Elysium had once been just a nickname—an optimistic label for a cramped agency squeezed into a rented suite. But now, after months of steady expansion and nonstop renovations, the name finally fits. The building feels like a world carved out specifically for us: a home, a workplace, a proving ground.
The structure stands six stories tall, modernized from the inside out. The first floor is a wide, airy lobby with polished stone floors that reflect the soft glow of suspended pendant lights. A sleek digital directory stands near the entrance, mapping out every floor and every service in calm blue light. Large windows stretch across the front, letting in natural light that keeps the lobby feeling open and welcoming.
The second floor used to be an anonymous office space, but the agency transformed it into a creative hub. One half is a photoshoot studio—multiple backdrops mounted on sliding rails, professional lighting rigs, racks of props, and a handful of changing booths. The other half is dedicated to music production: soundproof recording booths, a mixing room lined with monitors, and a surprisingly impressive selection of microphones and instruments. Trainees rarely get to record yet, but we all peek inside whenever we pass by.
The third floor blends style and practicality. A full salon occupies one side—mirrors rimmed with adjustable LED lights, walls lined with hair and makeup stations, and shelves stocked with everything from professional styling tools to imported skincare. The tailor's space takes up the remainder: cutting tables, sewing machines humming in constant rhythm, and rows of mannequins dressed in works-in-progress. Everything about this floor smells like fabric, hair spray, and fresh ideas.
The fourth floor—once the original heart of the agency—is now all business. Offices for the managers and staff, meeting rooms for planning sessions, and a long corridor lined with glass-walled workspaces. There's always a quiet buzz here: keyboards clacking, phones ringing, papers rustling as schedules for artists get finalized.
The fifth floor is where the real work happens: training. Three mirrored studios, a stretching and warm-up hall, and a multipurpose room for vocals, acting, and performance assessments. The floors are sprung wood; the speakers embedded in the walls are powerful enough to shake your lungs if they're turned up too high. This is where I've spent most of my year—sweat, blisters, and all.
And the sixth floor, the dorms, feels surprisingly cozy. The halls are carpeted to soften footsteps, and each dorm door has a small colored plaque customized by the trainee or idol living inside. Rooms are small but neatly furnished: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a narrow window with a wide ledge that's perfect for sitting and thinking. Communal kitchen, shared lounge, laundry room—nothing fancy, but enough to feel like you belong.
Since joining Elysium, I've watched the agency expand its footprint little by little, buying out each floor until it claimed the whole building. Every renovation brought new opportunities, new creatives, new pressure.
But today? Today I'm unstoppable.
Zenith debuted a week ago, and their immediate success has the whole building buzzing—managers smiling wider, choreographers pushing harder, staff moving with purpose. Their momentum is the agency's momentum… which means it could be mine too.
I stroll through the lobby with a light step, my energy brighter than the morning sun outside. I've been here a year now, training almost exclusively in dance. Everyone who started alongside me has quit except for one other trainee; the grind wore them down, but I stayed. Every morning we complete our online UA coursework for a few hours, then break for lunch, and afterward—even full-fledged idols—everyone does one hour of rotating training modules. Strength, stamina, diction, breathing, studio etiquette, public speaking, acting, even crisis-preparedness drills.
Every day feels like sharpening a blade.
And for the first time since joining, I can feel how close I am to cutting through.
Today breaks pattern the moment we finish breakfast.
We're heading back to our rooms for morning classes when Ms. Miyo steps into the hall, blocking the way with her clipboard tucked under one arm. "Schedule change," she announces. "You're starting with a run to U.A. this morning. Move."
A run—in the morning. Unplanned. Uncoordinated. Completely unlike her.
Before I can even process it, we're outside and jogging down the sidewalk, the air already heavy with humidity.
"Michiiiiii…" comes the stretched-out whine behind me.
Sweat stings my eyes as I glance over my shoulder. Asuka Sato, the last surviving member of our original trainee group besides me, looks seconds away from collapsing. Her ponytail is sticking to her cheek, her face pink with annoyance.
