"We lost her President."

Takeshi held the receiver to his ear in a brief moment of silence before tearing into the hired killer.

"Idiot. What the hell am I paying you for?" The older man's eyes slid close as he inhaled through his nose while the man frantically stammered out apologies.

Takeshi Ito reclined into his plush upholstered chair as he studied the cityscape from his window. Blinking lights, speeding cars, the story of the city was never ending. However, this was not to be, his reflection could be seen faintly, and he noticed the gray in his hair becoming more prominent. Even giants such as himself could not escape the cage of time. He had flown so close to the sun that he gradually became blinded by its brilliance – by the illusion of perpetuity. This would be his last chance to kiss the sun's rays, bask in their glory, before retiring overseas where his offshore accounts waited – fattened to the brim with embezzled money.

He allowed the man to babble on until his agitation burst at the mention of a single name.

"What did you say?"

"She-she left with an employee from the Shining Agency. The last we saw her was at Shining's recording studio."

His grip tightened around the handle and it shook from the excessive force. Takeshi composed himself and told them to redouble their efforts before slamming the receiver down. In all his years being President, he never had such a prolific musician working for his label. From the moment he watched her audition tape all those years ago, he knew that she would bring him nothing but prosperity.

Mirai fortunately did not need as much investment as other idols. She did not need any facial surgery nor extreme dieting measures to mold her into the perfect idol. Her natural good looks and talent only needed fine tuning and financial backing.

In life she had already lined his pockets generously with her explosive debut, but there was no telling how much money she could bring the company due to an untimely death. Takeshi could envision it; a media frenzy immortalizing Mirai and her story for weeks to come, fans erecting tributes and lining the streets outside with flowers and heartfelt messages. Mirai's death would send him off with a bang.

No one would be getting in the way of his elaborate plans. Not even that blasted Saotome that he despised so much.

He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, weighing his options. After a moment he reached again for the receiver and punched in a series of numbers, half wondering if it would connect after all these years. It rang; once, twice, a third time – the call connected with a soft click.

"Hai." That voice, although full of gravel, he would recognize anywhere. "Giru. I am calling on the favor you owe me." A beat passed before the unmistakable swish of a lighter sounded, "Ito," He could picture him taking a long drag of a thin cigarette. His low menacing chuckle brought back memories from his crooked past, "What's it gonna be?"

Takeshi's lip curled into his scar, "Not what, who."

Once Mirai and Haruka recounted to everyone the series of events leading to her arrival, Masato sprang to his feet.

"Hijirikawa-san?" Mirai watched in apprehension as the usually cool member of the group regarded her with a strained look. "Mirai-san, we must have you meet with our president immediately. This is all beyond us, lawyers must be called in to look over your contract – Nanami," He turned to the composer who squeaked out a response, "You did well in bringing her, there's no telling what could have happened."

Natsuki gave out an approving hum, "That's our Masato, always so practical! I agree! However," He turned to Mirai with a warm smile to ease her nerves, "You must be exhausted. Let's order some food while we try to locate our president. What do say, Otoya-kun? Personally, I'm feeling pizza."

It took a moment for the young guitarist to realize all eyes were on him. Mirai's story had disturbed him and plunged him into a vacant, confused state. Mirai observed the exchange in silence, despite Natsuki's airy attitude, he had an astute sense of mood. She understood at that moment why STARISH was so successful as a group; each and every one of them cared deeply for each and worked towards the same dream together. The realization abated her anxiety, she finally felt safe.

After some calls to get a hold of the president and to order dinner, Mirai's fear and frustration was replaced with lighthearted laughter. The creative flow the group had been in had fully deflated once Mirai had made her dramatic entrance. Now, most of the members horsed around with each other trying to further lighten the mood.

"You can stay in my room if that's alright with you Mirai." Nanami turned away from her bashfully after she made the remark.

Just as Mirai was to respond, the door burst open and Cecil jumped with glee, "Pizza, ah," His exuberance died out almost instantly.

Kurosaki Ranmaru filled the doorway with his imposing figure and narrowed his eyes sharply at the young idols. "There are cars waiting outside. You are to report to the dance studio bright and early so I suggest you get some sleep. I will escort Mirai to have an audience with the President." His voice was terse and strained.

