CHAPTER 26
Monday at the idol club started with the usual energy. Rin was in high spirits, bragging to the members that Cerb-3ros had just finished their MV recording and would be appearing on FBC TV later that week.
"Rin-chan, I think you should become a DikDoker," Renge suggested, leaning back lazily.
Rin paused, her face flushing a deep crimson.
"But I…"
"Don't worry, you're cute," Kiyomi added, offering a supportive smile.
"I mean, your sister is an idol," Takumi chimed in, nodding in agreement.
Rin looked down, fidgeting with her sleeves.
"I'll think about it…"
As the club activities wound down, the room gradually emptied until only Kiyomi and Miyu remained. The afternoon sky bled harsh red light through the windows, painting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
"Miyu-chan…" Kiyomi started, his voice thin and hesitant.
"What is it?" Miyu asked, turning to face him.
(How should I ask him…) Kiyomi straightened, gathering his resolve. "Last week, when we—" He cut himself off, the memory of the studio hallway flickering in his mind like a broken film strip. Fear clawed at him.
"Go on…" Miyu encouraged softly.
"But…"
Miyu's expression shifted to confusion. Seeing the hesitation, Kiyomi decided he couldn't dance around the truth any longer.
"I saw what you did with Producer Daichi."
The change was instantaneous. Miyu's face went blank—a porcelain mask that had suddenly lost its soul.
(Miyu?)
He didn't move a muscle. His smile remained, but it was frozen, artificial, devoid of warmth. It was the look of someone who had just stepped off a ledge.
(I was wrong… I shouldn't have asked!)
Panic surged in Kiyomi's chest. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Miyu.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for asking!" Kiyomi whispered into his shoulder.
For a long moment, Miyu remained rigid. Then the dam broke. Tears began to drip slowly, then in a steady cascade, from his eyes. Finally, his arms came up to return the embrace. Kiyomi pressed closer, hands moving gently across Miyu's back, murmuring,
"There… there…"
Miyu let out a jagged, broken cry. The raw sound echoed through the quiet clubroom. Students passing in the hallway paused, knocking gently, their voices muffled with concern.
Kiyomi didn't let go. He repeated that everything was fine until the footsteps faded away.
When Miyu finally settled, his breathing ragged, they pulled apart. Kiyomi reached up, carefully brushing the salt-streaked tears from Miyu's face with his thumb.
Once he regained composure, Miyu spoke, voice low and hesitant.
"I'm sorry, Kiyomi-chan."
"Sorry?"
"What you saw—whatever that was… I can't tell you right now," Miyu admitted, eyes downcast.
"I see," Kiyomi said softly. "But I'm your friend, aren't I?"
Miyu looked up, a flicker of genuine warmth returning.
"I will tell you. When the time is right."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
To seal the pact, they shared a quiet, desperate kiss—a fragile anchor in the midst of the storm surrounding them.
The next day during training in the afternoon, the instructor rearranged Cerb-3ros into a tighter formation. She didn't explain. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of silver duct tape.
Rip.
The sound cut clean through the quiet studio. She stretched a strip across the mirror, then another, mapping out a narrow rectangle at chest level.
"Inside this," she said, tapping the border. "This is your world."
The space looked small. Suffocatingly small.
Kiyomi stepped into position with the others, his eyes tracking the silver lines reflected back at him. The moment the music burst from the speakers, the difference hit immediately. Every step felt constrained. Every turn had to be shortened.
His shoulder brushed Miyu's. There was no room to drift. No space to recover.
"Closer," the instructor barked.
Kiyomi tightened instinctively, muscles drawing in.
"TV doesn't care how big you move," she continued, eyes locked on her monitor. "It cares about what fits in the frame."
"Yes, instructor!"
"Again."
The music restarted without pause.
This time, Kiyomi cut everything down. Shorter steps. Sharper turns. He stripped away the habits built for open stages, compressing each movement until nothing spilled past the invisible edges.
Still not enough.
Renge clipped an elbow during a transition. Miyu arrived half a beat early on the center shift. On a wide stage, it would vanish. Inside the frame, it looked violent.
"Stop."
The music died. The instructor stepped forward and turned her phone toward them.
"Look."
Through the screen, the flaws expanded. Small gaps turned obvious. Minor timing slips became glaring breaks. A few inches looked like a full step off.
"You're still thinking like you're on a stage," she said flatly. "Break that. If you're not in frame, you don't exist."
Kiyomi swallowed, throat dry.
