The stage is swallowed in darkness, nothing visible except a single pale backlight outlining the slender figure standing at its center.

  She begins to move.

  One arm lifts, slow and deliberate, and the rest of her body follows as she flows into her opening pose—arms curving in a wide arc, one leg raised high, crossing elegantly over the other. Her silhouette carves a perfect line through the dark.

  The music begins: a soft, calming melody carried by elegant violin strings, accented with thoughtful, lingering piano notes.

  A single spark ignites the dark

  So small yet bright to guide the mark

  Her voice rings through the stadium. Soft, yet powerful. Regal in a way that feels unearned by any mortal girl—too poised, too flawless. Like she was crafted to be worshipped.

  Let shadows rise I'll still stand so tall

  A promise sworn to save us all

  Her movements bloom with the rising music. Graceful. Effortless. Every gesture balanced with precision that borders on unnatural.

  Fog spills across the stage as the lights brighten, dissolving the world into a seamless white void. And at the center of that endless expanse—

  Clara.

  Golden hair. A red-and-white Lolita dress trimmed in ornate gold. Augments shaped like porcelain doll limbs—slender segments meeting at delicate spherical joints, their white shells painted with curling rose-petal gold. They match her pale skin so perfectly it’s hard to tell where the girl ends and the sculpture begins.

  Hear thunder roar across the sky

  See storm winds tear the dawn apart

  Clara slowly opens her eyes as the music swells. They shine like polished sapphires—far too bright against the void behind her.

  Still I will sing both loud and high

  And hold the line with steadfast heart

  Her dance ends just as the camera pulls behind her—revealing the Eidolon standing in front of her.

  A Ravenous Beast.

  Muscular and heavy like a tailless jaguar, plated spines pushing out from its back, claws like metal scythes, and a massive jaw lined with serrated saber-teeth.

  Let starfall come I'll face the night

  Though cold may creep I'll keep this flame

  But that isn’t the only one.

  Another Ravenous Beast rises behind her, and two more emerge at her sides—four total, each one several times her size. They stalk around her in a slow circle, their metal limbs clicking against the void-like floor as they move, closing in like wolves savoring the hunt.

  But Clara does not so much as flinch. Her eyes lock onto them with serene determination.

  She raises one hand—and a wand materializes in her grip. A pure white rapier-shaped scepter, wrapped from tip to hilt in golden vines and thorn motifs, ending in a rose-shaped pommel.

  If strength you find within my light

  Then rise with me and shout my name

  Her stance shifts instantly.

  Arms open, wand angled low, legs poised to burst in any direction. An open, almost inviting pose—graceful but undeniably lethal.

  In that moment, the ballerina disappears, and a duelist takes her place.

  A smirk pulls at the corner of her lips.

  For hope returns when hearts unite

  When souls believe we’ll break the chain

  One of the Ravenous Beasts lunges first, claws slicing through the air—but Clara spins aside, slipping past its strike like she’s dancing through the choreography she was born for.

  Another charges, jaws snapping shut where her body was a heartbeat before. She leaps over it, planting a light kick against the back of its head as she twirls upside down through the air.

  She lands already in motion, pivoting just in time to avoid the third beast’s sweeping strike.

  Then she drops low, flowing into a seamless back walkover that carries her beneath the next attack—graceful, controlled, effortless.

  The fourth Eidolon skids to a halt as Clara aims her wand at it.

  For a moment, it almost looks afraid.

  Each victory writes upon my skin

  Each glory stains the bones within

  Clara lifts her wand and traces careful arcs through the air. Rose-petal glyphs bloom from its tip, spiraling around her in delicate rings—like magical circles waiting to be commanded.

  When darkness falls we heroes rise

  Though standing lone I’ll light the skies

  She flicks her wrist, and the glyphs crackle.

  The targeted Eidolon reacts instantly—swiping not at Clara, but sideways, tearing its claws into another beast’s chassis.

  The remaining three glitch in confusion, sensors flaring red.

  Clara only smiles.

