Ms. Ito slides a thick stack of papers across the desk. "Michiko, take this contract home and give it some thought."
"Thank you," I reply, grinning as I rise from my seat. She walks me to the door with a gentle hand on my shoulder, her expression warm enough to ease the tension I didn't realize I was holding.
"If anything comes up, reach out. And let me know once you've made your choice," she adds. That calm kindness of hers lingers with me, nudging my uncertainty toward something steadier.
Stepping out of her office, the quiet hits me. I knew the agency was tucked inside a small suite, but I hadn't expected it to feel this empty. Earlier, I'd been too wrapped up in my appearance—whether my outfit worked or looked ridiculous—to notice much of anything. On the tour they only showed three training rooms, all sparsely used. When I walked in, the trainees paused to greet me, and the staff explained that only one of the rooms was currently occupied by a boy group. The receptionist was the only person stationed outside the meeting room.
By the time I reach the elevator and press the button, a shaky breath slips out of me. Excitement should be the obvious reaction, yet nerves crowd in instead. I close my eyes for a moment, replaying every word exchanged with Ms. Ito, trying to make sense of the tightness in my chest.
The elevator doors open to the main lobby. I step out, head toward home, and let the day settle in. It wasn't physically draining—just mentally heavy, the kind of stress that clings even after everything is over.
A cool breeze curls around me as I wait at the bus stop, the morning hum settling into a familiar rhythm. Cars drone past on their commute, and across the street, the soft chatter of people sipping coffee drifts from an outdoor café. I lean against the glass panel of the shelter, half-listening to the upbeat jazz in one ear while the other catches the rustle of leaves and the quick, chittering debate of nearby squirrels. It all blends into an odd little symphony that fits the afternoon perfectly.
Three girls in U.A. uniforms approach. Two drop onto the bench; the third stays on her feet.
"If Mrs. Whiplash catches me on my phone again, I'm done for," the first grumbles, stretching her arms overhead. "Not like she's teaching us anything groundbreaking."
"Her practicals barely work," the second agrees. "Useful maybe twice, ever." She gives a helpless shrug.
The standing girl sighs dramatically. "I just want an A and to be a hero already." The others snicker as their bus pulls up.
I step forward, tap my card at the reader, and head inside. "Afternoon, Mr. Maeda," I say as I pass the driver.
"Hello, Ms. Michi. Tell your folks I said hi, why dontcha," he replies with his usual cheer. The U.A. girls glance at me oddly as they file past, but I just continue down the aisle to my seat.
"Who do you think she is?" one of the girls murmurs behind me. No one answers.
"Maybe she's here for school admissions? Isn't that coming up soon?" another offers, though she doesn't sound convinced.
"So she's local, then?" the first presses.
The third girl chimes in, "She could be a high schooler… or maybe middle school."
The moment I glance out the window, the entire row suddenly pulls out their phones, pretending to scroll. The silence is painfully obvious, so I do the same and text my aunt to let her know I'm on my way home.
I've barely typed a few words before their conversation picks up again.
"Whiplash doesn't even have a soulmate," one girl says with a mischievous grin.
The others react in a mix of shock and curiosity. In a world where names appear on your wrist to mark your soulmate—and some people even carry two names—the idea of having none always sparks whispering. Their giggling fades as the bus slows, and the familiar convenience store my aunt and uncle run comes into view.
I rise to get off just as one of them remarks, "Honestly, I can't tell if having no soulmate or having more than one would be worse."
Her words follow me onto the sidewalk.
As soon as I step off the bus and into the store, I spot Oboro and Auntie behind the counter. I lean against the opposite side and say, "Mr. Maeda says hi." They both look up.
"How did things go at the agency?" Auntie asks.
I pull out the contract and hand it to her. I still haven't read it—half of it looks like a foreign language to me anyway. The stack is thicker than I remembered; I didn't even realize it was over ten pages.
She starts scanning through it just as the bell above the door jingles. Instinctively, I hop over the counter and slip into the back room. Auntie follows, still reading. I peek past her to check if Oboro needs help, but he just waves me off with a smile as he ties on his apron.
"Michi," Auntie says, lowering the pages as she sits. "Did you read any of this before you left the agency?" She flips to a section and taps it. "This part says that if you sign, you're agreeing to live, work, and train at Elysium." Her eyes lift to mine. "Does that worry you at all?"
""Yes and no. If becoming an idol requires it and they see it as essential, then I'll do it," I tell her. The idea of living at the agency is definitely intense, but dorms are standard for popular groups. If they're offering that before I've even debuted, it almost feels like a good sign.
Auntie turns the page. "This section says they'll be taking over all of your schooling. You'll be educated through them." She squints at it. "What that actually entails… I have no idea."
"Well," I say, trying to keep my tone light, "maybe I'll end up with something better than public school." The condition is unusual, but thinking of it like being an actress taught on set makes it feel a little less strange.
