Chapter 12: Performance High

The Music Station studio occupies the fourth floor of TV Asahi's headquarters in Roppongi. The building sits seven hundred meters from Residence D—close enough that on clear days, Hana can see its distinctive antenna array from her apartment window. Close enough that the walk takes twelve minutes. Close enough that it feels like entering another world.

They arrive at 4:47 AM. Thirteen minutes ahead of schedule.

The holding room assigned to Prism5 measures approximately four by six meters. One long mirror dominates the back wall, ringed by bare bulbs that cast harsh, shadowless light. Folding chairs cluster around a low table covered in water bottles and schedule printouts. The air conditioning hums at a frequency Hana's ears have learned to tune out.

"Thirty-two groups today," Sora reads from her phone. "We're slotted fourteenth. Performance window is 7:32 to 7:36 PM."

Fourteen hours of waiting for four minutes of stage time. The math feels absurd until Hana remembers that every group here faces the same equation. Thirty-two acts competing for the audience's attention. Thirty-two dressing rooms filled with people who woke before dawn.

"Hair and makeup at noon," Sora continues. "Run-through at three. Costume check at five. Final positions at seven."

Miya is already stretching in the corner, her small body folding into positions that shouldn't be possible. Rei sprawls across two chairs, eyes closed but fingers tapping against her thigh in time to some internal rhythm. Yuki stands by the mirror, not looking at her reflection—looking through it, somewhere far away.

Three days since the rooftop. Three days since Artemis. None of them have mentioned it.

Compartmentalization, something in Hana's mind observes. Survival mechanism. Focus on what can be controlled.

"Hana."

She turns. Rei has opened one eye.

"You've been doing that thing again. Staring at nothing."

"Thinking."

"About?"

About Greek goddesses and hunting grounds. About a bloodline I don't understand. About why a kami named Kae appeared at our first performance and spoke of testing.

"Choreography," Hana says. "The second verse transition."

Rei's expression suggests she doesn't believe that, but she doesn't push. Small mercies.

The hours blur together.

Hair and makeup transforms them into versions of themselves that look polished, perfected, almost artificial. Hana watches in the mirror as a woman named Tanaka-san applies foundation, concealer, contour—layers of product that reshape her face into something camera-ready. Her lips become fuller. Her eyes become larger. Her skin loses every imperfection.

This isn't me, she thinks. Then: None of this is me.

Maybe that's the point, another voice suggests. Maybe you get to choose who you become.

The costume is silver and white, designed by Sora's mother's company. It fits perfectly—because someone measured her while she slept, probably, or because magic adjusted the proportions. The fabric catches light in ways that seem impossible, shimmering with each movement.

"You look good," Yuki says. Her voice is tentative, testing the waters after three days of careful distance.

"I look like an idol."

"You are an idol."

The words land strange. Wrong. But Yuki's smile is genuine, and Hana finds she doesn't have the energy to argue.

Run-through happens on the actual stage—a massive space that feels both intimate and infinite. The studio seats are empty, but cameras lurk in every corner, tracking their movements, recording their expressions. The production crew moves around them like ghosts, adjusting lights, testing sound levels, calling out directions in rapid Japanese that Hana's implanted knowledge translates automatically.

"From the top. Prism5, positions."

They hit their marks. The music starts—their debut single, now familiar enough that Hana's body moves without conscious thought. Turn, step, arm extension. Drop, spin, recover. The choreography that felt impossible three months ago flows naturally now, each transition smooth, each formation precise.

Four months of practice, something in her notes. Nine hundred hours in the studio. Your body remembers even when your mind rebels.

The run-through ends. The stage manager nods.

"Clean. Don't change anything."

High praise, apparently. Miya practically bounces as they return to the holding room.

At 6:00 PM, the other groups start filtering through the halls.

Hana catalogs them automatically—faces from industry magazines, names from chart rankings, bodies trained by the same machinery that reshaped her own. Some nod politely. Others don't acknowledge Prism5 at all. A few stare with open curiosity at the group that landed a plane in Seoul.

FujiYama passes in the corridor at 6:47 PM.

