Elliot had one rule for surviving high school in Japan: keep your head down and stay out of anything weird.
That rule had lasted exactly six days.
It was now Friday night, and he was standing outside a decaying, concrete building near the edge of the city, staring at a rusted stairwell that descended into what looked like a murder basement.
Ami stood beside him, sipping canned coffee and checking her reflection in a compact mirror.
"You sure this is the right place?" he asked, eyeing the flickering overhead sign that read "CREAM STUDIO" in peeling English letters.
She popped the mirror shut. "Yep. Best acoustics in Yokohama, worst hygiene."
Elliot adjusted the strap of the duffel bag she'd made him carry — apparently it was full of wigs, backup costumes, and glitter-covered sneakers.
"Smells like mold."
"That's ambition you're smelling."
"No, that's mold."
She grinned and grabbed his wrist. "Come on, manager. Time to earn your nonexistent paycheck."
They descended the stairs.
⸻
The underground venue was half-basement, half-sauna.
Concrete walls. No windows. Too many people. Too many lights. The air smelled like sweat, sugar, and stale vending machine drinks. Fans were already gathered in front of a makeshift stage — mostly college-aged guys clutching glowsticks and towels with idol names printed in glittery kanji.
Elliot had never seen anything like it.
Ami handed him the bag and wove through the crowd like she'd been doing it all her life. He followed, head down, hoping no one noticed he didn't belong. Every person they passed seemed to have dyed hair, piercings, or both.
He caught snippets of conversations:
"That girl from last time's back tonight."
"Heard she's solo now. Ballsy move."
"Think she's the one with the foreign manager?"
"What, that guy? He looks like he'd cry if you touched him."
Elliot pulled his hoodie tighter.
They ducked behind a curtain and entered the green room — which was really just a storage closet with a cracked mirror, a fan, and too many wires.
Ami exhaled and dropped into a folding chair.
"Mic check's in twenty. Help me unpack."
He knelt beside the duffel bag, pulling out tangled cords and props. "Is this legal?"
"Technically?" she said, stretching her arms. "No. But no one's died yet, so the cops turn a blind eye."
"Comforting."
"I knew you'd love it."
⸻
Other performers wandered in and out — girls in frilly skirts, crop tops, and twin tails. Some eyed Ami with curiosity. Others, with barely concealed disdain.
One girl in particular paused in the doorway. Tall. Platinum hair. Cold eyes. Her glitter eyeliner looked like it had been applied with a scalpel.
"Nana," Ami said coolly.
"Yuzuki," the girl replied, eyes drifting to Elliot. "Brought your dog tonight?"
Ami smiled. "He bites."
Elliot, mouth full of duct tape, gave a thumbs up.
Nana turned to leave, but not before adding, "Don't trip out there. Solo acts fall harder."
The door clicked shut behind her.
"Charming," Elliot muttered.
Ami rolled her eyes. "She's bitter. I used to be in her group."
"You were in a group?"
"Until I got tired of fake friendships and tighter skirts. Now I'm solo." She stood and grabbed her mic. "Solo means you win alone. Or fail alone."
He watched her test the mic levels with practiced precision. The way she moved — sharp, exact, like muscle memory had replaced nerves. But he caught something in her eyes. Not fear, exactly. More like weight.
Pressure.
"You okay?" he asked.
She didn't look at him. Just said, "Don't let me slip."
⸻
Minutes later, she was up next.
He stood backstage, still holding the mic bag like a lost tourist. Then chaos.
Ami's wireless mic sparked. The tech guy swore. The speakers hissed.
"Signal's dead!" someone yelled.
Ami's face blanched.
She stood frozen in the wings, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her headset. Her breathing had changed. Faster. Shallow.
"We've got nothing," the tech snapped. "You'll have to drop the set."
"No," she whispered.
Elliot didn't think. He dropped the bag, found a backup wired mic from earlier, yanked it out of the drawer, and sprinted across the room.
He reached her, handed her the mic, and muttered, "Hold it like this. Don't move too far from center stage."
She stared at him.
Then smiled — not her usual smug grin, but something smaller. Realer.
"Thanks," she said, and walked into the light.
⸻
He watched from the side as the crowd erupted the second she hit the stage. Her voice filled the room — clean, powerful, alive. She danced like she had something to prove, like every step mattered, like this was her world and everyone else was lucky to visit.
And maybe, Elliot thought, she was right.
By the time she finished, she was drenched in sweat, hair stuck to her face, breath heavy.
The crowd roared.
She bowed once, then twice, then disappeared behind the curtain like a ghost evaporating into smoke.
⸻
Backstage was chaos again — everyone yelling, lights flashing, music bleeding through the walls.
Ami collapsed onto a chair and chugged water. Elliot handed her a towel without a word.
She looked at him and said, between gulps, "You did good tonight, manager."
He shrugged. "Still not getting paid."
She laughed. "Maybe not in cash. But in memories? Priceless."
He sat beside her.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"You saw me at my worst," she said. "And you didn't leave."
He didn't say anything.
Then: "I'll leave when you stop being interesting."
She looked over. "So never, then?"
"Don't push it."
⸻
Outside, the night air was thick and buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
They walked the first few blocks in silence. Then Ami broke it.
"I've got another gig in two weeks. Bigger stage. Real scouts. No falling allowed."
Elliot kicked a stone into the gutter. "Sounds awful."
"You're coming."
He didn't argue.
When they reached her stop, she turned and said, "You're better at this than you think."
Then she was gone.
⸻
That night, Elliot lay on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
📲 Ami: "Next gig: 2 weeks. Don't ditch. You're stuck with me now."
📲 Ami: "Also, thanks. For not laughing."
He stared at the screen. Then slowly typed:
Elliot: "Whatever."
He didn't hit send.
Not yet.