"Michi, slow down, please. I'm dying."
"The faster we get to U.A., the faster we get a break," I call back, turning forward again. The giant H-shaped silhouette of U.A.'s main building rises ahead of us like a landmark from a different world. "Come on, 'Suka. Not much farther. I can see Shio-san already."
I ease up my pace until she can catch up. A few heavy breaths later, she mutters, "I hate running. Almost as much as I hate school."
"I hate running too," I admit, wiping sweat from my forehead. "But cardio's still better than weights."
Asuka lets out a laugh that's half-relief, half-wheeze. "Okay, that's true."
By the time we reach the U.A. gates, our legs feel like overcooked noodles. We slow to a jog, then to a desperate shuffle, stopping only when we reach Shio-chan—Miyo Shio, our trainer, choreographer, and the terrifying embodiment of precision wrapped in a deceptively kind smile.
"Hello, ladies," she greets, clasping her hands together. "Your jog today was one minute faster than last time. Well done!"
Her smile widens—bright, proud, and laced with that unnerving energy that always means she has plans for us.
"Come along," she adds, already turning toward the school doors.
Asuka groans beside me. I straighten my posture, catch my breath, and follow. Whatever today is, it's definitely not routine.
"Michi… do you know what's happening?" Asuka whispers as we hurry after Shio-chan.
I shake my head. "Not a clue."
Honestly, I've been wondering the same thing since dawn—why the sudden run, why the surprise visit, why Shio-san looks like she's running on pure caffeine and determination.
We weave through the halls of U.A., the familiar blend of polished floors, students' chatter, and the distant thud of hero training drifting through the air. I catch myself scanning every face we pass, hoping—maybe—to spot my cousin, Oboro Shirakumo. Just a glimpse. But before I can look too closely—
"Look alive, ladies," Ms. Shio chirps, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
I snap my attention forward… only to be greeted by the sight of a small creature—dog? mouse? bear?—waiting for us with a polite smile. Whatever he is species-wise, I know exactly who he is.
"Ms. Shio, it is a pleasure to have you and your young talents in our school," he says warmly. "I'm Principal Nezu."
He shakes each of our hands, his paw surprisingly firm.
"Hello, Mr. Nezu," Ms. Shio replies with her trademark, radiant smile. "I decided to stop by at the strong encouragement of our director regarding his idea for the sports festival."
At that, Asuka and I exchange a quick look. The director always gets what he wants—always—and if he's pushing something connected to U.A.'s Sports Festival, it must be significant.
Principal Nezu lets out a small sigh, amusement flickering in his eyes. "He is quite insistent, isn't he? Well, this is something we need to discuss in detail… and at length."
He gestures toward a nearby room—his office—and leads us inside.
The office is surprisingly cozy. Bookshelves line the walls, stacked with everything from hero analysis texts to children's novels. A pot of tea steams gently on a tray near his desk, filling the room with a comforting earthy aroma.
Principal Nezu settles into his chair and folds his paws on the desk. "Please, sit."
Ms. Shio sits first, elegant and composed. She meets his gaze head-on and speaks before Asuka or I even reach our chairs.
"Now, Mr. Nezu," she says, leaning slightly forward with a sweet yet piercing smile, "what is it that makes you so hesitant?"
I lower myself into the seat beside her, directly across from Principal Nezu. Asuka sinks into the chair to my right, still catching her breath from the run.
Principal Nezu studies us quietly, ears tilted slightly back in thought. The silence stretches until he finally speaks.
"I'm simply unsure whether I'm making the right choice." His gaze drifts to the side, troubled in a way I rarely expect from him. For someone known for being three steps ahead of everyone else, doubt looks strange on him.
Ms. Shio leans forward, resting a delicate hand on his desk. Her expression softens, but her confidence doesn't waver. "You won't regret it," she assures him. "A fully integrated remote-learning program—designed specifically for teens who train, travel, and work. You know how much potential this could unlock."
