CHAPTER 23
"Cut there."
The music died mid-beat.
The director frowned, glancing toward the monitors, but said nothing. A second later, Izumi lowered his hand, his eyes already scanning the schedule sheet in front of him.
"We're moving on."
"We're not done with this section yet," the director said carefully, his voice tight with professional concern.
Izumi didn't look up.
"We don't have time."
Kiyomi adjusted his footing in silence, the sweat on his skin beginning to cool as the momentum of the dance was abruptly severed.
"Hold on," the director said, stepping closer to the monitor. "The angle—"
"We're not adjusting that."
Izumi didn't even turn his head.
The director paused. Just a second too long. The silence in the studio grew heavy; staff exchanged glances, but no one spoke.
"…Alright," the director said finally, stepping back.
Kiyomi watched the exchange through the mirror, catching the flicker of defeat on the director's face. He lowered his gaze quickly before anyone could notice.
Scene after scene, they moved through the schedule.
Positions. Music. Movement.
The take was clean.
Even Kiyomi could feel it—the timing aligned perfectly, every step landing exactly where it should. The music faded, and for a brief second, a rare sense of genuine pride hung in the air.
"Let's run that again," the director said, his eyes lighting up at the potential for something even better.
"Unnecessary."
Izumi's voice cut in before anyone could move. He flipped a page, already disinterested in the monitors.
"We're behind."
The moment of triumph passed as quickly as it had arrived.
No one argued.
Kiyomi stepped back into position again.
By the time the last take ended and the monitors went dark, the studio had settled into its usual post-session rhythm. Crew members packed up quietly, their chatter muted as they carried equipment away. The buzz of the day's work lingered in the air, but the sharp, suffocating intensity of the morning and afternoon sessions had finally eased.
Cerb-3ros moved with their usual poise, bowing and thanking the staff as they passed. Their grace felt effortless, a practiced harmony of professionalism and charm.
Near the monitors, the director remained frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the last take. His silhouette looked small against the vast screens, framed by the fading glow of the footage.
The trio approached him together, bowing in perfect unison.
"Thank you for your hard work, Director-san~" they chorused, their voices bright and melodic, yet precise.
"Thank you… you three," he replied, voice thin and hesitant. He glanced between them nervously, as if measuring the distance between expectation and reality. "Let's do our best tomorrow… despite our limited control."
(Eh? Why did he say that?)
A short, hollow chuckle escaped him, unnervingly empty. The air thickened instantly, heavy with unspoken tension. Before Cerb-3ros could speak or ask for clarification, he turned and walked away, swallowed by the dim shadows of the studio.
The next morning passed in a haze of mirrors and music. Cerb-3ros moved with precision, every spin and step in perfect sync—but the pressure was palpable, coiling around them like invisible chains. Izumi hovered near the monitors, flipping through his papers, his voice sharp and clipped.
"Next take. No adjustments."
The director opened his mouth, hesitated, then let the words die. Kiyomi felt that familiar knot tighten in his chest, the old anxiety seeping back in. Even the staff stayed silent, their previous flinches long since tempered by routine.
As the trio reset their positions, Kiyomi's gaze drifted toward the director, who muttered under his breath while reviewing the monitor.
"Another failed… idols with potential," the words slipped out, faint but unmistakable.
Kiyomi froze, mind racing.
(Another? Does he mean us?)
He glanced at Miyu, who calmly adjusted his stance for the next shot. Heart hammering, Kiyomi approached him slowly.
"Sakura-chan?" Miyu asked, noticing the intensity in his expression.
Kiyomi leaned in, whispering exactly what he had overheard. To his surprise, Miyu didn't flinch, didn't look worried. He simply smiled and offered a cheerful thumbs-up.
"Don't mind!"
Reassured, Kiyomi returned to his position. The next scene began, each beat of the music syncing with the echo of the director's words in his mind.
By the time lunch arrived, the tension had reached a new peak. Miyu, without a word to anyone, was gone. He wasn't in the dressing room, the break area, or anywhere nearby.
A surge of worry hit Kiyomi. He knew he had to find him.
(Where are you?)
Footsteps echoing softly through the studio halls led him toward a room where the door stood slightly ajar. He leaned in, but through the narrow gap, he couldn't see clearly what was inside.
(Miyu?)
A rough, masculine voice was in there with him. Their distance from the door muffled the words, turning their conversation into a low, indistinguishable hum.
(Who's that?)
