokyo lights, the lie now feeling like a well-worn coat.
"Hokkaido," he said.
"Really? I don't hear any accent."
"I worked hard to lose it."
Ai nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was so perfectly calibrated to appear casual that Sora almost wanted to applaud.
"And how did Kotaro discover you?"
In a past life, drowning in a lake after years of being used and discarded.
"High school cultural festival," Sora said, the false history Kotaro had created already becoming second nature. "I sang in the talent show. He was visiting his cousin who taught there."
"He has good ears," Ai said, glancing toward the front seat where Kotaro was now attempting to beatbox while driving. "For talent, if not for rhythm."
The van swerved violently as Kotaro attempted to find a radio station, nearly colliding with a delivery truck.
Sora and Ai grabbed the safety handles in perfect synchronization.
"YOU MUST HEAR THIS, SUPERSTAR!" Kotaro shouted. "B-KOMACHI'S LATEST! INSPIRATION! KNOW YOUR COMPETITION!"
The opening notes of a pop song filled the car. Ai's voice—clear, powerful, and impossibly emotive—poured from the speakers.
Sora listened with professional interest. The production was polished but not overproduced. The melody was catchy without being simplistic. But it was the vocals that caught his attention. Ai's voice had a quality that transcended technique. She sang like she meant every word, like she was giving pieces of herself away with each note.
She's good. Really good.
"What do you think?" Ai asked, watching him carefully.
"It's excellent," he said honestly. "Your high note transition in the bridge is particularly impressive. The song itself is... adequate. You elevate it."
He expected her to be offended. Instead, she looked at him with newfound interest.
"Well-"
The van screeched to a halt outside an apartment building in Setagaya.
"HOME SWEET HOME!" Kotaro announced. "The residence of our shining star!"
Ai gathered her bag,.
"It was interesting meeting you, Sora," she said, her public smile back in place. "I look forward to seeing what you bring to PRISM."
"I look forward to showing you," he replied, holding her gaze.
She nodded once, then stepped out of the van. They watched her walk to her building, the perfect image of an idol even when she thought no one was looking.
"MAGICAL!" Kotaro exclaimed as he pulled back into traffic. "The two of you! Like matter and antimatter! Fire and ice! Peanut butter and something that is definitely not peanut butter but still creates an explosive flavor combination!"
Sora leaned back in his seat, processing everything that had just happened. The contract. The negotiation. The encounter.
Ai, he thought. Center of B-Komachi. The sun of Strawberry Productions.
He smiled to himself, a private, predatory expression hidden in the darkness of the back seat.
Better start getting used to sharing the sky.