The roar of the crowd still echoed in Hideki’s ears as he stepped off the stage, sweat clinging to his skin, adrenaline simmering under his veins, refusing to let go. His heart pounded against his ribs, the aftershocks of performance euphoria mixing with exhaustion. The hallway leading to the dressing room blurred with bodies—crew members shouting instructions, security ushering people aside—but it all sounded distant, like a television on in another room.
The dressing room door swung open. Inside was chaos—the aftermath of a band that had just wrung every ounce of energy onto the stage. Discarded water bottles rolled on the floor, towels lay in crumpled heaps, and someone’s half-eaten protein bar sat forgotten on a counter. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, deodorant, and faint cologne. The lights overhead flickered slightly.
and cracked mirrors.
Mamoru stood in the corner, posture rigid, speaking to Mimmi in hushed but urgent tones. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming an uneven beat against his bicep—a tell only those who knew him well would catch. Mimmi paced, heels clicking on the floor, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice, low but edged with frustration, occasionally spiked into sharp commands. Tension clung to her like a second skin, her other hand tugging at her jacket as if she wanted to crawl out of it.
Takao leaned against the vanity, head tilted back, stretching his neck until it cracked. His reflection in the mirror stared back—eyes sharp despite the fatigue. He rolled his shoulders, pulling his hoodie over his head with practiced ease. Beside him, Nachi sat hunched on a bench, breathing in slow, measured drags. His shirt clung to his back, darkened with sweat, and his fingers rubbed absently at the bandage taped to his stitched side. Despite the ache pulling at his muscles, he smirked—half amusement, half exhaustion—but even that expression seemed more worn than usual.
Hideki’s phone buzzed in his pocket, insistent. Not now. His fingers twitched toward it before pulling away. Focus. One breath in, held until his lungs burned. Another out, slow. The familiar hum of post-show adrenaline clawed for his attention, begging to pull him back into that high—but curiosity gnawed deeper. Finally, he slid his hand into his pocket, thumb swiping the screen unlocked with muscle memory.
From: Anna Hoshikaze
Subject: Goodbye.
I’m sorry, Mr. Yano. Looks like I have to leave first. Goodbye.
His pulse missed a beat. A blink. A breath caught halfway down his throat.
The world tilted—a fraction—lights too bright, air thickening like cotton stuffing in his lungs. His hand tightened around the phone, the edges biting into his palm. That smile—she always signed off with sarcasm, some clever quip to needle him. Not this. Not finality. The letters on the screen blurred, his eyes stinging, but he didn’t blink it away. Not yet.
Control it.
He dragged the breath fully in, forcing his pulse to slow. His throat worked around something lodged deep inside, but his face—his face was a mask honed over years. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he smoothed his expression to practiced nonchalance, the kind he wore like armor. Keep breathing. Keep moving.
The door banged as the others filed in. Noise filled the room again—voices, laughter too loud, the shuffle of gear being packed up. Takao glanced his way first, gaze cutting through the space between them like a scalpel. "You good?" His tone was casual, but the weight behind it wasn’t.
Hideki flicked him a grin, too quick, too light. "Peachy," he shot back. His voice carried that usual lilt of sarcasm, but it sounded tinny in his own ears. Snagging a towel from a chair, he dragged it over his face, the rough fabric grounding him more than the breathwork ever could. Don’t meet Takao’s eyes. Don’t let him see it.
Nachi, still slouched on the bench, paused mid-sip of his sports drink. His brows drew together—a flicker of awareness, the kind that came from too many years of reading Hideki better than most. But Nachi—uncharacteristically—said nothing. Maybe the weight of the night was enough. Or maybe he knew some things were better left untouched. Not now. Not tonight.
Mimmi’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as glass. "No, I don’t care about optics—containment is slipping. We can’t have Well of Fortune’s tour overshadowed by a missing pop star story." Her heels clicked against the floor as she paced, agitation radiating off her in waves. "Yes, tragic or convenient—that’s what the media’s running with. Tighten the statement or pull it. I don’t want rumors about connections—do your job!"
