I lay sprawled on SYNC's polished floor, limbs spread like a fallen scarecrow. My chest heaved with each breath, sweat cooling on my skin. Six hours of practice had left its mark. My muscles screamed. My joints ached. My shirt clung to me like a second skin.
I didn't move. Couldn't move. The other guys had dragged themselves home twenty minutes ago, but I'd stayed behind. Just five more minutes, I'd told them. Five minutes to gather whatever scraps of energy remained.
The ceiling lights burned into my retinas. We'd been pushing too hard for too long. A week of fourteen-hour days. Endless repetition. The bones in my feet felt like they might shatter with one more landing, one more pivot.
But we couldn't slow down. Not with the showcase looming. Not with Tadashi's shadow still hanging over us.
In my previous life, I never worked this hard for anything.
The thought drifted through my exhaustion. That other existence—comfortable, unremarkable—felt like a half-remembered dream now. This body, this life, this moment—they were real. The pain was real. The pressure was real.
I closed my eyes against the harsh fluorescents. Just another minute. Then I'd get up. Go home. Eat something. Sleep. Do it all again tomorrow.
The door clicked open. Soft footsteps padded across the floor.
I kept my eyes shut. Probably the cleaning staff. Or Ryota, forgetting something. I didn't have the energy to acknowledge them.
"Hey, Shiro-chan."
My eyes snapped open.
Ai Hoshino stood above me, head tilted, a small smile on her lips. Her gradient eyes caught the overhead lights, turning them to liquid amethyst. She'd pulled her blue-purple hair into a messy bun, tendrils framing her face.
"Shiro-chan?" I repeated, my voice rough with fatigue.
Her smile widened. "You're younger than me. It fits."
I propped myself up on my elbows, wincing as my shoulders protested. "That's your professional development insight? Infantilizing nicknames?"
"It's cute." She dropped her bag and sat cross-legged beside me. "And you look like you need something light right now."
"What I need is new legs. And maybe a spine transplant." I sat up fully, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. "What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at seven."
"It is seven." She held up her phone as evidence. "I texted, but you didn't answer."
"Shit." I patted my pockets, finding my phone buried in my gym bag. Three missed messages. "Sorry. Lost track of time."
"Rough day?"
"We've had better." I stretched, my spine crackling like bubble wrap. "Seiji kept missing the transition in the bridge. Ryota overrotated on his flip and nearly took out Ryuu. And Daisuke..." I sighed. "Daisuke's stuck in his head. Can't get the emotional tone right."
"And you?"
I gave her a half-hearted smile. "I'm perfect, obviously."
Ai snorted. "Obviously."
"How was your day?"
"Productive. Shot a commercial. Recorded a song. Solved world hunger."
"The usual, then."
"The usual." She studied me. "You look wrecked."
"Thank you. That's exactly what every idol wants to hear."
She laughed, the sound echoing in the empty studio. "I meant you look tired. Not ugly-wrecked. There's a difference."
"Fine distinction." I ran a hand over my face. "If I look half as bad as I feel, I'm surprised you didn't run screaming."
Ai reached over, brushing damp hair from my forehead. The gesture was casual, almost thoughtless, but her fingertips left trails of warmth on my skin.
"You need a break," she said.
"What I need is another six hours of practice."
"No." She stood, offering her hand. "What you need is fun. Come on."
I stared at her outstretched hand, then her determined face. "I'm disgusting. Sweaty. Probably smell like a locker room."
"I've smelled worse." She wiggled her fingers impatiently. "Come on, disaster chef. Up."
I took her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. My legs wobbled traitorously.
"Where are we going?" I asked, grabbing my bag.
"Somewhere not here." She dug through her purse, producing a baseball cap and sunglasses. "Put these on."
I complied, tucking my distinctive hair under the cap. "You realize disguises like this only work in movies, right? In real life, they scream 'celebrity incognito.'"
"That's the point." Ai adjusted her own cap lower over her eyes. "If people see someone trying to hide, they'll assume it's just another wannabe influencer. Real celebrities hire body doubles and escape through kitchen exits."
"Spoken like someone with experience."
"I once crawled through a restaurant's bathroom window to avoid fans." She shrugged. "The chef thought I was a health inspector."
I laughed, feeling some tension ease from my shoulders. "So what's your brilliant disguise strategy, short stack?"
Her head snapped up. "What did you call me?"
"Short stack." I gestured to the height difference between us. "Seems fitting."
