Driving back home, Shiratori Seiya stood at the door, his hand halfway through pressing the electronic keypad when he suddenly stopped.
Shione should still be home now.
When he had left home that afternoon, the girl had looked at him with eyes full of reluctance—those deep, longing gazes that seemed to follow him long after he'd turned away. A flicker went through Shiratori Seiya's heart, and a fragmented memory surfaced, pulling him back to a different time.
—
"Shione, didn't I tell you last time? I'm the only one home during the day. Aunt gave you a key, so you can just come in."
During the summer break of his third year of high school, Shiratori Seiya sat at his desk in nothing but shorts, pen in hand, writing furiously. The desk was a battlefield of clutter—notes on incorrect answers from school exams, several test papers scoring well below the average, one or two CDs of popular music, and a meticulously organized schedule for Hōjō Shione's upcoming announcements.
From the moment he opened his eyes at 5:30 AM, he had barely brushed his teeth before diving straight into work. He hadn't even washed his face properly.
Although Shione was the one performing on stage—rushing from announcement to announcement, training endlessly day after day—Shiratori Seiya was no less busy than her. If anything, he carried the heavier burden.
First, he listened to some popular songs of the moment, comparing them with the system's database, studying the music that had recently resonated with the public. Then he had to call the artist agency to confirm competition times and organize Shione's upcoming announcement schedule. He flipped through his notes, recalling the issues Shione had encountered during training, planning to send his feedback to her either in person or online that day.
After all of that was done, he still had to prepare for the exam in February of the following year.
Shione could get into university through an art exam. But he—tone-deaf and only capable of writing musical scores—could not. Because of Shione's competitions, he hadn't studied for nearly half a year. If he didn't start working hard now, he wouldn't be able to get into a decent university.
Those days had left Shiratori Seiya physically and mentally exhausted. Countless tasks surrounded him from the moment he woke up until his head hit the pillow late at night. Sleep had become a luxury he could barely afford.
If he had a different manager, he would probably be much more relaxed, right?
He had entertained such thoughts before. But they usually disappeared within two seconds, dissolving like morning mist. He gave up on them almost immediately.
He didn't trust anyone else.
"Her affairs are his affairs."
From the moment he had become bound to Hōjō Shione and decided to make money, he had set this standard for himself in his heart. Her condition—whether her singing skills were improving or regressing, what kind of announcements she could take now, whether it would be a positive or negative gain for her future, whether there were loopholes in the contracts she signed, especially how much money she could earn—he had to calculate all of it clearly.
If these responsibilities were left to others, a gray blank area would appear in his and Shione's careers. That would inevitably affect his subsequent judgment on her career development. He couldn't afford any blind spots.
Starting a career is always difficult. Being tired now was unavoidable.
To change this "working like an ox" state, Shiratori Seiya felt it would take at least until he earned enough money later and opened his own artist agency. By then, Hōjō Shione could stabilize. Once his company developed, he could become a hands-off boss and expand into other areas—perhaps even venture into different industries entirely.
His thoughts drifted unconsciously. Shiratori Seiya bit his thumb joint to bring his focus back.
At the very least, for this exam, his math score had to pass first.
However, just as he steeled himself and wrote three lines of mathematical derivation formulas, a series of urgent doorbell rings cut through the silence.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Shiratori Seiya frowned, straightened up, and glanced toward the entrance. A surge of irritation rose in his chest.
The feeling of being interrupted while in the middle of deep concentration was not pleasant.
The doorbell rang twice more. He walked to the entrance with a sullen expression, not even bothering to look through the peephole to see who it was. The irritable mood in his heart made him want to show his displeasure—to let the other person see his annoyed expression the moment the door swung open.
Click.
The door opened, and Shiratori Seiya was stunned.
The girl standing there wore a white off-shoulder shirt and a black-grey short skirt. Sunlight cascaded over her fair, rosy shoulders, making a few strands of her dark hair sparkle like threads of silk. She unconsciously adjusted the shoulder strap of her satchel, a nervous habit he recognized all too well.
The moment she saw him, Hōjō Shione's face broke into a bright, radiant smile.
"Seiya, good... afternoon..."
Her words faltered halfway as she noticed Shiratori Seiya's gloomy expression. Her heart thumped once, and her smile became somewhat forced.
"Hmm."