They're a five-member group from a major label—Asahi Media Group, the conglomerate that makes Crescent Moon Entertainment look like a lemonade stand. Their costumes probably cost more than Prism5's entire production budget. Their leader, a woman named Takahashi Mio, moves with the confidence of someone who has never questioned her place in the hierarchy.

She stops in front of Hana.

"You're the pilot." Her voice is flat, assessing. "The one from the New Year's incident."

"Yes."

"Impressive timing. The media coverage alone probably bought your group another six months of contracts."

Hana says nothing. Mio studies her for a long moment—eyes cataloging details the way Hana catalogs exits—then moves on without another word.

"What was that about?" Rei mutters once FujiYama is out of earshot.

"Testing boundaries." Hana watches them disappear around a corner. "Figuring out if we're a threat."

"Are we?"

Probably not. Definitely not financially. Maybe not artistically. But there's something else happening here. Something I don't understand yet.

"We'll find out."

Performance time arrives like a held breath releasing.

The backstage area is controlled chaos—groups moving to and from the stage, production assistants calling out timing cues, makeup artists making last-second adjustments. The sound of the audience filters through the walls: eight hundred people in the studio, millions more watching at home.

"Prism5, standby. Two minutes."

Hana's heart rate elevates. She tracks it unconsciously—92, 95, 98. Not dangerous. Just adrenaline.

You've performed before, she reminds herself. The first show. The showcase. The variety appearances.

But this is different. Music Station is an institution. The cameras broadcast to every major market in Japan. Every idol who matters has stood on this stage.

"Thirty seconds."

Sora gathers them in a circle—the pre-performance ritual they've developed over months of practice. Hands stack in the center. Miya's is shaking slightly. Rei's is steady. Yuki's is warm.

"We've got this," Sora says. Her voice carries the calm authority that makes her the leader. "We know the routine. We trust each other. Let's show them what we can do."

"Prism5, you're on."

They walk onto the stage.

The lights hit first. Blinding, then adjusting as Hana's eyes adapt. The audience is a darkness beyond the glare—shapes moving, sounds murmuring, a collective presence that feels almost alive.

The music starts.

Hana's body takes over.

The choreography she's rehearsed nine hundred times flows without thought. Step, turn, arm extension. Drop, spin, recover. She finds her camera angle—the one the production team marked during run-through—and lets her expression shift from controlled neutral to the bright, engaging smile that idol training drilled into her.

You're supposed to hate this, something whispers.

Maybe I do.

Then why is your heart rate elevated from performance rather than stress?

The second verse arrives. The transition that gave her trouble in practice—the quick change from formation B to formation C, the half-beat pause that throws off timing—comes naturally. Her body knows where to be. Her muscles remember the path.

Miya spins past her, perfectly in sync. Rei hits her mark without looking. Sora's voice soars over the backing track, strong and clear. Yuki matches her harmony precisely.

They are, Hana realizes, actually good.

Not just competent. Not just adequate. They move like they've been performing together for years, their timing calibrated to fractions of a second. The formations snap into place. The expressions shift in unison. The performance feels—

Earned.

The word surprises her.

The song ends. The lights change. The audience erupts.

Backstage, adrenaline gives way to exhaustion.

They collapse in the holding room, costumes damp with sweat, makeup starting to crack. Water bottles empty within seconds. Miya is crying—happy tears, she insists, though her hands won't stop shaking. Rei is laughing at something only she finds funny.

"Rankings in thirty minutes," Sora says. She's checking her phone constantly, monitoring social media reactions. "Trending on three platforms. Comments are positive."

"Define positive," Hana says.

"'Prism5 was amazing tonight.' 'The new member is incredible.' 'Their synchronization is unreal.'" Sora looks up, a smile breaking through her professional composure. "We did it, Hana. We actually did it."

Did what?, part of Hana wants to ask. Performed a four-minute routine? Convinced an audience we're worth watching?

Yes, another part answers. Exactly that. And isn't that something?

The rankings announcement comes at 8:15 PM. Prism5 places fourth—behind FujiYama, Hikari, and a veteran group called Morning Glory. But fourth is higher than anyone expected. Fourth is momentum. Fourth is proof that the plane landing wasn't a fluke.

Ren appears at 8:32 PM, her expression a careful mask of professional satisfaction.

