Chapter 7: Media Circus

The press conference lasts three hours.

Hana sits behind a table draped in Crescent Moon Entertainment's corporate logo, flanked by Ren and a company lawyer whose name she immediately forgets. Microphones bristle in front of her like a forest of black-tipped spears. Camera operators jostle for position. Reporters shout questions in overlapping Japanese that her implanted language skills translate with unsettling precision.

"Ms. Hana, where did you learn to fly?"

"How did you stay so calm during the emergency?"

"Is it true you're a member of the idol group Prism5?"

"What message do you have for the passengers whose lives you saved?"

She answers on autopilot, which feels grimly appropriate. Diplomatic phrases that reveal nothing. Deflections that redirect attention to the actual flight crew, to the air traffic controllers, to anyone except herself. The magic compels her to participate but doesn't seem to care about the content of her responses.

Loophole. Useful.

Don't rely on loopholes. They close.

By the time Ren calls a halt to the session, Hana's jaw aches from forcing smiles and her voice has gone hoarse from repeating variations of "I just did what needed to be done."

The lobby of Haneda airport is still packed with onlookers as they make their way toward the car service. People point. Whisper. A few try to approach with phones outstretched, blocked by airport security that Ren has somehow arranged in advance.

"The Japanese Hero," one headline reads on a news ticker mounted above the departure board. "Idol Saves 300 Passengers in Dramatic Emergency Landing."

Hana looks away.

Roppongi Hills rises from the Tokyo skyline like a monument to corporate ambition.

The complex sprawls across several blocks—office towers, residential buildings, a hotel, shopping centers, all connected by elevated walkways and underground passages. Crescent Moon Entertainment occupies floors 33 through 35 of the main tower, but their talent lives in Residence D: a separate building designed specifically to house performing artists under contract.

The van drops them at the private entrance on the building's north side. A security guard checks their IDs against a digital manifest before allowing them through the lobby. The elevator requires a key card for floors above the fifth.

"Gender-segregated," Sora explains as they rise. "Floors 16, 17, and 18 are reserved for female talent. The male groups are on 12 through 14. Building management doesn't allow cross-visitation after 10 PM."

"Cross-visitation," Hana repeats flatly.

"Dating scandals destroy careers. The company minimizes risk by limiting opportunity." Sora's tone suggests this is simply how things work, unremarkable and unavoidable.

The elevator opens onto a hallway that smells of industrial carpet cleaner and recycled air. Doors line both sides, each marked with a small plaque showing room numbers and—Hana notices—the names of current occupants.

"You're in 1606," Ren says, handing her a key card. "Two-bedroom unit at the end of the hall. Southern exposure. Best views in the building, actually."

"Why the best views?"

"Because you were last." Ren's expression is difficult to read. "The larger units were all that remained unassigned. Consider it a silver lining."

A two-bedroom apartment as compensation for having your entire existence rewritten.

Not compensation. Incarceration with amenities.

The apartment is larger than Hana expected. The main room stretches bow-shaped along the building's exterior wall, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a view that spans from Sakurasaka Park to the distant shimmer of Tokyo Bay. On very clear days, according to the building information packet, Mount Fuji is visible on the horizon.

The furniture is generic—IKEA-style minimalism in whites and light wood—and the walls are blank. A galley kitchen separates the living area from the bedrooms. The master has no windows; the second bedroom opens onto a large balcony that wraps around the corner of the building.

Hana walks through each room, cataloguing details. The bathroom has a combined washer/dryer unit. The kitchen includes a full gas range, microwave, and dishwasher. The closets are empty except for basic hangers and a few storage boxes.

Defensible. Single entry point. Balcony access to adjacent units if needed.

You're not planning an escape route. You're inspecting a prison cell.

Same thing.

A knock at the door.

Yuki stands in the hallway, arms full of what look like welcome supplies: toiletries, snacks, a folder of building information.

"Ren asked me to bring these. The building store is closed today because of some inspection thing, so..." She trails off, clearly uncertain of her welcome.

Hana steps aside. "Come in."

Yuki enters, placing the supplies on the kitchen counter with careful precision. Her movements are nervous, overly controlled—the body language of someone expecting rejection.

"The others are settling in too," she says. "Sora's organizing a building tour for tomorrow, going over all the facilities we'll be using. And Ren wants us in the main offices at 9 AM for schedule review and—"

"Yuki."

The name stops her mid-sentence.

"Why are you trying so hard?"

Yuki doesn't meet her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You did this to me. Accidentally or not, you're the reason I'm trapped here. And instead of avoiding me, you keep showing up. Apologizing. Trying to help." Hana leans against the counter, studying the younger girl with professional attention. "What do you want from me?"

Long silence.

"I want to deserve forgiveness," Yuki says finally. "I know I don't. I know there's probably nothing I can do that would make up for what happened. But I can't just... give up. I can't just accept that I ruined someone's life and move on like it doesn't matter."

She's sincere. The guilt is eating her alive.

Good. She should feel guilty.

Is that what you really think?

Hana doesn't answer—either voice, or Yuki.

"The tour tomorrow," she says instead. "What time?"

"Ten AM. We're meeting in the lobby."

"I'll be there."

Yuki nods, something like hope flickering in her expression. "Okay. Good. I'll see you then."

She leaves. The door closes with a soft click.

Hana stands alone in her new apartment, surrounded by empty rooms and borrowed furniture, and begins the slow process of making a prison feel like home.

The next morning brings an unexpected encounter.

