Friday, May 16, 2025
The rhythm pounded through the floorboards as I hit the final pose, chest heaving, sweat streaming down my face. For three brutal seconds, we held our positions—Ryota's muscular frame frozen mid-lunge, Seiji balanced on one foot with perfect control, Daisuke's head bowed dramatically, and Ryuu's arms extended in our signature formation.
"And... cut!" Ichigo's voice sliced through the moment.
I straightened, wiping my forearm across my brow. The mirror wall of Studio A reflected five exhausted young men, our practice clothes darkened with sweat. Behind us, through the glass partition, Ichigo sat with his ever-present shades, expression unreadable.
"Again," he said, tapping the glass. "From the bridge."
Ryota slammed his water bottle down. "Ryota has done this seven times already! Perfect each time!"
"Not perfect." Ryuu adjusted his glasses. "Your timing was off by approximately half a beat during the second chorus."
"Was not!"
"Ryuu's right," I said, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. "But it wasn't just you. I came in early on the hand sequence."
"I didn't notice," Seiji admitted, bouncing on his toes.
Daisuke said nothing, just closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself. Of all of us, he seemed the least affected by the repeated run-throughs, though I could see the fatigue in the slight droop of his shoulders.
I glanced at the clock. We'd been at it for three hours straight. "One more perfect run," I told the group, lowering my voice so it wouldn't carry through the glass. "Give everything you've got, and we're done for the day."
Ryota grunted his agreement. Ryuu nodded sharply. Seiji flashed a thumbs-up. Daisuke simply opened his eyes, ready.
I walked to the sound system and reset the track. As I did, I noticed the small crowd that had gathered outside the studio. The SYNC staff, who normally bustled efficiently between studios, had paused their work to watch. One of the receptionists stood with a clipboard forgotten in her hands. Two dancers from another group lingered by the door.
Good. We were making an impression.
I took my position at center, the others falling into place around me. In the glass reflection, Ichigo leaned forward slightly in his chair.
"PRISM," I said quietly to my groupmates. "Let's show them who we are."
The music started, and the world fell away.
There's a peculiar transformation that happens during a perfect performance. The body moves on instinct, every motion so deeply ingrained that conscious thought becomes unnecessary. The mind splits—one part hyper-aware of every technical detail, the other free to inhabit the emotional landscape of the music.
As we hit the chorus of "Run," I felt that split consciousness take hold. My body executed each move with precision while my mind soared. The lyrics poured through me—about pushing forward, about refusing to surrender, about transforming pain into momentum.
In my past life, I'd never experienced anything like this.
Ryota launched into his verse, his powerful frame somehow both aggressive and controlled as he prowled across the floor. The contrast between his muscular build and pretty face never failed to create visual impact. He jabbed the air, each movement sharp as a blade.
I transitioned seamlessly into position for the chorus, feeling the others fall in around me. Through the mirror, I caught glimpses of the growing audience. The door had opened wider, more faces peering in. They weren't watching idly—they were transfixed.
Seiji's rap section hit, and the youngest member transformed from his usual sunny self into something fiercer. His pink hair caught the studio lights as he moved, his natural athleticism making the complex footwork look effortless.
The bridge approached—the section we'd been struggling with all day. I locked eyes with each member briefly, a silent command passing between us. Now. Everything. Perfect.
Ryuu took center position, his voice cutting through the instrumental as the rest of us executed the intricate hand choreography behind him. His normally rigid posture loosened just enough to give his movement the fluidity the section demanded. For all his analytical nature, when Ryuu performed, something else emerged—something raw and unexpectedly emotional.
As we transitioned back to the final chorus, Daisuke's harmonies soared over the top, adding depth and richness to the sound. His movements were minimal but precise, each gesture carrying weight and meaning. Of all of us, he understood best how stillness could be as powerful as motion.
The music built toward the finale, and I felt rather than saw the others moving into the closing formation around me. My body hit each beat with the precision of a metronome, but my mind was elsewhere—thinking of blue-purple hair and gradient eyes, of a laugh that made my chest ache.
Run beautiful, run, yeah you gotta run...
The final note hung in the air as we struck our ending pose—five distinct silhouettes frozen in a tableau of exhausted triumph.
Silence.
Then a burst of applause from the doorway, startling all of us. The small crowd of SYNC staff and curious onlookers had grown to at least fifteen people. One of the staff members actually wiped her eyes.
"Holy shit," someone whispered loud enough for us to hear.
Ichigo stood from his chair, his face still unreadable behind those ever-present shades. He nodded once—the closest thing to approval he typically offered—and then gestured for me to join him outside.
"Take five," I told the others, grabbing a towel to wipe my face. "Maybe ten. You've earned it."
Ryota collapsed dramatically onto the floor. "Ryota is dying. Leave Ryota here to perish in glory."
Seiji laughed, poking him with his foot. "You say that after every practice."
"And Ryota means it every time!"
I left them to their bickering, stepping into the hallway where Ichigo waited. "Walk with me," he said, heading toward the small break area at the end of the hall.
