The Passionate Ones, Pt. 1

The arena’s dressing room was surrounded end-to-end with soundproof walls.

It was a blessing, really. It meant that nobody could hear Akira’s manager, Ms. Saeki, absolutely losing her shit.

“I can’t believe you, Akira!”

“This is all a tad overdramatic, no?”

“You may not understand the repercussions or consequences because you’ve never experienced them before, but I do! Because of your actions today, Veronica’s agency will feel even more undervalued than it already is. She already feels used!” Saeki hissed.

“It made you ungodly amounts of money, didn't it? It made unreasonable amounts of engagement, didn't it? Why are you complaining about a good thing? Let the theorists run wild! They have no dirt on us.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s about principle and reputation within the industry. You are getting in the way of an arrangement that, by the way, you yourself agreed to.”

Akira refused to comment. He sat in the makeup chair, aggressively wiping the stage foundation off his face with a cotton pad.

He didn’t know what he was thinking, performing his biggest hits when the third-year race was on.

He wasn’t about to admit it to someone like Saeki, though.

“I don’t have outward feelings for Hayami,” he said flatly. “She’s a student. I’m a student, that’s all there is. Besides, I’m an Idol. It’d be career suicide.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Saeki spat, leaning in close. “You were practically declaring your love to the whole world. This whole concert stint was just a mating dance to you. This whole event would have been fine—encouraged, even—if you hadn’t strutted around like a bloody peacock.”

She jabbed a finger into his chest.

“You’re the bird with the prettiest feathers on the farm, Akira. And everyone saw you fanning them out just to impress your little crush.”

Akira smirked. “I mean, we can make up a playboy narrative—the pure Akira letting loose, having been back in the Japanese education system… the media’s gonna love that, by the way.”

Saeki let out a dry laugh.

“You know, it’s funny,” she murmured. “Why is it always the man who thinks he gets to walk out of these kinds of things unscathed? You feel the need to have your cake and eat it too.”

Akira’s eyes narrowed in the glass. “My gender has nothing to do with my actions.”

“Oh, but it does,” Saeki snapped. “Because you think you’re in a position to get away with this—no matter how slim the chance.”

She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her.

“Let me remind you, Prince of Japan… even royalty has to marry for the good of the kingdom. Don't mistake your privilege for freedom—”

“Don’t you dare.”

Akira stopped wiping his face. He stood up slowly. He didn't yell, but the sudden movement made Saeki take a step back.

“Don’t you dare assume what I know or don’t know about consequences.”

His mind looked back. He saw a sweaty, windowless practice room in Seoul, five years ago.

He saw a shivering, unconfident boy who couldn't hit the high notes because his throat was closed up with fear.

He saw her—the trainee manager who had held his hand when he had a panic attack on the cold, concrete floor.

She taught him many things. Smiling for the camera when you don’t feel the least bit happy; carrying yourself in such a way that it makes you look untouchable.

She also taught him, unwillingly, that good deeds do not go unpunished.

Akira’s biggest regret was not his career path; it was not being able to say “sorry” before she cut him off completely.

He quickly stepped back—realizing what he’d just done.

Rather than apologizing, he walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

“I know exactly what it costs to sit on this throne, Saeki. Make fun of me all you want. But don’t sink that low.”

Saeki adjusted her glasses. “The P2D boys won’t be happy to hear that you intimidated me. It’s not a good look for a leader to act like a psycho man-child.”

He slammed the door on her.

He straightened his jacket.

But as he turned to leave this accursed place, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the hallway.

It was an older man in a pristine black suit.

“Sir.”

Akira didn’t stop walking. “I told Saeki to cancel everything. That includes debriefs, Watari.”

The Head Butler fell into step beside him.

He didn't offer a towel or a water bottle. Instead, he provided a manila envelope.

“It is not about the concert, Young Master. It is regarding our… private project.”

Akira stopped. He looked at the envelope.

“Sir, while I was tempted to rescind your orders immediately, it seems your instinct has served you well this time,” Watari said gravely. “I have concerning developments regarding Hayami’s safety at her house.”

Akira snatched the envelope.

Grainy telephoto shots of a man banging on the door of the Sato residence.

Of one Sato Kenji.

Akira’s grip on the photos tightened until the paper crinkled.

Akira nodded slowly.

“This has been happening for two weeks?”

“According to the timestamps, yes.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

She trusted him with her humiliating cosplay, with her running form, with her dreams. Surely, that gave him some standing.

Right?

“Why would she keep something from me like that?” Akira whispered.

“Perhaps,” Watari said gently, “Miss Sato does not wish to be a burden. She is, as you noted, a private person. She may feel this is a family matter.”

That simple logic made sense. But it stung. It stung worse than Saeki’s yelling.

“Sir?” his butler asked. “Shall we intervene? This is a serious matter, and I understand—”

“No.”

