A single fluorescent bulb buzzed in protest above Nagi's bed, its glow diffused by a paper lantern he hadn't replaced since moving in. It was early—far too early for someone who'd been up past midnight scrolling through old performance clips, gauging the difference between brilliance and popularity. But here he was, eyes half-open and thoughts already unravelling like film tape.
The apartment was clean, minimal. A soft grey palette ran through the walls, curtains, and furniture, interrupted only by the thin streak of sunlight bleeding in through the blinds. His phone lay face-down on the nightstand, its vibration silent but persistent—a reminder of the studio schedule Ichigo had sent last night. He reached for it without urgency, thumb hovering just long enough before flipping it over.
7:08 AM – Call Time: 9:30 – Strawberry Studio B2.
Nagi exhaled sharply, not tired, just… suspended. Somewhere between dread and duty.
He sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. His reflection peered back at him from the glass closet door—messy hair, bare chest, the faint scar that curved along his ribs like punctuation from another life. He rarely noticed it anymore. But this morning, something about the way it caught the light made him stare.
Neon:ReGenisys.
The name was still too new to feel real, too stylized to be comfortable. He'd agreed to it last week—stepped into a void left behind by someone who had once dominated every stage, every camera lens, every unspoken expectation. Aoyama had been the group's centre. Not just in choreography, but in presence.
Nagi wasn't replacing him. He was reorganizing the orbit.
He padded across the cool floor to the bathroom, twisting the faucet until icy water rushed through. His fingers lingered under the stream before cupping it and splashing his face, not once but twice. The chill woke him faster than coffee ever could. As he towelled off, his mind drifted back to the moment Ichigo had called.
"Strawberry needs someone who can carry the group without collapsing under press questions," she'd said. "You're eloquent, mysterious, and don't crumble under scrutiny. That's rare."
He hadn't known if that was praise or manipulation. Maybe both.
Dressed in loose black joggers and a deep blue hoodie, Nagi moved to the small kitchen counter and retrieved an energy bar from the drawer—cranberry almond, unwrapped without ceremony. He chewed slowly, watching morning television flicker on a muted screen in the background. Idols dancing. Politicians posturing. Fans crying under umbrellas at some tribute concert forAoyama.
Media wanted closure. Strawberry wanted momentum.
Nagi? He just wanted to keep his voice out of headlines.
By 8:00 AM, he was ready to leave. The satchel over his shoulder felt light, but the day felt heavy. He checked his phone one more time—no new messages, no last-minute changes. As he stepped into the hallway, the elevator reflected his image back at him: calm, prepared, unknowable.
That was the brand now.
Not Nagi the soloist. Not Nagi the interviewer's nightmare.
Just Nagi—the stand-in centre of Neon:ReGenisys.
And whether the world wanted a saviour, a distraction, or just a name to plaster on merch… he wasn't sure which one he'd become.
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The smell of strawberry pancakes wafted through the kitchen as Ai flipped the last one onto Ruby's plate. She hummed lightly—an old B Komachi hook that had lodged itself in her subconscious years ago and never quite left. Aqua sat nearby, skimming his tablet. One clip looped silently: Nagi on stage, head bowed, voice slipping through the crowd like static-charged silk.
"He's everywhere," Aqua muttered.
Ai glanced over. "Still watching that boy?"
Ruby stuffed a bite into her mouth. "Momma's better."
"Obviously," Ai teased, brushing flour from her sleeve.
The doorbell rang.
Aqua lowered his tablet as Ai wiped her hands and headed to the door. The moment it swung open, Ichigo stepped in, sunglasses perched high, expression unreadable. Miyako followed, already assessing the room like it was her second job—which it technically was.
"You're early," Ai said.
"Busy day," Ichigo replied, slipping off his shoes. "And I wanted to tell you something before it leaks."
Ai narrowed her eyes. "What are you scheming?"
"Scheming?" Miyako echoed. "That's generous."
They made their way to the dining table, where Ruby had already spread out three different sticker books. She blinked up at them. "Did you bring snacks?"