She turns to Asuka and me with a warm, proud smile. "And what better way to showcase its success," she continues, "than by presenting our brightest prospects at the Sports Festival?"
When she looks back at Principal Nezu, her eyes gleam—a distinct, shimmering shade of pink. It isn't menacing, just compelling, like she's projecting calm reassurance directly at him.
"I don't share your hesitation, Mr. Nezu."
Principal Nezu sits quietly with her words, tapping one paw lightly against his folder. Then he exhales, long and thoughtful.
"Very well, Ms. Shio. We'll proceed with your proposal." His professionalism returns in full as he reaches for a folder. "But please inform young Naoki that I'm sending back a revised framework."
He slides a single sheet toward her.
"This contains my adjustments. I'd like your agency to review them and share your thoughts."
Ms. Shio accepts the paper with a courteous nod. "I'll make sure Director Naoki receives it today. You'll have a response by this evening—or first thing tomorrow." She rises, smoothing her skirt. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Nezu."
She moves to the door, opening it and motioning for Asuka and me to follow. We step into the hallway, the soft click of the closing door echoing behind her.
The door clicks shut behind the girls, and silence settles over the office like dust.
Principal Nezu lets out a long, weary sigh—one that seems to come from a place much deeper than simple annoyance. Minutes pass before he finally speaks again, his voice directed not at the empty chair but the wall itself.
"Torino… you heard all of that, right?"
A second door slides open, revealing Sorahiko Torino leaning casually against the frame. "Yep," he replies, stepping inside with the heavy gait of someone who's been listening longer than he'd like. "And I stand by what I told you from the start. This whole idea's rotten. Fake hostage scenario or not, involving minors—especially online U.A. students—just feels wrong."
Nezu rises from his seat, teacup in hand. He walks toward the window, the porcelain clinking softly as he moves. For a moment, his reflection is framed in the glass—small, composed, unreadable.
"My revision scrapped the hostage angle entirely," he says before sipping his tea. "But it leaves two possibilities:
A) placing the girls in the main tournament, orB) allowing his agency to co-host a segment of the event."
He doesn't turn around; his gaze remains fixed on the sprawling U.A. grounds below, eyes narrowed in thought.
Torino picks up the sheet Nezu left on the desk, flipping through it. "Still feels off, sir." He taps the page with a blunt fingertip. "Why would an agency want to shove their second batch of talent into something this risky?"
His voice trails off as Nezu turns to face him.
"I agree wholeheartedly," the principal says, tail swishing in a slow arc. "Something about their 'leader' unsettles me. Ronin Naoki is… persistent. Uncomfortably so."
The two men exchange a look—one that speaks to weeks of pressure. Calls at all hours. Letters. Unannounced visitors waiting outside the gates asking to speak with Nezu "on behalf of Naoki and Sons." The sort of behavior that starts as ambition and edges toward obsession.
"If I were you," Torino mutters, dropping the papers back onto the desk, "I'd just offer them some halftime show or promotional bit. Something harmless. Give them a bone so they stop hounding you."
Nezu takes a quiet, contemplative sip of tea. The steam curls around his whiskers as he returns his gaze to the window.
"You may be right, Torino," he admits. "We need to tread carefully. I'll approach them with alternative options for involvement—opportunities that don't jeopardize our students."
Torino gives a small, approving grunt. "Good. Prioritizing student safety is non-negotiable. And if Naoki's as pushy as he seems, redirecting him might be the only way to keep things manageable."
The conversation shifts into brainstorming—halftime entertainment, intermission performances, a talent showcase, anything that highlights the agency without putting children in harm's way. Better optics, safer logistics, fewer liabilities.
Nezu taps his small paw against the windowsill rhythmically, eyes narrowing once more.
"We'll proceed with that strategy," he says at last. "But keep your guard up. There's something about Naoki… something I can't place. Until we understand his motives fully, we must remain alert."
Torino nods, crossing his arms. "I'll keep an eye on things."
Together, they stare out the window—two seasoned heroes watching a storm gather on the horizon.