Shiratori Seiya's so-called confidence in Takahashi Mio was not something conjured from thin air or blind optimism. It was rooted in concrete observation and a deep, almost clinical understanding of her character.
More than anything else, Shiratori Seiya found himself genuinely admiring her attitude toward money. It was refreshingly straightforward, unclouded by pretense or false modesty. She understood the value of a yen, and she understood the value of her own labor. That kind of clarity was rarer than a flawless diamond in the entertainment world.
And even if he set aside what she had told him that night at the family restaurant—her quiet, almost offhand declaration that she didn't care about him dating Saori—there was a larger, more logical barrier at play.
She already possessed full knowledge of his romantic history. She knew about Hojo Shione. She knew about Hasegawa Saori. She had seen the chaos unfold with her own two eyes, heard the whispered rumors, and witnessed the tearful confrontation in the dojo.
Given all that, would someone like her—a girl who had never even dipped her toes into the turbulent waters of a real relationship—truly allow herself to develop feelings for a certified scumbag like him? Shiratori Seiya calculated the probability and found it vanishingly low. It was a statistical anomaly waiting to not happen.
However, complacency was the enemy of progress. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, not even for a moment. He had to consciously, deliberately, and meticulously control the distance between them. A carefully maintained buffer zone of professionalism.
He absolutely, positively could not allow unwarranted feelings—from either side—to corrupt and dissolve the pure, crystalline nature of their monetary transaction. This was a business arrangement. A partnership. Nothing more, nothing less.
With that mantra repeating in the back of his mind like a protective charm, he arrived outside the private training room that had been specially reserved for Takahashi Mio's development.
Shiratori Seiya stood before the one-way glass, a silent observer hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Inside the brightly lit room, Takahashi Mio was deep in her training, working through vocalization exercises and language drills under the watchful eye of her instructor, Araki Oriko.
He quietly slipped his satchel from his shoulder and retrieved a pen, a sheaf of blank paper, her meticulously crafted training schedule, and several thick reference books related to acting theory and vocal performance.
Takahashi Mio had arrived at this professional level as a blank slate. She possessed raw, prodigious talent, yes, but she lacked any formal foundation. Her special training, therefore, had to begin with the absolute fundamentals—the unglamorous, repetitive building blocks that separated gifted amateurs from true professionals.
Areas of focus included vocalization and language control (mastering resonance cavities, modulating emotional lines), and posture and expression management (micro-expression drills, camera-aware body language). Today's intensive session was dedicated entirely to language training.
"When you speak, you must not allow your vocal cords to tremble randomly. It betrays a lack of control," Araki-sensei's crisp, authoritative voice filtered through the glass. "Your eyes cannot wander aimlessly. They must have intention. When portraying anger, accelerate your speech patterns.
When conveying deep emotion, slow them down deliberately. And when expressing sorrow, pay meticulous attention to the subtle art of adding a tremor to your voice—not too much, not too little. I will demonstrate once. Afterward, you will practice using the lines on this script and perform them back to me."
Inside the training room, the instructor—a stern-faced woman who appeared to be in her late forties with the no-nonsense aura of a seasoned theater veteran—delivered a flawless demonstration. Her voice shifted through the emotional spectrum with practiced ease before she handed the script over to Takahashi Mio.
Takahashi Mio accepted the pages, her gaze skimming over the printed words. She glanced up at the teacher standing before her, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She hesitated.
For some inexplicable reason, as she stared at the lines on the page, her mind began to wander down forbidden corridors. Unconsciously, her thoughts drifted toward the Hojo sisters. Toward Saori. The characters on the paper blurred, replaced by their faces, their voices, their presence.
Her red lips parted again. She drew in a slow, steadying breath and allowed herself to sink into the role, to become a vessel for emotions not entirely her own.
If I were them... if I stood where they stand... facing Shiratori Seiya...
Anger. Hurt. A desperate, fragile pretense of cheerfulness.
Takahashi Mio opened her eyes, and in that instant, her entire demeanor underwent a subtle but profound transformation. The air around her seemed to shift. Words began to flow from her lips, rich with unspoken history.
"Must you go?"
"You're not coming back... are you?"
