The smartphone's blank screen captured Sora's reflection like a high-definition mirror. His mind raced, calculating possibilities while his face maintained perfect stillness.
Shades? What kind of name is that? And why does he know where I live?
Sora set the phone down on a nearby box, his fingers reluctant to release it. This apartment—paid for six months in advance—was his one guaranteed safe space. Whatever was happening, he needed time to think, to plan.
He stepped over torn cardboard and scattered clothing, moving toward the kitchenette. Water. He needed water and silence to process this bizarre situation.
The glass was halfway to his lips when it started.
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!
Sora froze, water forgotten.
"SOOOORRRRAAAA! MY GOLDEN GOOSE! MY TICKET TO INDUSTRY DOMINATION! DON'T LEAVE ME WITHERING IN THIS DEPRESSING HALLWAY! MY CREATIVE GENIUS IS BEING STIFLED BY THE SOUL-CRUSHING BEIGE OF THESE WALLS!"
The voice penetrated the cheap door with terrifying ease, each syllable vibrating with manic energy. Sora set the glass down with careful precision.
Ignore it. It'll go away.
"I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING IN THERE! THE BOND BETWEEN TALENT AND MANAGER TRANSCENDS PHYSICAL BARRIERS!"
More knocking followed, creating a rhythm that might have been the chorus to some chart-topping pop song.
I'm not opening that door. I don't know who this lunatic is.
Then the voice dropped to a stage whisper that somehow carried just as far. "If you're worried about stalkers, I've already run background checks on everyone in this building. The old lady in 603 has three outstanding parking tickets, and the college student in 605 has questionable taste in anime, but neither poses a security threat to my investment."
Sora's feet moved toward the door against his better judgment. He pressed his eye to the peephole.
The fish-eye view revealed a human exclamation point. The man—mid-twenties, wearing sunglasses indoors like some B-list celebrity—grinned directly at the peephole as if he could see Sora looking back. His outfit was an assault on good taste: white shirt, navy bow tie, bright red vest with... was that a dried squid tentacle poking out of the pocket? The matching navy jacket was worn like a cape.
This has to be a prank.
The man's face suddenly filled the entire peephole, those sunglasses pressing directly against the glass.
"I can see your shadow under the door! TIME IS FAME AND FAME IS MONEY!"
Sora unlatched the deadbolt but kept the chain secured. He cracked the door open just wide enough to make eye contact. A strategic move—controlling the access while gathering intelligence.
"You're making my neighbors hate me, and I haven't even unpacked," Sora said.
The man gasped, clutching invisible pearls. "HE SPEAKS! And what a voice! Even annoyed, it's pure PLATINUM! Did you do your vocal exercises this morning? No? We'll work on that. Vocal cords are like exotic sports cars—they require regular maintenance and premium fuel."
Sora leaned against the doorframe, adopting the posture of someone utterly unfazed.
"Look, I had a long night. You're going to have to remind me who you are again." The words came out in a lazy drawl, a perfectly baited hook.
"WHO AM I?" One arm dropped to his hip while the other pointed dramatically at Sora. "I am the VISIONARY who saw your raw, unpolished talent performing at that ridiculous high school cultural festival in the middle of NOWHERE, Hokkaido! I am the GENIUS who convinced my brother to invest actual MONEY in you! I am the ARCHITECT of your future SUPERSTARDOM!"
He paused for breath, chest heaving.
"I AM KOTARO SAITOU!" He pulled a business card from thin air with a magician's flourish, sliding it through the narrow opening. "MANAGER AND PRODUCER EXTRAORDINAIRE OF PRISM, THE SOON-TO-BE NUMBER ONE BOY BAND IN JAPAN!"
Sora accepted the card between two fingers, examining it with deliberate casualness while his pulse quickened. The card was expensive stock, embossed with a stylized prism that fractured light into five distinct colors. Below the logo: "Strawberry Productions" and "Kotaro Saitou, Producer."
Boy band. I'm in a fucking boy band.
"Right. PRISM." Sora nodded slowly. "It's just early, and I'm still settling in."
Kotaro's grin widened impossibly. "Early? It's almost noon! The competition is already hours into practice, plotting our DEMISE! Meanwhile, my center piece, my CROWN JEWEL, is standing in his doorway looking TRAGICALLY UNPREPARED!"
He checked an expensive watch on his wrist, then gasped dramatically. "We're LATE! Ichigo-Pro! The big boss wants to see you!"
Sora's expression remained neutral, but his ears caught the name like a trap. Ichigo-Pro. The company.