"Good work," she says. "Tomorrow's schedule is posted. Get some rest."

She leaves without elaborating. Hana watches her go, noting the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands.

She's worried about something. Something beyond the usual pressure.

The van back to Residence D is quiet.

Miya sleeps against Yuki's shoulder. Rei stares out the window at passing neon. Sora types notes on her phone, already planning tomorrow's adjustments. The Tokyo skyline slides past—Roppongi Tower, Mori Building, the distant glow of Tokyo Tower—familiar landmarks in an unfamiliar life.

"You were good tonight." Yuki's voice is soft, pitched not to wake Miya. "Really good. The transition in the second verse—you nailed it."

"Practice."

"More than practice." Yuki hesitates. "You looked like you were... enjoying yourself."

Hana doesn't answer immediately. The city keeps scrolling past. Traffic lights change. Pedestrians cross at intervals. Normal life continuing around them, indifferent to awards and rankings and performance highs.

"Maybe," she says finally. "Is that bad?"

"Why would it be bad?"

Because I'm supposed to hate this. Because this was done to me, not chosen by me. Because finding enjoyment feels like accepting something I swore to reject.

"I don't know yet."

The van turns onto the road leading to Residence D. The building rises ahead, familiar now in ways that it wasn't three months ago. Hana's apartment is on the sixteenth floor, unit 1606. Her running shoes are by the door. Her laptop is on the desk, trading software still open.

Home, she thinks. Then immediately rejects the word.

Temporary housing. Assignment location. The place I sleep.

But the rejection feels hollow.

They're almost to the entrance when it happens.

FujiYama's leader—Takahashi Mio—steps out of the shadows near the building entrance. She's still in her performance costume, silver and blue, her makeup perfect despite the long day. Behind her, the rest of FujiYama waits like a support formation.

"Good show tonight," Mio says. Her voice carries no warmth. "Fourth place. Impressive for a company your size."

"Thank you," Sora responds, her leader's mask sliding into place. "You performed well too."

"We always do." Mio takes a step closer. Close enough that Hana can smell her perfume—expensive, floral, deliberately feminine. "Which is why I wanted to offer you some advice."

"We appreciate the thought, but—"

"You're good." Mio cuts Sora off without raising her voice. "Really good. Your synchronization tonight was better than groups with twice your experience. Your new member"—a glance at Hana—"has something. Stage presence. Unpredictability. The audience responds to it."

Silence.

"Which makes you the biggest threat." Mio extends her hand toward Sora. "Not to us specifically. We're backed by Asahi. We have resources you can't match. But to the next tier down? To groups fighting for the same slots you want?" Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "They're going to come for you."

Sora shakes the hand. "Is that a warning or a threat?"

"Both." Mio releases her grip, steps back. "Watch your back, Prism5. This industry doesn't reward the unprepared."

She turns and walks away, FujiYama falling into step behind her. Their footsteps echo on the pavement until they round a corner and disappear.

Silence.

"What was that?" Rei's voice is flat, dangerous. "Some kind of power play?"

"Information," Hana says. She's watching the corner where FujiYama vanished. "She wanted us to know she's watching. That she's evaluated us. That she considers us relevant enough to address directly."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither. Yet." Hana turns toward the building entrance. "But Sora's right. We just painted a target on ourselves."

The automatic doors slide open. The lobby is empty, the security desk unstaffed at this hour. The elevator rises silently to the sixteenth floor.

Hana enters her apartment, kicks off her shoes, and stands at the window.

The city spreads below her. Lights. Traffic. Movement. Eight hundred million yen in debt. One year and nine months left on a contract she didn't sign. A body she didn't choose. A bloodline she doesn't understand.

And somewhere out there, a goddess who promised to return.

You could run, something suggests. Calculate an exit strategy. Find the gaps in the system.

Where would you go?, another part asks. Who would you be?

Hana doesn't have an answer.

She turns away from the window, opens her laptop, and begins checking the overnight trading positions. The numbers scroll past—losses, gains, the endless dance of capital that she's learned to navigate. Her exit fund grows by ¥340,000 while she watches.

Not enough. Not yet.

But closer.

She works until 2:00 AM, then sets an alarm for 5:00 AM, and sleeps without dreaming.