The knock came at exactly 8 AM.
Not a polite, tentative tap. Not a professional rap-rap-rap. This was a full orchestral performance delivered by knuckles against wood.
Shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits!
Sora, who had been doing push-ups in the middle of his newly organized living space, paused mid-rep. His arms held steady, parallel to the tatami mats, as his brain processed the auditory assault.
Only one person on this entire planet would announce himself like a demented door-to-door salesman.
He lowered himself to the floor, rolled to his feet in a single fluid motion, and grabbed the oversized black hoodie draped over his futon. The fabric swallowed him whole as he pulled it on, the sleeves falling past his wrists. His baggy cargo pants hung low on his hips, held up by a drawstring he'd tied that morning. The worn sneakers by the door had seen better days, probably in some previous owner's lifetime.
The mirror by the entrance reflected someone who looked like they'd just rolled out of bed and accidentally landed on a streetwear magazine cover.
Perfect.
Sora opened the door.
"SUPERSTAR!"
Sora's eyebrow climbed a fraction of an inch. "It's eight in the morning."
"The early bird gets the global domination!" Kotaro grabbed Sora's wrist with surprising strength and began dragging him toward the stairs. "No time for existential contemplation! We're grabbing breakfast on the go! The others are meeting us at the studio at 8:45!"
Sora allowed himself to be hauled down six flights of stairs, his sneakers making soft scuffing sounds against the concrete. The morning air hit him when they emerged onto the street, carrying the smell of exhaust and someone's breakfast cooking nearby. Tokyo was already awake, already moving, already indifferent to the existence of seventeen-year-old boys with impossible dreams.
Kotaro's van sat at the curb, looking even more questionable in daylight.
"First stop!" Kotaro announced, pointing dramatically at a FamilyMart across the street. "The breakfast of champions awaits!"
Inside the convenience store, Sora watched Kotaro pile onigiri into a basket with the careful consideration of a military strategist planning a siege. Tuna mayo. Salmon. Pickled plum. The cheap ones, forty-percent-off stickers plastered on the plastic wrap.
"Protein and carbohydrates!" Kotaro declared, adding two cans of Boss coffee to the haul. "Fuel for conquering the entertainment industry!"
Sora selected a single salmon onigiri and the strongest canned coffee available.
Back in the van, Sora peeled the plastic from his rice ball while Kotaro navigated morning traffic in his usual terrifying way.
Time to gather intelligence.
"So." Sora took a bite of rice and fish, chewing slowly. "This PRISM thing. The other guys seem attached to the one who left. What's the story with their last manager?"
Kotaro's hands tightened on the steering wheel. His mouth, which had been mid-chew on his own onigiri, paused.
"Oh, him?" The words came out sharper than usual, genuine bitterness cutting through the manic energy. "He was a package deal. When our dear, traitorous Tadashi got his big solo offer, his manager went with him." Kotaro gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly swerving into a taxi. "Left the other four boys high and dry, contract and all. Just walked out like they were disposable props in Tadashi's one-man show."
"So you convinced your brother to buy out a failing group's contracts instead of just scouting five new guys with no baggage?"
Kotaro's grin returned, but there was something different underneath it now. Something calculating that didn't quite match his usual chaos.
"Baggage is just another word for backstory!" He took another bite, speaking around the rice. "Why start from scratch when you can skip the boring origin story? They already had a small fanbase. They already had synergy. And the name." His voice dropped into something approaching reverence. "PRISM. It's perfect. All they were missing was the right light to shine through them."
He turned to look at Sora. "That's you. You're the light that's going to refract through that prism and create something no one has ever seen before."
"Eyes on the road."
"Right, right!" Kotaro whipped his attention back to traffic.
But Sora wasn't paying attention to the near-miss anymore.
He stared at his manager's profile, at the crooked bow tie and the ridiculous sunglasses and the dried squid tentacle that somehow represented this man's entire approach to life and business.
All my life, I've wanted just one person to bet on me. To see me as more than a convenient tool . To invest actual stakes in my success.
His past life flashed through his mind. The orphanage caretakers who used him. The street performers who tolerated him. The passersby who tossed coins without ever meeting his eyes.
Sora's gaze drifted to the squid tentacle again.
You have a lot riding on this, don't you, Manager Squid? Your brother found Ai and built an empire. Now you need to prove you're not just his chaotic little brother playing at being a producer.
The realization settled in his chest like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
Fine. Our goals are aligned. I'll make sure both our dreams come true. You gave me the stage. I'll give you the show.
It was a silent pact, sealed over convenience store coffee and cheap rice balls in a van that probably violated several safety regulations.
"We're here!" Kotaro announced suddenly, yanking the wheel hard to the right.
Sora looked up, expecting to see the familiar grey building that housed Strawberry Productions.
Instead, they were pulling up to a squat, two-story brick structure that looked like it had been built sometime during the Showa era and never updated. A faded blue-and-white sign hung above the entrance: Minato Ward Community Center (Annex B).
Sora's perfect eyebrow climbed toward his hairline.
"This is it? The studio?"
Kotaro was already out of the van, nearly tripping over the curb in his enthusiasm.
"Temporary tactical command center! The main Ichigo-Pro studio is almost always booked for B-Komachi!" He waved a dismissive hand, his jacket-cape fluttering behind him. "It's fine! Scarcity builds character! Think of it as training in adverse conditions! Now let's go!"
