Chapter 55

Shiratori Kiyoya's confidence in Takahashi Mio wasn't baseless. He admired, above all, the way she handled money; and if he set aside what she'd said in the restaurant that night—how she claimed not to care whom he'd dated—everything still made sense. She already knew he'd been with Kitajo Shione and Saori. For a girl who had never been in love to fall for a self-confessed scumbag like him? The odds felt vanishingly small. Still, he couldn't afford to relax. Distance had to be managed; stray emotions must never be allowed to taint a transaction that ought to remain purely financial.

Outside the private training room reserved for Mio, Kiyoya stood behind one-way glass, jotting in a notebook while she ran drills with her coach. He had also brought a training schedule and a stack of textbooks. Mio had never received any formal instruction, so the crash course began with fundamentals: breath-and-voice work (resonance control, emotional line delivery), body-and-expression control (micro-expressions, camera-ready body language)... Today was voice work.

"Keep your vocal cords steady when you speak, eyes forward," the coach instructed. "Anger quickens tempo; sorrow slows it. For grief, add the faintest tremor... Watch me, then read the lines yourself."

A woman in her forties demonstrated, then handed Mio the sheet. Mio scanned it, lips parting, then hesitated. The words kept dragging her thoughts back to the Kitajo sisters and to Saori. If I were them, facing Shiratori Kiyoya... Anger, grievance, forced cheerfulness...

She inhaled, opened her eyes, and the air around her shifted. Lines poured out:

"You're really leaving?"

"You're not coming back?"

"How could I... ever fall in love with you?"

Minutes later, the coach pressed her lips together and simply stared. Mio came back to herself, heart skittering. Two days had taught her how exacting Araki-sensei could be.

"Araki-sensei, did I do something wrong?"

She had been about to ask, You've had professional training, haven't you? Instead she only shook her head. "Don't direct those lines at me as if I'm your lover. Try again—this time imagine your mother, your father, a friend."

"Ah—okay."

Beyond the glass, Kiyoya's brows drew tight. As Mio spoke, he had caught glimpses of Shione, Suzune, Saori—different ghosts flickering across her face. So this was what S-grade acting talent looked like: see a person once, and the mimicry was instinctive. Admiration warred with a prickling unease he couldn't name.

...

Six in the evening. After a day of relentless drills, Mio followed Kiyoya to the car, face blank, words spent. She felt like a candle burned down to a stub in a temple gutter—ready to crumble into ash and let the wind take her. When Kiyoya suggested dinner out, she refused flatly; all she wanted was to lie on a bed like a statue and sleep.

In the car he glanced at her, then pulled a sheaf of notes from his bag. "I wrote down today's problems. Review them before next Friday's session. And buckle up."

Mio took the pages with zombie fingers and clicked the belt into place. Leaning back, letting the night air brush her face and neon lights streak by, she felt something inside her loosen. Bored, she began leafing through his notes.

Under the dome light, the handwriting was neat, meticulous. Every tiny flaw she'd shown had been logged, even Araki-sensei's comments transcribed word for word. She wasn't fighting alone, after all. The thought warmed her; the barest smile tugged at her lips.

Noticing her exhaustion, Kiyoya hit the button for music while waiting at a red light. A familiar voice filled the cabin:

"About the one you used to date—

the night you told me everything..."

He reached to skip the track. Mio caught his wrist and shook her head. "Leave it. I like this one."

Yakimochi—Kitajo Shione's signature song. Hearing the track she herself had sung countless times at karaoke, Mio glanced up at the ceiling where Shione had once left a sticky note. A laugh threatened to spill out. Shione, I'm sitting in your seat—are you jealous?

The more she read his notes, the lighter her mood became—until she reached the final section. "Script Analysis Notes," "Basic Framework for Writing Drama"... Page after page of tiny characters, dialogue breakdowns, annotations. She closed the folder and turned to him.

"...Are you studying scriptwriting?"

"Hm?" He flicked a glance sideways, saw the pages in her hand, and shrugged. "Yeah, doing some research."

"So... you're writing a script for me? Planning to cast me in something you wrote?"

"Sounds unrealistic?"

She opened her mouth—Isn't it?—but the chorus hit just then, and memory slammed into her.

"Hey, Shiratori-kun, do you know Friend A...?"

"The post said it plainly—he's burned out, doesn't want to write songs anymore."

"Is he really just one person?"

"If he's not a person, what is he?"

"So he's a guy?"

"Yeah."

"Aren't you jealous?"

"Not really..."

Lightning seemed to crack inside her skull; every puzzle piece snapped into place. She stared at the boy beside her, speechless.