Mondays always felt like a reset button, the day when weekend dreams gave way to weekday realities. I tucked the flash drive into my pocket, double-checking to make sure it was secure. Our entire future might rest on that tiny piece of plastic and metal.
The group had decided to take today off to rest, leaving me as the center to strike up a deal.
Six floors up, the doors opened to Strawberry Productions' modest reception area. The walls displayed B-Komachi posters, their success the foundation that kept this place running. A bell sat on the empty receptionist desk—budget constraints meant no full-time greeter.
I smoothed my shirt, adjusted my posture, and walked toward Ichigo's office. The door stood slightly ajar, and I knocked gently.
"Come in," called a voice that definitely wasn't Ichigo's.
I pushed the door open to find Ai Hoshino sitting in one of the chairs across from Ichigo's desk, a script in her lap. She wore casual clothes—jeans and a simple blouse—rather than her stage attire, her blue-purple hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
"Oh," we said in perfect unison.
Ai recovered first, her professional smile sliding into place with practiced ease. "Toshiro-kun. Were you looking for Ichigo-san too?"
"Yeah," I said, my hand automatically patting my pocket where the flash drive sat. "I had a meeting scheduled."
"Same here." She gestured to the empty chair beside her. "He's running late. Something about a venue issue for next month's showcase."
I sat down, maintaining a respectful distance. This was only our second real interaction since joining Strawberry Productions. Up close, the gradient of her eyes was even more striking—purple fading to pink in a way that seemed almost supernatural.
"You settling in okay?" she asked, setting her script aside.
"Better than expected," I said. "The guys are... not what I imagined."
"In good ways or bad?"
I smiled, thinking about my new groupmates. "Just different. Ryota refers to himself in the third person and challenges me to a flexibility contest every morning. Ryuu organizes our water bottles by height and has a heart attack whenever anyone moves them."
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her face. "And the others?"
"Seiji's energy could power Tokyo for a week. And Daisuke..." I paused, considering the oldest member of our group. "He watches everything from a distance, then says exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment."
Ai nodded. "Sounds about right. Ichigo has a knack for finding misfits who somehow fit together."
"Like B-Komachi?"
"Like all of us." She shrugged. "So what brings you to his office on your day off? Problems already?"
I tapped my pocket where the flash drive sat. "The opposite. We've been working on something new."
"New how?" She leaned forward slightly.
"A song we wrote. Our song, not one assigned to us."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You've been with the company for what—a week? And you've already created original material?"
"When inspiration hits, you don't question it."
"Must have been some serious inspiration." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "What's it about?"
"It's about running. Not away from something, but toward it. Together."
Her expression shifted subtly. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of something beneath her perfect idol exterior—recognition, perhaps. Understanding.
"You have it with you?" She nodded toward my pocket.
"Yeah."
"Can I hear it?"
"Why?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting the challenge. For a moment, her practiced expressions fell away completely.
"Because I'm curious," she said simply. No idol affectation, no strategic angle. Just straightforward interest.
I studied her face. My transmigrator instincts, honed through two lifetimes of reading people, detected no deception.
"The guys trusted me with this," I said finally.
"And you don't want to betray that trust." She nodded. "I get it. But consider this—I've known Ichigo longer than anyone here. I know what moves him, what makes him take risks on new ideas." She paused. "And if it's actually good, having B-Komachi's center in your corner won't hurt."
She had a point. And something in me—perhaps the artist who'd never quite succeeded in my previous life—wanted to know what she thought of our creation.
"Alright," I said, standing up. "Let's hear it."
I moved to Ichigo's computer, turning on the monitor and inserting the flash drive. A few clicks later, and the familiar opening beats of "Run" filled the office.
I watched Ai as she listened, her expression giving away nothing at first. But as the song progressed, subtle changes appeared—a slight widening of her eyes during Seiji's rap verse, a small nod at Daisuke's bridge, fingers tapping unconsciously against her knee during the final chorus.
