Chapter 8: Industry Reality

The alarm goes off at 4:30 AM.

Hana is already awake, staring at the ceiling of a bedroom that still doesn't feel like hers. The darkness outside the windows is absolute—no moon, no stars, just the glow of Tokyo's light pollution reflecting off low clouds.

She dresses in gym clothes and makes her way to Floor 2 before the building systems even register her departure.

The gym is empty, as usual. She claims a treadmill in the corner and begins running, letting the rhythm of her footfalls drown out the voices that have been arguing all night.

Ayumi knows something. Find out what.

Focus on the schedule. First day of real training.

The company is failing. What happens to the contract if Crescent Moon goes bankrupt?

Stop. Just run.

Forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat and breathing hard, she returns to Floor 16 to shower and change.

Sora is waiting in the common room.

"You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." Hana crosses to the kitchen area, retrieving a protein bar from her supplies. Her calorie app shows 280 burned, 180 consumed. Deficit acceptable for morning training.

"The schedule starts at 7 AM," Sora says. "Formal training. It's going to be... intense. I wanted to warn you."

"Warned."

Sora hesitates. Her expression shifts, the professional mask slipping just enough to reveal something human underneath.

"I know you're angry. I know you have every right to be. But whatever happens today, remember that we're on the same side. All of us. We didn't choose this any more than you did."

Irrelevant. Circumstances don't change outcomes.

Maybe they change how you respond to outcomes.

Hana finishes her protein bar. Logs it. Closes the app.

"7 AM," she says. "I'll be there."

The training facilities occupy three floors of the main Roppongi Hills tower.

Floor 15 houses the dance studios—three large rooms with mirrored walls, professional sound systems, and floors designed to absorb impact without sacrificing traction. Floor 16 contains vocal training spaces, recording booths, and a small performance stage for rehearsals. Floor 17 is administrative: offices, conference rooms, and the corporate infrastructure that keeps the entertainment machine running.

The schedule posted on the studio door is simple in its brutality:

7:00-9:00 AM - Dance Training (Studio A) 9:00-9:30 AM - Break/Nutrition Consultation 9:30-12:00 PM - Vocal Training (Studio B) 12:00-12:30 PM - Lunch 12:30-3:00 PM - Performance Integration 3:00-3:30 PM - Break 3:30-6:00 PM - Individual Skill Development 6:00-6:30 PM - Dinner 6:30-10:00 PM - Full Group Rehearsal 10:00 PM - Debrief/Schedule Review

Fifteen hours. Every day. For the foreseeable future.

This is unsustainable.

This is industry standard.

The morning begins with dance training under Ms. Tanaka Sunemi, a former backup dancer whose resume includes work with groups Hana has never heard of but whose names clearly impress the others. She's in her mid-thirties, compact and muscular, with the watchful eyes of someone who has survived the entertainment industry and knows exactly how little that survival cost.

"Reset positions," she calls for the fourteenth time. "Hana, you're half a beat behind on the transition. Miya, your arm extension is sloppy. Again."

The music restarts. The choreography repeats.

Hana's body knows the steps, but her conscious mind struggles to stay present. The disconnect between muscle memory and intentional movement creates a lag she can't quite eliminate, a fraction-of-a-second delay that Ms. Tanaka catches every single time.

"Your technique is fine," the coach says during a brief water break. "Better than fine, actually. But you're not trusting it. You keep trying to think your way through movements your body already knows."

"How do I fix that?"

Ms. Tanaka's expression flickers. "You stop fighting yourself. Whatever resistance you're carrying, let it go. The choreography works when you surrender to it."

Surrender.

As if that's something you know how to do.

The vocal training is marginally better. Hana's singing voice—implanted like everything else—is technically proficient, her pitch accurate, her breath control adequate. The trainer, a soft-spoken man named Watanabe-sensei, focuses on blending, on fitting individual voices into group harmonies without losing individual character.

"You're holding back," he observes during a solo exercise. "There's power in your voice that you're not using."

"I don't know how to access it."

"That's not quite true, is it?" His eyes are kind but knowing. "You know how to access it. You're choosing not to."

The 9:00 AM nutrition consultation introduces Dr. Mori Ayaka properly. She's the same woman from New York, the one who confronted Miya over the 0.8 kilogram weight gain. In this context—a sterile office with weight scales and body measurement equipment—she seems even more clinical. Even more focused on numbers.

"Breakfast was adequate," she says, reviewing Hana's food log on a tablet. "You're tracking independently?"

"Yes."

"That's unusual. Most new trainees resist the accountability measures."

"I prefer data to guesswork."

Dr. Mori looks at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

"Your calorie targets will be sent to your phone daily. Variance of more than 200 calories in either direction will trigger a consultation. Weight measurements happen every morning at 6 AM. Compliance is not optional."

Control disguised as care.

Or care limited by industry demands.

Does the distinction matter when the outcome is the same?

Lunch is a study in portion control.

The meal tray delivered to the training floor contains: 50 grams of grilled chicken, 30 grams of brown rice (measured, Hana notes, with what looks like a tablespoon-sized scoop), a small portion of steamed vegetables, and a cup of miso soup. Total estimated calories: maybe 350. Half what her morning app suggested for maintenance.

Hana eats mechanically, logging each component. Beside her, Miya picks at her rice with visible anxiety, counting grains under her breath. Yuki's tray is already empty—she ate quickly, almost frantically, as if afraid the food might be taken away.

"This is normal?" Hana asks.

"This is light," Rei says from across the table. "Wait until we're in pre-performance mode. They cut protein to reduce water retention."

Starvation dressed as optimization.

Say something.

Don't make waves. Gather information first.

The afternoon blurs together. Performance integration—combining dance and vocals into coherent stage routines. Individual skill development—Hana is assigned to work on her "stage presence," a concept so vague it seems designed to create failure. Full group rehearsal extends past 10 PM, the five of them running through songs until their voices crack and their legs tremble.

By the time they're released, it's nearly midnight.

Hana heads to the bathroom to wash her face, her body aching in places she didn't know could ache. The fluorescent lights are harsh after the warm studio lighting. Her reflection looks as exhausted as she feels.

A sound from one of the stalls. Quiet. Muffled.

Crying.

Hana hesitates. Then pushes open the stall door.

Miya is curled on the floor, her small frame folded in on itself, a portable scale clutched in her hands. The display shows 42.3 kg—0.3 kilograms higher than yesterday, according to the conversation Hana overhears through the thin walls.

"I can't do this anymore," Miya whispers. Her voice is raw, scraped hollow. "I'm so tired. I'm so tired and hungry and I can't—I can't keep—"

She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.

Hana crouches beside her. The cold tile bites through her leggings. The fluorescent hum fills the silence.

"What do you need?" she asks.

Miya looks up. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face blotchy with tears.

"I need it to stop," she says. "All of it. Just for one day. One hour. I need to breathe."

This is wrong. All of it.

Yes. But what can you do?

Hana doesn't have an answer. So she does the only thing she knows how to do.

She sits. She stays. She lets Miya cry.

And she makes a silent promise that something—she doesn't know what yet—is going to change.