"The Freeze-Out"

The midday sun in Shinjuku was a bright, clean glaze over the polished marble floors of Lumine Est. The air inside the mall was thick with the blended scents of designer perfume, new leather, and the sweet promise of afternoon crepes. It was a Saturday, Airi’s only full day off, and Saki Morimoto was determined to extract maximum enjoyment from it.

“Look, Airi, these vintage tees are practically begging to be worn,” Saki announced, holding up a faded band shirt that Airi didn't recognize. Saki, a vibrant splash of energy in a bright red bomber jacket, didn’t wait for a response. She simply placed the shirt against Airi’s chest.

Airi managed a thin smile, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Cute, Saki, but I think the graphic is disintegrating.”

“That’s called character! Unlike your office desk, which has absolutely none.” Saki laughed, replacing the shirt on the rack. “Come on, let’s check out that new shoe store. They have those limited edition sneakers you were looking at last month.”

Airi trailed after her, her steps heavy despite the comfortable sneakers she was already wearing. She tried to focus on the vibrant chaos of the mall, the giggling groups of teenagers, the rhythmic thump of J-pop from a nearby shop, the appealing glitter of makeup palettes, but her mind was a dull, persistent echo chamber of worry.

It had been four days since her meeting with Ryo Tamura at Kloudy Music Talent Scouts. Four days after she had left her most personal song, “Starlight and Side Streets,” in the hands of a man who worked out of a dusty, temporary office. If a producer or an artist's team decides to buy the song outright, we will hear back…

The promise felt thin, fragile, like old tissue paper. Airi kept checking her phone, even though she knew no email would arrive on a Saturday afternoon. Every chime, a line message from her mother, a spam notification, an update on Neko’s automatic feeder made her stomach clench with false hope.

“Earth to Airi Komatsu!” Saki poked her lightly in the side. “You’ve been staring at that same pair of hideous rhinestone sandals for a full minute. What gives?”

They had reached a quieter corner, near the fitting rooms, providing a brief respite from the shopping frenzy. Airi sighed, letting the anxiety she was trying to suppress escape as a rush of breath. “It’s that music company, Kloudt Music. I just… I can’t stop thinking about the meeting. It felt so rushed, and the place felt…”

“Sketchy?” Saki supplied, crossing her arms. Saki, with her sharp marketing mind, didn’t miss details. “When you described it, I pictured a dark alley, not a proper meeting room.”

“It was in the Shinjuku 5-Chome building. Room 401. It was awful. The elevator sounded like it was going to stage a revolt.”

Saki leaned against the wall, her expression softening from playful to serious. “Okay, look. I did a little digging after you told me. Just a quick search—you know, leveraging my corporate access.”

Airi’s stomach twisted. “And?”

Saki hesitated, something she rarely did. “Kloudy Music Talent Scouts is known in industry circles, but not in a good way. They’re notorious for being song hoarders.”

“Song hoarders?”

“Yeah. They sign up promising, often desperate, new writers, take their best work—their ‘most professional, high-quality tracks’—and then they just sit on them. They pitch them maybe once or twice to a C-list producer, or not at all, and just let them collect dust.”

Airi felt a cold knot tighten in her chest. The vibrant sounds of the mall receded, leaving a ringing silence in her ears. “But why? Why would they do that?”

“Retention,” Saki said flatly. “They hold the rights for that ninety-day window, preventing the writer from pitching the song to anyone decent. By the time the rights revert back to you, the song is old news, the momentum is gone, and you’re so discouraged you might just let the whole thing go. It’s a way to keep control over potential talent without actually investing in them.”

Airi felt a sudden rush of nausea. She pictured the dingy office, Ryo Tamura’s too-eager face, and the tinny speakers that had butchered her carefully crafted acoustic track. “I messed up,” Airi whispered, the words catching in her throat. “That was my best song. I gave them ‘Starlight and Side Streets.’ I wrote it over six months. I—I should have been more careful. I should have listened to the little voice telling me to leave.”

She had been so blinded by the thought of validation—the simple, desperate need for someone, anyone, to say her music was good enough that she had walked straight into a trap.

“Hey, stop that.” Saki placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t mess up. You took a chance. That’s what artists do. You can’t learn which companies are trash until you’ve encountered trash. Now you know. The song is only locked up for ninety days. That’s three months. You have hundreds of other melodies in your head.”

Airi shook her head violently, her messy bun shifting. “But I don’t have three months! I’m already late on rent this month. I used the money I was saving for the utility bill to buy those new cables for my microphone. My landlord has been calling. If ‘Starlight’ had been picked up, even for a commercial jingle, it would have been enough to cover my rent.”

The reality of her mundane struggle of the office job she hated, the debt she was accumulating while chasing an impractical dream crashed over the fantasy of musical success. This was why she couldn’t enjoy the day. Every happy shopper, every carefree laugh, felt like a judgment on her own crippling financial stress.

“Airi, look at me.” Saki forced Airi to meet her gaze. “Stop spiraling. We are not talking about rent today. That is Monday Airi’s problem. Today is Saturday, and we are going to enjoy your day off, because if you burn out worrying about money, you won’t write any more songs.”

“Ugh,I don’t know about this.”

Saki pulled her away from the fitting room area. “You have a job. You have income. It’s boring, but it’s stable. You’ll catch up. For now, you need to clear your head. We’re going to get matcha lattes, and then we’re going to the arcade. You love rhythm games. That’s music that doesn’t demand your rent money.”

“I can’t,” Airi insisted, but Saki was already dragging her by the sleeve.

“Yes, you can. You’re too good to let some two-bit scammer in a rotting office building kill your creativity. You want to show them? You want to prove them wrong? Then write something so undeniably brilliant in the next three months that they regret ever wasting your time.”

Saki pulled Airi into the bustling main thoroughfare. “And speaking of brilliant music, didn't you say you found a new, secret place to practice recently? A place where you were actually starting to hear your voice? Focus on that. Focus on the actual music, not the stupid business side.”

Airi stopped resisting, her body reluctantly following Saki’s momentum. A new place to practice. That phrase echoed differently. It wasn't the dusty office or the pressure of the money. It was the dim, cool lighting of the local karaoke bar, and the voice of the stranger—a perfect, clear, soothing voice that had made her terrible singing sound momentarily harmonious. It was a memory, a warm spot in the cold anxiety.

“Fine,” Airi conceded, a tiny flicker of resolve returning. “Matcha, and then the arcade. But if I run into anyone from the office, I am blaming you for being here.”

“Deal,” Saki grinned, already leading the way toward the food court. “Now, look at those sneakers again. They’re 40% off. Think of it as a small, debt-inducing act of self-care.”

Airi managed a genuine, albeit weak, chuckle. She knew Saki was right. Worrying wouldn't pay the rent or un-sign the contract. The only thing she could control was her next song. And maybe, if she was lucky, she would see that beautiful-voiced stranger again tonight.

She felt a sudden, fierce urge to write the second verse of her newest song before she forgot the feeling. The debt was a heavy chain, but the possibility of a new melody was a small, freeing breeze.