Nagi Seishiro woke early. Not because of nerves, but because his body refused to sleep any longer.
The futon was stiff, the air humid. A wall-mounted AC rattled overhead, barely functioning. The apartment looked lived-in, stocked with the essentials—groceries, furniture, toothbrush—but none of it had been bought by him. It felt like a borrowed life.
Today was the audition.
He hadn't trained. He hadn't rehearsed. But his body remembered things his current mind couldn't explain—breath control, facial micro-expressions, stage positioning. When he brushed his teeth, he caught his reflection and smiled. It was polished. Calculated.
He wasn't nervous.
He was curious.
Strawberry Productions looked smaller than he expected. A sleek black building tucked between boutiques and cafes in Aoyama, with no signage screaming "idol factory"—just a metal plaque near the door and a security intercom.
Nagi pressed the buzzer.
"Name?" a voice asked.
"Nagi Seishiro. I have a 10 a.m. audition."
A pause. Then the lock clicked.
Inside, it was quiet. No dancers rehearsing. No chatter. Just the faint hum of printers and a staff member handing him a sticker with his number: #24.
He sat in the waiting room beside other hopefuls—some clearly trained, others whispering lyrics and adjusting outfits. One girl glanced at him, curious. He didn't react.
Time passed.
Finally, a man stepped out from the hallway. Slicked-back hair, sharp black suit. Narrow eyes. He scanned the room once and said:
"#24, come with me."
Nagi stood. Followed.
Audition Room 3 was small. A hardwood floor, white walls, no windows. A single camera mounted to the wall, and a chair where a man now sat—arms folded, gaze unreadable.
Ichigo Saitou.
Nagi had seen his name in the management portal. No photo. Just the title: Talent Director – Special Projects.
Ichigo didn't speak immediately. He glanced at a tablet, then at Nagi.
"You're not affiliated with any agency?" he asked.
"No."
"Training?"
"None."
"Experience?"
Nagi considered lying. But didn't.
"I've never performed before."
Ichigo gave a small nod, then tapped the screen. Music filled the room—a simple pop instrumental. It had no lyrics, but a clear structure: intro, verse, chorus, bridge.
"You'll freestyle," Ichigo said. "One verse. One chorus."
"To what?"
"Make it up."
Nagi blinked. "You're not testing my singing."
"I'm testing your instincts."
He understood then. This wasn't about ability. It was about potential. How he handled pressure. Creativity. Authenticity.
"Ready when you are," Ichigo added.
Nagi stepped forward.
No mic. No backing vocals. Just him and the beat.
He closed his eyes—and the words came.
Not polished. Not poetic. But real. The verse was light, detached, almost lazy in tone. But something about the delivery felt deliberate. A kind of stylized nonchalance that pulled the room tighter. Then the chorus hit.
His voice rose—not dramatically, but with intent. He didn't over-sing. He didn't push emotion. But it was there, tucked behind the rhythm like a shadow.
Ichigo watched him closely.
When Nagi finished, he stepped back. The music faded.
Ichigo didn't clap.
He didn't smile.
He tapped his tablet and spoke.
"You have control. Natural pacing. Your tone isn't trained but… there's character."
Nagi shrugged. "Thanks?"
Ichigo raised an eyebrow. "You're not surprised?"
"I kinda knew."
"That confidence," Ichigo said. "Is it arrogance?"
"No. Just facts."
A long pause.
Then Ichigo leaned forward slightly.
"You don't want to be an idol, do you?"
Nagi thought about it. The rehearsals, the interviews, the fans. It didn't excite him. But something about the performance space—a camera, a spotlight, attention—it clicked.
"I don't want to be," he said. "But I'm good at pretending I do."
Ichigo studied him.
"That's dangerous."
"I know."
Another pause. Then Ichigo stood.
"I'm passing you through to second-stage evaluations. Tomorrow, same time."
Nagi blinked. "That's it?"
Ichigo turned toward the door. "You'll get details tonight. Don't try to impress anyone else. Just show up."
As he left, Nagi called out:
"Why are you taking a chance on me?"
Ichigo paused at the doorway, then looked over his shoulder.
"Because you reminded me of someone who could lie better than anyone—but only ever told the truth on stage."