Camera shutters clicked at half-speed against the sudden quiet. Ryo pulled his hands away from the keyboard, knuckles stiff from the cold breeze blowing down the arrival ramp. He glanced towards the wings, catching the full force of Jinsei’s glare. Jinsei held a phone to his cheek, eyes tracking Ryo with mathematical precision. Kenji, a whirlwind of panicked whispers and frantic hand gestures, materialized at Ryo’s side, tugging at his sleeve. “Sawamura-san! What was that? You just… you just played a funeral dirge for ‘Crimson Bloom’!” Hina dipped her chin, tucking stray hair behind one ear while watching Jinsei across the barricade. Her public smile, which had flickered for a fraction of a second, returned with full wattage as she gracefully took the microphone from a bewildered Kaito Mikoto. “My husband is such a romantic, isn’t he?” she chirped, her voice pitched to carry straight to the directional microphones. “Always full of surprises! He simply adores adding his own classical flair to everything.” She leaned into Ryo, her voice dropping to a theatrical stage whisper only he could hear, “You owe me an explanation, Maestro. A very good one.” Kenji half-dragged, half-pushed Ryo through the throng of reporters, Hina floating ahead like a seasoned diplomat. The moment they were sequestered in the plush interior of a sleek, black town car, the façade dropped. Hina turned, her eyes sharp. “What was that, Ryo-san? Jinsei-P will be furious. He’ll make us both pay.” Ryo adjusted his glasses. “The note. You said ‘help me.’ That song isn’t yours, is it? Not really.” Hina flinched, a raw vulnerability crossing her features before she quickly masked it. “We’ll talk later. Just… don’t do anything like that again without warning. Jinsei controls every contract in this town.” The move into Hina’s penthouse in the exclusive *Stratosphere Gardens* complex was swift, dictated by a team of efficient, expressionless assistants. It was less a home and more a monument to success, all polished chrome, minimalist furniture, and panoramic views of Tokyo's neon grid. No potted ferns lined the sills, only smoked glass and recessed baseboard lighting. He spent the first few days navigating the apartment’s labyrinthine corridors, feeling less like a resident and more like an exhibit. Every white leather ottoman aligned square to the grid lines in the marble. He noticed the subtle details first: the tiny, almost invisible lens peeking from the spine of a decorative book, the faint hum emanating from a cleverly disguised air vent, the almost imperceptible flicker in the ornate ceiling rose in the living room. Agency lenses peered from every junction. He eventually stumbled upon a door tucked away at the end of a rarely used hallway, unadorned and blending seamlessly into the polished wall. Curiosity overriding caution, he pushed it open. Inside, the opulence gave way to something far more intimate. It was a studio, smaller than the other rooms, dominated by a grand piano. Unlike the pristine, untouched instruments in the main living areas, this one bore the marks of constant use. The keys were subtly discolored in places, worn smooth at the edges where fingers would repeatedly strike. Beside it, a stack of thick, leather-bound notebooks lay open, their pages filled with intricate musical notation. It wasn't standard classical script, nor was it the simplified notation used for pop arrangements. He picked one up, his brow furrowing. It was a dense shorthand of layered time signatures and chord substitutions. Notes swooped and intertwined, decorated with symbols he didn’t recognize, indicating nuanced dynamics and unconventional voicings. It was a style far removed from the catchy, commercially polished singles Hina delivered on stage. This was raw, intricate, brimming with an emotional depth that surprised him. Ryo thumbed the corner of a leaf, tracing the heavy ink strokes where she had crossed out bar after bar before finding the resolution. Later that week, Kenji orchestrated a “candid” social media livestream, an obligatory showcase of domestic bliss. The concept: Hina and Ryo cooking together in their pristine kitchen. Ryo, utterly inept at anything beyond boiling water, was assigned the task of decoratively sprinkling herbs, while Hina, surprisingly adept, chatted brightly to the camera, chopping vegetables with practiced ease. “Welcome back, my dearest Starlight Legion!” Hina chirped, waving a spatula. “Today, my wonderful husband and I are making my grandmother’s secret *ochazuke* recipe! He’s trying so hard, bless his heart.” She shot Ryo a dazzling, utterly fake smile. Ryo managed a wooden grin, scattering dill over a strip of seasoned salmon. The stream chat scrolled furiously beside the video feed. *“Hina-chan so cute!”* *“Ryo-san is so lucky!”* *“Such a domestic couple goals!”* Kenji, hovering just out of frame, gave a satisfied nod. Then a paid super-chat pinned itself above the stream: *‘Is that the motif from your indie debut, Hina-chan? The one Jinsei-P wiped from streaming?’* Ryo saw it, and in the reflection of the stainless-steel counter, he saw Hina’s face. Her mouth tightened, lines bracketing her lips. Her knife halted an inch above a sliced cucumber, the steel trembling against her index finger. Then, with a practiced flick of her wrist, Hina resumed chopping, the sound crisp and rhythmic. Her smile reappeared, brighter than before, her voice gaining an extra layer of sweetness. “Oh, you attentive Starlights! You have such keen ears! I often hum little tunes from my past when I’m relaxed. That was just a scrap from years ago, a rough phrase I hummed before Jinsei-P gave me proper arrangements. My producer always knows what’s best for me, doesn’t he?” She winked at the camera, a dazzling performance of deflection. The pin disappeared, deleted by the channel moderator, and pink hearts flooded the sidebar. As soon as the livestream ended, the professional cheer drained from Hina’s face. She turned away from the camera, dropping the spatula onto the counter with a clatter. “I need a moment,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual effervescence. She walked stiffly out of the kitchen. Ryo watched her bedroom door click shut. He scraped the stray dill stems into the disposal. He reached into his wallet, his fingers closing around the small, folded piece of paper he’d kept safe since that fateful meeting. He unfolded it carefully. Two words, handwritten in a delicate script, stared back at him. “Help me.”

The Gilded Cage