“Archives and penthouses”

Airi, clad in a sleek, sapphire-blue dress Saki had bullied her into buying, felt like a very clumsy spy operating deep behind enemy lines. The dress, though elegant, felt heavy and unfamiliar, and she worried constantly about tripping over the hem. She clutched a glass of sparkling water, trying to appear nonchalant while her eyes darted everywhere, absorbing the spectacle.

Saki, looking effortlessly glamorous in emerald green, was already deeply engrossed in a conversation near the champagne fountain with two men who looked suspiciously like minor celebrities.

Airi, however, felt the full weight of her "regular girl" status. Everyone here was effortlessly cool, polished, and clearly belonged. The women were impossibly tall and well-dressed; the men had the sharp suits and confident swagger of success. Airi, the archivist and secret songwriter, felt like she should be checking their bags for over-limit carry-ons.

She found a quiet corner near a massive floral arrangement, trying to blend in with the imported orchids. That was where the first encounter found her.

"Well, now," a smooth, slightly weary voice said. "It's always nice to see a new face who doesn't look like they're trying to land a commercial deal."

Airi turned to find a man standing beside her. He was immaculately dressed, with sharp eyes and a kind, subtle smile. He looked tired, but genuinely sympathetic. This had to be one of the managers.

"Hi, I'm Junpei Kanda," he introduced himself, offering a brief, professional nod. "Ren Ichijō's manager. I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

Airi felt a jolt of alarm. She immediately reverted to her carefully rehearsed cover story.

"Airi Komatsu," she said, managing a steady smile. "I'm... a friend of a friend.”

"Ah, yes, Ren’s song-writer,” Junpei said, his expression politely skeptical. "Thank you for coming. And thank you for drinking water instead of the terrible house champagne. I admire your restraint."

Airi relaxed slightly. His energy, though sharp, wasn't hostile. "It's a beautiful party, Mr. Kanda."

"It's a necessary evil," Junpei corrected, taking a slow sip of his own glass of whiskey. "It’s high-pressure theatre, and tonight, they are selling the image of unstoppable success." He paused, his sharp eyes flicking over the room. "The irony, of course, is that Ren, who is the biggest seller, is currently hiding in the green room reading poetry, wishing he could be anywhere else."

Junpei leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "It’s hard keeping the creative spirit alive under the glare of this much control. It's a miracle Ren manages to write anything genuine at all. He needs a better outlet." He looked pointedly at Airi, and for a fleeting moment, Airi wondered if he suspected the truth. His sympathy felt knowing, almost complicit. Before Airi could respond, a new voice boomed across the small space.

"Kanda-san! There you are, holding court again!"

Haruto “Haru” Mizuno, the secondary idol of Eclipse entertainment B-list boygroup, Veritas, approached them. He was handsome in a vibrant, mischievous way, and his energy was instantly infectious: a perfect contrast to Ren's cool reserve.

"You must be new," Haru declared, giving Airi a friendly, frankly admiring once-over. "You don't look miserable, which is rare for an Eclipse-affiliated party. I'm Haru, the fun one."

"Airi Komatsu," she repeated, feeling her cheeks flush slightly under his easy confidence.

"Haru, leave the guests alone," Junpei sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Nonsense! I'm performing my duties," Haru winked. "Ren is stuck doing mandatory press photos, so I’m the official distraction. You look like you're in the mood for an honest opinion, Airi-san. Which suit jacket is more intimidating: the navy or the gray?"

Haru launched into a completely unserious critique of his groupmates' fashion choices, his rapid-fire teasing instantly drawing a laugh from Airi. Haru was exactly as Saki had described him: fun, loud, and thoroughly disarming. He provided a welcome buffer from the penthouse's formality.

Airi was chatting easily with Haru about the best places to find good deserts since she has a huge sweet tooth, and that is when the entire room shifted its focus.

Ren Ichijō had entered the party.

He was the definition of the image Junpei was selling: flawless, distant, and utterly magnetic. Dressed in a fashionable red and black outfit that made him look sculpted, he moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being the center of attention.

Ren found Airi quickly, his eyes locking on her from across the room. There was an intense moment of silent recognition: the idol recognizing his collaborator, the stranger recognizing the fellow fugitive. Ren navigated the crowd expertly, accepting congratulations and compliments until he reached the corner where Airi, Haru, and Junpei were standing.

"Haru," Ren said, his voice polite but firm. "I need to steal Airi-san for a moment."

Haru, reading the serious tone, immediately backed off with an exaggerated sigh. "My social duties are done. She's all yours, Captain Brooding. Try to smile at least once."

Ren didn't smile, but he turned to Airi, his expression softening slightly. "Thank you for coming," he said, the noise of the party suddenly fading around them. "And that dress... I didn't know you had that in your wardrobe."

Airi felt a shiver run down her spine. "It was Saki's idea," she admitted. "I still feel like I'm wearing a costume."

"You wear it well," Ren replied simply. He led her to a quiet section of the terrace, shielded from the main party by a screen of tall hedges.

"I wanted to see you here," Ren confided, his voice low. "See you outside of the studio, outside of the cafe. I need to make sure you see the world we are writing for. The stage we are aiming for."

Airi leaned against the cold stone railing, the fresh night air a welcome change from the stuffy room. "It’s overwhelming. Everyone here is so... polished. I feel like I'm going to spill something expensive."

"You feel like you don’t belong," Ren finished for her, looking out over the city lights. "That’s exactly how I feel, every day. They see the product, the idol. They don't see the person who just wants to sit in a quiet room and play chords that mean something. That's why I need you, Airi."

He turned back to her, and the distance between the idol and the composer vanished. "Tell me about your job," he requested. "The real one. The one you hate. I want to know everything that is fueling the honest rage in your songs."

Airi found herself opening up easily, surprised by her own candor. She told him about the repetitive monotony of the Archiving Protocol, the fluorescent lights, Mr. Sako's silent judgment, and the sheer relief she felt when she could finally escape to write music.

Ren listened, intensely focused, offering quiet observations about the societal pressure to choose security over passion. He shared his own controlled existence—the endless choreography rehearsals, the scripted interviews, the constant, suffocating fear of the smallest scandal. They were two fugitives, finding common ground in their mutual desire for authenticity, even as one lived in glaring fame and the other in intentional obscurity.

It was an intensely private conversation, a moment of profound intimacy, and it made the dazzling party around them feel utterly irrelevant. Airi felt closer to him now than she had in the emotional chaos of the studio.But the moment, true to Ren’s high-stakes life, was ephemeral.

Suddenly, a woman with a severe headset and a concerned expression approached them on the terrace.

"Ren-san," she whispered urgently. "The network interview is ready. They need you on the stage now. The Ascension presentation is starting."

Ren sighed, the exhaustion clear in his posture. The cool, impenetrable idol mask slid back into place.

"I have to go," he said, turning back to Airi. He quickly, gently, squeezed her arm, a gesture of apology and promise. "Enjoy the party, Airi Komatsu. And don't forget why you're here. We'll talk about the new bridge tomorrow."

He was gone instantly, swept away by his handlers and pulled toward the stage.

Airi stood alone on the terrace, watching Ren transition seamlessly into the superstar as he mounted the platform. He was suddenly polished, smiling the perfect, dazzling smile she had seen on billboards.

She felt a dizzying mix of emotions: disappointment that their conversation was cut short, and overwhelming pride in this man. This untouchable idol was secretly relying on her to keep his creative spirit alive.

It was a strange, beautiful life she was leading, balanced precariously between corporate archives and penthouse parties.