We walked to SYNC Dance Studio single file along the narrow sidewalk. The four members of PRISM formed a tight knot ahead of me, their conversation a bubble I couldn't—or perhaps shouldn't—penetrate. Ryuu led, his long strides measured and precise. Daisuke followed, hands tucked into his pockets, head slightly bowed as if listening to music only he could hear. Seiji bounced along beside them, occasionally turning to offer me an encouraging smile. Ryota brought up their rear, periodically glancing back with narrowed eyes, as if making sure I wasn't planning an ambush.
I kept my distance. Not out of hesitation, but understanding. These four had history—shared triumphs, disappointments, and the raw wound of abandonment. I represented change, and change rarely arrived without resistance.
The walk took less than ten minutes. SYNC occupied the third and fourth floors of a modern glass and concrete building, its entrance unremarkable save for a small digital sign displaying the day's bookings. Saitou had gone ahead to finalize arrangements, leaving us to make our own way.
Inside the lobby, we squeezed into an elevator barely large enough for five grown men. Ryota planted himself directly in front of me, his muscular back an effective barrier. Seiji shot me an apologetic look over his shoulder.
"Studio B is our regular spot," he explained as the elevator crawled upward. "Not as big as Studio A where B-Komachi practices, but it suits us."
"For now," Ryuu added, the implication clear: Until we're as successful as them.
The elevator doors opened onto a small reception area with a modest front desk. A young woman greeted us with familiar nods, not bothering to ask for identification. PRISM was clearly a regular fixture here.
Ryuu led us down a short hallway, past a larger studio where music thumped behind closed doors, and into Studio B. The space was perhaps eighty square meters, lined with mirrors on two walls and equipped with a professional sound system. Wooden barres lined the non-mirrored walls, and the floor was sprung for dance practice. Two staff members were setting up recording equipment in one corner while Saitou spoke with a third person who appeared to be the facility manager.
Ryuu turned to me, his posture stiffening as he assumed an official role. He adjusted his glasses—a gesture I was beginning to recognize as his way of centering himself before important statements.
"Welcome to our second home," he said, his tone formal but not unfriendly. "SYNC Studio B. The acoustics are excellent for vocal work, and the staff understands our specific needs."
I nodded, glancing around the space, evaluating its potential. "Good dimensions. Sight lines to the mirrors are clear from most positions."
"We've optimized the space," Ryuu confirmed, a hint of pride breaking through his reserve.
Before he could continue, Ryota stepped forward, rolling his shoulders in a way that showcased his impressive musculature. "Enough talk. Ryota wants to see what the new guy can do." He jabbed a finger toward my chest. "Dance battle. Now."
Saitou, overhearing, broke away from his conversation and approached. "We'll get to performance assessment soon. Let's start with—"
"No." Ryota planted his feet, hands on his hips. "Ryota won't accept a weak center. We test him now."
Seiji stepped between us, hands raised placatingly. "Maybe we should warm up first? Intro ourselves properly?"
I shook my head. "Seems like a haphazard way to evaluate compatibility. Shouldn't we establish baseline skills first? Run through some standard exercises?"
"Haphazard?" Ryuu's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. I'd clearly said something wrong, though I wasn't sure what.
"Oh no," Daisuke murmured from where he leaned against the wall. His soft voice carried surprising clarity in the studio's acoustics. "You've done it now."
Ryuu stepped forward. "PRISM isn't about 'standard exercises' and 'baseline skills,'" he said, each word precisely enunciated. "If Ryota wants to challenge you, then by all means." He turned to the sound technician. "Put on Rosewood."
The technician nodded, tapping at his tablet. Saitou watched with an unreadable expression, making no move to intervene.
"What's Rosewood?" I asked Seiji quietly as Ryota began stretching dramatically in the center of the room.
"Our most technically demanding track," Seiji explained, wincing slightly. "Tadashi's showcase piece."
Perfect. They'd chosen the song most associated with their former center. This wasn't just a dance evaluation—it was a direct comparison.
The opening notes filled the studio—a pulsing electronic beat layered with traditional Japanese instruments, creating an intriguing tension between modern and classical elements. I recognized the production style from the videos I'd watched earlier, but hearing it in person revealed subtleties lost in compressed online audio.
Ryota took position in the center of the room, his earlier bravado transforming into focused intensity. The change was remarkable—his body language shifted from showy to precise, his eyes locking onto his reflection in the mirror.
When the vocals began—a haunting tenor that must have been Tadashi's—Ryota exploded into motion.