(Smaller… no—lighter steps…)
"Again. From the chorus."
They reset. Again. And again.
The room grew hotter, the air heavier, but the space they were allowed to exist in never changed. By the end of the day, their positions weren't just learned—they were carved into their bodies like a map.
By the second day, the friction began to fade. There was less bumping, less overstepping. Their movements started to align, tightening into something cleaner—something shared.
(Miyu is so quick to learn…) Kiyomi thought, watching his reflection. (He has a real talent for this!)
By the third day, the duct tape was gone. The silver borders weren't needed anymore; the limits of the frame had already settled into their instincts. They moved without colliding, adjusting without thinking. Even the instructor admitted they only needed to refine the transitions.
Still, the atmosphere didn't lighten.
(Miyu didn't go home early again today…)
On the fourth day, they practiced with simulated camera movement. The coordination was there—but something felt off.
Kiyomi noticed it immediately. Miyu's timing lagged by a fraction. His movements carried a faint drag, like resistance beneath the surface. His steps lacked their usual snap. Even his hips—his "peaches"—moved with a stiffness that didn't belong.
As if every motion had to pass through something first.
As if he were enduring it.
The instructor didn't react. Her attention stayed locked on the final output, not the strain behind it.
Kiyomi kept watching from the corner of his eye, a quiet ache building in his chest. Worry tangled with something sharper—something closer to suspicion.
The questions had been sitting there since last week, festering.
How had Daichi forced Izumi out so easily?
How had the sabotage stopped overnight?
(Tomorrow…)
Kiyomi tightened his grip as the music finally faded.
(Tomorrow, I'll ask him everything.)
On Saturday, they performed in front of Mio just once, the red light of the camera capturing every movement. Mio watched the monitor with a sharp, satisfied smile as Cerb-3ros moved in perfect synchronization. Their world finally fit within the glass of the screen.
"Good job," Mio said, clapping once. "A quick briefing."
They gathered around her, the heat of rehearsal clinging to their skin. Their breathing came heavy, uneven—but even that seemed to fall into rhythm, their bodies still locked into the pattern they had drilled for days.
"Tomorrow is not practice," Mio continued, her tone dropping into something colder, more precise. "There will be no resets. The camera won't wait for you to fix mistakes."
Kiyomi kept his gaze forward, but he could feel Miyu beside him—close enough to reach, yet distant in a way he couldn't close.
"If you go off-frame, you disappear. If you hesitate, it shows. Trust your positions. Trust each other." She let the silence settle, letting the weight of the broadcast sink in. "Don't break."
"Yes, Mio-san!"
"Dismissed."
The formation broke. Towels came out, bags unzipped, the rigid structure of the frame dissolving all at once.
Kiyomi didn't move.
His attention drifted—drawn, almost unwillingly—toward Miyu.
Miyu was already packing. No wasted motion. No pause. Just quiet, mechanical efficiency, as if the faster he moved, the faster the day would disappear.
(Miyu…)
Something tightened in Kiyomi's chest. He stepped forward.
"Miyu-chan."
Miyu paused and turned. His expression was already in place—soft, polite, distant.
"Yes?"
Kiyomi stopped in front of him, close enough to catch the faint tension at the edges of Miyu's eyes.
"About earlier this week… you said you'd tell me."
Miyu met his gaze. For a brief moment, the mask slipped—just enough to feel real.
"I will," he said quietly. "When the time is right."
The same answer. The same barrier.
"Tomorrow," Kiyomi pressed.
Miyu's eyes flickered.
"After tomorrow."
"Why?"
Miyu's grip tightened around his bag, the fabric pulling under his fingers.
"I just… need a little more time," he murmured, his voice soft in a way that didn't match the calm he was trying to show.
Kiyomi stepped closer. The space between them shrank until the air felt thick.
"You said that before," he said. "Did something happen again?"
A single beat of silence.
Miyu's gaze dropped.
"…No."
Too fast. Too clean.
(That's not true.)
"Miyu—"
"Miyu!"
The voice cut through the room.
Daichi stood at the doorway, his presence pulling the air tight across the entire studio.
Kiyomi froze.
Miyu's face lit up instantly—bright, eager, almost unnatural. Whether it was real or not, Kiyomi couldn't tell.
Before he could speak again, Miyu was already moving.
He hurried toward Daichi without hesitation, drawn forward like a puppy chasing after his master.
Kiyomi remained where he stood—
alone,
in the center of the empty frame.