  She guides her puppet forward, forcing it to clamp its jaws onto another’s armor plating. The other beasts thrash and retaliate, metal screeching against metal as they turn on one another.

  If light grows dim then hold it tight

  For lanterns glow through black despair

  Clara moves her wand like a conductor’s baton. Every sway, every turn of her wrist sends her controlled Eidolon charging, grappling, striking.

  Under her lead, it tears through its companions—until its own frame finally gives out and collapses into the fog.

  The survivors stagger weakened and exposed.

  Clara steps back, sliding her wand behind her as a blade of energy gathers at its tip—a brilliant golden glow blooming like the sun.

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  Let starfall come I’ll stand, I’ll fight

  Though shadows call I’ll still shine bright

  She bursts forward, flipping into a cartwheel, then a rising spin—momentum building as she launches herself upward in a spiraling arc. The beasts leap to intercept—

  But Clara swings.

  A wide, arcing beam erupts from her wand, slicing through all of them in a single radiant stroke.

  If courage stirs within your might

  Then rise with me through endless night

  Clara bursts past the collapsing Eidolons, landing in a perfect arc as they erupt behind her in a plume of white fog.

  She spreads her arms with effortless grace, not a single breath out of place—smiling as if the entire battle had been nothing more than a warm-up.

  For dawn returns with morning light

  When faith is strong we’ll win this fight

  The music softens. Clara lowers into a bow—

  But her hand jerks back.

  Her body snaps upright.

  Her limbs lock into position before melting into motion once more—too smooth, too precise, too perfect to be human. Her dance restarts without warning, her movements flowing with uncanny beauty and programmable grace.

  As if she were a doll being tugged along invisible strings.

  The white void begins to dim. The fog thins, unveiling the real stage beneath her feet. The audience watches in awe, unaware of the wrongness threaded through every gesture.

  But behind her confident composure, her eyes are empty—hollow. The warm smile she carried through the fight is gone, replaced with something lifeless.

  Something performed.

  Let starfall come I’ll never break

  Through darkest night your light I’ll raise

  She sings again, her voice still angelic—still flawless—but now wrapped in the faintest tremble, a subtle strain woven between the notes.

  It sounds like a plea begging not to be heard.

  If hope still burns then stay awake

  And rise with me to see the day

  The lights dim until only a single spotlight remains, bathing Clara in a lonely cone of gold. She stands atop a floating pedestal, rising slowly as the void darkens around her.

  For every star must fade away

  But dawn will rise and light our way

  Her voice fades first.

  Then the orchestra falls silent, leaving a thin, fragile instrumental drifting through the stillness.

  The pedestal descends and the spotlight blinks out.

  And Clara disappears into the dark as if the stage itself were swallowing her whole.

  For a long, breathless moment, there is nothing.

  Then the monitors cut to black, and applause erupts through the stadium—loud, thunderous, oblivious.

  The lights of the under-stage chamber return, and Clara descends gracefully on her levitating platform.

  “Oh my goodness—Clara!”

  Someone screams, and the entire class surges forward at once.

  Kanna bolts ahead faster than anyone, then slows down at the last second—trying to look calm as the platform touches down.

  Clara blinks in surprise at the ring of first-years crowding around her.

  She laughs softly, gathers her skirt between her fingers, and dips into a perfect curtsy. “Good evening, everyone. I hope you all enjoyed my performance.”

  The class explodes into excited squeals, bodies pressing in as everyone tries to shake her hand or snap a picture.

  I don’t move.

  I just stand here, staring.

  Tama bumps me with her shoulder. “Not gonna say hi?”

  I shake my head slowly. “N-no… I’m not really a big fan of hers,” I mumble, knowing full well it sounds fake.

  “Yeah right!” Tama laughs. “You’re so starstruck you’re already tearing up just being near her!”

  “Huh—?”

  I touch my cheek and it’s wet.

  A single tear clings to my fingertip, and my chest tightens.

  Did her performance hit me that hard?