Hana is returning from the basement gym—another 5 AM session, another forty minutes of running until the voices quiet—when the elevator doors open onto a hallway full of unfamiliar faces.

Five girls. Maybe her age, maybe slightly older. They wear coordinated streetwear in shades of pink and white, their hair and makeup professionally styled even at this early hour. Their postures scream performance training: shoulders back, spines straight, expressions arranged in practiced neutrality.

The leader—identifiable by her position at the front of the group and the subtle deference of the others—looks Hana up and down with open assessment.

"The hero pilot." Her voice is polished, accent-free, controlled. "I've been wanting to meet you."

Hana doesn't respond.

"I'm Ayumi. Hikari's center vocalist." She gestures to the others without introducing them. "We were just heading to morning practice. You must be Prism5's new addition."

"Hana."

"I know. Everyone knows, after yesterday." Ayumi's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Quite the debut. Landing a plane in front of international media. Very dramatic."

Territorial display. She sees you as a threat.

Irrelevant. She's not important.

Everyone is potentially important. File her away.

"I was just doing what needed to be done," Hana says, recycling the phrase from yesterday's press conference.

"Of course you were." Ayumi steps closer, close enough that the movement reads as aggression even though her expression remains friendly. "We all do what needs to be done here. That's how you survive. The question is whether you have what it takes for the parts that come after."

"The parts that come after."

"The performances. The competitions. The endless grind of proving yourself against people who've been doing this their entire lives." Ayumi's smile sharpens. "Saving a plane is impressive. But on stage? That's where the real test happens. And I've been watching Prism5 for months. You're not competition. You're not even in the conversation."

The elevator doors start to close. Ayumi steps through, followed by her group. She pauses halfway across the threshold.

"Nice meeting you, Hana. See you around."

The doors close.

Hana stands alone in the hallway, processing the interaction.

First contact with rival faction. Establish baseline.

She's trying to intimidate you. Don't let her.

Maybe she's right. You have no idea what you're doing.

She walks back to her apartment and begins preparing for the day.

The building tour starts at 10 AM as scheduled.

Sora leads them through Residence D's facilities with the efficiency of a seasoned guide: the main gym on Floor 2, the dietitian's office on Floor 3, the physical therapy rooms on Floor 4. Meeting spaces, video call studios, a smaller dance practice room on Floor 8, soundproof vocal training rooms on Floor 10.

"Everything we need is here," Sora explains as they ride the elevator between floors. "That's intentional. The less reason we have to leave the building, the less exposure we have to potential scandals."

"We're not allowed to leave?" Miya's voice is small.

"We're allowed. It's just... discouraged." Sora's expression flickers with something that might be frustration. "The schedule keeps us busy enough that leaving rarely becomes an option anyway."

The tour ends in the Floor 16 common area—a shared kitchen and lounge space that connects the residential hallway to the building's interior. Afternoon sunlight streams through the windows. The smell of someone's lunch lingers in the air.

"Questions?" Sora asks.

Rei raises her hand. "Where's the escape hatch?"

"Not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be."

Before Sora can respond, the common room door opens.

Ayumi enters, followed by two members of her group. She doesn't seem surprised to find Prism5 here; if anything, her expression suggests she was expecting them.

"Oh, giving the new girl the grand tour?" She crosses to the refrigerator and removes a bottle of water with exaggerated casualness. "Make sure you show her the practice room scheduling system. Hikari has priority booking on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wouldn't want any conflicts."

"There won't be any conflicts," Sora says evenly.

"Good." Ayumi takes a long drink, her eyes fixed on Hana. "Because I'd hate for your group to get off on the wrong foot. Especially with everything Prism5 has riding on the next few months."

Probing for reaction. Don't give her one.

"What's riding on the next few months?" Hana asks, keeping her voice neutral.

Ayumi's smile widens. "You don't know? Your manager hasn't told you?" She laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Crescent Moon is bleeding money. Prism5 is their last hope for idol division profitability. If you fail, the whole company might fold."

Silence.

Yuki has gone pale. Miya's hands are shaking. Even Sora looks unsettled, her composure cracking around the edges.

"That's company business," Sora says finally. "Not yours."

"Everything's everyone's business in this building." Ayumi moves toward the door, her group falling into formation behind her. "We're all competing for the same attention, the same resources, the same survival. The only difference is how much we're willing to sacrifice to win."

She pauses at Yuki's shoulder.

"Especially you," she says quietly. "We know what you did. Before the landing. Before any of this." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Some secrets don't stay buried forever."

Yuki's face drains of color.

Something cold crystallizes in Hana's chest.

She steps forward, positioning herself between Ayumi and Yuki. The movement is smooth, natural, impossible to read as aggressive.

"Back off."

Ayumi blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I said back off." Hana's voice doesn't rise. If anything, it gets quieter—flatter, more controlled. "Whatever you think you know, whatever you're trying to accomplish with this performance, it ends now. You don't speak to her. You don't look at her. You don't even think about her unless you want to find out exactly how much someone like me is willing to sacrifice."

The common room has gone very still.

Ayumi stares at her for a long moment, her expression shifting through surprise, calculation, and something that might be reassessment.

"Interesting," she says finally. "Very interesting."

She leaves without another word.

The door closes. The silence stretches.

"Hana," Yuki whispers. "You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did."

Why? She did this to you. Let her face the consequences.

Because whatever she did, she doesn't deserve to be hunted.

Since when do you care about deserve?

Hana doesn't have an answer.