"The Dead Day's Lull”

The fluorescent lights of the Corporation office buzzed with the same dull, rhythmic oppression they always did. Airi Komatsu sat hunched over her desk, the screen casting a pale glow on her round glasses. It was a classic Tokyo office day: silent save for the tapping of keyboards, the whir of the air conditioning, and the distant, muffled sound of a coffee machine.

It was a dead day indeed.

The inbox remained tragically barren, and the task list for "Filing and Archiving Project 3.2" seemed to stretch into a bleak, endless horizon. Airi's mind, however, was not on corporate logistics. Beneath the spreadsheet detailing Q3 supply chain redundancies, a smaller window held the true focus of her afternoon: a partially finished lyric sheet for a duet tentatively titled "Echo Chamber."

She had been drafting the second verse, trying to capture the feeling of hearing a perfect, soaring voice in a dark room. The melody had been easy, it sprang forth effortlessly when she remembered the stranger's powerful, resonant tone from the karaoke bar. But the words were proving stubborn. How did one describe the sonic equivalent of a warm hug mixed with a perfectly tuned crystal bell?

I hear your voice and the walls fall down, she typed, then immediately deleted it. Too dramatic. Your sound is a map that leads me home, she tried. Still too cliché. She hummed the melody under her breath, a tiny, almost inaudible sound to not disturb the other workers around her.

Suddenly, a small chime pulled her back to the grim reality of the corporate inbox. A new email had landed. The sender name was a bizarre string of initialisms followed by an equally bizarre name: Kloudy Music Talent Scouts: R. Tamura.

Airi's breath caught in her chest. Her usual emails were about printer toner and mandatory training. This one was different. This was about the little-known, mildly shady music submission site she had used a few months ago in a fit of desperate creativity. She had sent them a raw, acoustic demo a song about a clumsy cat, and hadn't thought about it since.

She clicked the email open, her heart performing a nervous jig against her ribs.

Subject: Follow Up: Submission #473 – Interest and Next Steps

Dear Ms. Komatsu,

We at Kloudy Music Talent Scouts have reviewed your materials again. There is a unique quality to your melodic structure that has caught the attention of our Acquisition Team. We are interested in exploring a potential working relationship with you regarding your original compositions. We would like to set up a brief, informal meeting to discuss your current catalog and our process for pitching your work to third-party artists and labels.

Please respond to confirm your availability next Tuesday at 3:00 PM at our office: Shinjuku 5-Chome Building, Room 401.

Best,

R. Tamura Kloudy Music Talent Scouts

Airi stared at the screen. Her glasses felt heavy, and the dull office noise seemed to vanish. Someone was interested. Not in her voice, she knew her singing was still a work in progress, but in her songs. It was a confirmation that the music in her head was real, tangible, and possibly valuable.

A surge of pure, electrifying motivation hit her. The spreadsheets no longer seemed bleak; they seemed insignificant. The corporate mission faded entirely. She clicked "Reply," her fingers flying across the keys with an uncharacteristic speed, confirming the Tuesday appointment.

Now, suddenly, the dead office day was the perfect cover. She spent the next two hours quietly tidying up her lyric sheets, polishing the arrangement notes for her demos, and, most importantly, deciding which song was her best offering. It was a difficult choice, but she settled on "Starlight and Side Streets," a gentle, hopeful piece she had written about finding tiny pockets of beauty in a confusing city.

~

Tuesday arrived, dragging Airi out of the comfortable routine of her cubicle and into the dizzying reality of Shinjuku. She found the address easily enough, but the building itself was a minor shock. The Shinjuku 5-Chome Building looked like it hadn't seen a cleaning crew or a modern renovation since the late 1980s.

The exterior concrete was stained, and the lobby smelled vaguely of dust and old ramen. Airi paused just inside the entrance, adjusting her sensible cardigan and trying to ignore the small voice in her head that was screaming, "Shady! Sketchy! Turn around!"

She took the ancient elevator, which groaned dramatically as it ascended. The car was dimly lit, and the brass numbers on the panel were tarnished. When the doors wheezed open on the fourth floor, she found herself facing a corridor lined with identical, unlabeled wooden doors.

