The Gilded Cage

The night air was cool against Senri’s skin, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat still lingering in his veins from earlier, from Nataria’s small smile at his nickname, her blush, the faint memory of her weight in his arms. He needed space.

He walked without a real destination, the gravel of the villa’s private road crunching under his sneakers. The distance between houses here was obscene, expanses of manicured lawn and ornamental trees that felt like barriers.

It’s a gilded cage, he thought, the realization bitter on his tongue. The villa was stunning, a paradise designed for television. But the nearest town was miles away, unreachable on foot. Every car was a production vehicle, every departure a scheduled event. They’d signed away their freedom for exposure, traded autonomy for airtime.

Headlights cut through the darkness, twin beams pinning him in place. A sleek black sedan purred to a stop beside him. The passenger door opened before the engine even fully died.

“Amano-san! Out for a stroll?”

Producer Aoyama emerged, her smile as bright and artificial as a studio lamp. She was, as always, dressed in stylishly sharp blazers, her eyes missing nothing.

Senri’s instincts screamed. He turned to greet her. Then he saw the camera operator in the back seat, lens already raised, a dark eye observing him through the open window.

His first truthful answer: “I was looking for a private place to tell the girl I love my true feelings,” dissolved on his tongue. His second: “I’m looking for a spot away from you and your cameras,” followed it into silence.

How many times had Nataria done this? Since she was a child, probably. Filtering every real emotion through the mesh of public perception. The thought ached.

“Just exploring,” Senri said, his voice relaxed. It was true. “The grounds are extensive. It’s a nice night.”

“It is,” Aoyama agreed, her gaze sweeping over him. “But for safety and contractual reasons, residents can’t leave the premises unless it’s for pre-approved work. You signed off on it, remember? We have to keep our narrative contained.” Her laugh was light, but the words were bars on a window.

Trapped. The feeling was a physical pressure in his chest. He nodded, the agreeable idol. “Of course. My mistake.”

“Since we’re here,” Aoyama said, her tone shifting to directive, “let’s get a quick shot. Over by the lantern, looking out toward the hills… contemplative just the way you were a minute ago. An artist seeking inspiration under the moon.”

Senri’s song was flowing just fine, complete and complex in his head. His muse was back in the villa, probably hugging a pink bunny. He didn’t need to search for inspiration. But he moved to the spot, leaned against a wooden post, and let his gaze go distant.

It wasn't good, he knew it; he wasn't even trying to make it believable.

The camera whirred softly anyway, capturing a fiction: the pensive musician, not the frustrated man yearning for a moment of unobserved truth.

“Perfect,” Aoyama said after a moment. “Head on back now, okay?”

He walked back to the villa, the weight of the illuminated doorway feeling more like a lock clicking shut than a welcome.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The next morning, a sharp rap on the door broke a restless sleep. Shou stood inside their shared bedroom, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry to wake you, Amano-san. Can you help me with something really quick?” Shou said, turning on his heel.

Senri eyes him oddly, “Sure…”

He followed him to their shared bathroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The space was huge, a tiled oasis of morning light. Shou closed the door behind them, a small protective gesture against the omnipresent lens and audio pickups outside.

“You’ve seen last night’s episode?” Shou asked, thumbing his screen.

“No.” Senri leaned against the sink. Senri never watched the show if he could help it. And his sisters always sent him commentaries about what they've seen, so he felt like he never missed anything.

“You should watch this.” Shou handed him the phone.

The edited segment played. Senri filled the screen, running through the commercial choreography again and again, but the broadcast version wasn’t interested in the routine as a whole. The camera cut tight, catching the sheen of sweat sliding from the line of his jaw to his collarbone, the way his tank top pulled and shifted across his shoulders with each sharp count. There was a slow pan up his torso between beats, an unnecessary linger on his hands flexing at his sides before the music resumed.

The edit felt invasive, turning effort into voyeurism. Exactly why he hated to watch it.

Then Nataria entered the frame, the cool, competent teacher. Their practice session was trimmed to efficient beats: her correction, his improvement. Their conversation about art and connection was gone. Entirely.