"I am average height!" She planted her hands on her hips. "You're just abnormally tall."
"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night." I patted the top of her head. "Short stack."
Her eyes narrowed, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're playing with fire, Shiro-chan."
"I've been called worse."
"Not by me." She poked my chest. "Yet."
We walked out of the studio together, the evening air cool against my overheated skin. Tokyo hummed around us, neon signs flickering to life as dusk settled over the city. Ai moved with casual confidence, her steps light despite the long day she'd described.
"You never said where we're going," I reminded her as we turned down a side street.
She bit her lip. "That's because I don't actually know. I just knew you needed to get out of that studio."
"Amateur planning." I clicked my tongue in mock disappointment. "And here I thought the great Ai Hoshino had everything figured out."
"I'm making it up as I go." She bumped her shoulder against my arm. "That's what makes it an adventure, Shiro-chan."
The nickname was growing on me. Something about the way she said it—casual, almost affectionate—made it different from the cutesy honorifics she used for fan service.
"If we're doing nicknames..." I looked down at her, studying her profile in the fading light. The way her skin seemed to catch and hold the glow of the street lamps. The subtle shift of colors in her eyes. "I should get to call you something too."
"Not short stack."
"No?" I grinned. "How about... Starlight?"
She stopped walking. "What?"
"Starlight." I gestured vaguely toward her. "Your eyes. They catch the light like... I don't know. Stars, I guess."
A flush crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. For once, she seemed at a loss for words.
"Too much?" I asked.
She shook her head slowly. "No. It's..." She cleared her throat. "It's fine. Different."
"Different good or different weird?"
"Good." She started walking again, but slower now. "No one's ever called me that before."
"Then it's settled. You're Starlight, I'm Shiro-chan."
"Deal." She reached out, her fingers brushing against mine before tentatively taking my hand. "So, where should we go?"
The warmth of her palm against mine sent a current up my arm. I curled my fingers around hers, surprised by how natural it felt.
"There's an arcade a few blocks from here," I said, the idea forming as I spoke.
Her eyes lit up. "I haven't been to an arcade since..." She paused, something flickering across her face. "A long time."
"Then we're definitely going." I tugged her hand gently, leading her down another side street. "Fair warning: I'm unbeatable at Street Fighter."
"We'll see about that." The competitive edge in her voice made me smile.
The arcade sat wedged between a ramen shop and a convenience store, its facade covered in faded neon signs and peeling posters. Inside, the space hummed with electronic beeps and synthesized music, the air thick with nostalgia and the faint smell of fried food. Teenagers hunched over machines, too absorbed in their games to notice us.
"Perfect," Ai murmured, squeezing my hand.
We exchanged bills for tokens at a scratched counter manned by an elderly man who barely glanced at us. The weight of the metal coins in my palm felt like childhood—a simpler time. Before this life and the one before it.
"Where do we start?" Ai asked, eyes wide as she took in the rows of machines.
"Classic first-timer mistake," I said, pulling her toward the back corner. "You don't start with the flashy new games. You go for the legends."
The Street Fighter cabinet stood like a monument to a bygone era, its control panel worn smooth by thousands of hands. I inserted tokens and selected my character with practiced ease.
"Pick your fighter, Starlight."
She chose Chun-Li, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the buttons.
"Need a tutorial?" I offered.
"I can figure it out." She squared her shoulders, determination written across her face.
Three rounds later, she slumped against the cabinet in defeat.
"You cheated."
"I warned you I was good." I flicked one of her cap's earflaps. "Want to try something else?"
We moved through the arcade like kids let loose in a candy store. Skee-ball, where her precise throws left me in the dust. A racing game where we bumped shoulders and traded trash talk. A zombie shooter that made her scream and grab my arm when the undead lunged at the screen.
The stress of the day melted away with each game, each laugh, each moment of her pressed against my side. This wasn't Ai Hoshino, idol sensation, or Toshiro Kagami, PRISM's new center. Just two people having fun, anonymous in the dim light and noise.
"Photo booth," Ai said suddenly, pointing to a curtained alcove in the corner. "We need evidence of tonight."
"Photographic evidence seems unwise for people in disguise."
"It's not like we're doing anything wrong." She pulled me toward the booth. "Besides, we keep the prints. No digital copies."
The booth was cramped, designed for giggling teenagers rather than two adults. Our knees knocked together as we settled on the small bench, shoulders pressed tight. Ai fed tokens into the slot and the screen lit up with countdown numbers.