She exhales slowly and flips to the middle of the packet. "This is the part that worries me most." She hands me the entire page, her expression tightening as I take it.
The undersigned hereby agrees that during the training period and for a period of (x) year thereafter, they shall not make any contact with their current or former Soulmate, including but not limited to phone calls, text messages, emails, social media messages, or any other form of communication. This provision is intended to protect the Company's intellectual property and trade secrets as well as ensure that the undersigned can focus on their duties and responsibilities during the training period without distraction. The undersigned acknowledges that this provision is reasonable and necessary for the protection of the Company's legitimate business interests. Any violation of this provision may result in immediate termination of employment or other disciplinary action taken by the Company.
The Company has the option to extend the period in which this provision binds the signatory, but only if they give reasonable notice of such an extension. This means that the Company must inform the signatory before extending their obligation under this provision. The notification should be clear and concise, explaining why an extension is necessary and how it will affect both parties involved.
Furthermore, any extension of this provision must be made in writing and signed by an authorized representative of the Company. This ensures that there is a formal record of any changes to the agreement between both parties. It also provides clarity on who has the authority to make decisions on behalf of the Company.
The Company may employ a third party to investigate any violation of this provision. The undersigned acknowledges that any breach of this agreement may result in immediate termination of employment or other disciplinary action taken by the Company, which may include legal action. The undersigned agrees that they shall not attempt to circumvent this provision in any way, including but not limited to using a third party as an intermediary. This provision is intended to protect the Company's intellectual property and trade secrets, as well as ensure that the undersigned can fulfill their duties and responsibilities during the training period without distraction. The undersigned understands that this provision is reasonable and necessary for the protection of the Company's legitimate business interests and agrees to abide by its terms.
I scan the page, the legal phrasing dense enough to make my eyes blur. Auntie watches me with that familiar crease of worry in her brow.
"Some dumb little clause isn't going to stop me from becoming an idol, Auntie," I say, trying to sound unwavering. But a prickle of unease lingers beneath the surface.
"Why does it bother you so much?" I ask when she voices her doubts.
"This whole contract feels… off." Her voice is low, almost reluctant. "My gut's telling me something isn't right."
I let out a frustrated sigh and fling my hands upward. I want her to see how much this means to me, how long I've dreamed of an opportunity like this. But her caution isn't coming from stubbornness—it's coming from love, and that knowledge softens the edge of my irritation.
"I know you're looking out for me," I begin, my words spilling faster than I expect, "but I can't keep living by your fears. I have a dream, and I'm going to chase it—even if it scares me. This isn't about fame or money. I want to do something meaningful with my music. I need your support… but more than that, I need you to trust me. Trust that I'm capable. Trust that I know what I'm reaching for. Please don't hold me back."
The confidence hits me like a spark—but just as quickly, it fizzles. I don't regret a single word, yet the weight of her concerns presses in. She isn't wrong, and a part of me knows it.
We sit in a heavy, wordless pause until Auntie suddenly lets out a soft laugh and pulls me into her arms. "You're just like your mother—stubborn as a stone and smooth-talking like your father," she murmurs. When she draws back, her eyes shine with tears. "You look more like her every day."
Her fingers brush a stray strand of my hair over my shoulder. The familiar ache tightens in my chest at the mention of my mother. Years have passed, but grief has a way of clinging to the quiet spaces. I swallow hard and force the rising sadness back down.
"Oboro, a pen, please," Auntie calls, wiping the corner of her eye.
"On it, Ma!" comes his voice from the front.
A moment later, a small cloud drifts into the room—Oboro's quirk in action—hovering briefly over the contract before dropping a pen neatly onto the table.
Auntie signs first. Watching her name appear on the page sends a strange mix of freedom and confinement curling through my chest. This is it—my tiny leap for myself, and a massive one for my future.
By the time she hands me the pen, my fingers are trembling. Why now? Everything up to this point has been harder than this moment. All I have to do is sign, yet my pulse is racing.
"Auntie…" I whisper, staring at the blank line where my name should go. "Am I making the right choice?"
She rests a steady hand on my shoulder. "The right choice," she says gently, "is the one that brings you happiness—especially now." With that, she slips out of the room to rejoin Oboro at the counter.
I'm left alone with the contract, the pen, and the thundering beat of my own pulse. This is the doorway I've been chasing—my chance, my moment. The only thing between me and it is my own hesitation. Beyond this page lie possibilities: recognition, success, a future built on my voice and my effort. Not luck—determination. Hard work. Discipline. The things I can control.
It isn't a steep price. Training, sacrifice, and keeping distance from my soulmates. As my father always said, "Good comes to those who wait." I'll wait. They'll wait. And when the time comes, I'll give them everything.
I lift the pen and hover it over the dotted line. My hand pauses, just shy of the paper.
Aizawa, Yamada… please wait for me on the other side.