Miyako tossed her a pack of gummies. "Preemptive bribery."
Ichigo didn't sit. He stood at the table like he was about to give a press conference.
Aqua raised an eyebrow. "That serious?"
Ichigo nodded. "Nagi's joining Neon:ReGenisys."
The room fell still.
Ai's smile froze. "Joining? Like… as a guest?"
"As the new center," Ichigo said plainly.
Aqua leaned back. "You're kidding."
"I'm not. We've kept it under wraps. Studio announcement's scheduled for this afternoon. He wants a group—he said solo stardom felt like talking to himself in a crowd."
Ai crossed her arms. "He just debuted last month."
"He did," Ichigo replied. "And those clips made him a household name overnight. You've seen the numbers."
Ruby tapped the table. "So now Momma's not the coolest?"
Ai chuckled, smoothing her daughter's hair. "Momma is always the coolest."
"But why tell us here?" Aqua asked.
Ichigo removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that looked far too tired for 9AM. "Because it affects you. All of you. Public image. B Komachi's dynamics. The media's already asking if there'll be a cross-brand concert."
Miyako handed Ai a folder. "Fan theories are running wild. Some think Nagi's your protégé. Others say he's Aoyama's rival."
Ai opened the folder—stats, articles, trending tags. Her own face juxtaposed with Nagi's. The narratives were already forming.
"And you let it form without telling me?" she asked.
Ichigo shrugged. "Control the chaos by steering it. And I wanted to see how you'd react."
Ai stared at a freeze-frame: Nagi looking directly at the camera mid-performance. Unbothered. Icy. Beautiful. The kind of presence that bends perception.
Aqua peered over her shoulder. "He's not Aoyama."
"I know," Ai said softly.
"But he's something," Miyako added. "And that something is going to redefine our agency's balance."
Ai closed the folder. "So you came here to warn me?"
"No," Ichigo said, "I came here to invite you. To meet him."
Ai blinked.
"Studio briefing's at noon. You're scheduled for rehearsal, but I made a detour in the roster."
Aqua smirked. "You want drama."
"Not drama," Ichigo corrected. "Gravity. Nagi's already reshaping the space he walks into. I need to see what happens when he steps into yours."
Ruby picked up a Nagi sticker Aqua had printed days ago and held it next to one of Ai.
"Maybe they can do a duet," she said.
Ai laughed. "Maybe. But not if he messes with my girls."
Ichigo grinned. "That's why it'll be interesting."
Ai stood, folding the folder and slipping it into her bag. "Fine. I'll go. But if he's just another pretty voice with too much press, I'm walking out."
"You won't," Ichigo said. "He's not just a voice. He's a movement."
Miyako clapped her hands lightly. "Alright, people. Time to make history uncomfortable."
Ruby jumped up. "Can I come?"
"Nope," Aqua said, grabbing her gently. "You've got sticker diplomacy to attend to."
As Ai headed toward the door, Aqua looked up again. "Are you nervous?"
She paused, glanced back at him, then smiled.
"No. But he should be."
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The hum of espresso machines blended with faint background jazz as Nagi settled into a corner booth, sandwich in hand, phone facedown. His eyes drifted toward the café entrance, half-focused, half-dazed. He had time to kill before his 3 PM meetup with Ichigo's curated ensemble.
But then—motion. A blur of lavender and hoodie collided with the swinging glass door.
A tray tipped. Ice cracked. Coffee exploded like a firework between them.
"Sorry—seriously, that was a wreck," the girl gasped, grabbing napkins. Her voice had a lilt of amusement despite the mess. Her hoodie was slouched low over her eyes, but when she looked up—violet-blue. Gradient. Unmistakable.
Ai.
And for a moment, neither spoke.
"I should've watched where I was going," she laughed, brushing a coffee stain from her sleeve. "First rehearsal brain."
Nagi blinked, recovering. "No damage. Just… caffeine trauma."
She smiled—wide, effortless, lived-in. "You new?"
"Pretty much. Neon:ReGenisys, center."