A moment passed before he practically snarled, "Now."

All the members begrudgingly rose from their seats and shuffled off, murmuring their goodbyes to Mirai. Nanami gave out a squeak of surprise when Mirai hugged her from behind, resting her chin on top of her head. "Have a good night Mi-chan." Again, Nanami looked away bashfully before following Ittoki out.

Ranmaru looked determinedly at the floor as they shared a moment of silence.

"Well? Can't keep your President waiting, right?" Mirai crossed her arms in annoyance. Out of all people it had to be him?

He grimaced before giving a deep sigh, "I lied."

"Eh?"

"No one can get a hold of the President."

She scoffed incredulously, "You're a real piece of work Kurosaki, you know that- "I'm sorry." The swiftness in his reply momentarily stunned her. His gaze was fixed upon her now, "There's something between us. Some unspoken understanding. I've felt that since the first time we met."

Her hands trembled, she suddenly felt very fragile. As if his words were breaking her apart piece by piece, leaving her raw.

His jaw clenched, unsure if he should continue. "I want to capture that sound again. A sound that can only be produced by us; together." Kurosaki lifted his chin towards the recording booth where she found an array of instruments waiting.

Mirai was dumbstruck.

It was as if she had entered a dream. Time loosened its grip on reality as she followed him into the booth. They stepped into an embrace and she nearly wept, overwhelmed by emotion. It felt like stepping into oneself. She didn't know how long they held each other like that and when they pulled apart there was a smile on his face she had never seen before.

They would go on to compose a few songs that night, working into the early hours of the morning. All would go on to be unreleased, it would be something kept only between them.

What would follow would be a blur of rushed meetings, long drawn-out talks with attorneys over contractual obligations. None of it really made much sense to Mirai, but the gist was that only in life-threatening circumstances can such contracts be broken. And while this was true, not enough evidence was provided to convince any attorney Saotome produced that would take on the case.

In the meantime, all of Mirai's appearances and shows were put on an indefinite hiatus. What hurt Mirai most was that she was advised to ignore all of Abe-san's calls for security purposes. Shining Studios was her new sanctuary where she would spend most of the time recording new songs with Haruka. And at night, she would steal away to Kurosaki's apartment.

Weeks passed in this fashion and while Mirai had been taken away from the cacophony of constantly performing, she grew to love the deliberateness in which she now lived. Time slowed. The moments in between are what she lived for now. All the stolen glances, the languid kisses, how he would sneak his hand underneath her shirt, resting it against the small of her back. The love they held for each other melded into a single melody; two indistinguishable players.

Kurosaki became addicted. He craved her at all hours of the day, and there would be nights he would devote hours to make her peak in pleasure over and over again, relishing in her rapture as if it was his own.

A glossy black car parked across the street from the Shining Agency. An early morning mist hung between the towering buildings, blurring everything with a softness. Company men, and business women, all dressed in varying tones of black and gray, littered the streets and walked with quick snaps of the heel. Never had the driver of the glossy black car felt so removed from the scene before him, but then again, he was not so usual a person.

After decades Ito had finally called upon his promised favor. Back when they were both lowly grunts working for the biggest crime lord, they found themselves working on a hit. He and Ito were to drive by a rumored meet up location for the rivaling group, stake it out, and unload once any significant looking member emerged. It didn't matter who, they were messengers sending a polite declaration of war.

Ito would drive while he (Giru), hidden in the back seat, would fire into the entrance. However, as these things go, the informant feeding their boss had also been doing the same to their rival. And when the door to the unobtrusive establishment opened, he and Ito were pelted by bullets. Giru had been hit significantly more than Ito and while having been hit in the leg himself, Ito managed to drive them out of there careening down the road to an underground doctor he knew.

He had saved his life and all these years later, all the decisions they had made which further separated them- this one debt was finally being called in. Giru had stayed within the organization, fighting his way through the ranks to become a higher-up with significant standing while Ito took the practical route- being his own boss, making his own money, and making himself scarce.

