Day two came with less mystery and more noise.
Strawberry Productions buzzed now—camera carts rolling past, interns shouting over each other, makeup artists adjusting lighting angles for upcoming shoots. Nagi Seishiro arrived early, hoodie tucked low, ignoring the bustle. His number badge still read #24, but today, he was grouped.
Four other auditionees waited in Studio Room B. Two girls—twins, evidently—whispered furiously in a corner, their matching pigtails bouncing with every nod. A boy in tracksuit pants ran vocal warm-ups under his breath. The fourth, a lanky teenager with dyed orange hair, strummed an unplugged electric guitar with zero concern for rhythm or tone.
Nagi took the empty seat nearest the exit.
Then the door opened.
"Good morning," said a woman in a blazer, clipboard in hand. "Today's format is collaborative. You'll rehearse a short performance with choreography and harmonies. There will be cameras. Consider this a live simulation."
Several auditionees nodded, some a little too eagerly.
Nagi didn't move.
The woman continued. "Your coach will arrive shortly. In the meantime, study the track—lyrics and choreo are synced to the tablet."
She placed it on the center table and left.
The song was upbeat—bright synths, layered vocals, the kind of hook designed to loop in your head for hours. The lyrics were simple, but emotionally charged. About longing, making it through cloudy days. Typical idol fare, but with more bite than fluff.
Everyone crowded the screen.
Except Nagi.
He watched, memorizing through distance. By the second run-through, he already saw the patterns: the jump on beat 6, the key change at the chorus, the camera glance built into the bridge. Easy enough.
Still, he stayed quiet.
Then the coach arrived.
"Yo," he said, stepping in like he owned the air. Hair messy, outfit loose. He wore thick glasses and a badge that read: Moriyama – Stage Direction.
He clapped once. "Alright. We're not aiming for perfection. We're aiming for presence. Let's run it once, raw."
Everyone took their positions. Nagi stood slightly off-center, arms half-folded. As the beat dropped, the group scrambled—some too stiff, others too loose. The twins were decent, the guitar kid fumbled a spin, and Nagi… did everything flawlessly.
But flatly.
Moriyama watched in silence. When it ended, he nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Here's the problem."
Everyone stiffened.
"Technically?" He pointed at Nagi. "That kid nailed it."
The twins exchanged glances.
"But emotionally? Zero spark."
Nagi blinked. "You want fake smiles?"
Moriyama smiled. "I want honest ones. You think idols lie on stage? They don't. They show the truth people want to believe."
He stepped forward.
"What do you want to believe, #24?"
Nagi didn't answer.
Not because he was avoiding the question—because he didn't know.
Moriyama turned to the others. "Take five. Seishiro, stay."
They left. Moriyama sat on the edge of the mirror stand, arms crossed.
"You're good. Scary good."
Nagi shrugged.
"You don't care though. That's the problem. I've seen talents who live for the camera. You… treat it like an ATM."
"I perform well. Isn't that enough?"
"Maybe. But you'll burn out in six months."
Nagi didn't reply.
Moriyama sighed.
"There's a switch inside you. I've seen glimpses. Your timing isn't trained—it's lived. I don't know who you were before, and I don't care. But something tells me you'll flip that switch when it matters."
Then he left.
During final rehearsal, something shifted.
The camera was rolling. The lighting was prepped. The group was instructed to perform the chorus solo, one by one, for final scoring.
The twins went first—polished, but predictable.
The boy in the tracksuit messed up a line. Guitar kid did better than expected.
Then it was Nagi's turn.
He walked into frame. No cue cards. No warnings.
Just the beat.
And something snapped.
His posture straightened. His eyes opened wider. A smile—not fake, not forced—stretched across his face. The camera zoomed in.
He didn't just sing.
He performed.
Every glance, every move, every breath was magnetized. The others watched, stunned. This wasn't the lethargic kid from earlier. This was someone else. Someone alive on stage.
When the song ended, he exhaled.
It felt good.
Not because he impressed someone.
Because, for once, he wanted to do it again.
Later, in the evaluation room, Ichigo Saitou reviewed the footage silently.
Moriyama stood nearby, arms folded.
"He's a monster," he said. "Emotionally frozen off-stage. But the moment the light hits, boom—he's someone else."
Ichigo didn't look up.
"I knew it."
Moriyama raised an eyebrow. "What's the plan?"
Ichigo tapped the screen.
"Push him further. Give him control over a solo project, something light but high-stakes. Let's see how deep that switch goes."
Moriyama grinned. "You think he's another Ai?"
Ichigo shook his head.
"No. Ai was lightning. He's gravity. No flash. Just silent pull."