Room 401 was tucked into a corner. The nameplate on the door was a cheap, peeling sticker: Kloudy Music Talent Scouts. Airi took a deep breath, clutching the manila folder that held her song lyrics and a pristine USB drive with the audio file. She knocked.

A moment later, the door was pulled open by a man who looked simultaneously too young to be a talent scout and too old to be an intern. He wore a crumpled white shirt, and his dark hair was artlessly styled. He introduced himself as Ryo Tamura.

"Ah, Ms. Komatsu! Please, come in." His voice was energetic, perhaps a little too much so for the dusty little room.

The office was exactly what the building promised: small, cluttered, and temporary. The walls were lined with generic band posters, and two mismatched desks were shoved together. On one desk sat a clunky desktop computer and a stack of business cards; on the other, a half-eaten onigiri.

"Thank you for coming," Ryo said, gesturing toward a plastic chair that looked precariously balanced. "We love the energy of your composition, 'Cat's Cradle.' It has a certain... whimsical quality."

Airi nodded, feeling a flush creep up her neck. She had been hoping they liked a more sophisticated track, but she kept her composure. "Thank you. I'm excited to hear more about your process."

Ryo launched into a rapid-fire explanation of the agency's business model. It was all very vague: they acted as a middleman, connecting undiscovered composers with producers who needed B-sides for minor idols or jingles for regional commercials. They would take a substantial percentage which Ryo glossed over quickly, but they offered the exposure.

"We need your absolute best, Ms. Komatsu," Ryo said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Something that truly shows your potential. Something that a major label wouldn't expect to see on our roster."

Airi reached into her folder and pulled out the USB. This was her chance.

"I brought 'Starlight and Side Streets'," she said, placing the drive on the desk. "It's my most complete work. It's acoustic, melancholic, and I feel it perfectly captures a certain urban solitude."

Ryo's eyes lit up with a flicker of genuine interest. He plugged the drive into the ancient computer and pulled up the file. The speakers were tiny, tinny things, and Airi cringed as the opening guitar chords cracked slightly.

He listened to the entire track in silence, his head bobbing occasionally. When the final note faded, he took a slow breath.

"It is good," he admitted. "Very strong melodic work. A touch... soft for the current market, perhaps, but certainly professional." He handed the USB back to her. "We will pitch this immediately to two of our key contacts."

Airi felt a burst of pride that almost made her forget the peeling wallpaper. "That's wonderful! What's the timeline?"

Ryo's expression changed. The energetic zeal slipped, replaced by a practiced caution.

"Music is a difficult business, Ms. Komatsu," he said, shuffling the papers on his desk. "We will send this out, but it is a waiting game. These things take time. If a producer or an artist's team decides to buy the song outright, we will hear back, and we will contact you immediately to finalize the contracts."

He stood up, a clear signal that the meeting was over. "For now, we hold on to the master rights to 'Starlight and Side Streets' for a ninety-day pitch window. If we don't hear anything, the rights revert back to you."

Airi stood up, a slight, nagging disappointment settling in her stomach. It was still exciting, but the immediate payoff she had hoped for was gone, replaced by the reality of the industry: waiting and uncertainty.

"I understand," Airi said, trying to keep her voice bright. "I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Tamura."

"Please," Ryo said, opening the door. "Ryo is fine. And good luck, Ms. Komatsu. We will be in touch."

As Airi walked back down the dusty corridor and waited for the groaning elevator, she clutched her manila folder. She had given them her best song, the product of countless hours of humming and late-night scribbling. Now, it was out there, floating in the ether of the sketchy music world.

The motivation she had felt at the office had taken a hit, but it hadn't died. She still had "Echo Chamber" to work on. She still had the memory of that rich, soulful voice from the karaoke bar. That voice belonged to her now, in a way, locked into the melody she was composing.

And as the old elevator lurched toward the ground floor, Airi resolved to go to the karaoke bar that very night. If her music was going to be sold and repackaged by some shadowy talent scout, she needed to write something real, something just for her—something only she and the handsome stranger could truly understand. She needed to find him again.