The Industry’s Natural State

"...and then Shimizu-san just stood there in the foam, completely covered, looking like an angry snowman." Senri demonstrated with his hands, shaping the air into the approximate size of Hibiki's glowering figure. "Komatsu and I were dying laughing. I think that’s when Shimizu-san decided we were both permanently on his list."

Yuki giggled, nearly spilling her tea. "Why did you team up against him specifically?"

The question stopped Senri mid-gesture.

His younger sisters sat across from him in the modest living room of their new apartment, one that his advance payment had made possible.

Yuki, nearly thirteen, excitable and demanding; Hana, who was already developing their mother's perception at fifteen, had just finished serving tea and settled beside him on the couch.

Why had he disliked Hibiki in those early days?

The memory of Nataria laughing, her hair plastered to her forehead with foam, her eyes meeting his across the chaotic yard.

The real answer flashed in his mind: Because I thought he liked Nataria. The jealousy had been irrational but all-consuming. Every time Hibiki stood close to her, every private conversation, every shared laugh had felt like a personal affront.

But he couldn't say that without revealing far too much about feelings he and Nataria hadn't discussed how to navigate yet.

"Well?" Yuki pressed, leaning forward with that gleefulness meant she'd sensed a secret. "Why'd you hate him?"

"I didn't…" Senri started.

"You said 'disliked,'" Hana pointed out, her eyes narrowing. "Past tense."

His phone rang, cutting through the interrogation like divine intervention.

Nataria's name lit up the screen.

His heart did something complicated and wonderful in his chest, joy and nervousness and that new, terrifying tenderness that came with loving someone who loved him back.

“I have to take this,” he said, already scrambling up, ignoring Yuki’s theatrical “Nii-chan!” and Hana’s soft chuckle.

He shut himself in his room, the familiar faded posters of musical acts the only familiar thing in it. “Nata-chan,” he answered, a smile woven into the words.

“Hi, Senri-kun.”

The smile froze. Her voice was wrong. It was stripped of the shy, melodic warmth he’d come to crave. It was wired with a tension that vibrated down the line.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, the warmth in his chest cooling into a lead weight.

“Yes. For now.”

And then she told him. The agency meeting. The curated clips. The strategy of dilution. The directive: Distance yourself.

Senri listened, his free hand curling into a fist so tight his knuckles ached. A quiet, ferocious anger burned in his gut. They were reducing what they had to a “potential infection.” They were asking her to perform indifference. To lie.

“I don’t want to stay away from you,” he said, the words raw. “But… if I have to, until the show ends… I’ll do it. For you.” The concession tasted like ash.

Her sigh was a soft shudder over the line. “I don’t want that either. We can still text. We’ll just have to be… careful.”

The unspoken after hung between them, a vast, terrifying blank space.

He lunged into it. “What about after the show?”

The silence that followed pulled all the air from his lungs. “Do you… want me to stay away then, too? I won’t be a reason for people to hurt you, Nata-chan. I could say something. To my fans. Make it clear…”

“No.” Her interruption was definitive. “You absolutely cannot. Senri-kun, right now this is just noise. If you address it, you make it a real problem. A scandal. I won’t be the reason you get hurt either.”

Her voice softened, fraying at the edges. “If you make a statement like that, as an idol just building his career… it could end it.”

The weight of her words, their terrifying logic, crashed down on him. He thought of the contracts, the advances already sent home, the relief on Hana’s face when she’d talked about finally having proper heating.

He thought of Yuki, finally safe and free to be just a child. His fists unclenched, leaving half-moon marks in his palms. He couldn’t be reckless with their futures, or Nataria’s.

“It’s going to pass,” Nataria said, her voice firming, adopting the tone of someone trying to convince themselves. “We just have to be smart and patient.”

He nodded, a useless gesture she couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“The car’s at the villa. I have to go.” A pause, then her voice shifted, dipping into that private, vulnerable place that was only for him. “I’ll… text you all the things I can’t say to your face because of the cameras.”

The lead weight in his chest softened. “I’ll be waiting.”

The call ended. Senri stood in the silent room, caught between the lingering echo of her promise and the cold, complex reality waiting for him back at the villa. He felt older. The world had more edges than he’d realized.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

Returning to the villa was like stepping into a different atmosphere charged with a quiet dread. The joyful bubble of the morning with his family had popped.

He noticed Shou first. He was a portrait of collapse. Slumped on his bed, still in his day clothes, Shou stared at the wall.

Actually, Senri realized now, Shou had been off for days. Disappearing for hours with vague explanations about practice sessions. Returning exhausted, falling asleep still in his clothes. The usual sharp edge of his competitiveness dulled into something that looked more like desperation.

Senri had asked Hibiki about it two nights ago. The actor had shrugged it off with his characteristic bluntness: "You didn't look any better leading up to your commercial recording. Artists under pressure all look half-dead. It's the industry's natural state."