It jumped to the silly dance. They looked joyful and ridiculous. Then Nataria stumbles. A dramatic, slow-motion fall. Cut to Senri catching her, his face a mask of panic. A jarring transition to him carrying her through the hallways (how had they gotten that shot?), then the tender moment in her room was reduced to him noticing the bunny, calling it cute, and instructing it to take care of her with a soft smile.

The emotional core, his fear, her confession, the charged air between them, had been surgically removed. What remained was a palatable, slightly fluffy story: the competent actress and the chivalrous idol.

Senri handed the phone back, his throat tight. “A lot is missing.”

“Obviously,” Shou said, his usual smirk playing on his lips. “ You've been busy, after all. But get ready. The confessionals today will definitely be about this. They’ll ask.”

The bathroom door opened. Hibiki slipped in, his movements quiet as a cat’s. He must have been aware of this discussion.

“What I don't understand is, why are they editing around it?” he said as though he was a part of the conversation from the start, leaning against the doorframe he’d just closed.

“Around what?” Senri asked, though he knew.

“The fact that you two are practically glowing with it,” Hibiki said bluntly, his silver eyes missing nothing. “If they edited it for romance, viewership would skyrocket for the rest of the season. They’re not. Which is interesting.”

Shou crossed his arms. “My agency had a clause in the contract. No artificial romance editing. Protects the brand.”

Hibiki nodded, as if it explained everything.

“That only works if you have the fandom power to back the demand. You, Amano here, and possibly Miyata-san have it. Me, Tanaka-san, Nataria?” He shrugged one shoulder. “We’re more… malleable. For Amano, this editing is a gift. They’re protecting your ‘eligible idol’ image.”

A spark of hope ignited in Senri’s chest. “So if they’re editing it out… does that mean I can speak freely? They won’t use it?”

Hibiki let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. They won’t edit you to look lovestruck. They can, however, edit her to look desperate, or calculating, or like she’s manufacturing moments. They can frame her actions without context. They have all the footage. They can build whatever narrative they want around her.”

Senri’s heart dropped, a cold stone in his gut. He pictured it instantly: Nataria’s gentle touch to his dimple, edited as a calculated move. Her heartfelt words about treasuring him twisted into a plea for screen time. The hashtag #pitypick flashed in his mind, but uglier. His hands curled into fists.

It was only then that he processed the casual acceptance in the room. Hibiki spoke of him and Nataria and romance as if stating the sky was blue. Shou looked vaguely amused, not surprised.

Senri’s gaze flicked between them. “How do you both know?”

Hibiki snorted. Shou’s smirk widened. “You’re about as subtle as a fireworks display in a library, my friend. The way you look at her? It’s embarrassing.”

“Which brings me to the main point,” Shou said, his tone shifting to something uncharacteristically serious. “They may try to spin this to protect you and amplify their drama. You need to be prepared for the confessional. Choose your words like you’re defusing a bomb.”

Senri’s jaw tightened. The trapped feeling from last night returned, now laced with a protective fury. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good.” Shou’s expression lightened. “Now, for today’s viewer entertainment: swimming competition. Outdoor pool. Weather’s perfect.”

Senri’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not a strong swimmer. Can’t we do something else?”

Shou looked at him with genuine pity. “It’s not about winning. It’s about… visual appeal. And accidental contact. And slow-motion exits from the pool.”

Hibiki interpreted. “Leave him be,” he said to Shou. “He performs better when he doesn’t see the script coming.”

Before Senri could process the backhanded nature of that, Hibiki turned to him. His usual sharp-edged demeanor around Senri softened into a perfectly disarming, princely smile, all warmth and encouragement, and utterly genuine-looking. “Just do your best and have fun out there, Amano.”

It was so flawlessly delivered that Senri found himself instinctively smiling back, disarmed. “You too, Shimizu-san. Do your best.”

Shou barked a laugh, unlocking the door. “Actors,” he muttered, shaking his head as he left. “The lot of you.”

Hibiki just shrugged, not offended in the slightest, and followed after him.

Senri was left alone.

The warning was clear. The game was in play. And Nataria was the piece they could move without her consent.

Senri splashed water on his face, the cold shock a poor substitute for clarity. He had to find a way to protect the most real thing he’d ever felt, in a world where every real moment was raw material waiting to be twisted.