  It didn’t feel the same as her old ones. Something about it sits wrong inside me—like a quiet, creeping unease.

  “You like her~ just admit it!” Tama sings, poking my shoulder like she’s trying to shake a confession out of me.

  Maybe… maybe it’s just an off day. I’m probably overthinking things.

  “Okay, fine!” I snap, batting her hands away. “I… am a fan of her singing. I just don’t like how she relies on Overdrive when she fights. It feels like cheating.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard!” Tama grabs my hand and drags me toward the crowd. “And it’s not like you’ll have to worry about her fighting anymore—she’s retired!”

  That’s right… Clara retired last year. Halfway through her third year—right after she hit that 98% Sync record.

  I look toward the front of the group. Clara’s laughing gently at something one of the girls says, greeting each classmate with that warm, sunny smile she’s famous for. Even standing in the center of a swarm, she makes the whole room feel brighter.

  We inch closer until Tama reaches her turn. She and Clara pose for a cute picture, Tama grinning hard enough to break her face. Then she steps aside—

  And suddenly Clara is looking down at me.

  She’s not much taller, and nowhere near as tall as Reina, but something about her presence wraps around me—soft and familiar. Like the way my mom used to look at me when I was little.

  “Hello there,” she whispers. “Would you like to take a picture as well?”

  But… I see it again. That look in her eye.

  So subtle I almost miss it. But the light behind her eyes—it isn’t there.

  Flawless—but plastic.

  A chill crawls down my spine.

  I take a step back. “N-no thank you,” I stutter, barely above a whisper.

  Her eyes widen—not offended, just surprised—and the girls around us immediately start scolding me.

  “Rika, what are you doing?!”

  “You’re being rude!”

  “This is your one chance!”

  “Just take the picture!”

  But the moment my words sink in, something changes.

  Her smile softens. Warmth flickers behind her eyes—real, fragile, human.

  Like it’s the first genuine expression she’s worn all night.

  She extends her hand toward me. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “I understand if you’re a little nervous.”

  Her voice is so gentle, so comforting, I feel myself leaning in despite the unease twisting in my stomach. I reach out to take her hand.

  But just before our fingers touch—

  “What’s going on here?!”

  A sharp voice cuts through the room.

  A tall woman storms toward us from across the chamber. Black hair, sharp brown eyes, a dark gray blazer and tube skirt hugging her frame—all authority and irritation in high heels.

  I flinch and jerk my hand back before she reaches the crowd.

  She shoots a glare past the students directly at our professor. “I already told you, Yoko—Clara is too busy to be doing meet-and-greets.”

  “This isn’t a meet-and-greet—it’s a lesson,” Hisame snaps, folding her arms. “And a very important one that I intend on teaching my students today.”

  My gaze flicks between the two of them—right before Clara straightens her posture and steps between them.

  “I will not let you turn my idol into some kind of example for your students!” the woman snarls. “If you need a veteran idol so badly, why not use that washed-up has-been you’ve already picked as your pet?!”

  “Ahem…” Clara gently tugs on her sleeve. “Handler, I don’t mind assisting Mrs. Hisame with her lesson today.”

  The Handler looks down at Clara, frustration tightening her brow. “I understand that, but you need time for rest!”

  The way she emphasized rest…

  Is Clara sick? She doesn’t look sick.

  Clara holds her ground, posture steady and polite. “I assure you I will be fine.”

  The Handler stiffens and Clara doesn’t budge.

  They stare each other down—silent, intense—like they’re waiting to see who breaks first.

  The tension thickens just before—

  “Ugh, fine!” the Handler snaps. “But at least have a seat while you help with this lesson.”

  Clara dips her head. “As you wish, Handler.”

  Hisame smirks and gestures for us to follow as Clara walks toward the edge of the chamber.

  …What is going on?

  There’s definitely something between the three of them—something I don’t understand. But it’s not like they’d tell me even if I asked.

  So I just follow after them, confused and uneasy.

  The class trails after them into a large dressing room.

