Chapter 4: Dress Rehearsal

The department store smells of expensive perfume and climate control.

Hana trails behind the group as they navigate the women's fashion section, her attention split between the excessive merchandise displays and the surveillance opportunities the space provides. Fifth Avenue retail architecture favors open sightlines and minimal partitioning—good for customer visibility, bad for anyone trying to maintain awareness of multiple threat vectors…or just make a break for the exit.

Three exits identified. Security station at the main entrance. No secondary positions visible. Camera coverage extensive but not comprehensive.

The cold voice catalogues while the warm voice wonders why she's bothering. No one is hunting her here. The only threats are four teenage girls with questionable fashion sense and a manager who may or may not be lying about the limits of her magical knowledge.

"What about this one?"

Yuki holds up a sequined minidress that would barely qualify as a shirt on anyone over five feet tall.

"No."

"You didn't even look at it."

"I don't need to. The answer is no."

Yuki's face falls, but she returns the dress to the rack without argument. Her guilt makes her compliant in ways Hana doesn't know how to process.

"You need stage presence," Sora says from across the aisle. She's methodically sorting through a rack of structured blazers, her movements precise and efficient. "The showcase requires a certain... aesthetic. We can work with your preferences within reason, but 'no' isn't a preference. It's a refusal."

"Then I refuse."

"That's not how this works."

"It's how this is going to work."

Sora's jaw tightens. The leadership facade cracks, just slightly.

"Listen," she says, dropping her voice so the nearby sales associate can't hear. "I understand you're angry. I understand this is overwhelming. But we have forty-eight hours until we're performing in front of industry executives who will decide whether Crescent Moon gets funding for the next fiscal year. If we fail, the company collapses. If the company collapses, our contracts become worthless. And if our contracts become worthless, your legal status in this country becomes extremely complicated."

Leverage. She's establishing stakes to ensure compliance.

Or she's telling the truth about institutional pressure.

"How complicated?"

"Visa-tied-to-employment complicated. Your documentation exists because the magic created it alongside the physical transformation. But documentation can be investigated. Scrutinized. If someone starts asking questions about Hana's work history before Crescent Moon, they won't find anything. Because there isn't anything."

The implications settle into Hana's mind like stones into still water.

"The reality alteration only covers recent history."

"Three months of records. Past that, you're a ghost." Sora's expression is unreadable. "So you can refuse to cooperate, antagonize the people trying to help you, and risk everything on the chance that your old life is somehow recoverable. Or you can put on appropriate clothing, perform like the professional you apparently were, and buy yourself time to find a better solution."

Calculated pressure. She's not wrong about the stakes.

But she's also controlling the narrative.

Hana looks at the clothing racks surrounding them. Bright colors. Revealing cuts. Fabrics designed to catch stage lighting and camera flashes.

None of it is her.

But 'her' doesn't exist anymore. Not in any way that matters to Japanese immigration authorities.

"Fine," she says. "Show me what I need."

The fitting room is larger than expected, with mirrors on three walls and adjustable lighting that cycles through different environments: stage lighting, daylight, fluorescent office glow. Hana stands in the center, surrounded by discarded options, and stares at her reflection.

The pile on the "rejected" chair is substantial: everything with excessive sparkle, visible logos, revealing hemlines, or colors that make her skin look sallow under the harsh light. The "possibly acceptable" pile is significantly smaller: two plain blouses, a structured skirt, and a pair of dark slacks that might work for press events.

Minimum acceptable wardrobe: identified. Continue processing.

Yuki knocks on the door.

"Hana? Can I come in?"

"It's unlocked."

Yuki enters, carrying another armload of clothing. Her expression is hopeful but guarded, like someone approaching a wild animal they're not sure is tame.

"I found some things that might work better," she says. "Sora picks clothes for the stage, but she doesn't always get that some people have different comfort zones."

She holds up a simple black skirt—knee-length, structured, professional without being boring—and a cream-colored blouse with minimal detailing.

Hana stares at them.

"Try it?" Yuki suggests.

"Why?"

"Because you look miserable in everything else, and if you're going to be stuck doing this for two years, you should at least be stuck in clothes that don't make you want to disappear."

Practical concern masked as kindness.

Or actual kindness.

