A few days had passed.
And somehow, things had settled.
Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough.
The gossip at school had died down, or at least changed shape — less intense, less personal. Mizuki was back to her usual self, dragging Elliot to the rooftop for lunch, dropping sarcastic "Graves-kun~" comments whenever he looked too serious. Even Daichi had calmed down, mostly channeling his curiosity into speculative fan theories rather than live interrogation.
Ami hadn't messaged him since the night he agreed to come.
And yet, Elliot knew she was waiting.
Waiting to see if he would really show up. Not because she made him, or begged. But because he chose to.
He had.
⸻
The venue was nothing like the gym.
This place had a real entrance — glass doors, LED signage, a working green room, and professional sound techs with walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. Staff buzzed back and forth, carrying mic stands, lighting sheets, water bottles, and merchandise boxes. It smelled like hairspray and floor polish and electricity.
Posters lined the walls.
AMI YUZUKI – LIVE SHOWCASE
Two New Songs. One Night Only.
Presented by StarRush Talent.
And beneath it — in smaller font — was his name.
Manager: Elliot Graves
He swallowed hard.
Too late to back out now.
⸻
A backstage coordinator handed him a pass and motioned him toward the green room.
It was louder than he expected — stylists unpacking brushes, a photographer snapping behind-the-scenes candids, dancers stretching in one corner. And in the center of it all was Ami, seated on a makeup stool, eyes closed as someone applied liner to the edge of her eye with surgical precision.
She laughed at something one of the crew said — a soft, melodic sound he hadn't heard in days.
Then she turned, opened her eyes — and froze.
He stood in the doorway, pass around his neck, jacket zipped halfway.
Her makeup artist stepped aside instinctively.
Ami blinked, setting her hands in her lap.
"You actually came…"
Her voice was so soft it barely reached him over the hum of the room.
Elliot raised a brow. "You sound shocked."
"I am," she admitted. Then, without thinking — without letting herself think — she stood and crossed the room and hugged him.
Not a playful grab or a teasing arm-sling.
A real hug.
Her arms wrapped around his middle, head tucked just under his chin. She smelled like stage makeup and citrus shampoo.
"I didn't think you would."
He didn't hug back immediately. Just stood there, breathing in the moment. Then slowly, he let himself rest a hand on her shoulder.
"I said I'd keep the mic working, didn't I?"
She pulled back, eyes bright, and for once — not hiding.
"Yeah. But I didn't expect you to mean it."
⸻
The performance began at exactly 6:00 PM.
Ami walked out onto the stage like it was made for her — not overconfident, not pretending. Just steady. Present. Herself.
The crowd screamed her name.
⸻
The First Song: "Starlight Fever"
An explosion of color. A perfect pop anthem.
Backed by flashing strobes and tightly rehearsed dancers, Ami's voice soared through the chorus like a firework. She winked, spun, hit every beat with the kind of practiced charm only years of underground performance could carve into a person.
It was energetic, bold, fun.
It told the crowd: I am here, and I will not disappear.
⸻
But the second song?
That's the one that broke the room open.
⸻
The lights dimmed.
The dancers exited. The screen behind her turned to grayscale: soft spirals of static and stars.
And the piano began.
One spotlight. One mic. One girl.
Ami stepped forward.
She didn't wear a costume anymore — just a black blouse, loose sleeves, a silver pendant resting just above her collarbone.
She didn't smile.
She just sang.
⸻
"Echo"
(Original Lyrics — from Ami's POV)
When the lights go out
And the hands all stop
And no one stays to watch the drop
Will I still exist
In the silence there?
Or was I only ever air?
When I fall, will someone hear the sound?
Or will I echo… and fade into the ground?
If I scream with no one there to know —
Does it make me less, or more of a ghost?
There were days I danced just to stay awake
Nights I sang until my own heart ached
I wore the glitter, wore the grin
And prayed someone would see me in it
But then I heard a voice — not loud
Just firm enough to cut the crowd
And when the world was cracked in two
I turned and found… it led to you.
So if I echo — let it be
Not hollow, but a memory
And if I fade, I hope you know
I only ever wanted to be seen.
Not saved.
