The mirror didn't lie. Dark circles shadowed my eyes after last night's marathon texting session. I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection.
You're the center now. Act like it.
My phone vibrated on the bathroom counter.
Morning. Survived the black hole dreams? - A
A smile broke across my face before I could stop it. I typed back:
Barely. Turns out spaghetti stars make terrible breakfast. How's your morning? - T
Setting the phone down, I grabbed my dance bag and checked the contents. Water bottles. Towels. Spare clothes. Everything a professional needed for a grueling practice session.
The phone buzzed again.
Chaotic. Trying to find my left shoe while simultaneously preventing a toddler rebellion. - A
Toddler rebellion?
I paused, trying to parse what she meant. A joke? Before I could respond, another message came through.
Sorry, that was meant for Ichigo. Ignore! - A
Then immediately after:
Actually, that was for Miyako. Early morning brain fog. - A
Something felt off, but I had no time to analyze it. The clock showed 7:18 AM. Practice started at 8:00 sharp, and Ryuu would lecture anyone who arrived with less than fifteen minutes to spare.
No worries. Hope you find your shoe. And quell the rebellion. - T
The train ride to SYNC passed quickly. I'd spent ghe time developing the routine for "Run" in my head, envisioning each movement, each transition. Now came the hard part: teaching it to four very different dancers with very different strengths.
My phone vibrated again as I walked into the studio.
Found the shoe. Under the couch. Apparently it was "hiding from the monsters." - A
I smiled, typing back while navigating the hallway:
Shoes are notorious monster magnets. Scientific fact. - T
SYNC's familiar smell greeted me—sweat, cleaning products, and determination. Studio B's door stood ajar, voices already echoing from inside.
"—not physically possible for a human spine!" That was Ryuu's voice, precise and exasperated.
"Ryota thinks it's perfectly possible! Watch!"
I stepped into the room just as Ryota bent backward, hands touching the floor behind his feet, forming a perfect bridge. His smug grin, upside down, locked onto me.
"Leader! Tell Four-Eyes that Ryota's spine is superior!"
Ryuu adjusted his glasses. "Good morning, Toshiro. Please explain to our resident contortionist that the choreography for a national broadcast shouldn't include moves that will hospitalize normal humans."
I set my bag down. "Morning. And actually, Ryota's flexibility gives us an advantage. We can incorporate elements no other group can pull off."
Seiji bounded over, his pink hair sticking up at odd angles. "Toshiro! We're gonna be on TV! Real TV! Not just the local stuff!"
"Good morning to you too." I smiled at his enthusiasm. "Where's Daisuke?"
"Here." The quiet voice came from the corner, where our eldest member sat cross-legged, scribbling in his notebook.
The group complete, I clapped my hands once. "Alright. Today we start something new. Not just learning choreography, but creating a performance worthy of national television."
Ryuu stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. "I've taken the liberty of developing a schedule. Given our limited time frame and the complexity of the task, I propose we allocate precisely four hours daily to this routine while maintaining our regular preparation for Yokohama."
"Ryota thinks that's too much talking and not enough dancing!" Ryota stretched his arms above his head, muscles rippling beneath his tank top.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it.
"Ryuu's right," I said. "We are trying to do a lot in a short amount of time. We need structure." I moved to the center of the room. "Let's warm up, then I'll walk you through the basic framework."
As we stretched, my phone vibrated again. And again. I pulled it out discreetly.
What's your favorite color? For professional reasons. - A
Mine's pink. Though I tell magazines it's blue because it sounds more mature. - A
Sorry for the random question. Just sitting through a boring meeting. - A
I smiled, quickly typing:
Deep blue. The color right before sunrise. Currently being glared at by Ryuu for checking my phone during stretches. - T
Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I refocused on the group. "Everyone ready?"
Four nods answered me.
"Good. Here's what we're creating..."
For the next hour, I walked them through the skeleton of the choreography—the major movements, the formations, the energy shifts. Each member watched with different expressions: Ryuu's analytical focus, Ryota's physical impatience, Seiji's open excitement, Daisuke's quiet absorption.
