The walk to SYNC Dance Studio gave me time to gather my thoughts. My suggestion had changed our trajectory entirely, pushing us toward something none of them had anticipated. Their caution made sense—we had limited time, resources were tight, and I was still the outsider.
But they don't know what I know. What's possible.
When we arrived at SYNC, the reception area was busy. A group of backup dancers waited on benches, a choreographer argued on the phone about scheduling, and staff rushed back and forth with equipment. The familiar organized chaos of the entertainment industry.
Ryuu approached the front desk to check us in while the rest of us waited.
"Studio B is ready," he announced, returning with a key card. "We have it until four."
We moved toward the hallway, but I paused. Music filtered through the corridor—not just any music. A familiar melody with a distinctive vocal tone that stood apart from anything else in this industry.
"What's that?" I asked, though I already knew.
Seiji grinned. "That's B-Komachi! They must be in Studio A today."
My feet carried me toward the sound before I could think better of it. The corridor ended at a large window that looked into Studio A—a standard feature in dance studios, allowing choreographers to observe without disrupting practice.
And there they were.
B-Komachi in their element, running through formations. My eyes tracked them automatically—Nino with her cuteness, Rui executing every movement with technical perfection, Ichika adding grace to every step.
But it was Ai who commanded the space.
I'd seen her at the coffee shop, had registered her beauty then, but this was different. This was Ai in her natural habitat, and the difference was staggering. Her body moved with a fluid grace that defied physics, each gesture seemingly effortless. The gradient of her eyes—that impossible shift from purple to pink—caught the studio lights as she turned.
It wasn't just that she was beautiful. It was the way she transformed the oxygen around her into something electric. The way her presence made the other members—talented performers in their own right—look like they existed in a different dimension altogether.
I'd known this intellectually, of course. But seeing it in person, separated only by a pane of glass...
Smack!
A heavy hand smacked between my shoulder blades, nearly sending me into the window.
"Center!" Ryota barked, his grin feral. "Training now! Run won't make itself!"
I straightened, regaining my composure. "Right."
"Oooh, someone's starstruck," Seiji teased, poking my arm.
"Professional curiosity," I corrected. "She's the reason Strawberry Productions has succeeded. It's worth studying how she performs."
Ryuu adjusted his glasses, eyeing me skeptically. "Study on your own time. We have work to do."
We settled into Studio B—smaller than A but still well-equipped. After warming up, Ryuu laid out the morning plan.
"Eleven to one: Transparent. Full run-throughs with Toshiro on Tadashi's parts."
Transparent—their farewell song with Tadashi, the one they'd released after his departure. A song about seeing through deception, realizing you've been betrayed, and finding strength to move forward anyway. Daisuke's composition, reportedly written in a single night after Tadashi announced his solo contract.
"Let's begin," Ryuu said, connecting his phone to the sound system.
The instrumental intro filled the room—a haunting piano melody undercut with electronic elements. I moved to center position, taking what had been Tadashi's place in the formation.
The choreography itself wasn't particularly challenging—but the weight of performing it with them was different. This wasn't just any song. This was their wound made musical.
I began the first verse, keeping my interpretation subtle, focusing on technical execution rather than emotional delivery.
Ryuu stopped the music abruptly. "No."
I turned to him. "Problem?"
"That's not how Tadashi would have sung it."
"I'm not Tadashi," I replied evenly.
"Clearly." He adjusted his glasses. "The first verse needs more restraint. He built gradually, starting almost conversational before the emotional turn at the bridge."
"Show me."
Ryuu cleared his throat and demonstrated, his voice strong. He was right—the technique he described would create more impact at the chorus.
We started again. This time, I mirrored Ryuu's approach, keeping the opening understated.
"Better," he admitted when we finished the first verse. "But the transition to the pre-chorus—Tadashi would lift his chin exactly on the word 'realize' and lock eyes with the audience."
"Like this?" I demonstrated.
"Higher angle. More... imperious."
Of course it was imperious. Manipulative bastard.
We continued this way for the next hour—stop, correct, restart. Every detail scrutinized against the ghost of their former center.
"The hand gesture is too sharp."
"Tadashi would hold that note longer."
"Your expression is too intense there."
After the twelfth correction, I felt my patience wearing thin. I understood their attachment to the original performance, but this wasn't about technical accuracy anymore. This was about something else entirely.
During a water break, I approached Daisuke, who sat on a bench reviewing notes.
"Can I ask you something?" I kept my voice low.
He looked up. "Of course."
"This song—Transparent. You wrote it after he left, right?"
Daisuke nodded slowly. "The night we found out."
"So he never actually performed it."
