By early afternoon, the class performance space was packed.
The café tables were cleared, folding chairs set up for the audience, and the stage — a three-tier riser setup with simple curtain dividers — was wired, lit, and ready.
Class 1-B's live concert was minutes from starting.
Excitement crackled through the air like static. Friends from other classes, teachers, even some curious third-years had shown up, clutching the paper tickets handed out during the morning café rush.
Backstage, tension simmered beneath the surface.
The band tuned instruments. The drummer tapped nervously on the edge of a stool. The guitarist whispered song cues under his breath.
And Shun, the lead vocalist, sat off to the side, hunched over a lukewarm mug of tea.
Riko adjusted a cable near the amp and called over to him. "Yo, how's your voice?"
He raised a thumb but didn't speak.
Saito, standing quietly at the far edge of the backstage area, watched this exchange with the focus of a chess player predicting a loss ten turns ahead.
Shun's hand trembled as he adjusted the mic stand. His mouth opened. He coughed once. Then again—harsher, chestier.
Saito said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The situation had passed the threshold of speculation.
Now it was just time.
"Alright," Riko clapped. "Places, everyone! Let's do this!"
The guitarist hesitated. "Shun—are you sure you're—"
"I can do it," Shun croaked, barely audible.
Saito finally spoke. "You can't."
Everyone froze.
Shun blinked at him. "What?"
"You're not physically capable of singing three full songs. You're already blowing the mic with every check. You're delaying the inevitable."
The words weren't cruel.
Just facts.
Riko looked between them. "Wait… what are you saying?"
Saito turned to the band. "You have the playback tracks ready, yes?"
The drummer nodded slowly. "Yeah, but—"
Saito stepped forward, pulled something from his backpack, and unfolded it.
A simple white half-mask.
No design, no expression. Just anonymity.
"I'll perform in his place."
The room went silent.
"I learned the songs already. I anticipated this."
"You… practiced?"
He nodded once. "Last night. And the night before."
Shun looked at him, eyes wide with both disbelief and something like gratitude.
"But you don't like attention." Mari stated.
"I don't," Saito said plainly, slipping the mask over his face and adjusting the strap behind his head. "That's why I'm wearing this."
Mari stepped in front of him, uncertain. "You really don't have to do this."
"I know."
He looked at her.
His voice was quiet.
"But if you walk out there right now and tell everyone the show's canceled… Riko will blame herself."
She inhaled sharply.
And didn't argue.
The lights dimmed.
Applause rippled through the room.
Curtains parted.
A masked boy in a black uniform walked calmly onto the center of the stage.
Whispers broke out instantly.
"Who is that?"
"That's not Shun, is it?"
"Is this part of the show?"
The band began playing.
Familiar chords. The first song from the café's promo flyer. An original.
Then—
He sang.
It wasn't a dramatic or flashy performance.
Saito didn't dance. He didn't even move much. He stood upright, still, with one hand on the mic stand.
But his voice was clear.
Balanced. Resonant.
He didn't force anything. He didn't chase emotion. He let the rhythm guide him, every note a clean step down a staircase he had memorized perfectly.
By the first chorus, the chatter stopped.
Phones lowered. Heads turned forward.
People just listened.
Backstage, Riko stood frozen at the curtain edge.
She didn't need to see his face.
She recognized the voice instantly.
Even smoothed out, even masked by stage lights, it was him.
It was the same voice from karaoke.
From the school rooftop.
From that quiet, unguarded moment where he hummed a tune without realizing someone was listening.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
The second song kicked up in tempo — a pop-rock track with a layered bridge.
Saito didn't miss a beat.
He kept his posture firm, controlled his breathing, and adjusted for tempo shifts without visibly reacting.
The band, after the initial shock, found their groove again. The drummer played with more confidence. The guitarist even smiled.
By the third track, the crowd had shifted from puzzled to captivated.
They clapped in time. Some even started singing along.
Riko felt something stir in her chest — a mix of admiration and something harder to define.
Pride?
Relief?
Or maybe… something softer.
The final verse faded.
Saito let the silence settle before he bowed once, neatly, and turned off the mic.
Applause exploded behind him.
The band took their bows.
The curtain closed.
Backstage, no one said a word for a moment.
Then Shun stood up, stepped forward, and bowed deeply.
"Thank you," he rasped.
Saito nodded once. "Next time, let someone know earlier."
"Yeah…"
The drummer clapped him on the back. "Dude, that was incredible."
Saito started unfastening the mask.
Before he could finish, Riko approached him.
She didn't speak right away.
Then:
"…Why?"
He looked at her.
No mask. No evasions.
"Because I didn't want you to apologize for something you didn't cause."
She stared at him.
He held her gaze without flinching.
Then added, almost too softly to hear:
"And… because I knew you really wanted this to work."
Her eyes widened.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then looked away quickly.
"Idiot," she muttered.
He raised an eyebrow. "You've said that before."
"Because it keeps being true."
But she was smiling.
A small, warm smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
By the time the sun was dipping low, most students were gone. The classroom was half-cleaned, the banner rolled up, the extra chairs stacked.
Saito sat near the back, flipping through the performance schedule one last time, checking for anything that needed to be signed off.
Riko walked over and dropped her bag beside him.
"You really don't stop working, do you?"
"There are forms that need verifying."
"Can't you verify feelings instead, for once?"
He looked up.
She grinned. "Kidding."
He didn't reply, but he didn't look annoyed either.
After a moment, she gestured toward the school gate.
"Walk with me?"
"…Alright."
The streets were quiet.
Late-day shadows stretched across the sidewalks as they passed shuttered booths and closed stalls. The smell of fried noodles still lingered faintly in the air.
They didn't talk at first.
Then Riko said, without turning her head:
"You know I recognized your voice, right?"
"I suspected."
"Unavoidable."
She smiled.
Then looked down at her shoes as she walked.
"You're the only person I know who'd go to ridiculous lengths to help someone and still pretend you didn't do anything special."
He didn't reply right away.
Then:
"I just did what was necessary."
She shook her head. "No. You went beyond that."
They walked a little longer.
Then, as they neared the train station, she bumped her shoulder gently against his.
"I had fun, Kagami."
"…Even though I replaced your vocalist with zero notice?"
"Especially because of that."
She looked up at him, serious now.
"Thank you. For everything."
Saito met her eyes.
For the first time, he didn't say anything logical.
He just nodded.
They rode the train home, standing side by side, watching the scenery blur past.
The silence between them was comfortable now.
Full.
Alive.
Not everything needed to be spoken.
But one thought flickered in both their minds as the city lights rolled by.
Something was changing.
Something had already changed.