"The key," I explained, demonstrating a complex transition, "is making this look effortless even though it's technically demanding. We're telling a story of determination, of pushing forward no matter what."
"Like our journey," Daisuke said softly.
"Exactly." I nodded. "This isn't just choreography—it's our statement to the industry. That we're not just some resurrected group riding on novelty. We're artists with something to say."
Ryuu cleared his throat. "While I appreciate the sentiment, perhaps we should focus on the technical aspects first? The time constraints are considerable."
"Ryota wants to try the chorus section!" He was already moving to position, body coiled with energy.
"Hold on." I held up a hand. "Before we dive into individual parts, let's run through the basic structure together. I need to see how it flows with all five bodies, not just in my head."
We spent the next two hours working through the first minute of the song—positioning, timing, transitions. My phone remained silent in my bag, and I fought the urge to check it.
"Again," I called after our third attempt. "Ryota, pull back on the entry—you're overshooting the mark. Seiji, sharper on the turn. Ryuu, more fluidity between positions."
Sweat soaked through my shirt as we repeated the sequence over and over. Teaching proved harder than performing—seeing the gaps between my vision and reality, finding ways to bridge them without crushing spirits.
During a water break, my phone finally vibrated again. I checked it while wiping sweat from my face.
What did you want to be when you grew up? Before idol life became the path. - A
I smiled, typing quickly:
Archaeologist. Wanted to uncover lost civilizations. What about you? Besides astronaut. - T
"Is that management?" Ryuu appeared at my shoulder, making me jump.
I locked the screen. "No. Just checking the time."
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "We have a clock on the wall."
"Right." I pocketed the phone. "Let's get back to work. Bridge sequence next."
As morning turned to afternoon, the choreography slowly took shape. Not perfect—nowhere close—but the skeleton emerged. Ryota mastered the acrobatic elements with ease. Seiji's natural rhythm helped him grasp the flow quickly. Daisuke moved with surprising grace for someone so quiet. Even Ryuu, despite his technical approach, executed the moves with precision.
"Take fifteen," I finally called, collapsing against the mirror. My shirt clung to my skin, completely soaked through.
The others sprawled across the floor, breathing hard. Except Ryota, who immediately began stretching, seemingly immune to fatigue.
I pulled out my phone.
Never really thought about it. Just wanted out of where I was. Performing was the ticket. - A
Then, sent a minute later:
That sounds depressing. I did dream of having a garden someday. With strawberries. - A
I smiled, typing back:
Nothing depressing about survival. The garden sounds nice though. Archaeologist/idol seems equally improbable in retrospect. - T
"Alright, time to get serious." Ryuu stood, adjusting his glasses. "Toshiro, we need to finalize the formation shifts for the chorus. And Ryota's insistence on incorporating that flip sequence is problematic for the spacing."
I sighed, pocketing my phone. "You're right. Let's problem-solve."
The afternoon blurred into a cycle of demonstration, correction, repetition. My body moved on autopilot while my mind juggled a thousand details—Seiji's tendency to rush the beat, Ryuu's stiffness during transitions, Ryota's excessive force threatening to collide with others.
"Toshiro, a word?" Ryuu pulled me aside during another water break, his voice low. "I appreciate your vision, but realistically, we cannot perfect this routine to broadcast standards in the timeframe given."
I wiped sweat from my eyes. "We can. We will."
"The statistical probability—"
"Isn't relevant." I cut him off, softer than I intended. "This isn't about statistics. It's about commitment."
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Some of us have been committed to this group since before you arrived."
The words stung more than they should have. "I know that. And I respect it. But this is our chance to redefine PRISM—not as Tadashi's former group, but as something new. Something ours."
After a long moment, he nodded. "Then we need to be more efficient. No distractions." His eyes flicked to my pocket where my phone rested. "Complete focus."
He was right. I rolled my shoulders back. "Let's run it from the top. Full energy."
For the next two hours, I pushed them harder than ever before—breaking down movements, drilling transitions, demanding precision while maintaining the raw energy the song required. By six o'clock, everyone dripped with sweat, faces flushed with exertion.
"Last run," I called. "Full out."
