Elliot Graves hated airports.
Not in the dramatic, cinematic way people claimed to hate things — like taxes or Mondays or spiders. No. He hated them because airports reminded him that every decision in his life was never really his. One moment you're in a small, rainy, cigarette-smelling flat in North London, sitting cross-legged on your bed with music humming through headphones, and the next, you're on a plane being served cold noodles by a woman who doesn't understand a word you're saying.
His mother had called it "a fresh start."
Elliot called it what it was: exile.
They'd lived in London his whole life. Not the shiny tourist parts with phone boxes and theatres and posh accents, but the greyer corners. The overlooked high streets. The corner shops that sold out-of-date crisps and instant ramen. He missed the grime of it. The noise. The casual way people swore when they passed you on the street. He missed the crooked bricks on their housing estate, the off-brand cereal, and even the constant sirens.
He didn't speak for most of the flight. His mother had tried, of course — said things like, "Just give it a chance," and "You'll see, Elliot. Japan is beautiful." And maybe it was. But when you're sixteen, ripped away from everything and dropped into a world where even the air feels different, beauty doesn't mean much.
They landed a week ago. His mother had grown up in Japan, but Elliot barely knew more than whatever he'd picked up from half-watching Studio Ghibli films and reading translations of vending machine labels. His Japanese was broken at best — clunky and textbook-flavoured, like he was reading from a script he didn't believe in.
Today was his first day at Sakuramine High School.
And Elliot Graves didn't want to be there.
His uniform felt stiff and wrong. The shirt clung to him with the morning humidity, the tie was too short, and the blazer made his shoulders itch. He kept tugging at the collar like it might strangle him.
Outside, cicadas screamed in the trees, loud and shrill like sirens echoing across the sky.
He already had a headache.
His mother walked beside him, calm and chipper in her pressed workwear, pointing things out as they neared the school. "That's the library. You'll like it. They have an entire Western Literature section. Maybe even some Shakespeare."
"Yeah. Great. Can't wait," he muttered.
"You'll be fine," she said, pausing to smooth down his hair. "Just be polite. Be open-minded. Try to smile."
"I don't smile," he said, deadpan.
"You used to."
He looked away.
At the front gate stood a line of students, chatting, laughing, bowing. Everything about them felt loud — not in volume, necessarily, but in spirit. Their energy clashed with his. His presence felt like ink dropped into a glass of milk: thick, inky, and unwelcome.
His mother gave his back a gentle push. "Go on."
So he did.
The school office gave him a schedule and a map. A young teacher with glasses and a too-bright smile led him to his new homeroom. "Don't worry," the man said in English, clearly trying to put Elliot at ease. "Japanese students love foreigners."
"Good for them," Elliot said under his breath.
They stopped at a sliding door. Inside, the buzz of conversation was almost overwhelming. The teacher opened it with a practiced slam.
"Everyone! This is Elliot Graves-san. He's come all the way from England. Please make him feel welcome."
All eyes turned to him.
He felt his chest tighten. Not from fear, exactly — more like resentment. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want to be "the foreigner." He just wanted to sit down, survive the day, and disappear.
He gave a short bow. "Uh… hi. I'm Elliot."
The teacher gestured for him to introduce himself in Japanese. Elliot hesitated, then rattled off something close to: "Watashi wa… Eriot desu. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu."
It wasn't terrible. But it wasn't good either. He heard a few giggles.
"Cute accent," someone whispered.
A girl with bright brown eyes, seated near the front, gasped so loudly it startled him. She stood up with both hands on her desk like a cartoon character, eyes sparkling. "Elliot-kun?!"
He blinked. "…What?"
"You're from London? I love London! Do you drink tea every day? Have you seen the Queen? Wait, oh my gosh, you sound like a movie—"
The teacher laughed nervously. "Hanabira-san, please sit down."
She did — but her eyes never left Elliot. He felt like prey.
The teacher pointed him to an empty desk. "You'll be sitting next to Hanabira Mizuki. She'll help you adjust."
Great.
