The practice room was dimly lit, the afterglow of the studio’s neon sign seeping through the frosted glass. Yuzuru Fushimi’s breath hitched as the violin trembled beneath his chin. His fingers, so accustomed to the smooth curves of his cello, fumbled against the violin’s neck. A single, wavering note slipped into the silence, then another—sharper, incorrect. He winced, the sound raw and amateurish compared to the elegance he presented on stage.

How could I be so foolish? he thought, tightening his grip on the bow. The weight of his public persona—the prodigy violinist idol, the face of the group’s classical anthems—felt suffocating. In truth, his violin skills were a carefully guarded secret: borrowed technique, memorized motions, and a lifetime of evasion when producers asked to hear an impromptu solo. But tonight, driven by guilt after another flawless performance, he’d resolved to face the lie head-on.

A floorboard creaked outside. Yuzuru froze, mid-note. The door slid open with a soft shush.

“Fushimi-kun?”

You (you are his producer) stood in the doorway, your beautiful dress contrasted by the tired lines around your eyes. Yuzuru’s heart lurched. The woman had a knack for appearing when least expected, like a shadow attached to the group’s progress.

“Yes…?” Yuzuru’s voice wavered, his free hand clutching the violin like a shield.

You stepped inside, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with the room’s lemon polish. Your gaze darted to the instrument, then to Yuzuru’s crimson face. For a long moment, you said nothing. Yuzuru’s bow twitched

Yuzuru’s eyes burned. "How long have you been standing there?"