The music started, and for seven minutes we transformed the sterile studio into something electric. Not perfect—nowhere close—but alive with possibility. When the final notes faded, we stood panting in our ending formation, reflected infinitely in the surrounding mirrors.
"That," Daisuke said quietly, "felt right."
Seiji collapsed dramatically onto the floor. "My legs have divorced me. They're moving to another country."
Even Ryuu looked satisfied, though he immediately began taking notes on his tablet. "Significant improvement. Though the second verse transition remains problematic."
Ryota bounced on his toes, apparently immune to fatigue. "When do we add the flying part?"
"The what?" Ryuu's head snapped up.
"The flying. When Ryota jumps over Seiji and Daisuke!"
"Absolutely not." Ryuu adjusted his glasses. "That wasn't in the original choreography."
All eyes turned to me. I considered it, visualizing the moment Ryota described. It was risky, potentially dangerous—and exactly the kind of memorable moment that could make our performance stand out.
"We'll try it tomorrow," I decided. "With proper safety measures."
Ryota pumped his fist in victory while Ryuu's expression darkened.
"That's it for today," I announced. "Great work, everyone. Review the recordings tonight. Tomorrow we refine."
As they gathered their things, I checked my phone.
Meetings all day. Kill me now. How's the practice? - A
I smiled, typing:
Intense. Teaching choreography is harder than creating it. Everyone's working hard though. - T
"Dinner?" Seiji appeared at my shoulder, his pink hair plastered to his forehead. "We're getting ramen at that place near the station."
"You go ahead." I gestured to my soaked clothes. "I want to review some things here first."
After they left, I sat alone in the empty studio, the silence ringing in my ears after hours of music and exertion. My phone vibrated.
Teaching is a whole different skillset. Like trying to explain how to breathe when you've done it automatically your whole life. - A
I smiled, typing:
Exactly. Plus everyone breathes differently. Ryota's basically a hurricane. - T
Her response came quickly:
Sounds like Nino during our early days. Once knocked over an entire set piece with "excessive enthusiasm." - A
I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty room.
What are you doing now? Still in meetings? - T
Finally escaped. You? - A
I looked at my reflection in the mirror—sweat-soaked, exhausted, but oddly energized.
Sitting alone in an empty studio wondering if I'm crazy to think we can pull this off. - T
The response took longer this time:
You're not crazy. Ambitious, maybe. But that's why Ichigo chose you. - A
Something warm spread through my chest that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
Thanks for saying that. - T
I left the studio, muscles aching as I headed for the station. The evening air felt cool against my skin.
We should compare notes tonight. Professional development dinner. - T
I sent it before I could second-guess myself, heart suddenly pounding harder than it had during practice.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally:
For professional reasons only, of course. - A
I smiled, typing:
Absolutely. Strictly business. - T
As I boarded the train home, my body exhausted but mind racing with choreography and conversation, I couldn't help but wonder what I was really doing. This wasn't just professional courtesy anymore, and we both knew it.
The rattling of the train car became a metronome to my thoughts. Choreography positions intertwined with messages from Ai, creating a strange harmony in my head. I pulled out my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Would you want to come over tonight? I could cook dinner. Professional choreography consultation.
I deleted the last part, then rewrote it, then deleted it again. Why was this so difficult? I'd performed in front of thousands without this much hesitation. Finally, I typed:
I could make dinner at my place. Professional choreography consultation with actual food instead of ramen packets. -T
The message sat there, unsent, as the train approached my stop. I pressed send before I could overthink it further, then shoved the phone in my pocket and grabbed my dance bag.
The platforms teemed with commuters—salarymen with loosened ties, students with heavy backpacks, women in office attire. None of them knew me here, not as Toshiro Kagami of PRISM. Just another tired face headed home.
My phone vibrated as I climbed the station stairs.
Hmm, sure. For professional reasons only. What's your address? -A
My heart raced faster than it had during our most intense practice segment. I quickly sent my address, adding:
Apartment 602. The elevator's usually broken, so be prepared for stairs. -T
Then reality crashed down like a missed landing. I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a businessman to swerve around me with an annoyed grunt.
Fuck... I don't know how to cook.