Her phone snapped shut, breath hitching as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Red seeped into her knuckles, nails digging deep into her skin. Her gaze darted toward Hideki—hesitant, calculating—but he was already moving. Jacket in hand, movements fluid, too practiced. Control the narrative. That was the rule. The only rule that mattered.
Her head pounded. Things were unraveling—faster than she could stitch them back together.
The hum of the plane settled into a steady blanket of white noise, vibrating softly through the cabin. Overhead lights glowed dim, casting a muted ambiance across rows of half-asleep passengers. Somewhere, a baby’s cry broke the calm, muffled quickly by headphones and the collective exhaustion that hung in the air. The weight of the day—the concert, the aftermath—still lingered like smoke none of them could quite shake.
Takao unbuckled his seatbelt, intending to head to the restroom, when something caught his eye two rows back. Hideki and Mamoru sat side by side, the overhead light casting a warm glow over them. Between them was a pack of strawberry Pocky, half-eaten. Hideki, with a lazy grin, held out a stick toward Mamoru, who—surprisingly—accepted it without a word. Takao blinked. Mamoru Yano—the human embodiment of stress and dietary micromanagement—eating sugar? That alone was worth a double take.
Then Hideki’s gaze flicked up, catching Takao watching. "Want one?" he offered, holding out the box with a smirk. "C’mon, live a little. Lawyer boy can have sweets. I promise, it won’t wreck your moral compass."
Takao hesitated but took one, if only to avoid the prolonged stare. He bit into it—and winced. Artificial strawberry flooded his mouth, cloyingly sweet, the kind that lingered far too long. "God, that’s... aggressively sugary," he muttered. "I’m surprised you like this crap."
Hideki’s grin widened. "Too sweet for your refined tongue, huh? Should’ve known. Bet you’re a dark chocolate and imported espresso kind of guy. Figures."
Takao shook his head, still chewing with regret. "It tastes like someone dipped plastic in sugar and called it a day."
Mamoru—stoic, unreadable Mamoru—just broke off another piece and ate it like this was perfectly normal. That, more than anything, threw Takao off. "What’s more shocking is you—" Takao gestured at Mamoru—"not confiscating that. Aren’t you usually the food police?"
Mamoru shrugged, gaze on the in-flight monitor. "Not tonight."
Hideki snorted. "See? Even he knows to pick his battles. Plus, it’s strawberry. It’s a mood."
Takao sat back down, shaking his head. "I’ll never understand you two."
Hideki winked. "That’s the point, lawyer boy. You’re not supposed to."
He cracked one eye open, glancing at the small in-flight screen overhead. 11:00 PM in Sydney. 9:00 PM in Japan. The world kept spinning. Clocks kept ticking. And somewhere, either alive or gone, Anna had left him with this puzzle—this unanswered call—daring him to solve it.
He closed his eyes, letting the vibrations sink into his bones. First to leave. Statistically? Should’ve been him. Maybe that’s why it stuck like splinters under skin. Not grief—he wasn’t sentimental enough for that. Just something heavier. Sharper. Like a punchline to a joke he didn’t get the chance to finish.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
up? He couldn’t remember. Or didn’t want to. The details always slipped away when you tried too hard to hold on. Like water through cupped hands.
He exhaled, the window fog dissipating again. Life was fleeting. Death was inevitable. But that didn’t stop it from pissing him off.
Takao sat by the window, cheek propped on his fist, tablet in hand. Outside, the sky stretched in inky darkness, the wing lights blinking rhythmically against a sea of clouds. His thumb swiped idly across the screen, scrolling through mindless articles to fill the restless buzz gnawing at his chest. Anything to distract from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully burned out.
Across the aisle, Mimmi slouched in her seat, sunglasses on despite the cabin’s dim lighting. Her arms were folded, body angled away from everyone—a fortress of exhaustion and tension. Her phone rested on her tray table, screen dark for once. Behind them, Nachi sat diagonally across, earbuds in, head tilted back against the headrest. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of someone trying to sleep but not quite succeeding.
Takao’s gaze drifted back to his tablet. Restless fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing on impulse:
Tanpopo Home Children’s Home.