When the last notes faded, she remained silent, staring at the computer screen.
"Well?" I asked after the silence stretched uncomfortably long.
"Play it again," she said.
I did, and this time she closed her eyes, concentrating entirely on the sound. When it ended, she opened her eyes and looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You made this in a week."
"Yes."
"With no professional equipment."
"Just what our friend had available."
She shook her head slowly. "That's not just good, Toshiro. That's scary good."
Something warm spread through my chest at her words. "So you'll help us convince Ichigo?"
"I don't think you'll need my help," she said. "But yes, I'll back you up."
I returned to my seat, relief mixing with pride. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Ichigo might still say no."
"He won't," I said with certainty.
"Such confidence." Her lips curved in amusement. "Is that a center thing, or just a Toshiro thing?"
"Both, maybe." I smiled. "What about you? The script for your next project?" I nodded toward the papers she'd set aside.
She glanced down. "Just a small commercial. Nothing exciting."
"You don't seem like someone who does 'nothing exciting.'"
That earned me another genuine laugh. "Are you always this direct with people you barely know?"
"Only the interesting ones."
Her eyes met mine, searching for something—mockery, perhaps, or an agenda. Finding neither, she relaxed slightly.
"The commercial is for a sports drink," she said. "I'll be playing a tennis player who gets her energy from Vitaboost or whatever it's called."
"Can you play tennis?"
"Not even a little," she admitted. "But I can fake it convincingly enough for fifteen seconds of footage."
"The great Ai Hoshino, master of illusions," I said, keeping my tone light.
Something flickered across her face—so brief I almost missed it. "That's the job, isn't it? Creating illusions people want to believe in."
"Is it?" I leaned forward. "I always thought the best performers reveal truth, not create illusions."
She studied me again, more intently this time. "You're either very naive or very wise for your age, Toshiro Kagami."
"Maybe both," I said, thinking of my dual lifetimes of memories.
"Maybe." She smiled, a small genuine one that didn't seem calculated for effect. "So tell me about this song. What inspired it?"
"Life," I said simply. "The feeling of always moving forward, chasing something just out of reach."
"And what are you chasing?"
The question hit closer to home than she could know. What was I chasing in this second life? Redemption? Purpose? Connection?
"I'm not sure yet," I answered honestly. "But I know I'm not chasing it alone anymore."
She nodded slowly. "That's the difference between solo work and a group. You're never alone, for better or worse."
"Sounds like you speak from experience."
"B-Komachi has been my family for years now," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "You learn to rely on each other."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "The public only sees the perfect performances, the synchronized movements, the smiling faces. They don't see the arguments over choreography, the late-night rehearsals, the times when someone's voice gives out and everyone has to adapt."
"But it's worth it," I said, not quite a question.
"Yes." No hesitation in her response. "It's worth every moment."
The office door swung open suddenly, and Ichigo strode in, adjusting his ever-present sunglasses.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, then stopped when he registered both of us sitting there. "Ah, you've met. Again."
"We were just getting acquainted," Ai said smoothly, slipping back into her professional persona so quickly it was almost jarring.
"Good, good." Ichigo moved behind his desk. "Toshiro, can we reschedule? I need to speak with Ai about—"
"Actually," she interrupted, "you should hear what he brought you first. It's important."
Ichigo raised an eyebrow, looking between us. "Is it?"
"PRISM has been working on an original song. We'd like you to consider it for our debut under Strawberry Productions."
"You actually finished the song?" Ichigo's expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tilt of his head—interest, not dismissal. "Let's hear it, then."
As I reinserted the flash drive, I glanced at Ai. She gave me a small nod, almost imperceptible.
I pressed play, and once again, the sound of "Run" filled the office. This time, I watched Ichigo's reaction, searching for signs of approval or rejection.
His face remained impassive through the first verse, but when the chorus hit, I saw it—the slight tap of his finger against his desk, unconsciously keeping time with the beat.
We had him. We fucking had him.