The holographic headline pulsed, a gaudy monument to their manufactured romance. Ryo stared at it, the bold, shimmering text reflecting in his vacant eyes. His hand still clenched the small, folded paper Hina had slipped him. Kenji groaned, a sound like a deflating air mattress. “A whirlwind romance,” he muttered, pushing his designer spectacles up his nose. “More like a Category Five PR hurricane.” Jinsei, oblivious to Kenji's misery, or perhaps revelling in it, rose from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few calls to make to ensure this ‘whirlwind’ gets the maximum possible exposure. Kenji, handle the details. Sawamura-san, Hina, a toast to your future!” He lifted an imaginary glass, a predatory gleam in his smile, then swept out of the room, his expensive suit rustling. Hina stood, adjusting the delicate strap of her dress. Her eyes met Ryo’s briefly, a flicker of something unreadable – fear? Resignation? – before her perfect idol mask settled back into place. “It was… a pleasure, Sawamura-san,” she said, her voice light, dismissive. “I’ll send over the schedule for our joint appearances. Try not to embarrass me.” She turned, following Jinsei’s path without a backward glance. Ryo remained seated, the silence in the opulent boardroom oppressive. Kenji finally stirred, rubbing his temples. “This is a nightmare, Ryo. A complete, utter catastrophe. My blood pressure is already charting new constellations.” He looked at Ryo, his usual flamboyant energy replaced by genuine dread. “What was that note, anyway?” Ryo unfolded the paper. Scrawled in elegant, rushed script, it read: *Don’t let him rewrite my music. He controls everything else, but not that. Please.* There was no signature. No explanation. Just a desperate plea for a stranger to protect something precious. Ryo tucked the note into his inner jacket pocket, the paper warm against his chest. “Nothing important,” he lied, his voice flat. Two days later, Ryo found himself in a suit that felt like a cage, his hair plastered into an unfamiliar style, and his face a canvas for layers of stage makeup. His minimalist apartment now housed a revolving door of stylists, publicists, and security personnel. The air smelled of hairspray and artificial confidence. “Remember, Ryo-san,” a chipper publicist named Mika chirped, holding up a laminated card. “Smile. Just… smile. And don’t talk about your plants. Or classical music. Or anything that might make you seem ‘too inaccessible’.” “But I *am* inaccessible,” Ryo mumbled, adjusting the stiff collar. He missed the quiet hum of his synthesizers, the earthy scent of his monstera leaves. The premiere of *Scarlet Aegis*, a blockbuster action film he’d scored, felt like an alien invasion rather than a celebration of his work. Hina arrived in a whirlwind of silk and fragrance, her platinum hair shimmering under the apartment’s harsh lights. She wore a dress the colour of a midnight sky, sparkling with tiny, embedded jewels. Her aura was pure, distilled stardom. “Sawamura-san,” she said, her voice crisp, “Are you ready to face the dragons?” He wasn't. But he nodded anyway. The moment their limousine pulled up to the curb of the Elysian Grand Theatre, the world erupted. A cacophony of screams, camera flashes, and the roar of a thousand voices washed over Ryo like a tidal wave. The red carpet stretched before them, a gauntlet lined with reporters, photographers, and fans pressed against velvet ropes. It was a terrifying, exhilarating spectacle. Hina, however, moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior. She took Ryo’s arm, her grip surprisingly firm. “Keep your eyes forward,” she whispered, her smile dazzling for the cameras. “Wave occasionally. Look at me, then at the cameras. Don’t stop. Don’t falter.” She pulled him along, a radiant beacon through the blinding storm. Her composure was absolute, a stark contrast to his internal panic. They paused for a brief, choreographed moment. Hina turned to him, her practiced smile softening imperceptibly as she leaned in. “Remember,” she murmured, her voice barely audible above the din, “we’re madly in love. Adoring glances. Got it?” Just then, a familiar, impeccably tailored figure emerged from the crowd of publicists near the theatre entrance. Tachibana Jinsei, his charismatic smile a beacon of practiced charm, approached them. “My dear Hina! Sawamura-san! You both look absolutely stunning!” His voice, smooth as aged whiskey, cut through the noise. He embraced Hina, a fleeting display of affection meant for the lenses. But as he pulled back, his hand lingered on her arm, his fingers digging into her skin just above the elbow. His smile remained fixed, but his eyes were cold, possessive. “We had a little chat this morning, didn’t we, Hina?” Jinsei murmured, his gaze locking onto hers. