Chapter 18: Industry Pressure Peaks

The schedule posted outside the practice room lists seventeen separate activities across four days. Hana counts them during the 6:00 AM team meeting: three music show recordings, two variety show appearances, one commercial filming, four radio interviews, two magazine photo shoots, one fan signing event, and three hours of audition preparation for a television drama called "Okinawa Mermaids."

"This isn't sustainable," she says.

Ren's expression doesn't change. "It's the spring promotional cycle. Every group faces similar demands."

"Every group isn't running on four hours of sleep."

"Every group is running on four hours of sleep. That's the industry."

The room is quiet. Sora studies the schedule with the focus of someone calculating logistics rather than questioning necessity. Rei's jaw is tight, her fingers drumming against her thigh. Yuki watches Hana with something between gratitude and concern.

Miya says nothing. Her face is pale beneath the careful makeup, dark circles visible despite the concealer. She's lost weight—visible in her cheekbones, in the way her practice clothes hang looser than they did last month.

"Miya needs rest," Hana says.

"Miya needs to build her career while she has momentum." Ren's voice carries finality. "We all do. The window for breakthrough success is narrow. If we don't capitalize on it now—"

"If we don't rest, we won't have careers to build."

Silence.

Ren's eyes meet Hana's. Something passes between them—recognition, perhaps. The shared understanding of people who know too much about each other.

"The schedule stands," Ren says. "But I'll talk to Dr. Mori about supplement protocols."

It's not enough. Hana knows it's not enough. But she also knows that pushing further, here, in front of everyone, will only harden Ren's position.

Choose your battles, Vex suggests quietly.

This is a battle.

This is a skirmish. The battle comes later.

The social media crisis breaks at 2:47 PM.

Hana is between interviews—sitting in a holding room at a radio station in Shibuya, waiting for the next segment—when Sora's phone starts buzzing. Then Rei's. Then Yuki's. The notification sounds overlap, creating a rhythm that suggests something worse than routine updates.

"What is it?"

Sora's face has gone rigid. "Dating rumors. Someone posted photos."

The images circulate within minutes. Hana, walking beside a male staff member near Residence D. The angle is misleading—it looks intimate when it was actually a production assistant discussing tomorrow's call times. But the caption reads "Prism5's mysterious member spotted with secret boyfriend!" and the shares are already in the thousands.

"This is fabricated," Hana says.

"It doesn't matter." Rei's voice is flat. "The narrative is set. People believe what they want to believe."

Analyze, Vex suggests. Who benefits from this story?

The thought surfaces automatically: rival agencies, entertainment journalists hungry for content, random social media users seeking engagement. The specificity of the timing and angle suggests something more deliberate than opportunistic photography.

"Can we issue a denial?"

"Denials feed the story." Sora is already typing on her phone, coordinating with the company's media team. "The standard response is silence. Let it die naturally."

"And if it doesn't die?"

"Then we address it later. When we have a better position."

The radio interview happens anyway. Forty-five minutes of cheerful conversation, questions about their upcoming music release, the usual performance of idol personalities. No one mentions the dating rumors directly, but Hana catches the interviewer's sidelong glances, the careful probe about "personal lives outside of work."

She deflects. Smiles. Says nothing of substance.

The role feels like a costume now. Something she puts on and takes off. The performance of a person rather than the person herself.

The audition for "Okinawa Mermaids" takes place at Nakano Port Studios, in a converted warehouse that smells of salt and old paint. The set is a beach scene—sand trucked in from somewhere, palm trees that are obviously artificial, a swimming pool dressed to look like a lagoon.

"The character is Yuna," the casting director explains. "A mermaid who falls in love with a human surfer. It's a teen drama—light, romantic, escapist."

Hana reads the scene they've provided. The dialogue is exactly what you'd expect: longing glances, misunderstandings, the eventual confession. The kind of narrative that exists in a world without consequences.

"We need someone who can play vulnerable," the director continues. "Someone the audience will root for."

You can't play vulnerable, Frost notes. Vulnerability is weakness.

Vulnerability is also connection, Quinn counters. It's how people bond.

It's how people get hurt.