"Ready?" she asked, her face inches from mine.
"For what? We're just—"
The flash went off, capturing what I'm sure was my confused expression next to her grin.
"Silly faces for the next one," she instructed, sticking out her tongue.
I crossed my eyes as the second flash popped.
"Now a cool one."
We posed back-to-back like action heroes for the third shot.
"Last one," she said as the countdown started. "Make it count."
I turned to ask what she meant, but the words died in my throat. She was already looking at me, her gradient eyes serious beneath the brim of her cap. The air between us changed, charged with something I couldn't name but recognized deep in my bones.
The counter hit zero. Neither of us looked at the camera.
I'm not sure who moved first. Maybe we both did. Her lips met mine as the flash went off, capturing the moment in stark white light.
The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant. Testing. Then her hand found my shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, and something broke loose inside me. I cupped her face, angling her head to deepen the kiss, tasting the sweetness of whatever lip gloss she wore. Her soft gasp sent heat spiraling through me.
She tasted like possibility. Like a life I'd never imagined but suddenly couldn't picture being without.
My thumb traced her jawline as our lips moved together, learning each other. Her free hand slid into my hair, knocking the cap askew. I didn't care. Couldn't care about anything but the way she pressed closer, the small sound she made when I nipped gently at her bottom lip.
The machine whirred, processing our photos, but we paid it no attention. I was lost in her—the scent of her perfume, the softness of her skin, the way she seemed to fit against me as if designed for that purpose.
Her tongue brushed mine, and rational thought fled. My hand slid down to her waist, fingers spread across the small of her back to pull her closer. She shifted, half-climbing into my lap, the movement sending sparks along every nerve ending.
The curtain rustled.
We broke apart, breathing hard. Reality crashed back like a cold wave. We were in public. In a photo booth. In an arcade full of people who'd pay handsomely for pictures of Japan's top idol kissing PRISM's newest member.
"Sorry," I said automatically, though I wasn't sorry at all.
"Don't be." She straightened her cap, cheeks flushed. "I'm not."
The machine spit out our photo strip. Ai snatched it up, eyes widening as she looked at the last image.
"Oh." She turned it toward me.
The camera had caught us in profile, lips meeting, my hand on her face, her fingers in my hair. It looked intimate. Real. Nothing like the manufactured romance of dramas or music videos.
"Can I keep it?" she asked, voice uncharacteristically shy.
"Of course." I cleared my throat. "Though maybe tear off that last one if you're showing anyone else."
"This is just for us." She carefully folded the strip and tucked it into her purse. "We should probably go."
Outside, the night had deepened, stars hidden behind Tokyo's light pollution. We walked in silence for a block, not touching but close enough that our arms brushed occasionally.
"I had fun," she said finally.
"Me too." More than I'd had in either lifetime.
"I have an idea." She stopped under a streetlight, looking up at me. "I'm babysitting on Saturday. Ichigo's kids."
"Babysitting?" That wasn't what I expected to hear.
"They're two. Twins." She twisted her hands together. "I thought maybe you could come with me? Make it a day out or something."
"You want me to help you babysit our manager's children?"
"It sounds weird when you put it like that." She laughed nervously. "Forget it. It was a stupid—"
"I'd love to."
"Really? You've babysat before?"
"No." I'd barely interacted with children in either life. "But how hard can it be? They're tiny humans, right?"
She snorted. "You have no idea."
"I'll figure it out." I reached for her hand again, lacing our fingers together. "I'll make sure those kids have the best day ever."
"Confident."
"Always." I lifted our joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It's a date, Starlight."
Her smile was soft, genuine. Not the practiced curve she showed cameras, but something real. Something just for me.
"It's a date, Shiro-chan."
We stood there for a moment longer, neither wanting to break the spell of the evening. Then her phone chimed, reality intruding once more.
"I should get home," she said reluctantly.
"Me too. Early practice tomorrow."
"Will you be okay? After all that work today?"
I rolled my shoulders, surprised to find the earlier ache had dulled to a manageable throb. "I'll survive. Thanks to you."
"For what?"
"The break. The fun." I touched her cheek briefly. "The rest."
She leaned into my palm for a heartbeat. "Anytime, Shiro-chan. Anytime."
We parted ways at the next corner, heading to different train lines. I watched her go, cap pulled low, just another person in the Tokyo night.
But to me, she glowed like her nickname—a light cutting through darkness, showing the way forward.