I followed, aware of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and disheveled appearance. Ichigo never seemed to care about such things, though. Results were all that mattered to him.
The break room was empty, just a couple of vending machines and a small table with chairs. Ichigo bought two sports drinks, handing one to me without asking if I wanted it. I took it gratefully, twisting off the cap and drinking half in one go.
"That," Ichigo said, settling into a chair, "was exactly what I've been waiting to see."
"The choreography still needs tightening in—"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Technical details can be fixed. What I saw in there was something else. Something you can't teach."
I sat across from him, stretching my legs under the table. "The connection?"
"The hunger," he corrected. "Five distinct personalities who want the same thing badly enough to move as one."
I nodded, understanding. "Tadashi leaving nearly broke them. They needed to find a new purpose."
"And they have." Ichigo removed his sunglasses, a rare gesture that signaled the seriousness of the conversation. His eyes were sharp, evaluating. "Thanks in large part to you."
I shrugged. "I just gave them a center to orbit around."
"You gave them more than that. You gave them direction. Purpose." He leaned forward. "Which is why I need to know your intentions are serious."
The abrupt shift caught me off guard. "My intentions?"
"This isn't a game, Kagami. There are real lives involved. Real feelings."
I straightened in my chair, suddenly alert. Was he talking about PRISM? About my commitment to the group?
"I'm completely dedicated to making this work," I assured him.
Ichigo's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not just about professional commitment. It's about understanding the responsibility you've taken on."
"I do understand." I set my drink down, meeting his gaze directly. "They were hurt before. Abandoned. I won't do that to them."
He studied me for a long moment. "And you're prepared for the challenges? The scrutiny? The potential complications?"
"I've thought about it from every angle," I said, thinking of the group's dynamic, their past wounds, the industry pressures we faced. "I know what I'm getting into."
"Do you?" His tone carried a weight I didn't fully understand. "Because once you're in, there's no easy way out. Not without causing pain."
"I'm not looking for a way out," I said firmly. "I'm in this for the long haul."
Something in his expression shifted, a subtle relaxation around his eyes. "Good. Because they deserve someone who will see this through. Who will protect what matters."
"I will." The promise felt heavier than it should have for a simple discussion about group dynamics. "They can count on me."
Ichigo nodded slowly. "They're more fragile than they appear, you know."
I thought of Seiji, our youngest member, with his boundless enthusiasm masking the pain of multiple losses. "I know. I watch out for Seiji particularly."
A strange expression crossed Ichigo's face. "Right. Seiji."
"Is there something specific concerning you?" I asked, feeling like I was missing something important.
Ichigo replaced his sunglasses, his expression once again unreadable. "Just making sure we understand each other. Saturday is important."
Saturday? We had no scheduled performances or appearances on Saturday. The only thing on my calendar was—
"Ah," I said, understanding dawning. "You're talking about me watching your twins."
"Exactly." Ichigo's tone carried an odd emphasis. "I'm trusting you with something precious to me."
"I'll take good care of them," I promised, relieved to finally understand the conversation. "Ai mentioned they can be a handful, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Ai," Ichigo repeated, his voice carefully neutral. "Yes, she'll be there too, of course."
"She said it would be good for me to understand the work-life balance challenges in our industry." I took another sip of my drink. "Very thoughtful of her."
"Thoughtful. That's one word for it." Ichigo stood abruptly. "Just remember what I said. This isn't casual. It matters."
"I understand," I assured him, though his intensity about a simple babysitting arrangement seemed excessive. Perhaps he was one of those extremely protective parents. Must be nice.
"I hope you do." He checked his watch. "Finish up here. I want one more run-through before we call it a day."
I groaned internally but nodded. As Ichigo headed back toward the studio, I remained seated, finishing my drink and trying to parse our strange conversation.
If the twins were that important to Ichigo, no wonder Ai had suggested the outing. It was a significant show of trust from our producer, allowing me into his private life. The professional implications weren't lost on me—Ichigo was evaluating me not just as PRISM's center but as someone worthy of his inner circle.
And yet, something about the conversation felt off. The intensity in Ichigo's eyes when he'd mentioned "real feelings." The emphasis on not causing pain. It seemed excessive for discussing childcare.
Unless...
Unless he knew something I didn't.
I crushed the empty bottle in my hand, a new possibility forming in my mind. What if Ichigo suspected my feelings for Ai? What if this "trust" with his children was actually a test—to see if I could be trusted with someone else precious to him?
The thought sent a jolt through me. I'd been careful—we both had—but Ichigo was unnervingly perceptive. If he'd noticed the way I looked at Ai, the way my voice changed when I spoke to her...
"Kagami!" His voice echoed down the hallway. "We're waiting."
I stood, pushing the thoughts aside. Whatever game Ichigo was playing, I'd figure it out later. Right now, PRISM needed their leader.
But as I walked back to Studio A, one certainty remained: nothing—not Ichigo's cryptic warnings, not the complexities of the industry, not even my own past life's memories—would keep me from seeing Ai tomorrow.