The Live Studio and the Shield

The Verity studio was a blade of light and sound, a sterile arena disguised as a cozy living room set.

They were arranged in two neat lines: girls on one side, boys on the other, a small gulf between them.

Takeshi sat in his sleek armchair to the side, his famous smile plastered on like a crescent of white.

Nataria’s own public mask was a composition of mild interest and serene detachment.

Her gaze, traitorous and with a will of its own, kept drifting to Senri, though.

A stylist had clearly been unleashed on him.

They’d dressed him in a soft, pale butter-yellow sweater that made his skin glow under the lights, and artfully baggy cargo pants.

His usually messy hair was styled back, revealing the full, handsome planes of his face.

The light colors didn’t just suit him; they magnified him.

His dimpled smile seemed brighter, his honey-gold eyes like captured sunlight.

He’d never looked this… polished.

A secret, foolish part of her pride whispered that she’d known it first, known that light colours would love him, before any professional ever laid hands on him.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

“And Hidomu-san!”

Takeshi leaned forward, oozing paternal charm.

“What a delightful change! Your fans must be thrilled. We’re so used to your elegant, darker palette, but this! You look radiant.”

Fans.

A generous fiction. But she clung to the word, a lifeline of normalcy.

It took every ounce of her training not to blush or fidget. Because her mind betrayed her, flashing to an hour earlier:

Senri, frozen in the villa’s hallway, his gym bag dropping from his shoulder with a soft thud.

She’d just come downstairs in the new powder blue dress, the delicate fabric swirling above her knees, the bow at the neck feeling both childish and daring.

She’d felt… soft. Approachable. Like someone who could belong next to Momo’s vibrant energy.

Senri had stared, his golden eyes wide, his breath catching audibly. He’d looked utterly, completely breathless.

She'd felt the heat of his gaze like sunlight on her skin, warming her from the outside in.

And because he was Senri, his thoughts traveled directly from his brain to his mouth.

“Wow,” he’d breathed, the word full of unvarnished awe.

“You look… really beautiful.”

The memory was a live wire in her chest, threatening to short-circuit her composure under the studio lights.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

“The results of the first challenge are in!”

Takeshi announced with manufactured suspense. A giant screen behind him lit up. Their photos appeared, with percentage bars growing beneath them.

Nataria’s heart thudded louder.

Her photo with Senri shot to the top. The bar filled, claiming a decisive lead.

They’d won.

Genuine shock washed over her.

She’d braced for last place, a public confirmation of her toxicity.

Senri’s dedicated fans had carried them, voting despite her presence, She thought.

The others offered congratulations, Sachiko’s was warm, Momo’s genuinely pleased, clapping, Shou’s a flash of a real smile, Hibiki’s a thumbs-up from his seat.

“Congratulations! ‘Best Chemistry Pair’!”

Takeshi beamed as a production assistant brought out two elegantly framed copies of the winning photo.

Senri caught her eye from his chair at the end of the boys’ line, just a half meter of empty space separating their corners. His grin was wide and unguarded, a burst of pure, shared triumph. He casually raised a hand, palm open.

It took her a brain-frozen second to understand. A high-five. Across the divide.

She lifted her own hand. Their palms met in a soft, clean slap.

His skin was warm, the calluses on his palm a rough, thrilling contrast to the smoothness of hers.

A ridiculous, unbidden smile broke through her professional mask, mirroring his.

She quickly curled her fingers around the cool edge of the frame now in her lap, as if to physically hold onto the feeling.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

“And we’ll be right back after these messages!”

Takeshi sang. The red ‘ON AIR’ light above the main camera died.

The studio’s tension released with a collective exhale.

A makeup artist fluttered over to powder Takeshi’s forehead. An assistant swapped his note cards. Nataria watched him scan the new ones, his eyes moving with efficiency, then narrowing with a certain gleam.

She answered Sachiko’s quiet

“You okay?” with an automatic

“I’m fine,”

But her senses were prickling.

When the red light blinked back on, the atmosphere had shifted. Takeshi’s eyes held a different acquisitive sheen. The look of a hunter who’d just been handed a map of weak spots.

Nataria’s stomach turned to ice. She knew this look too well.

“Now,”

Takeshi began, his tone shifting to one of concerned confidant.

“We value your growth here. And sometimes, growth comes from hearing hard truths. Your fans,”

He stressed the word,

“have been sharing some… observations after your first week.”

He turned to Sachiko first, his expression dripping with faux sympathy.

“Tamaki-san. Many have noted how incredibly kind you are. Always helping, always smiling. Some wonder… is it because you feel perhaps a little insecure? Being around such established beauties as Miyata-san and Hidomu-san?”

Sachiko’s sunny face blanked with shock. Her hands tightened on her knees. Nataria’s own grip on the picture frame turned vise-like.

This wasn’t aimed at her?

“I… I just like to be helpful,”

Sachiko said, her voice smaller than anyone had ever heard it.

“Of course, of course!” Takeshi soothed,

“But some are concerned you’re trying to… compensate. For not being as naturally striking.”

The cruelty, wrapped in that fake concern, hung in the dead air of the studio. Nataria saw the blow land on every face: Hibiki’s eyes narrowed into hard slits; Shou’s easy smirk vanished; Momo looked horrified; Senri’s brow furrowed in confusion that was rapidly darkening into anger.

Takeshi was already moving, a dancer of destruction.

He pivoted to Shou.

“Komatsu-san. A common critique of idols is self-absorption. Some fans worry you see your housemates less as people, more as… background for your own narrative. Any thoughts?”

Shou’s camera-ready smirk tightened at the edges.