Daisuke's eyes widened slightly, understanding my point immediately. "No. We recorded after his departure. The choreography was developed without him."
"Then all these corrections about 'how Tadashi would have done it'..."
"Are speculative," Daisuke confirmed. "Based on our knowledge of his style and the demo recordings we made during development."
I took a slow sip of water, feeling my expression darken. "That's what I thought."
When we resumed, Ryuu stopped the music again during the second chorus.
"The emotion isn't right," he said. "Tadashi would—"
"Tadashi never performed this song," I stated flatly.
The room fell silent.
"Excuse me?" Ryuu's voice dropped dangerously.
"Daisuke wrote this after Tadashi left. The choreography was developed without him. These corrections aren't about technical accuracy—they're about your idealized version of a performance that never happened."
Ryuu's face flushed. "I'm trying to maintain the integrity of our sound."
"No. You're trying to make me perform like him."
"Is that not your job? To fill his position?"
"My job is to help PRISM move forward, not become a second-rate copy of someone who abandoned you."
The words hung in the air, harsh but honest. Ryota let out a low whistle.
"Toshiro's right," Daisuke said quietly. "We've been asking him to chase a ghost."
Seiji shifted uncomfortably. "But the fans expect a certain sound..."
"The fans expected Tadashi to stay," I countered. "Things change. We can respect the original while making it our own."
Ryuu's jaw worked, his pride warring with logic. Finally, he adjusted his glasses. "What do you propose?"
"Let me interpret the verses my way, keeping the emotional arc but not mimicking his specific mannerisms. For the chorus and key points, I'll match the established style more closely to maintain group cohesion."
"A compromise," Daisuke nodded approvingly.
"A trial," Ryuu corrected. "We'll try one run-through with your interpretation. If it doesn't work, we revert to the original direction."
"Fair enough."
We took positions again. This time, when the music started, I performed the song as I felt it—respecting its structure but bringing my own interpretation to the verses. For the chorus, I aligned more closely with their established style, creating continuity without imitation.
When we finished, Ryota broke the silence.
"Better." He nodded firmly. "More real."
"The verses had a different quality," Daisuke observed. "More... grounded. Less performative."
"It changes the meaning slightly," Ryuu said, his tone measured. "Your interpretation makes it less about betrayal and more about clarity. Seeing truth rather than deception."
"Isn't that the point of 'Transparent'?" I asked. "Seeing clearly?"
A ghost of a smile touched Ryuu's lips. "Perhaps."
"I liked it," Seiji declared. "It felt like... like Toshiro was actually talking to us, not performing at us."
Ryuu sighed. "We'll need to adjust some of the harmonies and formation transitions, but... it has potential. We'll work with this interpretation for now."
Coming from him, this was high praise.
"Let's take fifteen before we move on to Phenomenon," Ryuu said, checking his watch.
As the others dispersed, I caught Daisuke watching me again with that same thoughtful expression.
"What?" I asked.
"You understand something fundamental about performance that many don't," he said. "That authenticity resonates more than perfection."
I shrugged. "I just don't see the point in trying to be someone I'm not."
"No," Daisuke agreed. "I don't think you do." He paused. "About 'Run'—I've been thinking about the composition. If you can describe the sound you're hearing, I might be able to start sketching something this evening."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Fair warning though—Saitou-san will need to be convinced. New music means production costs, and we're not exactly the priority investment at Strawberry Productions."
"Because of B-Komachi," I said, remembering the electric presence I'd witnessed through the studio window.
"Because of Ai," Daisuke corrected gently. "The rest of us—B-Komachi included—are satellites orbiting her sun."
"She's that good?" I asked.
Daisuke's expression turned contemplative. "It's not about good or bad. Many idols are technically proficient. Ai is... different. When she performs, it feels like she's offering a piece of her soul. Like she's giving everything she has, holding nothing back." He shook his head. "It's rare. And it's why Strawberry Productions prioritizes her above everything else."
"We should get back," I said, noticing the others returning.
Daisuke stood. "Remember what you did just now with Transparent. That's what PRISM needs—someone who respects what came before but isn't chained to it." He smiled slightly. "I think that's why Ichigo brought you to us."
I returned his smile, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and purpose. They didn't know who I really was or where my knowledge came from. But maybe that didn't matter as much as what I could help them become.
"Alright, positions for Phenomenon!" Ryuu called out, all business once more.
As we took our places, I glanced once more toward the hallway, toward Studio A where B-Komachi—where Ai—continued their practice, unaware of how their existence shaped everything around them.
Soon, I thought. Soon our paths will cross properly.
For now, though, I had a group to help rebuild and a song to bring into existence. The rest would come in time.