Akira lowered the photos.

“If she hasn’t asked for help,” Akira continued, “I cannot force it on her. That would make me no better than the people trying to control her life.”

He handed the envelope back to Watari, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Watari, we need our best reconnaissance teams at the Sato residence. We need more information.”

“Sir… you’re not implying what I believe you’re implying…”

Akira had already walked off, ready to head back to the K-pop compound and attend another session of choreography.

“She wants to handle it herself? Fine. I’m still respecting that decision.”

‘But I won’t leave her defenseless.’

"You know those smart home devices, Watari?"

"The ones you affectionately label as 'sponsor-trash'?"

"They have built-in mics and cameras. She's said she doesn't want financial help, but that doesn't mean she'll turn down every gift. Besides, she needed a better alarm anyway..."

“Sir,” Watari whispered, eyes widening, “This is beyond the scope of a 'private project.'”

Akira looked confused. “It’s just some cameras. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not only is this a frankly idiotic plan from a tactical standpoint—because they will find those cameras; it is a matter of when, not if—but you are invading her privacy.”

“I know her! She won't protect herself, so I’m protecting her!”

“You presume her to have no agency? Really? You are stalking her.”

“As opposed to safety? If I can get some dirt on Kenji, that he’s actually abusing her, it will be worth it.”

“There is a fundamental difference between a star like you and a girl like Ms. Sato. You traded your privacy for a throne; she has nothing but her privacy. To take that from her is to leave her truly destitute.”

"I love her, Watari!"

Silence reigned after that.

"I love her. And if she gets hurt, knowing I could have done something about it? I could never live with myself."

Akira started to pace.

“I am one of the great Princes of Japan," he continued. "Every part of my life is judged, recorded, monitored—my very breath belongs to the public eye, yet I’m doing just fine! The only people 'judging' her through these lenses are us. Even if she figures that out, she will also be fine with it! Her life is the one in actual danger.”

Watari seemed unmoved. “Modern survival seems to demand the death of the Honne. You assume she is willing to abandon her inner soul to maintain a mask just because you have?”

“If someone—anyone—was watching Yuna, she’d be here with us today.”

“Sir…!”

The mention of that name silenced Watari. He opened his mouth, only for no sound to come out.

“If I put eyes in that room,” Akira continued, “she’s no longer alone. She has a witness. Why wouldn't she want that? I’d give anything for a witness who actually gave a damn.”

Akira walked toward the door.

“Please, Watari. Just do as I say.”

"Sir, please do not think I'm dumb. It is beneath you. You simply want to control her for your own selfishn—"

The star slammed the door behind him.

\\

The worst was not over. Hayami knew it because she was currently doom-scrolling through the evidence of her own crimes.

She sat at her desk while waiting for the next teacher to come in. Usually, she calmed herself by combing back her hair, but it seemed it would not obey today.

So with nothing left to do, she refreshed her news feed with a trembling thumb.

HEADLINE: P2D’S STUNT PLAGUED BY SCANDAL. WHO ARE AKIRA’S GIRLS AT GOLDEN BROOCH ACADEMY? SIGN OF LETTING LOOSE, OR IS THERE MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE?

Hayami felt sick. She had dragged Hina into a race, and now she had dragged Akira into the mud.

Suddenly, the chatter in the classroom died.

Hayami looked up.

Akira stood in the doorway.

Even with his reputation being called into question, he looked as infallible as ever.

People still held a visceral reaction to seeing a K-pop idol walking among the plebeians.

He tucked his phone into his pocket and scanned the room—probably from reading the same articles she was.

His eyes passed over the other kids, his gaze locking onto her.

Hayami’s heart hammered against her ribs. Akira walked straight toward her, much to her horror.

The class parted for him like the Red Sea.

He slammed his hand down on her desk.

Hayami jumped, nearly dropping her phone. "W-What’s up, Akira?"

He didn't even place a perfectly typed dossier on her desk like he usually did. His hands were empty.

“We are moving on,” he announced.

“H-Huh? But we haven't even debriefed Lesson Two.”

“You’ve done more than enough. It’s Lesson Three now.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down backwards, straddling it, resting his arms on the backrest.

“The race gave you visibility; millions upon millions view you in a positive light. You should be capitalizing on that momentum by making new friends. Now”

Hayami shrank back, blinking up at him.

“Call me sentimental, but I… I d-don’t know how to make friends just like that, Akira,” she whispered, clutching her phone tighter. “I’m fine with just Hina. Can’t rush things like these, r-right?”

Akira’s tapping finger stopped.

“I… you don't have the luxury of time, Hayami.”

He leaned closer.

“Momentum is a perishable resource. Use it, or lose it. A very reasonable proposition, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hayami almost liked his more intense self. Yet she can’t help but feel that something wasn’t right here…