“Idol work requires a degree of self-focus,” He said, his voice losing its melodic lilt.

“But I value everyone here.”

The sting was visible beneath the bland answer.

“Shimizu-san!”

Takeshi continued, relentlessly flipping the cards in his hands.

“Your calm demeanor is admired, but some fans find it… boring. They speculate it’s why you often seem to be on the periphery of the group’s dynamics. Does that loneliness ever get to you?”

Hibiki’s silver eyes turned to flint. He managed a neutral, tight-lipped reply.

“I’m not a very excitable person. But I enjoy my housemates’ company.”

It was a masterclass reply, but Nataria could see that the insult lingered.

Takeshi turned to Momo next, his voice dripping with false concern.

“Miyata-san, your livestreams are so joyful, and fans have been loving them! But some concerned viewers have mentioned… your cheeks look a little fuller. They ask: Are you watching your diet with all the villa’s treats?”

Momo’s hands flew to her face in self-consciousness. The hurt in her wide, doe-like eyes was so profound, so naked, that even Takeshi seemed to rush past it, zeroing in on his next target.

Senri.

“And Amano-san!”

Takeshi’s smile was wide.

“Your ‘honest, simple guy’ image is certainly popular! But some intellectual viewers are questioning if there’s any real depth behind it. They wonder if the persona isn’t just a… cover for a lack of complexity.”

He’s calling him stupid.

Nataria felt a cold fury solidify in her veins.

Senri answered easily, without a hint of offense.

“I’m not very complicated. What you see is mostly what there is.”

Nataria was still fuming, though.

They were lambs before a wolf in a designer suit.

They were being skinned, live on air, and they had to sit and take it with grateful smiles.

You couldn’t argue with ‘fan feedback’. You couldn't snap at the smiling messenger.

She was ready when his gaze finally landed on her, a hunter saving a known quarry for last.

“Hidomu-san. Ah, the ‘Ice Queen’.”

He chuckled, as if it were a cute nickname.

“Some viewers have expressed… trepidation at the idea of sharing a room with you. They’ve complimented the other girls’ bravery. How does that make you feel?”

After the torrent of bile aimed at the others, her own attack felt almost… pedestrian.

Scary? She’d read worse on her social media in the dead of night.

The frost she needed slid into her face on command, a familiar armor.

“I have learned by experience to be respectful and civil at all times,” she said coldly.

A subtle, deliberate reference to the scandal that hung over her, acknowledging the monster under the bed to show she wasn’t afraid of it.

Takeshi opened his mouth, likely to twist the knife further, to mine more reaction under the guise of ‘character development’.

Then Nataria saw it. From the corner of her eye.

Senri’s hands, resting on his knees, curled into tight, white-knuckled fists. He straightened, his shoulders squaring, his jaw set.

Her heart plummeted through the floor.

No. Don’t.

You, beautiful, idiotic fool.

“I don’t agree with these things.”

Senri’s voice cut through the studio hard as diamond, his eyes fixed on Takeshi with reproachful intensity.

“I think everyone here has been great. People I’d be honored to call friends. And I think repeating terrible things about people, even if someone else said them first, is just as bad as saying them yourself.”

The silence was absolute.

Everyone stared.

It was a breathtaking, stupid, noble stand.

The audience would love him for it.

And her heart squeezed, painfully, with admiration.

She saw Takeshi’s smile widen, the gleam in his eyes turning triumphant.

A reaction. He got the reaction he wanted.

“Oh, Amano-san,” Takeshi chuckled breezily.

“We’re just relaying critiques from the people who support you! The fans who want you to improve. Are you saying you’re above criticism? That you’re perfect as you are?”

Senri blinked, thrown off balance.

The moral high ground was crumbling beneath him, twisted into arrogance.

“Wha… No, of course not! That’s not what I… It’s just that…”

He was floundering, and Takeshi was moving in for the kill.

“The thing is, Takeshi-san.”

Nataria’s voice, colder and sharper than a shard of winter, cut Senri off.

All eyes snapped to her.

She let the full force of her ‘Ice Queen’ persona radiate out, her gaze glacial.

“These comments aren’t from fans.”

She articulated the word with disdain.

“Fans support you. They want you to succeed in your craft. They don’t seek to harm you with personal, cruel attacks about someone’s kindness, or weight, or perceived loneliness.”

She gestured elegantly toward Sachiko, then Momo, then Hibiki.

“To suggest otherwise insults the real fans who love them. So, I agree with Amano-san. It is unkind. And broadcasting unkindness serves no purpose but to hurt.”

The silence this time was electric.

She met Takeshi’s gaze, her black eyes unflinching. She’d drawn a line, and on one side was constructive fandom, and on the other was Takeshi, holding a basket of poison.

For a heartbeat, Takeshi was still, his smile frozen. He knew he was checkmated. Pushing further would make him the obvious villain.

“Ah, a passionate defense of your housemates! Loyalty is important,”

He recovered, slick as oil, swiftly moving to a pre-prepared segment about upcoming villa activities.

“Let’s talk about the next challenge!”

The immediate crisis passed, but the damage was done.

A thick, residual tension choked the studio. The easy camaraderie from the winner’s announcement was gone.

As Takeshe prattled on, Senri’s gaze found hers across the divide. His expression was no longer angry, but filled with a gratefulness. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Nataria nodded back, her fingers tracing the edge of the framed photo in her lap, the image of his light and her shadow, forever balanced in a moment of silent, perfect understanding.

The shield she’d thrown up for him trembled in her hands.

It felt dangerously like something more than just housemate camaraderie.