Does the distinction matter?

Hana takes the clothes.

The skirt fits perfectly—because of course it does, because this body's measurements are known and catalogued and probably exist in some company database somewhere. The blouse settles against her shoulders like it was tailored specifically for her, which, for all she knows, it was.

She looks at herself in the mirror.

The girl looking back is—

Not ugly. Not awkward. Not the uncomfortable mess she expected.

The girl in the mirror looks like someone who chose these clothes. Someone with taste, with self-awareness, with a clear sense of professional presentation. The amber eyes that seemed so alien this morning now look striking rather than strange. The black hair falls past her shoulders in a way that frames her face rather than hiding it.

Unexpected reaction: acceptance.

Not acceptance. Assessment. This is tactically sound presentation.

Keep telling yourself that.

"See?" Yuki is watching her in the mirror, her smile cautious. "I knew you had good instincts. You just needed to stop fighting yourself long enough to find them."

"I wasn't fighting myself. I was fighting the ridiculous options everyone kept shoving at me."

"Same difference."

Hana opens her mouth to argue, then closes it.

Maybe it is the same difference.

"The others are going to be annoyed," Yuki continues, her tone shifting to something lighter. "Sora spent thirty minutes trying to convince you that sparkles are 'essential for stage presence.' Rei bet twenty dollars you'd end up in leather pants. Miya didn't say anything, but I think she was rooting for the pink sundress."

"The pink sundress would have made me look like a birthday cake."

"A very pretty birthday cake."

Despite everything—despite the transformation, the betrayal, the impossible situation she's been dropped into—Hana feels something that might be the beginning of a smile.

She suppresses it immediately.

Don't get comfortable. Don't let guard down.

Why not? They're not enemies.

Everyone is a potential enemy until proven otherwise.

"Fine," she says. "These work. Can we go now?"

"Not quite." Yuki's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "Ren wants to talk to you. About the contract details."

The not-quite-smile dies completely.

"Of course she does."

The confrontation happens in a private consultation room on the store's upper level—the kind of space where wealthy clients negotiate custom orders away from the general shopping population.

Ren is already waiting when Hana arrives. She's seated at a small table, a stack of documents in front of her, her expression carefully neutral.

"Close the door," she says. "We need privacy for this."

Hana closes the door but doesn't sit.

"You have questions about the contract," Ren continues. "I'm prepared to answer them. Within limits."

"Within limits."

"Some information requires context that you're not ready for. Some information would do more harm than good. I'm telling you this upfront so you understand that my silence on certain topics isn't evasion—it's judgment."

Preemptive framing. Establishing narrative control.

"Ask your questions," Ren says.

Hana considers her options. The contract itself is comprehensive—she reviewed it this morning, identified the trap structures, catalogued the leverage points. Seventy-five million yen in debt is absurd for any individual to repay through idol earnings alone. The payment structure ensures perpetual obligation. The termination clauses require either buyout or completion of the full term.

It's a debt trap designed to ensure loyalty through financial control.

"The seventy-five million yen," she says. "Is that a real number, or is it inflated to ensure I can never pay it off?"

"Real, but optimized. Training costs, housing, transformation resources, documentation creation, reality alteration maintenance. The actual expenses were closer to forty million, but the contract reflects standard industry markup."

"So you're profiting from my enslavement."

Ren doesn't flinch. "I'm ensuring the company survives. Crescent Moon is not a wealthy operation. The idol division runs at a loss most years. Without the debt structure, there's no funding for training, no resources for promotion, no path to success."

"And the reversal? You said you're researching options."

"I am. The family archives are fragmentary, but they reference practitioners who possessed the knowledge. If they still exist—if any records remain—finding them will take time and resources I don't currently have."

Conditional honesty. She's telling truth about her limitations.

But not about her motivations.

"There's something else," Hana says. "The magic that transformed me. You said it doesn't come entirely from you."

Ren's composure wavers.

"I said there are things I don't fully understand."

"Explain what you do understand."

Long pause.

"When I perform the transformation ritual," Ren says slowly, "I follow procedures my grandmother taught me. The words, the movements, the mental focus required. But the actual power—the force that reshapes reality—that comes from somewhere else. I'm a conduit, not a source."