Hana reads the scene. Her voice is correct—pitch, pacing, emotional inflection. The technical execution is acceptable. But something is missing. Some quality of genuine feeling that would make the performance compelling rather than competent.

"Thank you," the casting director says when she finishes. His smile is professional. "We'll be in touch."

They won't. She knows it before he says it. The audition was a formality—a box to check on their promotional schedule. The role will go to someone else.

Does that bother you?

She isn't sure.

The collapse happens on the third day.

Music Bank recording. TBS Studios in Akasaka. The performance slot is 7:15 PM—one of the later positions, which means longer wait times, more exhaustion, higher stakes. By the time they take the stage, Prism5 has been at the studio for eleven hours.

The song is their spring comeback single. Upbeat, demanding, choreography that requires constant movement. Hana hits her marks, finds her camera angles, lets the muscle memory carry her through transitions that stopped requiring thought months ago.

She sees it happen.

Miya's movements lag by half a beat. Her normally precise footwork becomes loose, uncertain. Her face—visible in the peripheral monitors that line the stage—goes from performance-ready to slack.

Then she falls.

Not dramatically. Not even quickly. Just a crumpling, like a puppet with cut strings, her small body folding toward the stage floor.

"Miya!"

The music keeps playing. The cameras keep recording. Protocol says finish the performance, address issues afterward, maintain the illusion of control.

Hana breaks protocol.

She catches Miya before her head hits the stage—the same reflexes that manifested during the variety show, the same impossible speed that she still can't explain. The stage lights glare down. The audience murmurs. The other members freeze mid-choreography.

"Cut the music," Hana says. Her voice carries across the studio, sharp with an authority she didn't know she possessed. "Cut it now."

The song dies mid-chorus. The silence that follows is absolute.

The backstage area is chaos.

Medical staff surround Miya, checking vitals, starting an IV, speaking in rapid Japanese that Hana's implanted knowledge translates automatically. Dehydration. Exhaustion. Blood pressure dangerously low. She needs fluids, rest, hospitalization if the numbers don't stabilize.

Sora manages the other members—directing them away from the medical cluster, coordinating with production staff about the aborted performance. Rei paces near the exit, her energy compressed into tight loops. Yuki sits on a folding chair, her hands pressed against her face.

A camera lens appears in Hana's peripheral vision.

The cameraman is young—maybe twenty-two, wearing a production company badge. He's documenting everything. Miya on the stretcher. The medical equipment. The concerned faces. Content for entertainment news, probably. Footage that will be edited into a narrative about idol drama.

"Turn that off," Hana says.

"I'm just doing my job—"

"Your job is to record performances. Not medical emergencies."

"The public has a right to know—"

Something shifts in Hana's chest. The calm control she's been maintaining since the stage cracks. The exhaustion, the frustration, the accumulated weight of months of impossible demands—it surfaces all at once.

"We're human," she says. The words come out flat, sharp. "Your viewers, your audience, everyone watching at home—they seem to forget that. We're human beings. We need sleep. We need food. We need rest."

The cameraman keeps filming.

"Turn that off."

"The footage is property of—"

Hana reaches forward. Her hand closes around the camera body—the weight familiar, the mechanism intuitive. She pulls it from his grip, pops the battery compartment, removes the power source.

"Hey! You can't—"

"We're human," she repeats. Her voice is louder now, carrying across the backstage area. Staff are watching. Producers are watching. Ren, emerging from somewhere, is watching with an expression of dawning horror.

"We're human, you idiots. Treat us like it."

She throws the battery at the cameraman's chest. It bounces off harmlessly, clatters to the floor. The gesture is petty, juvenile, utterly unprofessional.

It feels necessary.

The aftermath unfolds in slow motion.

Miya is taken to a nearby hospital—stable, the paramedics report, but requiring observation. The network issues a statement about "technical difficulties" that caused the performance interruption. Social media explodes with speculation, clips from audience phones, secondhand accounts that mutate with each retelling.

Hana sits in a production office that has been commandeered for emergency use. Ren stands across from her, flanked by two executives she doesn't recognize. The door is closed. The air conditioning hums.

"Do you understand what you've done?"

