The Grand Hall thrummed with the chatter of a thousand industry luminaries. Flashing chromite fixtures cast sharp angles across the faces of the assembled elite, each carefully composed for the cameras that stalked every aisle. Sawamura Ryo stood beside Mizushima Hina, a forced smile pasted on his mouth while overhead spotlights heated the velvet curtains behind them. He could feel Hina's tremor, a barely perceptible vibration through her arm linked with his. Her eyes, usually so bright, held a flinty determination. Across the stage, Tachibana Jinsei, wearing a custom-tailored tunic of midnight blue, accepted a congratulatory nod from a minor minister before making his way toward the spotlight.
Eto Kenji, a whirlwind of nervous energy and a suit tailored three sizes too large, materialized beside Ryo. "Okay, team. It's go-time. The 'Producer of the Decade' tribute video is queued. My contact confirmed the swap. Wish me luck, boys and girls, I'm about to become either a legend or a smear on the pavement." He vanished into the shadows backstage with a frantic wave, leaving Ryo and Hina alone in the glaring lights.
The host, a sleek-haired media personality named Akio Toriyama, began his introduction. His voice, modulated to a reverent baritone, lauded the producer's 'visionary leadership' and 'unparalleled genius.' The massive holographic screens above the stage flickered, ready to display the curated montage of celebrated triumphs. Ryo felt his heart quicken, a discordant rhythm against the swell of anticipation in the hall.
Jinsei walked towards the podium, a smug, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips, bowing to the applause. "And now," Toriyama announced, "a special tribute to the man who redefined an era!"
The screens flared to life. Not with iconic album covers, but with a grainy, sepia-toned photograph. It showed a younger Ryo, slumped against a practice room wall, his hand clutching his bleeding head. Beside him, knelt a figure Ryo recognized instantly: Kyosuke. And standing over them both, his face shadowed but unmistakable, was Tachibana Jinsei. A collective gasp rippled through the audience, a sound like a thousand startled birds taking flight.
Jinsei froze, his award-winning smile dissolving into a rictus of shock. The whispers grew louder, turning into a confused roar. Then, the audio began. Jinsei's voice, younger, smoother, but undeniably his, from Hina's old rehearsal hard drive. *"I'm going to protect your music, Mizushima-san. Make sure it reaches the world, pure and untouched."* The words hung in the air, dripping with an irony that choked the hall's celebratory mood. The sound of his own betrayal, broadcast to the world. Tachibana's jaw tightened, the polished composure slipping away completely.
A frantic stagehand, pale and sweating, ran across the stage, fumbling with a control panel. With a sudden crackle, the screens went black. A single spotlight remained on the empty podium, illuminating the sudden, profound silence that followed. Then, the room erupted. The media surged forward, cameras flashing like an angry storm. Whispers became shouts. Accusations. Questions. Jinsei, stripped of his gilded facade, looked like a predator caught in a snare.
From the chaos, three burly men in dark suits, the producer's personal security detail, moved with alarming speed, cutting through the throng. Their eyes locked onto Hina. They were not there to escort; they were there to seize. Ryo saw the raw fear in Hina's eyes, the way her grip tightened on his arm, and something within him snapped. His usual hesitation, his ingrained avoidance, evaporated.
As the first guard lunged, Ryo stepped in front of Hina, his body a sudden, unyielding barrier. The guard, surprised by the unexpected obstacle, stumbled. Ryo pushed Hina behind him, his palms flat against her back. "Stay back!" he called out, his voice surprisingly firm, cutting through the din. Rogue cell phone cameras, already recording the aftermath of the video gaffe, now turned to capture this new drama. Live feeds to countless social media platforms. The image of the reclusive composer, shielding the idol, became an instant viral sensation.
Jinsei, his face mottled with rage, shouted something incoherent from the stage. The guards regrouped, surrounding Ryo and Hina, their expressions grim. Ryo felt a surge of adrenaline, a cold, clear focus he hadn't known he possessed. He would not let them touch her. He would not. He prepared to brace for impact, for the inevitable shove, the violent removal from the stage.
But before they could close in, Hina moved. She broke free from behind Ryo, darting past a bewildered guard, her eyes fixed on the illuminated podium. She snatched the microphone from its stand, its cold metal surprisingly heavy in her hand. Her chest heaved, her gaze sweeping across the chaotic hall, meeting the stunned faces, the flashing lights. A profound silence fell once more, all eyes now fixed on her.
She lifted the microphone to her lips, her voice, though trembling, echoing with a newfound strength. "My name is Mizushima Hina, and I have a new song to sing. My song."