"A conduit for what?"

"I don't know." The admission seems to cost her something. "My grandmother believed we were channeling ancestral energy, the accumulated spiritual power of generations of shrine priests. But I've never felt that. What I feel when the magic flows through me is... something watching. Something that approves or disapproves of what I'm attempting. If it disapproves, the spell fails. If it approves..."

"Then it works."

"Then it works perfectly. Every time."

External oversight. Implies divine or supernatural involvement beyond the Hayashi bloodline.

Important information. File for later analysis.

The consultation room door opens without warning.

Sora appears in the doorway, her expression urgent.

"Ren. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The morning weigh-in kind." Sora's voice drops. "Miya's up 0.8 kilograms since yesterday. Dr. Mori already knows."

Ren's face goes carefully blank. "I'll handle it."

She rises, gathering her documents, and follows Sora out of the room. Hana trails behind, watching the interaction with professional interest.

The group has gathered in the store's private lounge—apparently Crescent Moon has a corporate account here that includes VIP amenities. Miya sits on a leather couch, her small frame hunched forward, her eyes fixed on her hands. The other three surround her in a loose protective formation.

A woman Hana doesn't recognize stands nearby, tablet in hand, her expression tight with what might be concern or might be frustration. She wears medical scrubs under a professional blazer—Dr. Mori, presumably. The company nutritionist.

"It's only 0.8 kilograms," Yuki is saying, her voice defensive. "That's barely anything. It could be water weight, or—"

"Water weight is still weight," Dr. Mori interrupts. "The showcase measurements were locked in last week. Any deviation affects costume fitting, stage positioning, camera angles. This isn't about health, it's about precision."

"She's sixteen," Rei says flatly. "Kids fluctuate."

"She's a professional. Professionals maintain consistency."

Miya hasn't said anything. Her fingers twist in her lap, nails digging into skin.

Eating disorder indicators: body shame, anxiety around food discussion, physical self-harm as stress response.

This industry is designed to create psychological damage.

"I'm sorry," Miya whispers. "I didn't mean to—I just had a little extra rice at dinner, and I thought if I exercised more today—"

"Don't apologize," Rei cuts in. "This is ridiculous."

"It's protocol," Dr. Mori counters. "Every trainee understands the expectations. Weight management is a fundamental part of idol presentation. If she can't maintain—"

"Enough."

Hana's voice cuts through the argument.

Everyone turns to look at her.

"You're berating a teenager over less than two pounds," she says, her voice flat and cold. "Whatever your industry standards are, this isn't productive. It's psychological damage disguised as professionalism."

Dr. Mori's expression hardens. "And you are?"

"Hana. The newest member of Prism5. The one who's been watching this interaction and calculating exactly how much liability exposure your company faces if that girl develops a documented eating disorder under your care."

Silence.

"I have documentation," Hana continues. "Texts. Emails. The contract itself references required weigh-ins and acceptable variance ranges. If Miya's psychological state deteriorates and a connection can be established between industry pressure and her condition, the lawsuit potential is significant."

Bluffing. You don't have any documentation.

They don't know that.

Dr. Mori looks at Ren. Ren's expression is unreadable.

"This discussion is over," Ren says finally. "Miya, you're fine. The 0.8 kilograms is within acceptable variance for showcase preparation. Dr. Mori, adjust the costume fitting schedule if needed. We're not having this conversation again today."

Dr. Mori opens her mouth, then closes it. She nods stiffly and exits the lounge.

Miya looks up at Hana with something like wonder in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Hana doesn't respond. She's watching Ren, trying to read the calculation behind the manager's neutral expression.

You just made an enemy of the company nutritionist.

You also established a pattern of protecting vulnerable people. Valuable for building trust.

Assuming trust is what you want.

Later, alone in her hotel room, Hana downloads a calorie tracking app on her phone. The interface is in English—she could switch to Japanese, but English feels safer, more familiar. She inputs approximate measurements for this body: height, weight, activity level.

The app suggests 2,100 calories for maintenance.

Dr. Mori's meal plan, based on what Hana observed at lunch, provides maybe 1,200.

This is insane.

She stares at the screen for a long time. Then she starts logging.

If she can't control anything else about this situation, she can control this.