Mizuki leaned in the moment he sat down. "Hi! Do you prefer Eli? Or Elliot? Or El? Ooh, can I call you Ellie?!"
"No."
"But—"
"No."
She pouted but didn't stop smiling. "You're so grumpy. That's okay. I'll crack you open eventually."
He stared at his desk, willing the earth to swallow him.
Classes began. Everything was too fast, too foreign. The blackboard had kanji he couldn't read. Students answered questions with a speed and rhythm he couldn't follow. When the teacher called on him, he pretended to fumble through his notes until they gave up and moved on.
By lunch, he wanted to run.
Instead, he found a quiet corner of the schoolyard and unwrapped the small, neatly packed bento his mum had made. He'd barely taken a bite before someone dropped down beside him.
"Why are you hiding?" Mizuki asked, already chewing on a rice ball.
"I'm not."
"You are. Your aura is all… broody." She waved her fingers around dramatically. "Like a gloomy cloud."
He ignored her.
"You're not used to this yet, huh?" she said, a bit softer.
He glanced at her. She looked different in that moment — not just energetic, but present. And oddly sincere.
"It's not about 'getting used to it,'" he muttered. "I didn't want this. I liked where I was. Now I'm here, and everything's loud and strange and too… happy."
Mizuki nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "Yeah. It's like being dropped into someone else's dream."
That surprised him.
He didn't reply. But he didn't move away either.
After lunch came gym class. The heat was unbearable. Elliot forgot to bring a change of clothes, so they made him wear a spare uniform that was slightly too small. Halfway through warm-ups, he tripped over his own shoelace and face-planted in front of the whole class.
Someone snorted.
Reika Okabe, a girl with bleached-blonde hair and a bandage on her cheek, walked past him with her hands in her pockets. "Foreigners fall harder," she muttered.
He glared at her. "Maybe if the shoes weren't made of paper—"
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing."
She smirked and kept walking.
By the end of the day, he was sore, sunburned, and emotionally spent. He thought about just going home, curling into bed, and pretending none of it had happened.
But something stopped him.
Curiosity, maybe. Or stupidity.
He found himself wandering past the gym on the way out. The sun was setting, painting the hallways in burnt orange. The gym door was slightly ajar. From inside came the faint thump of music — pop, rhythmic, distant.
He peeked in.
On the polished floor stood a girl, dancing alone. Not just dancing — performing. Every move precise. Every spin filled with meaning. She didn't see him at first.
But when she did, she froze.
They stared at each other for a long second.
Then she marched toward him, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him inside.
"You saw me," she whispered. Her voice was sweet but sharp. "That's a problem."
He blinked. "I was just leaving—"
"Nope. Not anymore." She smiled, teeth perfect. "Congratulations. You're my manager now."
"…what?"
"Start tomorrow. Meet me after school."
And then she walked away, humming to herself.
Elliot stood there, stunned.
He rubbed his face, sighed, and said what he'd been thinking all day.
"I hate this country."
The gym lights flicked off behind him as he stood in the fading amber light of the hallway, motionless. His bag hung limply off one shoulder. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his temple, but it wasn't from the heat.
"Manager," he repeated, voice flat.
The word felt absurd coming out of his mouth. Like something from a life that didn't belong to him — and maybe, in a way, that was exactly what this was. Some twisted version of someone else's life that he'd been dragged into without consent.
He slung his bag fully onto his shoulder and walked home with a sour taste in his mouth.
⸻
Dinner was quiet. His mother made curry. She asked how his first day went.
He said, "Fine."
She smiled and said, "That's good," and left it at that.
But when he lay in bed later, staring up at the cracked ceiling of their tiny rented apartment, he replayed the moment in the gym. The way she danced. The way her expression snapped from serene to ice cold the moment she saw him. That fake-sweet tone in her voice when she told him he was hired. The sheer audacity.
Who was she?
He hadn't caught her name.
He remembered her red-tipped hair and the way she carried herself — not like a student, but like someone used to stage lights. Used to being watched.