She looked directly at Elliot for the final line.
The crowd was silent.
Then came the roar.
⸻
Backstage, it was chaos. In the best way.
Laughter. Shouting. Congratulations. Hugs from staff. Two dancers sobbing because they "felt that song in their bones." Someone handed Ami a can of soda. Someone else took a selfie with her.
Elliot stood at the edge, trying not to be in the way.
Ami caught his eye and grinned, rushing toward him.
"Okay," she said, breathless. "That one might have been a little romantic."
Elliot smirked. "You still owe me dinner for using my name."
"Fine. But I pick the place."
They didn't get a chance to keep talking.
Because then came the knock.
A man stepped into the room — clean suit, clipboard in hand, press badge clipped to his collar.
His voice cut through the celebration like a blade.
"Ami Yuzuki?"
She turned, blinking. "Yes?"
The man's eyes scanned the room, then settled on Elliot.
"And you must be Elliot Graves. Manager?"
Elliot opened his mouth. Closed it.
"…Yeah."
The man smiled slightly. Professional. Measured.
"We've had our eyes on tonight's performance. I'd like to speak with both of you. You're not just school-famous anymore."
He held out a card.
It felt heavier than it looked.
The card between Elliot's fingers felt heavier than it should've.
White. Matte finish. Black ink. Clean serif font. Simple, but not forgettable.
"Tetsuya Enomoto – A&R Representative, Polaris Entertainment."
A small constellation was printed in silver foil above the name.
He didn't recognize it — but Ami did.
Her breath caught.
"Polaris…? The Polaris?"
The scout smiled politely. "We don't usually attend school showcases. But someone passed along a clip of your underground performance last week. Said it was 'too raw to ignore.'"
Ami's face flushed.
"That was… a mess."
The man tilted his head. "No. That was real. The industry can polish someone. We can't teach presence."
He turned to Elliot.
"And you. We were impressed by how you handled the stage situation. Quick thinking, good instincts. You've got the makings of a live production manager."
Elliot blinked. "I'm not— I mean… I'm just a student."
"Exactly," Tetsuya said. "Which means you still have time to decide what you want to be."
He looked at both of them, pulling out a tablet.
"We'd like to bring Ami in for an audition — not a guaranteed deal yet, but a live showcase in front of some internal producers. If that goes well, we'll talk contracts. Distribution. Potential training or partnership tracks."
Ami froze.
This was it.
The thing she'd wanted for years — a label name that meant something. That saw her.
And now it was here.
"What about school?" she asked, hesitant.
"You can balance both — we'll work with your schedule. We want your voice, not your attendance sheet."
Tetsuya turned to Elliot again.
"We'd prefer to keep your manager attached — the chemistry reads well on stage and online. But it's optional, of course."
Ami looked at Elliot. Not pressuring him. Just waiting.
For once, not demanding.
Not dragging him.
Just asking.
⸻
Elliot stared down at the card again.
A few weeks ago, he hadn't even wanted to be seen.
Now a stranger with a clipboard was offering to make him real — not just a shadow behind someone else's dream.
And Ami…
She was still waiting for him to say something.
"Can we have time to think?" he asked finally.
The scout nodded. "Of course. But not too long — opportunity doesn't wait forever."
He left the room as quickly as he'd arrived.
⸻
The silence that followed didn't feel tense.
Just… suspended.
Ami sat down on the edge of a table, swinging her legs.
"You don't have to come with me."
Elliot looked up.
"You're not dragging me this time," she said. "No guilt. No games. If I do this, I want it to be with you, not because of you."
That meant something.
Maybe everything.
He sat beside her.
"I'm tired of hiding behind people."
She nodded. "Same."
They sat like that for a while — no music, no stage lights. Just the quiet hum of leftover adrenaline and something like… trust.
⸻
Behind them, through the cracked green room door, Mizuki stood.
She hadn't interrupted.
She hadn't said a word.
Just watched from the hallway, one hand curled around her phone, the other holding a bento bag she never got the chance to deliver.
She saw them sitting there.
Not kissing. Not glowing. Just talking. Close enough that silence didn't feel like distance.
And she quietly turned around.