“Past Failures”

Lately, feeling the incredible creative fuel from her clandestine collaboration with Ren, Airi had been spending late nights in the booth, working on entirely new compositions—songs just for herself, powered by the intense emotional landscape of her secret life.

She had just finished laying down a tentative vocal track for a moody, piano-driven piece she was calling "Tokyo Static," which was essentially a musical ode to the overwhelming, contradictory feelings Ren evoked. She slid off the stool, pulling off the oversized headphones, and stepped out of the booth and into the control room.

A man was sitting at the mixing console, spinning a knob with casual focus. It wasn't Ren. Airi instantly recognized the sharp jawline and the mischievous eyes. It was Haruto "Haru" Mizuno, the fun-loving member of Veritas she had met at the comeback party. He was wearing a soft, oversized hoodie, looking far less sharp than he had in the Ginza penthouse.

"Oh, Airi-san," Haru said, looking up with a disarming grin. "Didn't expect to find the hidden genius back here so late. Checking the latency on my vocal track, are we?"

Airi flushed, clutching her lyric sheets. "Haru-san. No, I was just... wrapping up a melody sketch. I didn't realize anyone else was in this section tonight."

"It's a free-for-all when Ren is on late-night choreography duty," Haru explained, leaning back in the chair. "I just needed to grab a forgotten thumb drive. But then I heard some rather beautiful piano work and decided to wait." He tilted his head, his smile fading slightly as he looked at her. "That song you were working on... the one about static? It’s yours, isn't it?"

Airi nodded cautiously. She knew Haru was smart and friendly, but she didn't know how much he knew about her contract.

"It’s beautiful, Airi-san," Haru said, his tone unexpectedly sincere. "Very different from your other works.” He stood up, walking toward the window that looked into the booth. "A long time ago, Ren wrote a song that sounded a little like that when I was a kid.”

"I wasn't really into teen pop groups then," Airi admitted. "I didn't even know your current group, Veritas existed until a couple of years ago."

Haru chuckled softly. "Veritas? No. This was before Veritas. We were in a small, terrible boy group called PB: short for ‘'Pulse Beat.' We lasted barely two years.”

Haru turned back to her, a hint of genuine melancholy in his eyes. "We had this song, 'Concrete Flowers.' It was about being young and trapped in the city. Ren wrote the piano arrangement. It was supposed to be my feature song on our first album, the one that never happened. I loved that song. I poured everything into it.”

Airi felt a sudden, strange discomfort. This was a piece of Ren's history she didn't know, a vulnerable moment tied to a band she had never heard of, and a song she had never heard.

"What happened to it?" Airi asked quietly.

Haru shrugged, the sadness morphing back into his usual light teasing, but the sincerity remained visible beneath the surface. "We disbanded. The management decided we weren't ready. Ren took it hard. He tossed all his compositions from that era. He said they were 'emotionally compromised'—whatever that means." Haru grinned. "But I think he just didn't want to hear my voice singing his favorite song anymore."

Haru stepped closer to Airi. "He's been different since you started working with him, Airi-san. Happier. More focused. He’s writing music that actually sounds like him again. But I just wanted to ask you... if you ever happen to be writing a piece that needs a vocalist with, say, exceptional charisma and a fantastic understanding of the urban melancholy theme..."

“Umm…” Airi sounds but she doesn't know what else to say considering that she feels Haru is getting a little too close for her comfort.

"Haru, leave her alone."

The voice was cool, deep, and cut through the quiet studio air. Ren had appeared in the doorway, still in his tight rehearsal clothes, his expression severe. He looked utterly exhausted but radiating a familiar intensity.

Haru threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Just having a moment of artistic exchange, Captain. Don't worry, I haven't compromised the integrity of your secret composer. Yet."

Ren ignored him, his eyes fixed only on Airi. "The choreography session ran late. I told Junpei I had to check on the final track masters." He looked pointedly at Haru. "Did you find your thumb drive?"

"I did," Haru confirmed, retrieving a small silver stick from the console. "Good night, Airi-san. And if you ever need a second opinion on emotional compromise, my line is always open." He gave Airi a final, conspiratorial wink and left the annex, the double doors swinging shut behind him.

A heavy silence settled in the studio, broken only by the faint whir of the computer fans. Airi hugged her lyric sheets to her chest, feeling suddenly awkward. Haru's story had made the distance between her and Ren feel immense again, reminding her that she knew so little about the man she was falling for.

"I apologize for Haru," Ren said finally, running a tired hand through his hair. "He tends to not understand boundaries.”

"He was fine," Airi murmured. "He was telling me about Pulse Beat.”

Ren flinched. The reaction was subtle but unmistakable. "That was a long time ago. Nothing that matters now."

"It sounded like it mattered to him," Airi pressed gently. "And it sounded like it mattered to you."

Ren walked over to the desk, leaning his weight on the console. "It was a juvenile attempt at art. It was before I understood the difference between passion and product. It's irrelevant." His voice was flat, dismissing the subject entirely.

Airi didn't push it. She realized then that she was his future, the key to the music he wanted to create now, and she shouldn't dwell on his past failures.

"Right," Airi said, gathering her things. "I should head home. I have that dreadful archiving report waiting for me tomorrow."

Ren looked at the clock and it was past midnight. "I'm dropping you off," he stated, not as a question but as a final word.

Airi instantly shook her head. "No, Ren, really, you don't have to. I can manage the train. It’s safer for both of us if we keep our distance after work."

"It's not about convenience, Airi," Ren countered, pushing back from the console. He grabbed a light, anonymous-looking jacket. "It's late. You're carrying my next album in that folder. I won't have you navigating the subway alone at this hour."

"But I do it all the time," Airi insisted, moving toward the door. "And if anyone sees you—"

"No one will see me," he interrupted, already pulling his jacket on. "I have a car waiting in the staff garage, and we'll use the service elevators. It's a quick, discreet route. It's safer for our entire arrangement than you waiting on a platform for the final train."

Airi paused. She pulled out her phone and checked the train schedule app, her heart sinking immediately. The last express train that would get her close to her neighborhood had departed five minutes ago. The next option involved a two-hour transfer wait and a long, dark walk.

She sighed, defeated by Tokyo's late-night transit efficiency. Her initial objection melted into a tired realization of necessity.

"Fine," Airi conceded, looking up at him. "But only because the last subway just left. This can't become a regular thing, Ren."

A relieved but controlled expression crossed Ren's face. "Understood.”

He held his hand out, and Airi hesitated. Ren's eyes flicker on her for a moment, then he draws his hands back, putting on his hoody instead. “Come on. Let's get you home.”