  It isn’t like the pop-up tents the other performers used. This one is built directly into the under-stage area—clearly designed just for Clara.

  Her posters line the walls in glossy frames. Several clothing racks stuffed with dresses and costumes stand in neat rows. And at the back of the room sits a small, raised platform, half-encircled by tall mirrors glowing under soft vanity lights.

  The Handler snaps her fingers.

  Immediately, two men hurry inside carrying an ornate white-and-gold chair. They place it at the center of the mirrored stage.

  Clara sits with practiced elegance, hands resting perfectly along the chair’s arms, one leg crossing over the other with effortless poise.

  Hisame claps her hands sharply. We snap into formation, squeezing ourselves into place in front of Clara.

  “Alright, everyone,” the professor says. “This morning’s lesson was Augment Compatibility. Tonight, we’ll be discussing Sync Rate.”

  Hisame paces slowly before us, her heels clicking against the floor.

  “And what better way to teach it than with the Idol who set the highest Sync Rate in Arcadian history?”

  The corner of Clara’s lips twitches—just barely. And just as quickly, it’s gone.

  “You’re not going to go through the entire lesson, are you—Yoko?” the Handler snaps.

  Hisame chuckles. “Relax. I already covered the basics in class. I only need Clara to answer a few questions.”

  The Handler shoots Clara a worried look. Clara meets her gaze but doesn’t move. Her arms and legs remain perfectly still—too still. The only sign she’s alive is the slow rise and fall of her chest, each breath measured, controlled… almost practiced.

  Then, she nods.

  The Handler sighs. “Fine. Go ahead…”

  Hisame turns to Clara with a measured smirk. “Alright. Something simple. What was the highest Sync Rate you ever reached, Clara?”

  Clara inhales softly. “I reached a peak Sync Rate of ninety-eight percent. It was something I worked very hard for.”

  “A wonderful achievement indeed,” Hisame says. “But you were in Overdrive when you hit that peak, correct?”

  Clara hesitates—just a fraction, but I see it.

  Then she forces herself to answer.

  “That is correct. Overdrive is a technique that allows Idols to push past their natural limits. It makes our bodies stronger, our minds sharper, and our weapons more powerful.”

  The class murmurs in excitement, whispering about how incredible that sounds.

  Everyone reacts to her words. But I react to her voice.

  It trembled.

  Just for a second—but I heard it.

  There’s something more to this lesson than Hisame is saying. I can feel it.

  Hisame’s eyes sharpen. “And were you aware of the drawbacks Overdrive has on the body?”

  The Handler steps forward immediately. “Alright, that’s eno—”

  But Clara lifts her hand. “It’s alright…”

  The Handler freezes. “C–Clara…”

  “Yes.” Clara settles her hand back onto the armrest, though her fingers tap against the wood—slow, rhythmic, trembling. “I was aware of the risks. Overdrive is a dangerous technique—one I did not use sparingly. But thanks to my high S-Rank AC, I was able to use it safely for longer periods of time.”

  “Alright then.” Hisame pauses, letting Clara’s words hang heavy in the air.

  The air turns cold. No one reacts, but I feel it—the shift in the Handler’s stare. A tightening mix of anger… and fear.

  I swallow hard, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

  “How did your body react after reaching your peak?”

  Clara goes completely still.

  The Handler’s glare sharpens, but she doesn’t speak.

  Around us, the rest of the class just looks back and forth, confused and uneasy.

  Clara sits completely still, her entire body frozen—except for her hand. Her fingers jitter against the armrest, tapping faster and faster. The sound grows sharper—louder.

  The Handler steps forward in a panic then—

  Clunk.

  Clara’s hand drops limp.

  The Handler’s face drains, horror flashing across her features.

  “EVERYONE OUT!”

  Guards burst in instantly, rushing the room. They shove us toward the exit without hesitation, some of us getting lifted clean off our feet.

  The others panic and stumble, but I twist around just long enough to see the Handler drop to Clara’s side, carefully lifting her limp hand with shaking fingers—

  And then the door slams shut behind me.

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