The answer had satisfied him then. Now, entering the shared bedroom and finding Shou sitting on his bed, clearly waiting with an expression that screamed something is wrong, Senri felt the cold finger of dread trace down his spine.

Hibiki was sprawled on his own bed, script in hand, but his eyes tracked Shou with obvious concern. A quick glance between them confirmed that Hibiki had no idea what this was about either.

Shou looked terrible. Dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. The bright smirk that usually lived on his face had been replaced by something brittle and haunted.

"Hey." Senri kept his voice gentle, approaching like Shou was a spooked animal. "You okay?"

Instead of answering, Shou held out his phone silently.

Senri took it, confusion shifting into alarm when he saw the screen. A message thread. The contact name read simply: Manager.

The most recent exchange made his blood run cold. Shou had forwarded a news article link. The headline read: Drunk Driver Sentenced in Fatal Accident that Claimed Mother and Child.

It was from three years old and no names were listed. But Senri knew. He knew that tragedy, the weight of the guilt. His father.

His blood turned to ice.

Shou’s manager had replied: Perfect timing. Right before the talent showcase. It will have maximum impact.

Senri’s vision tunneled. The room’s air thickened, became difficult to breathe. He could hear the echo of his sisters’ laughter from this morning, a sound now under threat of being silenced by the vicious murmur of a million online voices.

“I want you to know,” Shou said, his voice grave, still refusing to meet Senri’s eyes. “What I did.”

The pieces of the full ugly picture clicked into place. Senri understood, with a clarity that felt both ancient and painfully new, what Shou was about to do. The confession Shou was about to make, on camera, in front of everyone. Destroying his own career to prevent the destruction of Senri's.

As Shou opened his mouth, likely to begin his damning speech right there in the camera-haunted room, Senri moved. He crossed the space in two strides, grabbed Shou’s and pulled him toward thedoor. “Not here.”

Hibiki was on his feet in an instant, following without a word. The three of them spilled into the large, tiled shared bathroom. Hibiki shut the door firmly. The click was a stark, final sound. Here, there was only the hum of the ventilation fan, the scent of clean linen and antiseptic, and the ragged sound of Shou’s breathing.

“What is going on?” Senri demanded, releasing Shou’s arm. “Why are you doing this?”

Shou leaned against a sink, looking down at the white ceramic. “My job was to come here, be the charming center, and promote our group’s debut song. I failed.” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “Your song is number two. Mine is number six. The comparisons are killing us.”

“Why do we have to compete?” Senri asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I heard your song. It’s good! You were happy with the ranking!”

“You don’t get it!” Shou snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were blazing with a mixture of shame and fury. “Your success makes my ‘good’ look like ‘failure.’ They needed a lever. And a fan… some obsessed ‘well-wisher’… sent this to me.” He gestured weakly to the phone. “And I just forwarded it. I thought… God, I was so stupid. I thought giving it to my manager was smart strategy. Now I realize what it actually makes me.”

“So the achievements worthy of celebration become unacceptable the moment someone else succeeds more,” Hibiki murmured from his perch on the edge of the bathtub, his voice cold. “The idiocy of this industry is truly breathtaking.”

“I’m going to confess,” Shou stated, pushing off the sink. “On camera. I’ll tell them everything. How I got the information. How I gave it to my manager. How we planned to use it. I’ll take the fall.”

“No, you’re not,” Senri said.

“You can’t stop me!”

“My father is a criminal,” Senri said, the words leaving a familiar, acidic taste in his mouth. “That’s the truth. If people are going to judge me for it, let them. Your confession won’t change the facts. It’ll just ruin you, too.”

Shou stared at him, incredulous. Then a strange, weary smirk twisted his lips. “You know… I hated you at the start. I really did. I wouldn’t have lost a minute of sleep over leaking this back then.” He shrugged, the anger draining away to reveal the exhaustion underneath.

“But that doesn’t matter now. This is exactly why I have to do it. You’re not the only one with morals, Amano. I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I worked for every second of this. I resented you because your fame felt unearned.” He met Senri’s eyes, and there was a bleak honesty there. “But I’ve seen you work. I’ve heard your song. I know it’s earned. So I’m making it even. I’m balancing the scales.”

Hibiki let out a long, slow breath. “This is a disaster scenario. Confessing shifts the narrative from ‘Senri’s scandal’ to ‘industry betrayal drama.’ It might split the public’s anger, but it will drown you both. At best, one takes the main fall. At worst, you sink together.”

The three of them stood in the sterile, echoing room, trapped. Senri felt the walls of his world, already narrowed by the agency’s directives for Nataria, closing in further. His past was a weapon. His present was a secret. His future was a tightrope over a raging crowd.

He looked at Shou and saw another person trapped in the same gilded, suffocating machine. He thought of Nataria, trying to be “smart” and “patient,” forcing distance where there should be none.

A spark ignited in the cold dread. A reckless impulse he couldn’t afford.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Senri said, his voice gaining a new steadiness. “There has to be another option.”