Cherry blossoms fall like memories
Scattered on rosewood floors
Yesterday's promises, tomorrow's lies
I can't remember anymore
His dance style was aggressive yet controlled, a blend of contemporary hip-hop, martial arts influences, and traditional K-pop precision. He executed a series of complex floor movements that showcased both his flexibility and raw power, then transitioned into a sequence of spins that would challenge professional breakdancers.
The path we walked together
Now I walk alone
Rosewood beneath my feet
This broken road called home
What he lacked in technical refinement, he more than compensated for with pure physical prowess. His movements hit every beat with devastating accuracy, his body becoming a visual manifestation of the music itself.
As the chorus approached, the other members joined in from the sidelines, performing synchronized hand movements while Ryota dominated the center. They'd clearly practiced this routine countless times, their muscle memory undiminished despite the absence of their former center.
Rosewood, rosewood
Beautiful and scarred
Rosewood, rosewood
We've come so far
Only to fall apart
When the instrumental break hit, Ryota turned toward me, chest heaving, a challenge in his eyes. The message was clear: Your turn.
The music continued, building toward the second verse. I stepped forward, taking a moment to feel the rhythm, to let it move through me. The beat was solid, the production quality better than I'd expected.
I closed my eyes briefly, accessing memories from my past life—dance studios in Los Angeles, street performances in Seoul, underground clubs in Tokyo where dancers pushed boundaries and invented new forms.
Then I moved.
I began with techniques this world knew—clean pop-and-lock movements, sharp isolations—but performed with a precision that came from decades of muscle memory stored in a body that had never actually experienced it. I matched Ryota's intensity but added layers of control he hadn't displayed.
As the second verse built, I incorporated elements this world hadn't seen—movements inspired by the King of Pop himself. The distinctive bounce-step, the controlled slide, the precise angle of shoulders against hips. Not trying to imitate, but drawing from a well of influence this world's dancers hadn't accessed.
The mirror shows a stranger's face
Wearing my disguise
Rosewood remembers every step
Every truth, every lie
The room grew quiet except for the music. Even Ryota had stopped his commentary, watching with narrowed eyes. I caught Saitou's reflection in the mirror, his eyebrows raised above his sunglasses.
As the song ended, I froze in a final pose, breathing heavily, waiting for reaction.
Silence filled the studio.
Seiji broke it first, exhaling a soft "Whoa."
Ryuu's eyes had widened slightly behind his glasses, his composed expression slipping for the first time since I'd met him.
Daisuke stood utterly still, his gaze thoughtful and penetrating, as if seeing beyond the performance to something underneath.
Ryota stomped forward, his face unreadable. He circled me once, twice, like a predator assessing prey. Then he stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could see the flecks of lighter green in his dark eyes.
"Where did Toshiro learn to move like that?" he demanded.
"Around," I answered simply.
"Those weren't copied moves," Daisuke said quietly from across the room. "That was something new."
"Innovative fusion," Ryuu conceded, adjusting his glasses. "Technically impressive."
Ryota continued staring at me, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more complex. Finally, he poked me hard in the chest with one finger.
"Ryota still dances better," he declared. "But..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "You don't suck."
From Ryota, I gathered this constituted high praise.
Saitou stepped forward, breaking the moment. "Good. Now that the posturing is out of the way, can we proceed with actual rehearsal?"
"Wait," Seiji interjected. "We should at least tell him if he passed Ryota's test."
"He passed," Daisuke said, his soft voice carrying unexpected authority. The others looked at him in surprise. "More than passed. He showed us something we haven't seen before."
"Which was the point," Saitou added. "I didn't bring Toshiro in to replicate Tadashi. I brought him in to take PRISM somewhere new."
Ryuu's expression remained carefully neutral, but I noticed his shoulders relax slightly. "Your technical foundation is solid," he admitted. "Though we'll need to assess your vocal capabilities as well."
"And stamina," Ryota added. "One dance doesn't prove endurance."
"Fair enough," I acknowledged. "I'm here to earn my place, not have it handed to me."
Something subtle shifted in the room's atmosphere. Not acceptance—that would take more time—but perhaps the beginning of professional respect.
Saitou clapped his hands once, the sharp sound refocusing attention. "Full introductions, then vocal warm-ups. We'll run through the current repertoire to see where adjustments are needed."
As the others moved to form a circle for proper introductions, Seiji sidled up beside me.
"That was incredible," he said quietly. "I've never seen dancing like that. Where did you learn those moves?"
I shrugged, offering a small smile. "Let's just say I've had a lifetime to practice."
More truth in that statement than he could possibly understand.