Seeing it was Shione, Shiratori Seiya's lips moved. He smoothed away the impatient expression on his face, suppressed the anxiety in his heart, and sighed lightly.
"Where's the key Aunt gave you? Didn't I tell you before that I'm the only one home during the day, so you can just come in?"
"I..."
Noticing the unhappiness in Shiratori Seiya's tone, Hōjō Shione's lips mumbled for a moment. Then she smiled again, her eyes narrowing into crescent moons.
"But I wanted to see Seiya immediately when the door opened."
"It's only a difference of one or two seconds. What's the difference?"
"It's definitely different."
Hōjō Shione instinctively tightened her grip on her handbag strap. She took a step forward, leaning closer to Shiratori Seiya, and stared into his eyes with unwavering seriousness.
"If Seiya opens the door for me, it gives me a warm feeling. Like a husband opening the door for his wife after a long day of work."
She paused, her voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. "If I could hear Seiya say 'Welcome home,' that would be even better..."
The girl's eyes—full of anticipation and longing in his memory—seemed to transcend time itself, gazing at him with that same sweet intensity from years past. Shiratori Seiya hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand and pressed the doorbell.
...
Ding-dong.
However, unexpectedly, there was no response.
He thought Hōjō Shione simply hadn't heard it, so he pressed it again. Still nothing. The silence stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator somewhere deep inside the house.
Reality always had a way of diverging from expectations. Shiratori Seiya pouted, finally punched in the code, and let himself in.
Closing the door behind him, he was still changing shoes in the entrance when he vaguely caught the aroma of food wafting through the air. Yet the lights in the house were off, casting the interior in a dim, twilight gloom.
He walked to the dining table, where three dishes and a soup—covered neatly with a mesh net—were arranged with obvious care. A note sat on top, written in Shione's familiar, flowing script:
"Seiya, I'm going to pick something up with a friend. I'll be back a bit later. I've already eaten, so no need to wait for me ~ — Shione"
Looking at the exquisite dishes—each one clearly prepared with him in mind—Shiratori Seiya's heart stirred. A warmth spread through his chest, unexpected and quietly comforting.
She really went out of her way.
He felt inexplicably cared for. Standing at the table, he thought for a while, then habitually picked up a book from nearby and began to eat while reading—a routine he'd developed during those grueling high school days.
But after only two bites, he lost interest.
It wasn't that the food wasn't to his taste. Quite the opposite: Hōjō Shione had made all his favorite dishes—the ones he'd casually mentioned months ago, the ones she'd remembered with unnerving precision. The flavors were perfect, the presentation immaculate.
It was just that whenever he thought of Takahashi Mio, his mind inevitably drifted to her future career development. And thinking of Mio, he immediately recalled the system's conditions for activating the next bound target.
His habit of thinking three steps ahead made him unconsciously start considering the next bound target in advance.
Excluding Saori first... then only Shione remains.
But he couldn't help but worry about her current situation. It had been over half a year since he'd served as her manager, and he still didn't know her precise standing within the company. He only had a general understanding of recent public opinion about her—fragments of news, snippets of online chatter.
He did know, however, that her contract should be expiring soon.
So, would she sign with her current company again?
According to Shione's current achievements, a new contract would be for at least three to five years. That timeframe should be enough to meet the conditions for binding the next person. But her manager at the hospital last time hadn't seemed very familiar with the contract details—which had annoyed him more than he'd let on.
He unconsciously put down his chopsticks, picked up a pen, and began to calculate.
How much longer would Mio need? How many plays would she have to perform in to reach LV4? How much money would he need to spend to push her to that level?
Given Mio's current progress, she should reach LV3 around January or February of next year—after her current play wrapped.
That was already remarkably fast.
Of course, this play was only meant for her to generally adapt to the stage. To truly make a name for herself, she would need the next production. That meant she might reach LV4 by the end of next year at the latest.
A LV3 script cost fifty million yen. Two would be one hundred million. Funding wasn't a concern for now, but he still needed to plan ahead—at the very least, he should ask Shione about her next steps.
"Seiya, is today's cooking not to your liking?"
Suddenly, a gentle voice drifted from beside him.
Shiratori Seiya startled, sharply turning his head. In his line of sight, the girl in a knitted sweater leaned toward him, her fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes held a questioning look—soft, curious, tinged with just a hint of concern.