"Seriously?" Ai leaned in. "Then you're that Nagi."
He nodded. "Guilty. Just trying not to trip on my own feet today."
Ai chuckled. "Don't worry, tripping's part of the initiation ritual."
They eased into conversation like slipping into a warm pool. A playful exchange about Ichigo's managerial quirks, rehearsal injuries, the café's criminally dry brownies. Ai teased, "Better get used to our chaos," and Nagi deflected with, "Already memorized the escape routes."
It mirrored the reference's banter—dry humor, mutual recognition, veiled judgment.
Then came the quiet moment.
Ai took a sip of her second drink—decaf this time—watching the condensation trail down the side. "So... you sing?"
Nagi nodded. "And I write. Sometimes arrange. Depends on the mood."
Ai tilted her head. "Good. We need someone who feels things when they make music."
Their dialogue stretched across fifteen minutes—no rush, just subtle power shifts. Ai asked about his past projects. Nagi deflected. Ai circled back. Nagi finally shared a few lines from a demo: soft piano, a single violin, vocals fragile like glass.
Ai leaned back. "That's haunting."
"Thanks," he said. "Didn't mean for it to be."
"No, it's the right kind of haunted."
Silence again. The jazz track had changed twice. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed.
"You're going to make waves," Ai murmured. "Just don't let the current eat you first."
She stood. "See you upstairs, Nagi-kun."
And just like that, she vanished into the staff hallway.
He didn't realize he was still clutching his empty cup until the barista asked if he wanted a refill.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The elevator dinged softly as Nagi stepped onto the sixth floor of Strawberry Productions. His shirt still bore a faint coffee stain from earlier—Ai's accidental splash—but he didn't bother changing. It felt earned. Like a scuff mark on brand-new sneakers.
A staffer nodded at him. "Studio B2. You're early."
"Good," Nagi said.
He passed a wall of posters—B Komachi's first showcase, the original lineup of Neon:ReGenisys, Aoymara's solo teaser burning at the center. Beside it was a blank frame, labeled Coming Soon.
He pushed open the studio door.
Inside, four boys clustered around a mixing station and mirrored wall. Music hummed in low static as they turned toward him, each reaction different—curiosity, caution, calculation.
The tall one with wireframe glasses stepped forward first.
"Renji Kuroda," he said. "Vocals and press. I coordinate most of our interviews."
Nagi gave a short nod. "Nagi Hoshino."
The next boy bounced in—long hair tucked into a beanie, sleeves rolled up to show dancer's forearms.
"Taiga Fujimura," he said. "Main dancer. If you trip, I catch you. Once."
Nagi smirked. "I'll aim not to test that."
A pink-haired teen bumped fists with him, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Riku Sasaki. Rapper. Youngest. I'm the spontaneous combustion."
"I'll try not to extinguish you," Nagi said.
The last boy stayed a little back—quiet, older, with gentle eyes and a lyric notebook.
"Kaito Mori," he said. "Lyrics. I write what we dodge saying."
"Then I'll sing it loud," Nagi replied.
A beat passed.
Renji narrowed his eyes. "Ichigo says you're the new center."
"That's the plan."
Taiga tilted his head. "You replacing Aoymara?"
"No," Nagi said. "I'm picking up where silence left off."
Riku let out a low whistle. "That was slick."
Kaito scribbled something—maybe the line itself.
Renji took a step closer. "Aoymara didn't just leave. He launched. His shadow's still in the room."
"I'm not scared of shadows," Nagi said. "I tend to move toward the light."
The door opened.
Ichigo entered like a punctuation mark. Sunglasses on, folder in hand.
"You met. Good." He dropped the folder on the table. "First rehearsal's in twenty. You're evaluated on energy, not technique. Show me you're not just filling space."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Nagi—don't mimic Aoymara. It's not a tribute act."
"I wasn't planning to," Nagi said.
Ichigo nodded once and exited.
Renji raised an eyebrow. "So... you any good?"
Nagi stepped into the center, where reflections met floorboards.
"Let's find out."