"I stopped a medical emergency from becoming entertainment."

"You assaulted a production employee on camera."

"I removed a battery. If that's assault, your legal standards need review."

One of the executives—older, gray at the temples, wearing a suit that costs more than Prism5 earns in a month—leans forward. "Ms. Hana. Your contract includes provisions about public conduct. Provisions about unauthorized statements. Provisions about interference with production activities."

"I'm aware of my contract."

"Then you're aware that tonight's actions constitute multiple violations."

They're building a case, Vex notes. Establishing grounds for punishment or termination.

Let them, Frost responds. We have options they don't know about.

The trading account. The exit fund. The ¥73 million that's been growing quietly while she navigated this impossible situation.

"What do you want?" Hana asks.

"An apology. A public statement expressing regret for your outburst. Cooperation with whatever narrative management decides is appropriate."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we discuss alternative arrangements." The executive's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps a transfer to a less visible position. Perhaps an early termination of contract, with appropriate financial penalties."

Hana looks at Ren. Her cousin. Her captor. The woman who shares her bloodline and her burden.

Ren's expression is unreadable.

"I could leave," Hana says. "Pay the penalty. Walk away."

"The penalty is ¥75 million." The executive sounds amused. "You'd be paying off that debt for the rest of your life."

They don't know, Hana thinks. They have no idea how close I am to that number.

Not close enough, Sage observes. You're still ¥2 million short.

But you could be there within weeks, Quinn adds. If you pushed harder.

The calculation happens automatically. Weeks of trading. Weeks of careful position management. Then freedom—real freedom, the kind that doesn't depend on anyone else's decisions.

But Miya would still be here. And Rei. And Yuki. And Sora.

They chose this, Frost notes.

Did they? Did any of us really choose?

"I'll consider your terms," Hana says finally. "But I want something in return."

"You're not in a position to negotiate."

"I'm in exactly that position. You need me more than I need you. The plane landing made me famous. The performance tonight made me a symbol. Fire me now, and you lose control of that narrative entirely."

Silence.

"What do you want?"

"A schedule review. Independent medical oversight for all group members. Mandatory rest periods that aren't subject to promotional demands."

The executive's expression hardens. "Those are significant concessions."

"Miya collapsed on your stage. On your watch. The liability alone—"

"We're aware of the liability."

"Then you're aware that cooperating with reasonable requests is cheaper than defending lawsuits."

More silence. The executive looks at his colleague, at Ren, at the closed door behind which the rest of the industry is already spinning tonight's events into tomorrow's headlines.

"We'll... discuss it," he says finally.

"Good." Hana stands. "I'll expect a written response within forty-eight hours."

She walks out before anyone can object.

The hospital is quiet at midnight.

Hana finds Miya's room on the third floor—private, courtesy of company insurance that costs more than most families earn in a month. The machines beep their steady rhythms. The IV drips. Miya's face, cleaned of stage makeup, looks impossibly young against the white pillows.

"Hey."

Miya's eyes open. "Hey."

"How do you feel?"

"Tired." A weak smile. "Better than I did on stage."

Hana sits in the visitor's chair, its plastic uncomfortable against her back. The window shows Tokyo's nightscape—lights everywhere, the city that never truly sleeps.

"I caused trouble," Miya says.

"You didn't cause anything. The schedule caused it. The system caused it."

"But I was the one who fell."

"You were the one they pushed until you couldn't stand."

Silence. The machines continue their beeping. Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes.

"Thank you," Miya says. "For catching me. For... everything."

"I didn't do much."

"You did more than anyone else would." Miya's hand moves on the blanket, reaching toward Hana. "You told them we're human. No one ever tells them that."

Hana takes her hand. It's small, fragile, the bones visible beneath thin skin.

"Get some rest," she says. "We'll figure out the rest later."

Miya's eyes close. Within minutes, her breathing evens into sleep.

Hana stays.

The city glitters beyond the window. Tomorrow will bring consequences—the apology they want, the negotiations they've begun, the endless machinery of an industry that views people as products.

But tonight, there's just this room. This quiet. This small hand in hers.

It's not enough. It's never enough.

But it's something.