Search results populated—mostly outdated charity fundraisers, feel-good local news pieces, and a handful of poorly maintained web pages. He skimmed without much expectation until a headline caught his eye.
"Tragedy Strikes Charity Visit: Plane Malfunction Leads to Crash—One Child Still Missing."
His stomach twisted.
Click.
The article loaded, images pixelated and grainy—a twisted skeleton of metal, rescue workers picking through debris, faces blurred out. He scanned the text, pulse quickening with every line.
...the plane carrying Tanpopo Home’s staff and children experienced a mechanical failure mid-flight. The crash resulted in multiple fatalities and injuries. Among those on board were Mitsuki Shion (age 14), currently listed as missing, and Aki Yano (age 15), confirmed deceased at the scene. The children were reportedly en route to visit Hideki Yano, hospitalized for complications related to aplastic anemia...
Takao’s chest tightened. Aki was on that plane?
Why the hell had no one mentioned this?
His gaze flicked over his shoulder. Two rows back, Hideki sat slouched in his seat, headphones on, eyes closed—expression unreadable. His fingers tapped out some absent beat on his thigh, the picture of calm, or maybe just good at faking it.
What the hell is this?
Takao turned back to his screen, jaw clenching. This wasn’t just about hidden medical records or shady contracts anymore. This was deeper. Dirtier. The kind of mess people covered up with money and NDAs. Mitsuki Shion—Anna. Aki Yano. Tanpopo Home. The threads tangled together in a way that made his skin crawl.
Anger simmered low in his gut, heavier with each breath. The lies—the manipulations—weren’t just about Hideki’s health. This industry had chewed up everyone in its path. And Takao was done standing by.
He opened a fresh notes file on his tablet, thumbs flying over the keys.
Collect all evidence—timeline cross-check.
Mitsuki Shion. Aki Yano. Tanpopo Home. Esa Production involvement—possible fraud, legal breach.
Find out why the hell no one’s talking.
Above him, the seatbelt sign flickered on. Below, the world spun on obliviously. But Takao’s focus sharpened, that familiar fire sparking to life. If they thought he’d let this slide, they didn’t know him at all.
According to the tour schedule from Chapter 10, the band’s next stop in Australia after Sydney is Brisbane. The flight will land early morning, with the next concert scheduled for the following evening, giving them limited rest before hitting the stage again.
Laughter echoed through the dimly lit restaurant, soft and melodic, carrying above the low hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Warm amber lighting pooled across the wooden table, casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls. Aiko swirled her drink, the ice cubes clinking gently against the glass as she leaned forward, eyes bright with amusement. Her laughter—the kind that unfurled effortlessly, bubbling up from somewhere genuine—filled the space between them with warmth that seemed to push back the cold edges of the world outside.
Across from her, Takeichi Ishida rested an elbow on the table, watching her with a fondness he didn’t bother to hide. His lips curled into an easy smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. Her laughter was infectious, threading through him, wrapping around old corners of himself he hadn’t realized were still hollow. For a moment, it was just this—the glow of the restaurant, the faint jazz filtering through the speakers, the warmth of shared food and wine.
"You really said that to your editor?" Aiko grinned, a spark of mischief lighting her face. Her fingers drummed against the side of her glass, nails catching glints of light.
Takeichi shrugged, raising his drink in mock salute. "Hey, honesty saves time. No one likes sugarcoated lies. He asked for my opinion; I gave it. Not my fault he thought I'd be polite about it."
Their plates lay mostly empty between them—the remnants of shared dishes scattered across the table: a few stray grains of rice, the last bite of grilled fish that neither seemed eager to claim. Conversation flowed like an old river—easy, winding, with comfortable pauses that didn’t strain to be filled. Yet beneath Takeichi’s laid-back demeanor, something else lingered. A flicker of thought. Edges of worry that refused to dull.
Her father. Her world. The industry that devours people whole.