"How could I... how could I have ever fallen in love with someone like you?"
"..."
A heavy silence descended upon the training room. Araki Oriko pressed her lips into a thin line and simply stared at the young woman before her, her expression unreadable. Seconds stretched into an uncomfortable eternity.
Takahashi Mio, now fully returned to her own senses, felt a flutter of unease beneath that piercing gaze. She had only been training under Araki-sensei for two days, but that was more than enough time to learn that this woman possessed a personality as strict and unforgiving as a tempered blade. Swallowing nervously, she ventured a quiet question.
"Araki-sensei... is something wrong?"
Araki Oriko's first instinct was to ask, "You've undergone specialized training before, haven't you?"
The performance had been too raw, too lived-in to be the work of a complete novice. But after a long, contemplative pause, she simply shook her head and spoke in a tone that brooked no argument.
"Do not treat me as if I were your romantic partner. Change the context entirely. Imagine I am your mother. Your father. A close friend. Now, begin again from the top."
"Oh... oh. Yes, Sensei."
Outside the one-way glass, Shiratori Seiya's brow had furrowed into a deep, troubled crease.
In that brief, fleeting moment when Takahashi Mio had delivered those lines, he had seen them. The ghosts. The unmistakable shadows of Shione, Suzune, and Saori flickering behind her eyes, coloring her voice, shaping her posture.
Is this what S-rank acting talent truly looks like? he wondered grimly. She absorbed the essence of everyone she encountered, unconsciously mimicking their very souls.
He didn't have the luxury of sighing in admiration. That familiar, uncomfortable tightness coiled in his chest once more, a serpent of unease stirring beneath his ribs.
Six o'clock in the evening. The grueling, day-long intensive training session had finally drawn to a close.
Takahashi Mio followed Shiratori Seiya to the car in complete silence, her face an expressionless mask. She didn't want to speak a single word. She didn't want to do anything. Every last drop of emotional and physical energy had been wrung out of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty husk.
She felt like a candle that had burned itself to nothing inside a stone pagoda, content to simply crumble into a pile of cold ash and be scattered by the evening breeze.
When Shiratori Seiya suggested they stop somewhere for dinner, she shook her head in mute refusal. Her only desire, her sole remaining ambition in this world, was to collapse onto her bed like a lifeless zombie and surrender to the blissful oblivion of sleep.
Inside the car, the engine humming a low, steady purr, Shiratori Seiya glanced sideways at her drawn, pale face. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a neatly bound stack of handwritten notes, extending them toward her.
"Here. These are some points I summarized from observing your session today. Review them when you get home. We'll pick this up again next Friday."
He paused, his gaze dropping to her lap.
"And put on your seatbelt."
"..."
Takahashi Mio accepted the notes with numb fingers and, with all the enthusiasm of a reanimated corpse, clicked her seatbelt into place.
She leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. As the car pulled away and began gliding through the Tokyo streets, the cool evening wind washed over her face, and the dazzling, kaleidoscopic lights of the city at night streamed past the window. Slowly, incrementally, her mood began to lift from the abyss.
Boredom eventually got the better of her exhaustion. She picked up the stack of notes Shiratori Seiya had given her and began to flip through them idly.
Beneath the soft, intermittent glow of passing streetlights, her gaze fell upon the neat, precise handwriting filling the pages. Something warm flickered inside her previously arid heart. A small, unexpected ember of feeling.
The notes were impossibly detailed. Painstakingly so. He had catalogued even the most minute issues she'd had with specific line deliveries, the tiny hesitations, the micro-expressions that hadn't quite landed. And there, scattered throughout, were Araki-sensei's stern instructions, transcribed verbatim, word for word.
At least... I'm not the only one working myself to the bone.
The thought surfaced unbidden, a quiet acknowledgment. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was the peculiar, bittersweet joy of shared struggle. Whatever it was, a small, unconscious smile bloomed on her previously lifeless face.
Noticing that Takahashi Mio seemed to be running on fumes, Shiratori Seiya mulled over how to ease the remaining tension. As the car rolled to a gentle stop at a red light, he reached out and pressed the power button on the music player, hoping some background melodies might soothe her frayed nerves.
