"Alright, everyone's here now."
Once the last chair scraped into place, Togawa Sakiko swept her gaze across the room—cool, composed, the kind of look that could pin a person to their seat without lifting a finger.
"Everyone, this is the first official meeting of our band. I know I've said pieces of this before, but today, I want to say it properly."
"From the moment we joined hands, we've become nakama in the truest sense—bound to rise together, bound to fall together. There's no need for me to list each of your talents; you already know what you bring to the stage."
"About our relationships… I once considered describing us with something more cynical—kindred spirits sharpened by the same broken glass. But now, whether under the stage lights or off them, I hope each of you can trust the person standing at your back without hesitation."
She drew a slow breath, and her eyes came to rest on Kazama Haru.
"'Enjoy the performance'—when I first began piecing this band together, I never dared imagine I could offer such a luxury. But the moment our band manager, Kazama-san, joined us, I found the confidence to make that promise to all of you."
Following the arc of Sakiko's gaze, every set of eyes turned toward Kazama Haru—one faintly smiling, one calm and measuring, one openly curious, one glinting with mischief.
Sensing that Sakiko was passing him the baton for the opening "team-building" beat, Kazama Haru gave a knowing nod and picked up where she left off.
"Just as Saki-chan said—whatever comes next, whether it's coordinating performances and interviews, swapping out gear or debugging troublesome equipment, or even just needing somewhere to vent your frustrations at three in the morning, you can leave it to me without reservation."
"Ehhh~ How dependable, Kazama-san," Nyamu chimed in first, her voice bright and lilting, a lazy grin curling one corner of her mouth as she twirled a strand of her cotton-candy pink hair between two fingers.
"Mm. He does sound like a proper band manager." Yahata Umiri's assessment was quiet, even, delivered with the flat objectivity of someone reading a spec sheet, her dark bob framing an unreadable expression.
Misumi Uika smiled and nodded, her long pale hair spilling down her shoulder as she tilted her head. "With Saki-chan and Kazama-san here, I can already look forward to our performances with a full heart."
Wakaba Mutsumi, quiet as always, said nothing—but the faint dip of her chin beneath the curtain of long, ink-dark hair was answer enough, her violet eyes lifting for the briefest second before dropping again.
A beginning beyond wildest dreams.
Watching the warmth ripple gently between them all, Kazama Haru silently uncorked an imaginary bottle of champagne inside his chest, exchanged a knowing glance with Sakiko, and began outlining the latest songwriting plan.
After ironing out revisions to the script and character concepts with the members, and meticulously polishing the upcoming performance schedule down to the finest detail, Kazama Haru finally stepped out of the building, a pleasant fatigue settling into his shoulders.
Ding.
The notification chime tugged him to a stop.
Is it Renako? Come to think of it, I've been so swamped lately I haven't played games with her in ages. After Ave Mujica's first live, I really should carve out proper time to hang out with her.
With that thought lingering, Kazama Haru fished out his phone—and what stared back at him from the screen was a name he hadn't expected at all.
[Ryuju Momo: Where are you right now? The old man at home is dead set on meeting you. If you don't wanna come, I'll just shut him down for you—say the word.]
Ryuju Momo's father—the head of the Ryuju Group—wanted to see him?
Reading the message twice over, Kazama Haru felt his heartbeat kick into a sudden, drumroll rhythm.
So the intel I passed along has already borne fruit for them? Truly the decisiveness of an old-school yakuza clan—no dragging their feet.
Though he harbored an instinctive wariness toward mingling with yakuza folk, in order to confirm the outcome and ensure he was fully clear of that whole troublesome mess, Kazama Haru hesitated for only a beat before sending his current location to Ryuju Momo, exactly as she'd asked.
Whichever way he sliced it, his actions had helped them settle a long-simmering grudge—and coupled with the fact that Ryuju Momo, that prickly-tongued but soft-cored tsundere, was the young lady of their household, they shouldn't be springing a trap on him.
