The apartment had changed overnight—or maybe Nagi had.
The futon still sat uneven beneath the AC unit. The blinds still sliced sunlight into geometric bars across the floor.Choki, his cactus companion, hadn't bloomed again. But the silence felt warmer, less like static and more like pause. Intentional. Charged.
Nagi stood in front of the mirror, toothbrush between his teeth, hoodie slung over his shoulder, and stared.
He didn't look different.
Same bone structure. Same quiet.
But something lingered behind his eyes. A flicker.
He finished brushing and grabbed his phone.
No alerts. No urgent reminders. Just one blinking message from yesterday's rehearsal coach.
Moriyama: Heard you moved differently in the spotlight. Want more stage time?
He typed back:
Nagi: Yes.
Just that. No smiley face, no punctuation. The send button clicked like a baton being passed.
Strawberry Productions wasn't sleeping anymore.
Today's hallway was crowded. Interns rolled camera rigs past walls covered in pastel promotional posters. A cluster of junior idols posed in coordinating lavender outfits outside Studio A. Someone shouted across the corridor: "Mio! The branding team's waiting!"
Nagi moved through it all with disinterest, though he noticed one thing he hadn't before.
Eyes.
More of them followed him today.
He walked into Studio Room C where a dozen chairs were arranged in rows. Trainees sat scattered, clutching tablets or sketching notes. A banner on the far wall read:
"Branding Workshop: Natural, Polished, Stage-ready"
At the front was a woman in red heels, tapping at her tablet. Slim, intense. She looked up when the last person entered—Nagi.
"You're #24," she said.
He nodded.
She smiled. "I'm Mio. I'll be handling your media strategy if you pass this phase."
Nagi blinked. "I need strategy?"
She smirked. "You don't think you do. But you do."
The branding exercise began like homework. Every trainee was asked to draft three versions of themselves:
Natural Self: how they acted in daily lifePolished Self: how they'd behave during interviewsStage Self: who they became under the spotlight
Most struggled. Several asked for examples. Rui—one of yesterday's duet rivals—raised his hand with a confident grin.
"My natural self is chill. My polished self is sharp. My stage self?" He posed. "Firestarter."
Everyone chuckled.
Nagi didn't.
Instead, he stared at the tablet. Slowly, he filled in the first two columns.
Natural: quiet, direct, observant
Polished: minimal, polite, neutral tone
But the third?
He hesitated.
Then typed:
Stage-ready: expressive, extrovert. Amplified magnetism. A version of me I only meet mid-song.
He blinked. Had he just admitted that?
Mio passed behind him and caught a glance.
"You think you're extroverted on stage?"
He didn't look up. "I don't think. I am."
She paused, studying him. "That's rare."
"Is it?"
"Usually, it's the other way around. The ones who fake confidence in life crumble when it's real."
As the session wrapped, Mio called Nagi aside.
"You weren't supposed to stand out today," she said, "but you just did."
"I didn't speak."
"You didn't need to. That third column? It's you. No one else here could've written that honestly."
Nagi considered that.
"You're saying I'm two people?"
"No. I'm saying you're one person—who's learning how to shift when it counts."
He stared at her.
Then said softly: "Good."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________A whiteboard in the branding room read:
"Nagi Saitou: Clean Lines. Cold Eyes. Controlled Energy."
Three executives sat at one end of the table, flipping through slideshows on tablets—visual references, color palettes, competitor comparisons. Mio stood silently by the coffee machine, arms folded.
Nagi walked in without expression. He glanced once at the board, then sat.
Moriyama spoke first.
"You don't get to decide who you are—yet. But you can decide who you aren't."
Nagi frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means perception trumps reality. Especially in stagecraft."
A woman from the design team clicked to the next slide: mood boards filled with sharp angles, dim hues, mirrored surfaces.
"Your solo persona," she said, "will be built around duality—emotionless surface, hidden depth. Think: polished alienation."
Nagi raised an eyebrow.