Sora climbed out of the van, his sneakers hitting pavement still warm from yesterday's sun. The building loomed before him, aggressively mundane in a way that felt almost hostile to the concept of stardom.
The lobby smelled exactly as predicted. Floor wax and old paper, with a faint undertone of something floral that had been sprayed to mask the scent of age. A massive corkboard dominated one wall, plastered with flyers for pottery classes, senior calligraphy workshops, and a very enthusiastic announcement about an upcoming blood drive.
The rest of PRISM waited near a hallway branching off to the right.
Ryuu stood with his arms crossed, one foot tapping against the linoleum in a rhythm that suggested his patience had expired approximately fifteen minutes ago. His glasses caught the fluorescent light as he turned to watch their approach. Everything about his posture screamed controlled irritation.
Ryota paced back and forth like a caged animal, his muscular frame coiled tight. His pale green eyes locked onto Sora with the same barely concealed hostility from yesterday. The wild black hair with electric blue streaks looked even more chaotic in the harsh overhead lighting.
Seiji, pink hair slightly disheveled, rushed forward the moment he spotted them. His brown eyes were wide, stressed in a way that made him look even younger than seventeen.
"Manager, about the room—"
Kotaro clapped him on the shoulder, the impact making Seiji stumble slightly.
"No time for jitters, my boy!" Kotaro's voice echoed off the walls, drawing disapproving looks from an elderly woman carrying a yoga mat. "Today is the first day of the rest of our chart-topping lives! Onward!"
He strode past all four of them, heading down the hallway with the confidence of a man who had never once considered the possibility of being wrong.
Seiji's face crumpled into genuine distress. "But the schedule—"
"He's not going to listen," Ryuu muttered, adjusting his glasses. "He never does."
Sora followed behind Kotaro, his instincts prickling with the distinct sensation of impending disaster. The hallway stretched ahead, lined with more corkboards and inspirational posters about community involvement. Doors branched off at regular intervals, each one labeled with room numbers and descriptions.
Room 201: Ceramics Studio.
Room 202: Multi-Purpose A.
Room 203: Conference.
Kotaro stopped at Room 204, pulling a crumpled reservation slip from his pocket and examining it with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.
"This is it!" He grasped the door handle. "Room 204! Our crucible!"
Behind Sora, Ryota's voice came out low and resigned. "Oh no."
"Manager, seriously, if you would just—" Seiji tried again.
Kotaro flung the door open with a dramatic flourish, his cape-jacket billowing behind him.
"BEHOLD! THE CRUCIBLE WHEREIN WE SHALL FORGE OUR LEGEND—"
The declaration died in his throat.
Room 204 was not empty.
It was filled with approximately a dozen middle-aged women in matching lavender yoga pants, all gracefully stretching on purple mats. A serene-looking instructor stood at the front of the room, frozen mid-pose with her arms extended toward the ceiling. Soft pan-flute music drifted from a portable speaker in the corner, creating an atmosphere of zen tranquility.
Every single woman turned to stare at the man in sunglasses with a squid tentacle in his pocket who had just burst into their sacred space.
The instructor's peaceful expression fractured into confusion. "Excuse me?"
Kotaro stood completely still, his mouth hanging open, one hand still raised in his dramatic gesture.
Sora peered over Kotaro's shoulder at the tableau. He took in the lavender pants, the expensive yoga mats, the absolutely immaculate posture of women who had clearly been doing Pilates for longer than Sora had been alive.
He leaned in close to Kotaro's ear, his voice pitched to a stage whisper that carried beautifully in the sudden silence.
"Impressive core strength. Is that our new choreographer?"
The joke didn't land.
Kotaro remained frozen, his brain clearly struggling to reconcile the image of the practice room he'd envisioned with the reality of the Setagaya Serenity Pilates class currently occupying it.
"What?" He pulled the crumpled reservation slip from his pocket again, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him. "No! I booked this room! From 9 AM to 3 PM! It says so right here!"
The instructor's serene expression hardened into something far less enlightened.
"Sir, we have this room until noon."
Behind Sora, Ryuu's voice emerged quiet and resigned. "I tried to tell him yesterday that the schedule had changed."
"I texted him," Daisuke added miserably. "Twice."
Kotaro spun around, nearly hitting Sora with his cape-jacket. "What? When? I didn't see any—" He patted his pockets frantically, finally producing his phone. The screen was black. Dead. "Oh."
"Madame Instructor." Ryuu stepped forward, bowing slightly at the waist. "We sincerely apologize for the interruption. There's been a scheduling miscommunication on our end. We'll leave you to your practice."
The instructor's expression softened marginally. "See that you do."
Ryuu grasped Kotaro's elbow and physically steered him back into the hallway. Sora followed, watching his manager's face cycle through confusion, indignation, and dawning embarrassment at record speed.
The door to Room 204 closed behind them with a very pointed click.
In the hallway, surrounded by flyers for pottery classes and blood drives, PRISM stood in a cluster of collective defeat. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, indifferent to their plight.
Kotaro's shoulders slumped. The manic energy that usually vibrated through his entire being had dimmed to something closer to a sputtering candle.
"So." Sora crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "What's Plan B?"