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, “Don’t forget who holds the strings to your little symphony. One wrong note, and it all falls apart. Understand?” Hina’s smile wavered for a microsecond. Her eyes darted to Ryo, a flash of genuine fear in their depths, before she composed herself. She nodded, a subtle, almost imperceptible dip of her head. Jinsei patted her arm, his grip loosening, and then turned his attention to Ryo, his smile instantly warm again. “Sawamura-san, your score for *Scarlet Aegis* is truly revolutionary. A masterpiece! I’m so delighted Hina has found such a talented… partner.” The word ‘partner’ hung in the air, pointed as an unsheathed blade. He gave Ryo a firm handshake, his grip surprisingly strong, before melting back into the throng, leaving behind an unsettling chill. Further down the carpet, a small stage had been set up for live interviews. A sleek black grand piano gleamed under the spotlights. The host, the infamous gossip monger and entertainment pundit Kaito Mikoto, beckoned them over with a theatrical flourish. Kaito’s bleached smile was as sharp as his questions. “Mizushima-san! Sawamura-san! Welcome, welcome! The whole nation is buzzing about your surprise engagement!” Kaito beamed at the camera, then turned his piercing gaze on Ryo. “Sawamura-san, your film scores are legendary, but fans are curious about your… domestic life now. And, of course, your musical contributions to Hina’s upcoming album!” Ryo felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He knew Hina had an album coming out. He also knew Jinsei had taken complete control of her compositions, claiming they were “not commercially viable.” The note in his pocket screamed its silent warning. “Indeed,” Hina interjected smoothly, her hand resting lightly on Ryo’s arm. “Ryo-san has been an incredible inspiration.” Kaito’s eyes gleamed, sensing a potential scoop. “That’s wonderful! I hear Hina’s lead single, ‘Ruby Bloom,’ is already charting pre-release! Sawamura-san, as a special treat for our viewers, would you mind giving us a little taste? There’s a beautiful grand piano right here!” He gestured to the polished instrument, his smile widening into a shark-like grin. Ryo’s breath caught. Play ‘Ruby Bloom’? The song Jinsei had stolen from Hina, rewritten, and claimed as his own? He had barely heard the track, and what he *had* heard was a generic, overproduced pop anthem, utterly devoid of Hina’s raw, heartfelt style. His fingers, trained for decades in the intricate dance of classical composition, would betray him. The viewers would see through it. More importantly, Hina would see through it. He looked at Hina. Her eyes, wide and desperate, pleaded with him. *Don’t let him rewrite my music.* The words from her note echoed in his mind. He couldn't play Jinsei's vapid imitation. He couldn't. Panic surged, then a strange, quiet resolve. His pathological kindness usually made him a doormat, but sometimes, it manifested as an unwavering commitment to protect. He walked over to the piano, the cameras following his every step. He settled onto the bench, the smooth black keys cool beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes for a split second, pushed out the image of the pop charts, of Jinsei’s sneering face, of his own destroyed career. He thought of Hina’s desperate plea, of the true music that Jinsei had tried to silence. Then, his fingers moved. Not to the upbeat, synthesized chords of ‘Ruby Bloom,’ but to a melody entirely his own. It was a delicate, melancholic arpeggio, a minor key lament that spoke of yearning and quiet strength. The notes cascaded, forming an improvised piece that was unmistakably Sawamura Ryo: intricate, emotional, with a haunting beauty that defied the glitz of the premiere. It swelled, a symphony of hidden pain and enduring hope, a stark contrast to the saccharine pop expected. It was a song that could only have come from a soul that understood what it meant to lose a part of itself. The red carpet fell silent. The flashes continued, but the crowd’s chatter died down. Hina stared, her mouth slightly agape, a slow, dawning comprehension spreading across her face. Kaito Mikoto’s professional smile had evaporated, replaced by a look of bewildered fascination. The melody hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, a whispered secret delivered under full broadcast lighting. Online, the live feed’s comment section exploded. *“Is this Hina’s new sound?!”* *“Sawamura-san is a genius!”* *“Wait, isn’t ‘Ruby Bloom’ supposed to be a dance track?”* *“What even IS this? It’s beautiful, but not Hina’s style at all!”* *“The plot thickens!”* The speculation ignited like wildfire. From the wings, just beyond the glare of the spotlights, Jinsei watched. His charming smile was utterly gone, replaced by a look of cold fury that promised swift, brutal retribution.

Premiere and Predator