“I think I’m getting married.” Kenji stared, his mouth dropping slack. The digital violinist, mid-scream, still flickered on Ryo’s monitor. Hina’s beaming face on Kenji’s phone seemed to mock them both. The white camellia on the coffee table, pristine and innocent, felt like a bomb. “Married?” Kenji finally squawked, his voice cracking. “To… to who? Not the cacti, Ryo-kun, please tell me it’s not the cacti!” His frantic gaze darted between the monitor, the flower, and the phone. “We need to call a crisis meeting! Media training! Damage control! No, wait, if you’re actually *engaged*, that’s… that’s a whole different kind of damage!” Before Ryo could elaborate on the precise nature of the damage, Kenji had already settled on his plan. “Right! Get dressed! We’re going to Stellar Nexus Tower! Hina-chan’s agency. If anyone can shed light on this ‘mystery man’ nonsense, it’s her PR team!” He practically dragged Ryo out of his plant-filled sanctuary, the silence of the apartment broken only by the forgotten loop of the accident and the gentle hum of the terrarium’s humidifier. Stellar Nexus Tower gleamed, a monument to the hyper-modern entertainment machine, its mirrored exterior reflecting the frantic energy of Tokyo. Ryo felt like a wilting fern dragged into a sterile hydroponic lab. The boardroom on the eighty-third floor was all glass and chrome, dominated by a holographic display shimmering with market analytics and trending hashtags. The air hummed with a low, oppressive chill. Mizushima Hina sat at the far end of the impossibly long table, her expression carefully neutral, devoid of the mischievous sparkle from her news photo. She wore a tailored charcoal suit that seemed to swallow her usual effervescence, making her appear smaller, more guarded. Beside her sat Tachibana Jinsei, her producer, a man whose smile could charm a nation while his eyes calculated its every weakness. His silver hair was impeccably styled, his suit bespoke, radiating an aura of effortless, almost predatory, charisma. “Ah, Sawamura-san, Eto-san,” Jinsei purred, rising with a theatrical flourish that Kenji, ever the professional, instinctively disliked. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, take a seat.” He gestured to two chairs that felt suspiciously like interrogation seats, directly opposite Hina. Kenji, attempting to project an air of confident confusion, cleared his throat. “Tachibana-san, there seems to be a rather… unusual rumor circulating regarding Mizushima-san. My client, Sawamura Ryo, is merely a colleague, an admirer of her talent, naturally, but—” Jinsei cut him off with a soft, dismissive wave. “Let’s not mince words, Eto-san. We are here to finalize the terms of the official announcement. Mizushima Hina and Sawamura Ryo. A match made in… well, let’s call it ‘strategic heaven’.” Ryo’s gaze flickered to Hina. Her eyes, usually so bright, held a distant, almost desperate quality. She met his gaze for a fleeting second, a micro-expression of something akin to apology, before her mask snapped back into place. “Strategic heaven?” Ryo’s voice, usually so melodic, was a low, flat rasp. “Tachibana-san, I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding. I am a composer. A reclusive one, at that. I have no interest in… this.” He gestured vaguely at the holographic buzz of public opinion that pulsed around them. Jinsei’s smile widened, but the warmth never reached his eyes. “Oh, but you do, Sawamura-san. You have a profound interest in protecting your quiet life, your stellar reputation. And, more specifically, in ensuring certain… regrettable incidents from your past remain firmly in the past.” The air thickened. Kenji, sensing the shift, sat bolt upright. “Regrettable incidents? What are you talking about? Ryo-kun has an impeccable record!” “Indeed,” Jinsei agreed, his tone dangerously smooth. He tapped a sleek data pad on the table. A small, almost imperceptible click echoed through the room. Then, a voice. Ryo’s voice, younger, slurred, distorted by panic. “*Oh god, Kyosuke, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it… Your arm…*” The sound was faint, barely a whisper, yet Ryo stiffened as if struck across the collarbone. The specific tremor in his own voice, the sickening crunch of bone—it was undeniable. The full, unedited audio from the USB drive. Jinsei had it. He had *all* of it. Kenji gasped, his face draining of color. “What… what was that? Ryo-kun?” Ryo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The memory, a decade buried, scraped back into the room, raw and unvarnished. The shame, the fear, the crushing guilt. It was all real. It was all here. Jinsei leaned back, the picture of nonchalant power. “A minor misunderstanding at a university talent show, ten years ago. A young, intoxicated Sawamura Ryo, a promising but arrogant violinist, a broken arm. Easily swept under the rug then, yes. But in today’s hyper-connected world? A single anonymous upload, and your entire career, your carefully cultivated image of the solitary genius, would shatter like fragile glass.” He pushed a thick contract across the lacquered mahogany towards Ryo. “The terms are simple. A two-year marriage contract. Public appearances, carefully managed. Joint interviews, curated social media. And, of course, cohabitation in Mizushima-san’s penthouse, under the… discreet supervision of our teams.” Ryo looked at the contract, then at Hina. Her face was impassive. “Mizushima-san,” he said, his voice regaining a semblance of control, though a tremor ran through it, “do you truly agree to this?” Hina finally spoke, her voice clear, bell-like, but with a brittle edge that only Ryo seemed to detect. “Of course, Sawamura-san. It’s what’s best for my… brand. And, I assume, yours. We make a formidable team, don’t you think? The ‘Melody Muse’ and the ‘Symphony Sorcerer’.” She smiled, a dazzling, professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just sign the papers. Let’s get this over with.” Her words sounded cold and rehearsed, yet Ryo caught an unsteady tremor beneath her flat tone, a plea he couldn’t decipher. Kenji, still reeling from the audio snippet, found his voice. “But… but this is blackmail! We can fight this!” “And risk an immediate, career-ending scandal?” Jinsei raised an eyebrow, a picture of genial menace. “Or embrace a mutually beneficial, highly lucrative partnership that elevates both your careers? The choice, Eto-san, is entirely yours. Sawamura-san’s music will reach a wider audience than ever before. Mizushima-san will gain a certain… gravitas. A win-win, really.” Ryo picked up the pen. His hand felt heavy, alien. His quiet life, his plants, his music—all of it felt like dust, about to be swept away by this ruthless tide. He glanced at Hina one last time. As his hand hovered over the signature line, she subtly shifted, her left hand dropping below the table’s edge. A small, folded square of paper slid silently beneath the table rail, brushing against his thigh. His fingers closed around it instinctively, concealing it in his palm. He looked at her, but her gaze was already fixed on Jinsei, her face once again a flawless mask. With a sigh that felt like the surrender of his very soul, Ryo pressed the pen to the paper. His signature, usually neat and precise, was a jagged line of capitulation. Jinsei clapped his hands together, a sound like a gunshot in the tense silence. “Excellent! Welcome to the family, Sawamura-san!” He beamed, a triumphant predator. Kenji slumped in his chair, defeated. On the giant holographic display that had been quietly running market analytics, the data dissolved, replaced by a bold, shimmering headline that flashed across the entire wall: POP IDOL MIZUSHIMA HINA AND GENIUS COMPOSER SAWAMURA RYO: A WHIRLWIND ROMANCE!

Articles of Surrender