The muffled exchange suddenly broke into laughter. It sounded friendly at first, but not long after, the laughter shifted into something else—something heavier.
(What's going on?)
Kiyomi tried to angle himself to get a better view through the keyhole, but the perspective was all wrong. Suddenly, the light inside the room flicked off, plunging the space into darkness.
A soft squeak reached his ears.
Kiyomi turned to his side, pressing his ear against the cold wood of the door. The noise wasn't just a squeak; it was followed by a soft, unmistakable moan.
(What are you two doing?!)
Kiyomi recoiled, shocked and horrified by the sound. His chest tightened as a wave of internal conflict crashed over him.
(Should I go in? No!)
He took a jagged breath, his heart racing.
(Think, Kiyomi! What if he's alone and he's... touching himself? Yes!)
Kiyomi's mind began to hallucinate, frantically constructing a fantasy to protect his sanity. His brain refused to consider any other possibility.
(That must be it! Miyu is just watching stuff... alone! That's normal. That's totally normal!)
Just then, the sound of more footsteps echoed further down the hall. Panicked, Kiyomi scrambled away, moving quietly to avoid being seen.
He didn't look back. Ducking into a different empty room, he pressed himself against the wall, trying to steady his ragged breathing. His mind was a blurred mess of denial and confusion.
(It's not Miyu… I'm sure of it! Someone just wore his outfit! Yes, that's the only logical explanation… That happens all the time!)
By the time lunch break ended, he forced himself to return to the recording studio. The staff were already in position, prepping lights and cameras for the next scene.
Renge casually held up his drink toward Kiyomi, dramatically covering his left eye with his free hand.
"Behold, mortal! The seed of darkness…"
(It's just boba…)
Kiyomi thought, though he couldn't summon the energy to roll his eyes.
Not long after, Miyu returned as well, greeting them with his usual radiant energy. Trying to steady his nerves, Kiyomi leaned subtly toward him, catching a faint, distinct scent on Miyu's breath.
(This smell…)
Miyu noticed Kiyomi's subtle sniff. "What is it?" he asked, curiosity and joy lighting his expression.
Kiyomi shook his head frantically, retreating a step.
"No… nothing at all!"
He avoided Miyu's gaze entirely, focusing on anything else in the room.
(That was close…)
A quiet sigh of relief escaped him. Yet when he stole a quick glance back, he noticed a momentary crack in Miyu's mask—a flash of something dark crossing his face. But the instant Miyu realized someone was looking, the idol smile snapped back into place.
The fragile peace of the set shattered the moment Daichi's booming voice cut across the studio.
"Izumi!"
Izumi, in the middle of a dismissive lecture to the director, visibly flinched.
Daichi strode across the floor, stopping mere inches from his nephew. Though they were the same height, Daichi's presence felt twice as large—muscles coiled, expression rigid, radiating authority.
"Yes, Uncle?" Izumi asked, his voice wavering slightly.
The staff froze. Every breath was held as they watched the confrontation, the studio thick with anticipation. Then, almost abruptly, Daichi's expression softened into a mask of forced friendliness, and he tapped Izumi's shoulder.
Izumi let out a slow, awkward chuckle, trying to regain composure.
"Is… is there a problem, Uncle?"
"Problem?" Daichi's voice boomed again. "You're a funny guy… we have no problem at all!"
"Then why are you here?" Izumi pressed, though unease tinged his tone.
"Izumi! You're a very capable Assistant," Daichi declared, his voice carrying across every corner of the studio. "Which is why…"
The room seemed to shrink as everyone swallowed, waiting for the blow to land.
"Izumi! You will finalize Cerb-3ros's appointment to perform live on TV next week. Personally."
"Uncle, but the recording isn't even—" Izumi began, though his protest lacked conviction.
Daichi didn't let him finish. His grip tightened on Izumi's shoulder, sharp enough to make him gasp. Izumi lost his balance, letting out a sharp cry of pain, pinned under the weight of authority.
"Izumi-kun… in here, I am the Producer. You are my assistant," Daichi whispered, the cold threat clear beneath the words. "You will call me Producer-san. Understood?"
"Yes… Producer-san!" Izumi stammered, practically fleeing the studio the moment he complied.
Relief rippled through the room. The staff began to clap, tentative at first, then with growing enthusiasm. Daichi allowed himself a satisfied laugh, accepting handshakes from a few senior crew members who approached with newfound respect.
Then, without a pause, he turned to the monitors and barked at the director.
"You're back in control!"