The fluorescent light in the hallway hummed its judgement. Kotaro stood frozen, the crumpled reservation slip dangling from his fingers like a white flag of surrender. The faint sound of pan-flute music drifted through the closed door of Room 204, mocking them all with its serenity.
"No." Kotaro's voice came out strangled. "No, no, no, this is cosmic interference. The universe is testing us."
Sora watched his manager's theatrical collapse with the detached interest of someone observing a car crash in slow motion.
And here we witness the death of chaotic confidence. Beautiful. Truly moving.
Kotaro clutched his head with both hands, sunglasses sliding down his nose. "The beige! This oppressive beige is stifling my genius! How can creativity flourish in such a soulless color palette?"
"Manager." Ryuu's voice cut through the spiral, sharp and precise. "This happened because your phone died and you didn't check your messages."
"DETAILS!" Kotaro whirled on him, cape-jacket flaring. "Minutiae! We must rise above such earthly concerns and—"
"We must reschedule." Ryuu adjusted his glasses with one finger. "Professional organizations reschedule when conflicts arise."
Ryota pushed off from the wall, his muscular frame radiating disgust. "Ryota thinks this whole thing is a waste of time. Should be at a real gym. A real studio. Not this..." He gestured vaguely at the pottery class flyer on the corkboard.
Seiji's hands twisted together, his pink hair falling into his eyes. "It's okay! We can totally figure this out! Maybe we could wait? The Pilates class ends at noon, right? That's only three hours!"
Daisuke said nothing. He stood apart from the group, his thoughtful gaze tracking between Kotaro's meltdown and the closed door like he was mentally cataloging every detail for future reference.
Sora leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The baggy sleeves of his hoodie bunched at his elbows. His sneakers scuffed against the linoleum as he shifted his weight.
Five grown men defeated by a yoga schedule. This is the team that's supposed to help me conquer the industry.
A small laugh escaped him. Quiet. Almost inaudible.
Ryota's pale green eyes snapped to him. "Something funny?"
"Nothing." Sora's smile was all teeth and no warmth. "Just appreciating the professionalism."
Ryuu's jaw tightened. He turned to Kotaro, who had slumped onto a nearby bench, head in his hands. "We have a three-hour gap. I suggest we find a café and review the existing choreography notes on my tablet. We can make productive use of the time."
Of course you do. Safe. Logical. Completely uninspired.
Sora pushed off the wall. "We're not wasting three hours drinking overpriced coffee."
Ryuu's eyebrow climbed above his glasses frames. "Excuse me?"
"We're going to work."
"Work?" Ryota's laugh was harsh. "Where? In the bathroom? The parking lot?"
Sora reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a single folded piece of paper. The edges were slightly crumpled from where he'd been carrying it all morning. He unfolded it, the sound of creasing paper loud in the quiet hallway.
Kotaro's head snapped up. The sunglasses reflected the fluorescent light as he shot to his feet, manic energy returning like someone had flipped a switch.
"THE CONFERENCE ROOM!"
Everyone stared at him.
"The tiny, soul-crushing conference room!" Kotaro's voice echoed off the walls. An elderly man carrying a canvas bag gave them a dirty look as he passed. "I can rent it for a nominal fee! It's a brainstorming incubator! A creative womb!"
"Please stop talking," Ryuu muttered.
But Kotaro was already striding down the hallway, cape billowing behind him. He stopped at a door marked 203, tried the handle, found it locked, and immediately began marching toward the front desk.
Sora glanced at the four members of PRISM. Ryuu looked like he was calculating how many years of his life this chaos was costing him. Ryota cracked his knuckles. Seiji bounced on his toes, nervous energy seeking an outlet. Daisuke remained still, his dark eyes fixed on the folded paper in Sora's hand.
Time to see if these wounded dogs can still bite.
===
Conference Room 203 was worse than Sora had imagined.