The moment the system activated, however, a painfully familiar voice flooded the small cabin of the car.
"Kimi ga mae ni tsuki atte ita hito no koto..."
(About the person you used to date...)
"Boku ni uchi akete kureta toki..."
(When you finally confided in me...)
"..."
Shiratori Seiya's hand froze mid-air. Without missing a beat, he reached for the skip button.
But Takahashi Mio's reaction was faster. She lunged forward, her hand darting out to catch his wrist, her grip surprisingly firm. She shook her head slowly, her voice soft but resolute.
"Don't. Let's just listen to this one. I really like this song."
Yakimochi. Jealousy. Hojo Shione's signature song. The anthem of her rise. The melody that had once been inescapable on every radio station and convenience store speaker across the nation.
Listening to the familiar tune—a song she herself had belted out countless times in cramped karaoke booths with friends—Takahashi Mio tilted her head back slightly. She looked up at the invisible space above her own head, where, metaphorically speaking, a note from Hojo Shione seemed to hang like a challenge flag.
A sudden, sharp, mirthless laugh bubbled up inside her chest.
Hojo Shione... I'm sitting in your seat now. Right here. Right beside him. Are you jealous?
A strange, electric energy began to crackle through her previously depleted limbs. She felt revitalized, almost giddy. The more she looked at the meticulous notes Shiratori Seiya had prepared specifically for her, the more a warm, pleasant sensation spread through her chest.
She flipped to the final pages of the stack, eager to see what other observations he had made.
And then, the smile on her face froze solid.
"Script Analysis Notes."
"Basic Framework for Script Writing."
"Character Arc Development."
Page after page. Dozens of them. All dedicated to the intricate craft of scriptwriting. The margins were crammed with tiny, densely packed annotations, detailed breakdowns of dialogue structure, pacing techniques, and narrative theory.
Takahashi Mio slowly lifted her gaze from the pages and turned her head toward the driver's seat. Her voice was carefully neutral, almost too calm.
"Are you... learning how to write scripts lately?"
"Hm?"
Shiratori Seiya glanced over, his eyes following her gaze to the stack of notes in her lap. Realization dawned. He turned his attention back to the road ahead and answered in an offhand, casual tone.
"Yeah. I've been studying scriptwriting recently. Picking it up."
Receiving this casual confirmation, Takahashi Mio's eyes narrowed fractionally. She pursed her lips, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the paper.
"Are you writing a script... for me?" she asked, her voice dropping to a lower register. "Are you seriously thinking about writing an entire script just so I can act in it someday?"
Shiratori Seiya kept his eyes fixed on the road, his expression unreadable. "Do you think it's unrealistic?"
"..."
Takahashi Mio opened her mouth, the reflexive retort already forming on her tongue. 'Isn't it, though? Isn't that a bit absurd?'
But the words never made it past her lips.
At that precise moment, Hojo Shione's recorded voice surged into the song's emotional chorus, filling the car with raw, aching melody.
Takahashi Mio's heart lurched. She forgot to breathe.
Her eyes flew wide open, shock rippling through her features like a stone dropped into still water. The blurred lights and shapes outside the car window seemed to recede, fading into insignificance as a forgotten memory exploded into the forefront of her mind with blinding clarity.
Flashback—
"Hey, um... Shiratori-kun? Do you happen to know who 'A-sensei' really is...?"
"Didn't you read the post clearly? The guy's burned out. Said he doesn't want to write songs anymore."
"Huh?! Wait—he's actually just one person?! That can't be right..."
"What else would he be? A committee of songwriting ghosts?"
"Then... is he a guy? A-sensei, I mean."
"Male. Definitely male."
"Aren't you... I don't know... jealous? Of him?"
"No..."
In that single, electrifying instant, Takahashi Mio felt as though a bolt of divine lightning had struck her directly between the eyes. Every confused, fragmented piece of the puzzle that had been rattling around in her subconscious suddenly snapped into perfect, devastating alignment.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes wide and unblinking, and stared at the profile of the young man behind the steering wheel. The passing streetlights cast shifting shadows across his face, illuminating his calm, focused expression in brief, flickering intervals.
The truth hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable.