Yamada Apartment — Friday Night | 8:42 PM

  The kitchen lights hummed softly overhead.

  Steam curled from a simmering pan, carrying the scent of garlic and soy through the apartment. Outside the window, the city glowed in scattered neon and passing headlights.

  Kazuki stood with his back against the counter, arms folded, watching his mum move with effortless rhythm between stove and sink.

  She didn’t look at him.

  “You’ve been pacing since you got home,” she said calmly. “That’s either a girl or a problem.”

  He huffed lightly. “It’s a music festival.”

  That got her attention.

  She turned slowly.

  “Regional,” he added. “All the big schools. Originals only.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “And?”

  “And we’re writing one.”

  She leaned back against the counter now, studying him. “That’s not what’s bothering you.”

  Kazuki swallowed.

  “There’s a remix. Of one of my—” he stopped himself, corrected, “—of a song.”

  Her face didn’t change.

  “It hasn’t dropped,” he continued. “But people know about it. There’s talk. Files moving.”

  “And you didn’t approve it.”

  “No.”

  Silence.

  Only the faint pop of oil from the pan.

  “And Marei?” she asked quietly.

  Kazuki’s jaw tightened. “He recorded over it. Claimed permission.”

  Her eyes flickered.

  “I’ll come tomorrow,” she said.

  Kazuki blinked. “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated.

  “But you can’t mention KAZ,” he said firmly. “No one knows. I don’t want them to.”

  Her expression softened — not disappointed, not surprised.

  Just understanding.

  “I know how to separate roles,” she replied. “I’ll be your mum. And I’ll be a professional. Nothing more.”

  Then she smirked faintly.

  “But if you’re asking for my help?”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “I am.”

  “Good,” she said. “Then tomorrow, we work.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  West Tokyo Recording Studio — Saturday | 1:06 PM

  The studio smelled like warm circuitry and coffee.

  Cables coiled across the floor like sleeping snakes. Vinyl records lined the walls, gold plaques catching the afternoon light through narrow blinds.

  Kenji stood far too close to one of them.

  “Do not,” Naomi warned.

  “I’m not touching it.”

  “You’re leaning.”

  “I’m appreciating.”

  Shun adjusted the mic stand. Ayame reorganised lyric sheets for the third time. Aoi hummed quietly. Mika scrolled through reference playlists.

  Kazuki stood near the booth door, quiet.

  Then—

  A car door shut outside.

  Footsteps on the metal stairs.

  Measured. Confident.

  The studio door opened.

  Aiko Yamada entered like she belonged in every room she stepped into.

  Long coat. Calm eyes. Presence that shifted oxygen levels.

  “Good afternoon,” she said smoothly. “Aiko Yamada. Kazuki’s mother.”

  The room stilled.

  “I’ve represented artists for… a long time,” she continued. “His father dragged me into the industry years ago.”

  Mimi blinked twice.

  “…Wait. You’re not the—”

  “So,” Kazuki cut in smoothly. “We should get started.”

  His mum shot him a glance that said I see you.

  She stepped toward Mimi.

  “We’ll keep this efficient.”

  The tone shifted instantly.

  Naomi entered the booth first.

  The glass reflected her own nervous energy back at her.

  Aiko stood beside Mimi, watching levels.

  “Reference tracks aren’t placeholders,” Aiko said calmly through the talkback. “They’re promises.”

  Naomi inhaled.

  The beat played.

  She started soft.

  Too careful.

  “Again,” Aiko said gently. “Feel it in your ribs. Let it sit there.”

  Naomi closed her eyes.

  Second take.

  This time—

  The room leaned forward.

  Hana felt goosebumps crawl up her arms.

  Ayame whispered, “This is insane already.”

  Kazuki didn’t smile.

  “If we’re serious,” he said evenly, “this can’t be the only one. We need depth. More songs. A body of work.”

  Kenji grinned. “Bro wants a whole album.”

  Kazuki didn’t deny it.

  Naomi stepped out, breath uneven.

  Aiko knelt in front of her.

  “You did well,” she said softly. “But stop singing like you’re asking permission. Make them need you.”

  Naomi nodded.

  Locked in.

  Then the eyes turned.

  Kazuki.

  He felt the shift.

  The weight.

  Aiko leaned close.

  “Twenty-five percent,” she whispered. “Just enough to scare them.”

  He nodded.

  Walked into the booth.

  Closed the door.

  The outside world muffled.

  Mimi adjusted settings. “Where do you want the punch?”

  Kazuki responded without thinking.

  “Sidechain the compression slightly, let the transient breathe, I’ll sit behind the snare.”

  Silence.

  Shun blinked. “What did he just say?”

  Kazuki coughed. “Nothing.”

  Aiko calmly translated to Mimi.

  Kazuki rolled his shoulders. Adjusted the mic angle instinctively.

  Hana’s heart started racing.

  Mimi counted him in.

  He leaned forward.

  Softly—almost unconsciously—

  He muttered his old hype line.

  Then:

  “Turn me up.”

  Exact cadence.

  Exact tone.

  Hana froze.

  Her mind flashed:

  — His reaction when KAZ was mentioned.

  — The way he avoided those conversations.

  — The industry knowledge.

  — The emotional weight in his voice.

  Dots began connecting.

  Kazuki didn’t spit lyrics.

  He built patterns.

  Tested rhythm.

  Shifted pockets.

  Mumbled melodic scaffolding.

  Even unfinished, it sounded intentional.

  Controlled.

  Professional.

  The room held its breath.

  When the beat cut, Kazuki removed the headphones calmly.

  “That’s enough.”

  He stepped out.

  Chaos erupted.

  “How did you—?”

  “Bro that was—”

  “What WAS that?”

  He shrugged lightly.

  “Practice.”

  Aiko pulled him aside briefly.

  “You slipped,” she murmured.

  “Only a little.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “Good.”

  The sun melted gold across the pavement outside.

  Hana and Kazuki lingered by the curb.

  A soft kiss.

  Then—

  “We can give you a lift,” Aiko called casually.

  Hana froze.

  “I can walk—”

  “Nonsense.”

  She opened the back door.

  Hana slid in beside Kazuki, spine straight, shoulders carefully not touching his.

  The car filled with quiet tension.

  “So,” Aiko began smoothly, pulling into traffic. “How long?”

  Hana malfunctioned.

  “Mum.”

  “And how long have you liked him?”

  “MUM.”

  Hana blinked rapidly.

  Kazuki tried to interrupt.

  She swatted him.

  The golden light filtered through the windshield, painting both of them warm.

  “Address?” Aiko asked casually.

  Kazuki opened his mouth.

  Hana covered it with her hand.

  “32 Yamada Close.”

  Aiko paused.

  “That’s five minutes from us.”

  For the rest of the ride, Aiko told baby stories.

  First tantrums.

  First failed school performance.

  Hana laughed uncontrollably.

  Kazuki covered his face.

  The car stopped.

  Hana stepped out, still smiling.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  The door closed.

  As they drove away, Aiko glanced at her son.

  “You’re not hiding very well.”

  Kazuki looked out at the fading sunset.

  “I know.”