Calling it a room was generous. It was a box. A windowless, soul-crushing box with walls painted a shade of off-white that suggested someone had given up halfway through caring. The table dominated the cramped space, its surface scarred with pen marks and coffee rings. Six mismatched chairs squeaked when anyone moved. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow.
Kotaro spread his arms wide like he was presenting a palace. "Behold! Our temporary command center!"
"It smells like sadness," Seiji said quietly.
"It smells like the community center storage closet," Ryuu corrected, claiming a chair and immediately pulling out his tablet. "Because that's probably what this used to be."
Ryota tested one of the chairs. It groaned under his weight. "Ryota has trained in better spaces."
But they were all sitting down. Filing in around the scarred table, arranging themselves with the unconscious hierarchy of people who'd worked together too long. Ryuu at one end, tablet open. Ryota to his right, arms crossed. Seiji across from them, already drumming his fingers on the table. Daisuke at the far end, quiet and watchful.
Kotaro grabbed a chair near the door, spinning it around to sit backwards on it. His dried squid tentacle bobbed as he moved.
Sora remained standing.
The room fell quiet. The fluorescent light buzzed. Someone's phone vibrated. Ryota's chair squeaked as he shifted.
Sora placed the folded paper on the table. He didn't smooth it out. Not yet.
"The demo you've been practicing?" His voice was conversational. Almost friendly. "It's trash."
Ryuu's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"Generic. Forgettable. The kind of song that plays in a store and people don't even notice it's there."
Ryota's hands flattened against the table. "Ryota helped choreograph that routine."
"I'm sure you did a great job making boring look athletic." Sora's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's not your fault. You can't polish mediocrity into brilliance."
Seiji leaned forward. "So what are you suggesting?"
Sora unfolded the paper. The lyrics spread across the surface, black ink on white. He turned it so everyone could see.
"This isn't a love song. It's not about girls or parties or any of that safe garbage." His finger tapped the title at the top. "This is about a group that was left for dead. About running on nothing but sheer will and two bare feet."
The silence changed quality. Became denser.
Ryuu adjusted his glasses. "You wrote this?"
"Last night."
"It's just words." Ryota's voice carried an edge. "Ryota can't dance to words on paper."
"Then let me give you context."
Sora didn't read the lyrics. He performed them. His voice dropped lower, intensity replacing volume. He made eye contact with each of them as he spoke the opening lines, letting the meaning land.
"For three years, wait, wait. We from the bottom."
Seiji's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly.
"I caught you bae, bae. We're a bit fast."
Ryuu's expression remained controlled, but his finger stopped tapping his tablet screen.
"We just five mate, mates. Look carefully, we got us."
Daisuke leaned forward an inch. His dark eyes tracked Sora's every movement.
"If we live fast, let us die young."
The final line hung in the air. Sora let it sit there, watching their faces.
Seiji spoke first. His voice came out rough. "This is about us. About Tadashi leaving."
"About being thrown away," Sora agreed.
"It's our story," Seiji continued. He looked around the table like he needed someone else to confirm he wasn't imagining this. "Right? The five of us. Running."
Daisuke's fingers drummed once against the table. A complex rhythm, there and gone. "The narrative is strong," he said quietly. "The imagery is direct."
Ryota snorted. "It's words. Pretty words, maybe. But Ryota needs music. Needs beat. Needs something to move to."
Ryuu set his tablet down. "With all due respect, Amamoto-san." His voice was perfectly professional. "This is a concept. Not a song. There is no melody. No tempo. No key signature." He gestured at the paper. "It's raw. Frankly, it's unprofessional. We have a finished demo from an actual professional songwriter that we should be refining."
Sora's smile could have cut glass.
"And that's exactly why you're practicing in a community center."
Ryuu's face went white. Then red. "I'm sorry?"
"Professional got you nowhere." Sora continued. "Professional got you abandoned. Professional got your contracts bought out for pocket change. You keep chasing safe, you'll keep getting forgotten."
"We are making a product." Ryuu stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. "A product that proves to the agency this group is worth the investment."
