The Audition He Never Took

The warmth was disorienting.

Not just the breeze or the golden light filtering through translucent towers—but the music in the air itself. It pulsed faintly, like the ocean had a heartbeat, like someone had turned the world into a quiet symphony. Ren blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the surreal future-scape that shimmered before him.

"You're not from here," said the boy—Kai, though Ren didn’t know his name yet. The statement was quiet, unreadable.

Ren sat up, his limbs heavy as if the journey through time had taken something from him. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

Kai crouched beside him, sharp and elegant, his pale hair catching a glint of sunlight.

"Your song," Kai said. "That lullaby... where did you learn it?"

Ren blinked again. His voice croaked. "My... my mother. She used to sing it."

Kai's lips pressed into a line. For a second, a tremor of something—shock, confusion, recognition?—passed over his features. But he stood up, composed again.

"You need to come with me."

Ren's instincts screamed no, but he followed.

---

AquaCelestia looked like something pulled from a dream.

The floating city sparkled with towers shaped like tuning forks, bridges of translucent glass arched over flowing rivers of sound—literal sound. Neon notes drifted from advertisement screens, while street performers crafted melodies with crystal instruments that responded to motion.

People wore fashion like stage costumes, with glowing threads and shimmering eye makeup. Holograms floated freely, projecting artist rankings and upcoming performances. It was overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying.

And Ren felt like a stone skipped into the middle of it all.

Kai didn’t say much, leading Ren through the city at a brisk pace, avoiding eye contact with fans and news drones. When Ren finally mustered the courage to ask where they were going, Kai replied, "Stellaris."

Ren nodded like he understood.

He didn’t.

---

Stellaris Agency was a skyscraper shaped like a harp, hovering on the edge of the city’s inner ring. Inside, it buzzed like a beehive. Holographic schedules, vocal calibration pods, and rows of stylists rushed about with the urgency of a rocket launch.

Kai flashed his ID. Nobody questioned him.

But everyone stared at Ren.

He caught fragments of whispers:

"...new trainee?" "...not in the system..." "...looks just like him."

Ren was ushered into a minimalist lounge with plush seating and digital fish swimming through the air. A woman with silver eyes and a hairstyle like woven moonlight entered with a tablet.

"Name?"

"Ren," he said weakly. "Ren Arakawa."

She typed it in. Her brows furrowed.

"You weren’t scheduled for any audition, yet... you triggered an Echo Scan. Do you know what that is?"

He shook his head.

"Your voice registered a harmonic signature identical to a legendary composer from over two centuries ago. A signature so rare, it activated an ancient lock in our system."

Ren blinked.

"Wait... what?"

Kai crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "They think you might be the Requiem Echo. A reincarnated muse."

Ren stared.

"No, no, no," he said, standing up. "This has to be a mistake. I can’t sing. I’m not a performer. I just compose! I mean—I live in a tiny seaside town. I—I can't even handle karaoke nights!"

The woman arched a brow. "Regardless, the system flagged you. Which means you're eligible for the audition round of the Celestial Ascendancy." She slid the tablet toward him. "You should consider it. You’d be a candidate for Kai’s duo revival."

Ren’s heart dropped. Duo? With him?

"I... I can’t."

He stood, his voice trembling. "I’m sorry. I can’t do this."

Kai didn’t stop him.

---

Ren found himself wandering through AquaCelestia alone. He was given a temporary ID bracelet, a place to stay, and "advisors" that felt more like watchers. But none of it mattered. Not when he couldn’t breathe without panicking.

He sat at the edge of a floating pier, the sky purple with the coming dusk. Music shimmered faintly in the clouds. Beneath his fingers, the dock vibrated with the hum of the city's heartbeat.

He whispered the lullaby again.

And from somewhere distant—maybe memory, maybe fate—a second voice joined in. Haunting. Harmonizing.

Kai.

He stood behind Ren now, his shadow long on the glowing dock.

"You were afraid," he said softly. Not a question.

Ren nodded.

Kai sat beside him.

"So was I, once. When they pulled me off my home station and said, 'Sing for survival.' I didn’t know who I was back then. But someone sang with me once. Just once. It saved me."

Ren looked at him.

Kai was still beautiful. Still perfect. But something cracked through that mask now. The loneliness. The ache.

"Your lullaby... that voice in it... I remember it from when I was a child," Kai said, voice brittle. "But that doesn’t make sense. I grew up in space. I’ve never been to Earth."

Ren's breath hitched.

Something impossible was blooming between them. Not just fate. Not just melody.

Something deeper.

"If you decide to audition," Kai said, standing, "I’ll sing with you."

He didn’t wait for a response.

Ren sat alone a moment longer, fingers trailing over the edge of the pier.

In the sea below, glowing fish spelled out the ref

rain of the lullaby—like the ocean itself was urging him to answer.

And Ren wasn’t sure if he could ignore it much longer.