Tides Turning, Part One

In one of the grim, sleepless nights that stretch out after that, Hakaze reflects that she still has three things going for her.

First, of course, were Nao and Kaori, who had thrown in their lot with her too early to pull out now. Whatever this was, it had passed the point of deniability. All they could do was see their gamble through.

Second was Hakaze’s own sheer, bloody-minded refusal to yield to circumstances she thought were below her. She’d sanded down those edges after ECLIPSE disbanded — changed the story to something palatable, reframed stubbornness as loyalty — but the core of it was still there. Despite the diamond-hard edge of pain she skirted like a dumb animal, there was still the anger. Still the refusal.

The third thing is that the ground is not as solid as Kirishima wants everyone to believe.

She doesn’t quite let herself think that yet. Instead, she watches the ceiling until the shapes blur, until her thoughts start doubling back on themselves.

When she picks up her phone, she sees her hand almost twice over, realities weaving like currents. She thinks, absurdly, that’s the hand Ren wants to hold, and feels sick enough to have to sit up.

The phone vibrates. The screen lights up with MAMORU: VP SALES.

She answers on the second ring.

“Hakaze?” His voice is rough, flattened by exhaustion and bad reception. “Sorry — I know it’s late. Or early. I stopped checking.”

She straightens instinctively, spine aligning, expression already in place even though no one can see it. “Mamoru. I was just thinking about you. I saw the projections for the rookie survival show — congratulations. Those ad numbers are impressive.”

A pause. Then a tired laugh. “Yeah. About that.”

She waits. She’s learned this part.

“The numbers aren’t actually as good as they look,” he admits. “More and more contracts are contingent on Neonite making appearances. We keep pitching it like the rookies are the draw, but…” He exhales. “It’s starting to feel like nobody wants untested talent, even with our word behind it.”

Hakaze closes her eyes.

“That’s not what we’re hearing,” she says carefully. “Harua’s album rollout has been stalling.”

“Exactly.” Mamoru doesn’t bother to hide the relief in his voice. “If Harua appeared on the show — even briefly — it would stabilize things. Sponsors would calm down. The board would stop panicking.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Hakaze says, flat.

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I’m not calling to ask you to push him.”

That’s new.

She opens her eyes.

“Kirishima’s whole thing,” Mamoru continues, slower now, “has always been that he keeps us safe from risk. He made his big play by disbanding ECLIPSE, and the shareholders loved it. Stock stopped wobbling. Everyone relaxed.”

Hakaze presses the base of her palm into her eye socket, hard enough to see stars.

“Then Neonite blew up,” Mamoru says. “And somehow that got framed as his success too. But the more I look at the data…” He hesitates. “The more it looks like that wasn’t Kirishima at all. That was Ren.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And now,” Mamoru adds quietly, “it feels like he knows it. Like he’s trying to build a replacement Ren. Someone he can actually control.”

The idea is so grotesque it almost makes her laugh. Instead, she drags her hand down her face.

“So what,” she says. “This all comes down to the CFO’s ego?”

“Maybe,” Mamoru says. “Unless something happens.”

There it is.

Hakaze knows when the ground is shifting beneath her feet; knows how to read the shape and texture of silences where things go unsaid. She lives her whole life in those silences.

She doesn’t know if she can do what he’s implying. But she finds that she’s almost bored of being sad. Notes her own grief, stasis and heartbreak with the impatience of a critical parent.

Well? So what are you going to do about it?

When she finally exhales, it’s slow. Measured.

“Get some sleep,” she says lightly. “You sound like hell.”

“Pot, kettle.”

He hangs up. In the silence of the studio, she feels the fault lines of the story Kirishima’s selling, the places he doesn’t think to fill the cracks. Five years ago, she’d thought he was absolute, his logic unassailable: now she sees a man who thinks himself above the industry that he gets his power from. Doesn’t see past the glamorous lies of an idol persona.

She’s unsurprised when she finds that she knows what to do.