"Ohayou, Nyamu~ ♪"
"Today, Nyamu's channel welcomes a heavyweight guest — the Tokyo Sword Saint himself!"
"..."
Two weeks had rolled by, and the freshly furnished activity room reserved under Bushiroad Music smelled of new tatami mats, fresh varnish, and the faint mint of Nyamu's gum. Sunlight cut through the half-closed blinds in pale, dusty bars.
Yuutenji Nyamu stared into her phone screen with the concentration of a cat watching a moth. In the corner: one-point-two million views. Her shoulders dropped in a small, satisfied sigh — the kind of exhale you only make when the universe finally cooperates.
She thrust the phone toward Kazama Haru like a report card fresh off the printer.
"Haru-kun, for a net idol, your value is cheat-level, seriously. One collab video with you racked up more views than half my back catalogue combined. That's not fair, right? That's like showing up to a bake sale with a Michelin star."
"But…"
Her mouth curled downward as she scrolled the comments, the little brightness in her eyes wilting like a forgotten daisy.
"The traffic is stupid huge, sure, but ninety percent of these comments are about you, Haru-kun. Either they're gushing over your face or begging you to do that sword trick again. Even my loyal fans skipped past my makeup — the eyeliner I spent forty minutes on! What is this crime against beauty!"
Kazama Haru rubbed his earlobe with the tip of one finger. "You should've seen this coming before we filmed. If you want longevity as a beauty vlogger, Nyamu, put your energy into your actual field. Chasing every trending topic is just a shortcut to burnout."
"Oh~? You sound like you've got a whole notebook on this, Haru-kun."
Nyamu blinked. Then, with the fluid confidence of a girl who has weaponized her face since middle school, she leaned in — too close. A hush of violet perfume brushed his collar. Her breath tickled just under his jaw as she pitched her voice into that syrupy register.
"You seem awfully enthusiastic about filming with me. So how about we both shred our contracts and forget this Ave Mujica gig? Come vlog with me full-time. We'd trend so hard, Haru-kun. The paycheck would blow past whatever crumbs a Band Manager takes home."
Nyamu thought: his ear went pink. Cute. Sakiko's about to combust behind me — even better.
"That won't do." Haru smiled, palms up in easy surrender, and drifted back half a hand's width.
"Saki-chan already gave the speech, ne? Ave Mujica is our nakama, our fated group. And today's the day we finally meet the rest of the members — saying things like that isn't very nice."
"Also, Nyamu." He narrowed his eyes at her, the smile still warm but the words hitting like a set stone. "As your Band Manager, I honestly hope you'll start thinking of Ave Mujica as home. If you do, I'll pour just as much into your personal channel as I do the band. Your current numbers don't have to be a one-hit summer festival."
"Uwaah, getting lectured by someone younger than me…"
Nyamu poked her tongue out, pink and quick. "Kidding, kidding. Since I signed on, I'll work hard, promise. You can stop looking so managerial, Manager."
"Your mouth says don't worry, but your hands make it very hard not to, desuwa."
The door had barely swung all the way open when Togawa Sakiko materialized like a ghost from a period drama, arms crossed inside the sleeves of her cardigan, gaze aimed at Nyamu with the cool disdain of a house cat evaluating a stray.
"You've already pulled our Band Manager into one very public affair. Now you're joking about breaking contracts and poaching him? Whether it's a joke or not, it's not funny, desuwa."
"Oh~ you heard all that?"
Nyamu turned with a lazy smile, meeting Sakiko's glare without flinching a centimeter.
"If you didn't want to overhear, maybe don't gossip through an open door. Or, y'know, lock it."
"Then I picked the right spot."
As if to twist the knife with a pink ribbon around it, Nyamu dropped back down beside Haru — closer this time, hip flush to his — and hooked both hands around his arm. Her sweater dragged up her forearm as she squeezed, the soft weight of her chest pressing warm against his bicep through the thin knit. She tilted her face up at him with the exaggerated devotion of a shoujo lead in her confession arc.
"Ave Mujica aside… after a few days of getting to know him, I can't live without Haru-kun. If it weren't for our little Band Manager, my channel would already be back in intensive care. And I really don't want that."
Sakiko's eyes widened by a full millimeter — her lashes fluttered twice in quick, betraying succession.
Sakiko thought: Two weeks. Two weeks and she's draped over him like a shawl. I need coffee. I need a stronger contract clause.
"Nyamu. Hands off. Harassment of the Band Manager is prohibited, desuwa."
"Oh~ Sakiko, are you jealous?"
Nyamu giggled and pressed even closer, one leg brushing his under the low table, her chin nearly hooking over his shoulder as she lifted her arms with the clear intent to loop them around his neck.
"Nyamu, oi, oi." Haru laughed under his breath, catching her slender wrist mid-air before her arms could close the circuit. Her pulse thumped fast against his thumb — she was enjoying every second of this. He gave her wrist a light, gentle squeeze and set it back in her own lap.
Then, angling smoothly toward Sakiko with the professional pivot of a variety-show host, he brightened his tone. "Saki-chan, are Misumi Uika and Yahata Umiri here yet?"
"Yes, I meant to bring them in with me. Then I heard this one yapping at the door and asked them to wait a moment while I dealt with the internal drama." Sakiko sighed the sigh of a young lady raised for finer things, shot Nyamu one last withering look, and turned toward the corridor. "Both of you, please — come in."
"Excuse the intrusion!"
"Excuse us."
One voice bright and springy like an opening credits theme; the other low, a little hoarse, the tail of a late night still in it. Yahata Umiri and Misumi Uika stepped in together, eyes sweeping over the room — the acoustic panels, the tea set, the two figures on the couch.
Haru and Nyamu exchanged a glance and rose in one motion, bowing in sync.
"Kazama Haru. I'll be your Band Manager going forward. Please take care of me."
"Just Nyamu is fine. Yoroshiku~"
The two newcomers returned the bow, and by coincidence — or maybe not — both pairs of eyes drifted a beat longer toward Haru.
So this is him. The partner Saki-chan mentioned more than once. The one her voice softens for.
Uika watched Haru from beneath her lashes as she straightened. Her first read: he had the same quiet gravity as Sakiko, that low-lit charm that pulled the room's center of balance toward him without asking.
Uika thought: pretty. Dangerous kind of pretty. Throat's dry — did I pack lozenges?
Umiri's glance held only a breath before flicking away.
As a girl who juggled memberships across multiple bands, she had watched more than her share of groups form and rot from the inside. She'd let herself daydream, quietly, that Ave Mujica might be the one that stuck — the last station on the line. But the little farce she'd caught through the door, that purple-haired drummer half-teasing, half-fishing to yank the Band Manager off his contract, had already iced over half of that hope.
Umiri thought: half a band and it's already leaking. My back hurts from the train. I want ramen after this.
Haru, oblivious to their split running commentary, kept the same easy smile.
A radiant blonde with a face that could headline a magazine cover, and a cool-featured, boyish onee-san with a sharp, gender-neutral kind of handsome. The thought of sharing hours, weeks, months of studio time with these two shifted his mood a few tones brighter without his permission.
"Pardon my interruption."
Soft as a page turning, the voice drifted in first. Then Wakaba Mutsumi, delicate as a porcelain doll left on a windowsill, pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped across the threshold.