Giru cranked the handle to the car seat back into a near supine position. It didn't matter to him, a life was a life after all, everyone makes the most of it however they can. 'A life was a life', he repeated that thought again in his mind while he consciously felt the weight in his pocket. Life, while significant, was also meaningless, so many people were dying at the very moment others were being born. Energy negating itself, blending into one unchanging force propelling all others forward.

The soft chime of the parking garage drew him out of his thoughts as he sat up and peered with keen eyes at the emerging car. He was suddenly reminded of a memory buried deep in his consciousness, of when he was a boy watching a movie where a car materialized out of a tunnel in the mountains. The same scene unfolded before him, a gray car with two passengers lurched onto the street. He could clearly make them out, a man and a woman with two black guitar cases sitting in the back seat. Upon turning his key in the ignition, the car whirred to life and he urged it forward with a tentative press of his foot feeling he and the machine become one.

He went through the plan once more as he followed them from a distance. Wherever they were going, an apartment, or store, he would park his car nearby, take out Mirai as they exited the car, abandon the car, and leave the scene on foot amidst the chaos and confusion. He would walk to the nearest train station, call Ito, toss the phone, take a long train ride out to West Tokyo, hide out for a few weeks at his safe house, and then slink back into the city to disappear in plain sight. No harm, no foul. He had done this at least a half of dozen times before without any incident. This time would be no different.

The car ahead was beginning to turn onto smaller and vacant roads until it pulled into a car park near a few apartment buildings. Giru himself took care to park on the road adjacent to the lot and quickly began to assemble his belongings for the mad dash he would take once he fired his shot. He crouched down low on the floor of the car and readied his aim. His targets took their time parking and conversing lightly in the car before getting out and retrieving their guitars from the backseat. All the while they talked and laughed and talked some more. Giru peered around, despite being a residential area there were still people out and about, some mothers on their clunky bicycles cycling to daycares or supermarkets, older folks taking a leisurely stroll around their neighborhood breathing in the crisp morning air, and single men toting their loads of laundry to the laundromat probably getting errands done on a day off. 'Good', he thought to himself, sharpening his aim, 'very good.' One eyelid closed as the two began making their way out of the lot onto the pavement and just as they were rounding the corner, Giru unloaded his gun exactly three times. One plunged into her right shoulder while the other two bullets buried themselves squarely into her chest. She collapsed in a heap, staining the road with her blood. Giru wasted no time clambering out of the vehicle from the other side and with quick steps made his way onto the main road before following the street signs to the nearest station. He didn't look back once, he didn't need to, the moment the two bullets pierced her chest he knew she was dead.

Job was done, debts were paid. Giru joined the throng of commuters entering the station and quickly entered some coins into the worn slot of the telephone machine. It rang twice before connecting. "It's done." he said and without waiting for a reply hung up. He tapped his transit card at the gate, walked up the flight of stairs to his designated platform and wedged himself between the other passengers.

Giru disappeared.

In many ways it was exactly like how Ito imagined the fallout of her death. So many tributes, so many dedicated documentaries, programs, concerts in her memory. So much money! Giru had carried out his plan to a tee, and Ito made sure he compensated him. There was nothing more to do no other than divert his funds to his offshore accounts, maybe move to Australia or the Philippines and live a life of comfort and obscurity.

One night months after Mirai's death he sat in his office puffing out heavy smoke from his cigar. He had already taken care of most of his business and surveyed the scene before him. The empty office offered nothing but silence. Soon movers would come in and take the last of the furniture before carting off to some second-hand store.

Looking across his desk at the empty chair he pictured Mirai sitting there with him. Back when she was barely leaving adolescence, her eyes and heart brimming with hope and unadulterated love for music. A tightness gripped his chest. The darkness stirred. He leaned back in his plush leather seat and tapped off the excess ash into the marble tray on his desk. Without thought he pulled out his top drawer and reached for his gun.

Ran sat in the silence of the recording studio. The various knobs of the sounding board stared back at him like a thousand dull eyes. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he reached for his lighter. With a brief spark his mouth lit up. A long spindly vapor trail of smoke trailed from the thin cigarette. For what seemed the hundredth time, he pressed the rewind button on the tracks he and Mirai made together.