Laisse tomber les filles

“Riku, what are you doing home so late?! At least have dinner first!”

The commute back home was massively delayed by Riku and Kagayaki’s little excursion, much to the disgruntlement of literally everyone involved.

That meant Riku essentially had just under four days to make up a contest-ready choreographed set. While he would put his skills at dancing past most people, just four days was a bit much to ask for.

“I know, I know, Mom! I just need to get something off my chest!” he replied.

His mother growled, brandishing a soup ladle and swinging at him—the old asian parent special. “Stop talking as if you are in a damn shōnen!!!”

“It does if you scream loud enough!”

“P-Pardon my intrusion,” a melodic voice chimed in from the doorway.

Riku's mother froze. The ladle lowered slowly. It was a girl. She stepped out of her loafers with practiced grace.

Riku's mother blinked. She looked at Riku, then at the girl. “Naomi…?”

“Hello, Mrs. Sato. Nice seeing you again.”

Riku’s mother let out a sound that was half-squeak, half-scream. “Riku! You didn’t tell me you were bringing her home! Oh, you look just so gorgeous, darling. Look at this place! I haven’t even vacuumed the rug!”

“She’s just here to help me research!” Riku lied hurriedly.

“Research is what the kids call it now?” She grabbed Riku’s arm, whispering loudly. “You sly dog! I thought you were going to die alone in that room with your guitar!”

“We are not dating!” he shrieked.

“Oh, stop being shy.” She turned to Kagayaki, clasping her hands together. “Mmm, you poor dear, dating my gloomy son. He’s a bit of a fixer-upper, isn’t he? But he has a good heart! And he’s tall! Good genes, at least! That counts for something!”

Kagayaki decided right then and there, instantly, to lean into his mother’s delusions.

“He’s a challenge,” Kagayaki purred. “Buuuut… I believe he has some… hidden potential.”

“Oh my!” His mother fanned herself. “Well! I won’t disturb you two! I’ll just… cut up some fruit! Do you like pears? I have the best pears!”

“Mom, stop!”

Kagayaki saw the panic in his eyes and realized her little tease was about to turn into a thirty-minute family sit-down they didn't have time for. She straightened her posture and gave a polite, apologetic smile.

“Ah, I’m afraid Riku is right to stop us, Mrs. Sato,” she said, smoothly stepping back. “As tempting as that sounds, I was only teasing. I actually have a driver waiting outside for me. I’m just here to drop Riku off and ensure he gets to work.”

“Ah.” His mother stopped, the invisible fruit tray shattering in her imagination. “Well, at least it’s better than nothing.”

She patted Riku on the cheek, looking at him with a newfound respect. ”Oh, don’t look at me like that. You deserve someone equally deserving as you. And Naomi is definitely a candidate.”

Kagayaki chuckled. “You hear that, Riku? I’m merely a candidate.”

“Just go…” he groaned.

\\

Every… muscle… in my body… hurts…

“Are you OK there, Riku?!” his mother’s voice muffled through his door.

Riku groaned. “F-Fine… mom…”

He was sweating like a pig and was sprawled on the floor.

He rolled over, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily.

“No, no, no!” he groaned, covering his face with his hands.

The exhaustion Riku felt was indescribable. He could practically feel the bags under his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes, hoping to wipe away the fatigue, only to look back at his screen and find nothing of value.

For some reason, all the cumulative knowledge he’d gained—all the dance practices he'd analyzed and practiced when he was a child, the stage blocking he'd studied, the dances he tried to emulate but failed—had faded away. 

He was in a slump. He’d had moments like this before, but today… a complete collapse.

Riku looked around the room, desperate for a distraction. Ugh, what a mess. He had torn up his sketchbooks from three years ago. Back then, he drew movement that was fluid, aggressive, raw.

But they weren’t current year K-Pop.

Early K-Pop choreography, above all else, was about adaptation from Western classics. Nowadays, that would seem terribly out of fashion.