"My brother," Kotaro continued, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a whisper but could still be heard three apartments down, "needs to see that betting my ENTIRE REPUTATION on a pretty boy I found in the middle of nowhere wasn't complete CAREER SUICIDE! He needs to witness firsthand the diamond I discovered!"
He straightened, clapping his hands together like gunshots. "Now stop standing there looking impossibly photogenic and GET DRESSED! You have EXACTLY five minutes to look like the superstar you're destined to become! I'll be waiting by the elevator. Don't make me come back up here!"
Without waiting for a response, Kotaro spun on his heel and marched down the hallway, jacket-cape billowing behind him with each exaggerated step.
Sora closed the door, sliding the chain free before locking the deadbolt. He leaned against the cool wood, turning the business card over in his fingers. PRISM. Ichigo-Pro. Hokkaido. Pieces of a puzzle he needed to solve, and quickly.
His gaze swept across the apartment, landing on the torn boxes. If he was in a boy band, there had to be evidence—photos, merchandise, schedules. Something.
The next four minutes became a frenzied archaeological dig through his own life. He tore into boxes, discarding clothes and books until he found it—a sleek black portfolio buried beneath a stack of t-shirts.
Five young men stood in a formation that clearly highlighted the center figure—himself. The photo was professional, high-budget, with dramatic lighting that cast half their faces in shadow. They wore coordinated outfits in deep blues and silvers, each with subtle personalized touches.
Beneath the photo, the caption: "PRISM: Rebirth Tour Promotional Concept."
Sora scanned the faces, committing them to memory. To his left, a delicate-looking guy with soft brown hair and eyes that seemed to be looking at something beyond the camera. To his right, a muscular young man with striking features and wild black hair streaked with electric blue.
Behind them, two more figures: one with spiky pink hair and an irrepressible smile, the other tall and serious with immaculate dark hair and designer glasses.
These are my bandmates. My... tools.
He flipped through more pages, absorbing information like a sponge. Performance schedules. Song lyrics with his parts highlighted. Dance formation diagrams.
On the last page, a handwritten note in chaotic, slanting script:
"Sora—Your official PRISM welcome package! Memorize everything before Monday's practice or Ryuu will have both our heads! Don't forget your medication! —K.S."
Medication?
Sora rifled through the remaining boxes until he found a small orange prescription bottle. The label read: "Amamoto, Sora - Take one tablet daily for chronic pain management."
He popped the cap and examined one of the small white pills. Generic pain medication, nothing special or concerning. But the fact that "Kotaro" knew about it suggested this was a genuine part of his new identity—a detail transplanted from the original Sora Amamoto.
Chronic pain. Filed for future reference.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Shades: 4 MINUTES HAVE PASSED! THE ELEVATOR IS HERE! YOUR DESTINY AWAITS!
Sora moved with newfound purpose. He selected clothes with careful consideration—premium black jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and a light jacket.
In the bathroom mirror, he ran his fingers through his blond hair, arranging it in a style that suggested he hadn't tried but somehow looked magazine-ready.
This face is my weapon. This body is my tool.
He tucked the portfolio under his arm, pocketed his phone and the pill bottle, and headed for the door. Just before leaving, he paused, turning back to look at the apartment—his sanctuary for the next six months.
Whatever game this is, I'm going to win.
The elevator dinged as Sora approached. Kotaro stood inside, bouncing on his toes like a child who'd consumed nothing but sugar and caffeine for days. When he spotted Sora, his entire face lit up.
"THERE HE IS! Right on time! I knew you wouldn't disappoint me!" Kotaro beckoned frantically. "Come, come! Your chariot awaits! Well, technically it's just a van, but in my mind, it's a golden chariot pulled by the spirits of musical legends!"
Sora stepped into the elevator, maintaining a careful distance from the human hurricane beside him. "So, Ichigo-Pro. That's your brother's company?"
Kotaro's head snapped toward him, sunglasses glinting under the fluorescent lights. "YES! Ichigo Saitou, the ORIGINAL prodigy of the Saitou family! The man who discovered Ai!" He said the name with a mixture of reverence and competitive spite. "But WE are going to show him that lightning can strike twice in the same family! Better, even! We're going to be LIGHTNING SQUARED!"
The elevator doors opened, and Kotaro surged forward, leading the way through the building's modest lobby.
"The rest of PRISM is already at the studio," he continued, barely pausing for breath. "Your debut—or should I say RE-debut—is in three weeks! Three weeks to transform from promising rookies to INDUSTRY TITANS!"
Outside, a black van waited at the curb. Kotaro opened the door with an exaggerated bow.
"After you, my golden goose!"