Elliot turned over and pressed his face into the pillow.
"I'm not doing it," he mumbled into the cotton.
He absolutely was.
⸻
The next morning was worse. Mizuki met him at the school gate, bouncing on her toes like she'd been waiting since sunrise.
"Elliot-kun! I made you onigiri!" she beamed, holding out a plastic container.
He stared at it.
"Do you do this for all the transfer students?" he asked.
"Nope. Just you. You're special."
"Why."
"Because you look like a sad stray cat someone needs to feed."
He didn't respond, but he took the container.
They sat under a cherry tree in the courtyard before homeroom. The rice was warm. The filling was tuna. It wasn't bad. Mizuki leaned her chin on her hands and watched him eat like she was conducting a scientific study.
"You always scowl like that?" she asked.
"I'm not scowling."
"You are."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated. Then said, "How to disappear without being noticed."
She laughed. He wasn't joking.
⸻
Classes blurred together. Japanese History was impossible. Math was surprisingly tolerable. In English class, the teacher asked him to read aloud again and half the class swooned.
Souta Aizawa, the class president, came up to him after the bell rang.
"You know, the girls say your voice is like a BBC audiobook," he said with a grin.
Elliot stared. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you've got fans, Graves-kun."
"I don't want them."
"Well, too bad. You're a protagonist now." Souta winked and walked off.
He didn't know what that meant either.
⸻
After school, he considered walking straight home. He stood by the shoe lockers for a long time, holding one of his loafers and staring at nothing. But some part of him — the same part that had been awake most of the night thinking about it — knew he was going to that gym again.
He slipped on his shoes, sighed through his nose, and made his way back to the empty corridor.
The gym was unlocked again. That should've been a red flag. He pushed the door open with one hand and immediately ducked as a rolled-up poster board flew at his face.
"Whoa!"
The same girl stood at the center of the court, arms crossed, wearing gym clothes and a baseball cap pulled low over her brow. She looked him up and down like she was measuring a dress form.
"You're late," she said.
"It's not even been twenty-four hours."
"Every second counts. You're my manager now. That means scheduling, secrecy, moral support, and—most importantly—keeping your mouth shut."
Elliot opened his mouth. She raised a finger.
"Don't even start. You saw something you weren't supposed to. You exist in a part of my life that should be private. That makes you a liability."
"And you think putting me in your… idol mafia is a solution?"
"Yes."
He stared. She didn't blink.
"I don't even know your name."
"Ami Yuzuki."
He frowned. "Wait. That's—"
He squinted. "You're in my class."
She grinned. "Exactly. And no one suspects a thing."
Then she turned, hit play on a portable speaker, and launched into a full routine — twirls, kicks, choreography he'd only ever seen in music videos.
Elliot watched, half-impressed, half-disturbed.
When the music stopped, Ami wiped sweat from her brow and looked at him.
"Well?" she asked.
"I have no idea what just happened," he said.
"Perfect. That means you're ready."
"For what?"
"For the show. The audition's in two weeks. I'm going in as a solo act."
"You're in high school. Shouldn't you be doing… homework or something?"
She shrugged. "Idols don't wait for diplomas. They wait for no one. And if I don't make it into the next round, I'll be stuck here. Forever. With them."
She didn't have to say who them was. He got it.
She picked up a sweat towel and threw it over her shoulders.
"So. Can I count on you, Elliot Graves? Or do I have to leak that embarrassing poem I found in your notebook?"
His jaw tightened.
"You went through my bag?"
"I was curious. You wrote about drowning in moonlight. It was quite tragic."
"That was private—"
She held up her phone. "Manager?"
He glared.
Then finally, flatly: "Fine."
Ami beamed. "Wonderful. Rehearsal tomorrow. Same time. Wear shoes you can run in."
He turned to leave, muttering, "I hate this country," for the second day in a row.
As the gym door shut behind him, he heard her whisper with a chuckle, just loud enough for him to catch:
"You're going to thank me for this someday."
He doubted it.
But a small, cursed part of him…
was starting to think she might be right.