"That's branding?"
"Strategic storytelling."
He didn't respond.
Later, in the studio dressing room, Mio handed him a folder.
Inside: sketches of outfits, stills from rooftop rehearsal, test logo mockups labeled "NS-1" in monochrome.
"NS-1?" Nagi asked.
"You're being packaged. Like any product."
He flipped the page.
One concept caught his eye—black gloves with embedded mic sensors. Minimal design. Functional. Strange.
He tapped it.
"I like this."
Mio nodded. "Then we'll push for it."
A pause.
"Do you want input on the song selection?" she asked.
"Do I get input?"
"Technically. But they have three options already lined up."
Nagi leaned back.
"Then let me hear all three."
The next day, he was summoned to Sound Room D—a smaller studio often reserved for personal rehearsals.
Three tracks waited in his inbox:
Track A: Electro-pop, high tempo, heavy synth. Track B: Piano ballad with cinematic strings. Track C: Trap-inspired beat with dissonant melody and abstract lyrics.
He sampled each.
Track A felt loud, insistent. Like it wanted to drown him.
Track B was emotional, soft, but predictable.
Track C was... off-kilter. It looped through moods. Its lyrics were fragmented—like someone speaking from multiple timelines.
Mio entered halfway through.
"Impression?"
Nagi clicked Track C again.
"It's confusing."
"You hate it?"
"No," he said. "I think it's meant to be confusing."
She tilted her head.
"People won't get it."
"I'm not sure I want them to."
By evening, he sent his decision.
Solo concept: NS-1
Gloves: approved design #03
Song: Track C
Aesthetic: fractured perception, concealed intent
Ichigo's reply was swift.
Good. He's starting to write his own script.
In the mirror, hours later, Nagi stood in full concept attire—tailored black jacket, gloves, minimal jewelry, hair styled with a quiet sharpness.
He stared, not in vanity, but calculation.
Who was this version?
Not the boy who mimicked duets.
Not the prodigy on the rooftop.
This was someone else.
A performer who wasn't waiting for meaning.
He was building it.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A notification flashed across millions of phones:
"NS-1 debuts tonight. Tune in. Don't blink."
The stream was minimalist—no hosts, no countdown, just a static shot of a dimly lit stage with a single standing mic and ambient fog.
Nagi walked in from the left.
Black gloves. Unreadable eyes.
Live comments surged instantly:
"Who is this?"
"Alien vibes??"
"Those gloves tho—iconic already."
"Is he... staring through the camera?"
The song started without intro.
Track C's fragmented beat lurched forward—like memory glitching. Lyrics trailed half-sentences, stitched with raw syllables.
Nagi didn't perform.
He inhabited.
His movements were slight: shifts in breath, angles of gaze, pauses where emotion might've lived if he let it.
Viewers were unsettled—and transfixed.
"He's not performing, he's transmitting."
"So uncomfortable... I love it."
"What does it mean??"
"This is art. Or a breakdown. Maybe both."
At one moment, during a lyric about identity dissolving, he looked directly into the lens and tilted his head—almost imperceptibly.
That clip would be dissected for weeks.
After the final note, the screen went black.
No outro. No thank you. Just silence.
Hashtags erupted:
#NS1Debut
#MirrorSyntax
#IsNagiEvenReal
Fan theories poured in.
Some claimed he was a digital fabrication.
Some said his movements were Morse code.
A few declared him the reincarnation of Ai Hoshino's shadow.
Meanwhile, Nagi sat backstage, watching the reaction unfold in real-time.
Mio leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"That was... something."
He didn't speak.
She showed him the trending graph. "You hit top 3 globally."
He nodded slowly.
"You okay?"
"I feel—seen. But not understood."
She studied him.
"And is that what you want?"
Nagi stared at the screen.
"I think it's what I need."
Ichigo's message came thirty minutes later:
"Let them misread you. That's how mythology starts."
Nagi replied:
"Then let's build one worth misreading."