Now, it was about precise angles, hand tutting, and perfect synchronization. And Riku was paralyzed by it. He was trying to engineer a visual weapon to beat Yuuji, but Yuuji was a machine. You couldn’t beat a machine at precision.

He wanted to represent Best Girl Bukit in COMEDOWN, after all. She had such a powerful, athletic build—she needed space to stomp, not just pose! And he was only half of her…

His eyes drifted toward one of the posters lying scattered across the floor.

Ah… the pride of his collection, before he tore it from his wall because he thought he had "outgrown" this stuff.

An OG K-Pop poster from 2010. Miyabi. Solo.

Lesser known to the new generation, but known to Riku as the true founder of the medium. She was one of the first to use unconventional stage blocking. She didn't just stand in a V-formation. She ran around the stage. She interacted with the crowd. She ensured every member of her troupe stood out like a sore thumb… yet still formed part of a chaotic whole.

Miyabi was the GOAT!

People argued it was the Sayang Boys who defined the era. Please. Miyabi rewrote the game because she moved like her life depended on it.

“Miyabi… Miyabi…” Riku muttered, staring at her fierce, painted eyes on the glossy paper. “What would you have done? You never cared about the camera angles; you just burned so bright they couldn't look away.”

For a moment, lightning cracked outside, illuminating the cramped room in a harsh, strobe-light white.

Movement. Riku’s eyes shifted back toward the poster; it wasn't even conscious, just instinctual. Her eyes seemed to glimmer on the paper, and all of a sudden, her posture shifted. Her mouth started to move. Wait, was she going to—

“Chump.”

Riku blinked. “...Huh?”

“You heard me, chump.” That was Miyabi… that was Miyabi’s voice. Same saccharine tone, sane contempt for life. “Y–you talking to me?”

“Ugh… Who else is in this sad little room?”

…What on god’s green earth?

That’s it, Riku thought, panic rising in his chest. It’s so over for me. The stress has finally snapped my brain. I am hallucinating an idol like a creep!!!

“It’s not creepy to admire your superiors,” the Miyabi imposter said. 

Riku nearly fell out of his chair. “Wait—hold on, you’re just a disembodied and hallucinated version of a legend! You can’t just—”

“What I am does not matter right now. What you need to understand is far more important,” she interrupted. “You can’t even map out a simple formation without whining to the universe.”

“Because I have to win!” Riku shouted at the piece of paper, waving his hands at the screen full of stiff digital avatars. “I have to beat Yuuji!”

“Jeez, you’re hopeless. Guess I have to take matters into my own hands.”

Then Miyabi stepped forward—actually stepping out of the background of the poster. All of a sudden, she stood in front of him, arms on her hips. “Now, focus. Create movement that makes sense to you. Someone like Yuuji will always beat you in terms of technique. That’s not debatable. But if you owned it and made the set your own…”

She leaned in, her eyes burning with an intensity that Riku hadn't felt in years. “Think about whether in ten years’ time—or when you’re lying on your deathbed—whether you’d look back at this performance and think: ‘Yeah, I moved because I wanted to.’ That is worth tenfold what some choreographer thinks is ‘quality.’”

She pointed at Riku's chest. “Dance isn't about only making other people entertained. It’s about fulfilling yourself on that stage. Now, I say again: do you have what it takes to stop being a backup dancer in your own life?”

Riku was about to reply, mouth open. But when he set his chair back and looked at the wall, the poster remained motionless. Just paper and ink.

Riku stared back at his crusty laptop. The video of K-pop moves paused.

People can’t criticize me if I make something new. Self-fulfillment, Riku thought. Not for Yuuji. Not for the judges. For the joy of movement.

K-pop in its purest form. 

He stood up, pushing the chair away. He closed his eyes and imagined Bukit in one of her routines, to the boys and girls in sweatshops the industry calls training academies. Not posing, but running. Not smiling, but grimacing with effort.

For the first time all night, Riku started to move his own body and listen to the madness.