"You're making background noise."
Ryota pushed back from the table. "Ryota thinks the new guy talks too much."
"Guys—" Seiji started.
"No." Ryuu cut him off. "Let's be clear. Amamoto-san has been with this group for one day. One. He has no experience working in a professional capacity. He has no training. He has no understanding of what it takes to survive in this industry."
His hands pressed flat against the table. "I've been doing this for years. I understand contracts and marketing and what producers want. We don't have the luxury of artistic experimentation. We have three weeks until debut."
"Three weeks to make people remember your name," Sora countered. "Or three weeks to release something so safe that it disappears the day after it drops."
Ryota crossed his arms. His biceps strained against his sleeves. "Ryota sides with Ryuu. Pretty words mean nothing without music."
Seiji looked between them, panic creeping into his expression. "Can we just take a breath? Maybe there's a way to—"
A quiet tapping cut through the argument.
Everyone fell silent.
Daisuke had pulled the lyric sheet across the table. His fingers drummed against the scarred surface. Not randomly. A rhythm. Complex. Aggressive. Desperate.
His eyes were distant. Unfocused. Like he was hearing something the rest of them couldn't.
Holy shit…. that's the beat!
"The melody will be difficult," he murmured. More to himself than anyone else. "The rhythm can't be clean. It needs to stutter. Like you're running out of breath." His fingers moved faster. The pattern evolved. Changed. "The verses need to build. Tension without release until the chorus hits."
Sora watched him work. Watched the exact moment Daisuke stopped being part of the argument and became lost in the creative process.
There you are. The artist underneath the wounded boy.
Daisuke's head lifted. His eyes locked with Sora's. Something passed between them. Understanding. Recognition. The silent acknowledgment of two people who spoke the same language.
"I can work with this."
"Daisuke."
"The harmonic structure is there." Daisuke's voice remained quiet. "The emotional arc is clear." He looked at Ryuu. "You're right that it's raw. But raw can be refined. Generic can't be fixed."
Ryota stared at Daisuke like he'd grown a second head. "You're taking his side?"
"I'm taking the side of the better song."
The words fell into the cramped room like stones into still water.
Ryuu stood frozen. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
Seiji looked between them, his expression crumbling. "We don't have to pick sides. We're a team."
"A team," Ryuu repeated. His laugh came out hollow. "Of course. A team where the newest member makes unilateral decisions and our composer abandons three months of work."
"Work that was going nowhere," Sora said.
Ryuu's gaze snapped to him. "You've been here for one day."
"Long enough to see the problem."
"The problem," Ryuu bit out, "is that you think talent excuses arrogance."
Sora's smile widened. "Who said I was being arrogant? I'm being honest."
In the corner, Kotaro watched the entire exchange with wide eyes. His usual manic energy had gone quiet. For once, he wasn't inserting himself into the chaos. He looked like a man watching a storm he'd accidentally summoned and wasn't sure he could control.
Daisuke tapped the lyric sheet. The sound drew everyone's attention. "We have until noon when the practice room opens. That gives us three hours." He looked at Sora. "Can you sing this? Show me the phrasing you hear?"
"Right here?" Ryuu's voice climbed. "In a conference room? Without proper acoustics or equipment?"
"Acoustics don't matter when the song is good," Daisuke replied.
Sora pulled out a chair. The legs squeaked against the floor. He sat down, elbows on the table, and studied the lyrics he'd transcribed from memory last night.
Time to give them a taste of what their world has never heard.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The room smelled like failure and stale coffee. Outside, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Someone laughed.
Inside Conference Room 203, five boys and one manic manager sat around a scarred table. The group had fractured clean down the middle. Daisuke and Sora on one side. Ryuu and Ryota on the other. Seiji trapped in between, looking like his heart might break from the tension.
But Daisuke was already tapping out the rhythm. Already hearing the melody that would change everything.
And Sora was smiling.
Let's see if you can keep up.