Roughly ten minutes later, a black Maybach—strikingly similar to the Togawa family's—glided up to the curb outside the café where Kazama Haru had been waiting, easing to a halt at the designated pickup point.
After cross-checking the license plate against the number Ryuju Momo had sent him earlier—his eyesight honed razor-sharp thanks to the [Kendo] skill he'd acquired—Kazama Haru drained the last of his coffee in a single swallow, stepped out of the shop, and approached the car with unhurried strides.
The heavy tinted window, fitted with fully privacy-blocking glass, slid down with a soft mechanical hum, and a broad-shouldered driver in mirrored sunglasses inclined his head.
"Pardon me—are you Kazama Haru-sama?"
After a nod and a smooth slide into the back seat, Kazama Haru found he couldn't quite melt into the plush leather and enjoy the ride the way he'd have liked. A thread of vigilance stayed taut in his chest, and under the driver's occasional glances flicked at him through the rearview mirror, they drove all the way to a deeply secluded traditional Japanese-style estate.
The black sedan rolled slowly beneath the grand covered entryway and eased to a stop.
The moment Kazama Haru stepped out of the car, the scene before him left him momentarily awestruck.
This wasn't a residence—it was a stronghold. Hard to storm, easy to defend.
At the outermost gate, a pair of gilded tigers reared up, fangs bared and eyes blazing, poised as though ready to lunge from their pedestals at any provocation. Within the courtyard, meticulously trained pine trees twisted in gnarled, sculptural shapes, their silhouettes carrying a quiet, coiled ferocity beneath the elegance.
Following the maid—an elegant middle-aged woman in a soft indigo kimono and wooden geta that clacked softly against stone—Kazama Haru passed down a long open corridor. A sprawling koi pond and garden unfolded into view, and several enormous, brilliantly-hued Kohaku koi drifted lazily beneath the water's surface, their scales glinting like scattered coins in the afternoon sun.
At the same time, the security thickened noticeably the deeper he went.
Every few paces stood a broad-built subordinate in a crisp black uniform, mirrored shades over their eyes, hands folded politely behind their backs, radiating the disciplined menace of a private intelligence detail.
Though his face stayed neutral, Kazama Haru's thoughts churned beneath the surface.
No—hold on, is this actually right?
In his mental picture, the Ryuju Group had been roughly the same scale as the Ryujin-kai—a mid-sized outfit. Even a boss who bled his subordinates dry and lived fat off their tributes shouldn't be able to muster this kind of extravagant display, right?
This place looked more like the estate of a senior National Diet member.
Still turning that dissonance over in his mind, Kazama Haru—now changed into a fresh, snugly-tailored kimono at the maid's polite direction—finally crossed the threshold into the main hall where Ryuju Momo's family took their meals.
"Ah, Kazama-kun, you've arrived. Momo-chan has mentioned you rather a lot back home—a fine young man indeed. Welcome!"
As he passed through the entryway and stepped into the great hall, a middle-aged man in a slate-grey kimono, seated at the head of the low banquet table with the reserved calm of a chess master, lifted his gaze and offered a small, courteous nod.
"Who's been mentioning him at home, Dad?! Stop making stuff up!"
Waving a defiant little fist, Ryuju Momo swallowed a mouthful of caviar with a sulky puff of her cheeks.
Beside the seat of honor, a strikingly beautiful woman—her demeanor so poised and softly classical she seemed to have stepped straight out of a Yamato Nadeshiko scroll—shot Ryuju Momo a gentle scolding glance.
"Momo-chan, how can you speak to your father that way in front of a classmate? And didn't I ask you to wait until our guest was seated before you started eating, mou~"
Then she turned to Kazama Haru, her smile blooming warmly, her voice as soft as running water.
"Kazama-kun, please, come in and be seated. Make yourself at home—there's no need to hold back."