She deserved something ordinary—something untouched by headlines, contracts, and the relentless machine chewing through everyone it touched. Someone closer to her age. Someone who wouldn’t... die before she did. The thought sat heavy in his chest, unwelcome but persistent. He exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. Protective instinct warred with everything else—reason, logic, that selfish thread of wanting to linger in moments like this just a little longer.
Aiko nudged him under the table with her foot, breaking the quiet. Her eyes narrowed playfully. "You spacing out on me? C’mon, Ishida—I know I’m charming, but keep up. This is peak dinner conversation, and you’re missing out."
His smile softened, something unspoken tugging at the corners. About you, he thought. About how the world’s never kind to people like you. Or me. Or those kids you keep watching over like they’re still yours to save.
"Just thinking," he said aloud, voice easy but gentled at the edges. He lifted his glass, clinking it softly against hers. "Bad habit. I should enjoy the company instead."
Her grin widened. "Damn right you should."
Later that very same night .
The hum of the plane settled into a steady blanket of white noise, vibrating softly through the cabin. Overhead lights glowed dim, casting a muted ambiance across rows of half-asleep passengers. Somewhere, a baby’s cry broke the calm, muffled quickly by headphones and the collective exhaustion that hung in the air. The weight of the day—the concert, the aftermath—still lingered like smoke none of them could quite shake.
Takao sat by the window, cheek propped on his fist, tablet in hand. Outside, the sky stretched in inky darkness, the wing lights blinking rhythmically against a sea of clouds. His thumb swiped idly across the screen, scrolling through mindless articles to fill the restless buzz gnawing at his chest. Anything to distract from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully burned out.
Across the aisle, Mimmi slouched in her seat, sunglasses on despite the cabin’s dim lighting. Her arms were folded, body angled away from everyone—a fortress of exhaustion and tension. Her phone rested on her tray table, screen dark for once. Behind them, Nachi sat diagonally across, earbuds in, head tilted back against the headrest. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of someone trying to sleep but not quite succeeding.
Takao’s gaze drifted back to his tablet. Restless fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing on impulse:
Tanpopo Home Children’s Home.
Search results populated—mostly outdated charity fundraisers, feel-good local news pieces, and a handful of poorly maintained web pages. He skimmed without much expectation until a headline caught his eye.
"Tragedy Strikes Charity Visit: Plane Malfunction Leads to Crash—One Child Still Missing."
His stomach twisted.
Click.
The article loaded, images pixelated and grainy—a twisted skeleton of metal, rescue workers picking through debris, faces blurred out. He scanned the text, pulse quickening with every line.
...the plane carrying Tanpopo Home’s staff and children experienced a mechanical failure mid-flight. The crash resulted in multiple fatalities and injuries. Among those on board were Mitsuki Shion (age 14), currently listed as missing, and Aki Yano (age 15), confirmed deceased at the scene. The children were reportedly en route to visit Hideki Yano, hospitalized for complications related to aplastic anemia...
Takao’s chest tightened. Aki was on that plane?
Why the hell had no one mentioned this?
His gaze flicked over his shoulder. Two rows back, Hideki sat slouched in his seat, headphones on, eyes closed—expression unreadable. His fingers tapped out some absent beat on his thigh, the picture of calm, or maybe just good at faking it.
What the hell is this?
Takao turned back to his screen, jaw clenching. This wasn’t just about hidden medical records or shady contracts anymore. This was deeper. Dirtier. The kind of mess people covered up with money and NDAs. Mitsuki Shion—Anna. Aki Yano. Tanpopo Home. The threads tangled together in a way that made his skin crawl.
Anger simmered low in his gut, heavier with each breath. The lies—the manipulations—weren’t just about Hideki’s health. This industry had chewed up everyone in its path. And Takao was done standing by.
He opened a fresh notes file on his tablet, thumbs flying over the keys.
Collect all evidence—timeline cross-check.
Mitsuki Shion. Aki Yano. Tanpopo Home. Esa Production involvement—possible fraud, legal breach.
Find out why the hell no one’s talking.
Above him, the seatbelt sign flickered on. Below, the world spun on obliviously. But Takao’s focus sharpened, that familiar fire sparking to life. If they thought he’d let this slide, they didn’t know him at all.
