The afternoon of June eighteenth was quiet—so quiet it seemed to hold its breath. On the walk back from Studio Lilio, the air of early summer hung heavy along the Meguro River promenade. The cherry leaves had deepened into green, and the afternoon light mirrored in the water's surface swayed with a gentle languor. Haruno Kanata walked half a step behind Hayama Rio. The rehearsal had continued as it always did. At a particular passage in Debussy, his right ring finger had faltered, and Rio had marked the score in silence. The wordless correction carried neither anger nor disappointment. It was simply a recording of fact—of sound. It was this walk home that Kanata would find himself returning to again and again in the days that followed. It was just before two o'clock in the afternoon when Kanata settled onto the living room sofa and spread the next day's score, and Rio opened her production notebook to sit across from him. Light from the window fell quietly onto the body of the Steinway. The silence between them was the silence of work—of two people bound by something that had no name. The intercom rang at that moment. Kanata glanced at the monitor. The man in the hallway camera wore a gray suit—tailored to perfection, without a single thread out of place. His short hair was dyed silver with black mesh woven through it, and two small piercings gleamed in his left ear. His frame, one hundred eighty-two centimeters, filled the camera's frame. And on his face, there was a smile. It was Kirishima Rei. The score in Kanata's hands creased slightly. Senior manager of Noble Arts—the man who, three months ago, had learned Kanata's diagnosis and processed it as "activity suspension due to poor health." The man who had continued to use the signboard of Haruno Kanata the pianist as the foundation of his own career. That face smiled peacefully from within the monitor. "[serious]……" Rio was watching Kanata's profile. Kanata did not take his eyes from the monitor. Rei's voice came through the intercom. "[cold]It's been a while, Kanata. Do you have a moment to talk?" It was the voice one uses to greet an old acquaintance—soft, without pressure. Not a command. Only the tone of a nostalgic greeting. That composure placed lead in the depths of Kanata's stomach. Kanata met Rio's eyes. Her amber gaze nodded quietly. Kanata opened the door. --- When Rei entered the room, he surveyed the living space once. His gaze came to rest on Rio. One second. In that moment alone, his expression became one that had measured everything. One eyebrow rose, barely perceptibly. "[cold]Hayama Rio." Rei spoke while maintaining his smile. "[cold]I've seen your proposal. Remarkable passion." Rio's expression froze almost imperceptibly. The proposal—the staging plan she had rewritten night after night at Studio Lilio in Yoyogi-Uehara for Kanata's concert. It was in this man's hands. Since when. From where. The unanswerable questions thinned the air in the room. Rei settled onto the sofa. Without invitation, as though it were natural. He clasped his hands on his lap and turned to face Kanata. The smile had not faded. "[cold]Kanata, there's one thing I'd like to confirm." The tone of his voice did not change. It remained calm, low, and clear. "[cold]The exclusive management contract with Noble Arts—do you remember Article 11? The clause that prohibits any public performance or musical activity without written approval from the agency. If you're going to hold a concert, you'll need our approval. That's all there is to it." That's how it is, Rei added, as though it were a habit. Kanata did not answer. The ground beneath his rebuttal had crumbled in an instant. The contract had always been at the edge of his mind. From the day he saw his own name on Noble Arts' website, he had known this constraint existed somewhere. The clause Rei had just spoken aloud—it existed. Kanata was neither a lawyer nor a legal expert, but he knew that much. Rei continued. Still smiling. "[serious]And one more thing, if I may ask." The tone of his voice shifted by half a note. Softness remained, but something else was added. Like cloth wrapping a blade. "[cold]If your illness became known to the world—what do you think would happen?" Kanata looked up. Rei did not wait for an answer. "[cold]Your fans would despair. The industry would boil over—with sympathy and curiosity. The value of the music you've built up until now would be consumed as nothing but the tragedy of a dying genius. The name Haruno Kanata would be used to sell the flowers placed in a coffin. That's how it would be." The words fell into the room like blades. Kanata did not move. Could not move. Rei's words were the very core of what Kanata had been telling himself night after night for three months. The words that had risen and sunk repeatedly in the shuttered room, before the closed piano. Consumed as the tragedy of a dying genius. He had hated that. He had feared it. Even through the days of rehearsal, that fear had not disappeared. It had not disappeared—and yet now, another's mouth had given those words perfect language. As though his inner self had been read directly. Kanata clenched his fist on his knee. He could say nothing. Could not deny it. Rei watched that silence. One eyebrow rose quietly. His expression was emotionless, as though confirming a direct hit. Rio stared at Rei. Without sound, without movement. Only her eyes never left him for a moment. --- Rei rose slowly. He straightened the hem of his suit and prepared to leave the living room. As he turned toward the door, he glanced back with an air of casualness. "[cold]Hayama, would you step into the hallway for a moment?" It was not a command. It was phrased as a suggestion. Before Kanata, he maintained his gentlemanly demeanor to the end. Rio sent a brief glance to Kanata. There was something in her eyes, but Kanata could not read it. Rio stepped into the hallway. The door closed. --- The moment Rio stepped into the hallway, the tone of Rei's voice changed. The smile remained. The volume did not change. But something had been stripped away entirely. All the warmth directed toward another person. "[cold]You haven't forgotten what happened to you five years ago." Rio did not move. "[cold]Beyond the curtain call. Opening night cancelled. The headline in the industry magazine. After that, you had no work for half a year. If something like that happened again—this time you'd fall to a place you could never return from." Rei stood directly in front of Rio and continued flatly. As though reading facts. Without emotion. That very absence of feeling cut deeper than any shout. "[cold]Don't get close to Kanata. For his sake, and for yours. That's all." Rei stepped into the elevator, maintaining his smile. The sound of the closing doors echoed quietly through the hallway. Rio stood in that spot. For several seconds, her feet would not move. She could feel her pulse quickening in her chest. Rei's words were not a threat. They took the form of advice. And precisely because of that, she could find no words to refute them. She had simply been presented with facts. What happened five years ago was fact. The cancelled opening night was fact. What the industry magazine had written was fact. Rio opened the door. Kanata was sitting in the chair before the piano. He was simply looking at the closed keyboard. His hands rested on his knees. Not on the lid. Their eyes met. Neither opened their mouth. Kanata had no words to ask what had been said in the hallway. Rio did not yet have the resolve to speak. Only that silence remained between them. --- Evening came. The light from the window began to take on an orange hue, and the contours of the room slowly dissolved into that hour of twilight. Rio had her production notebook open. She held a pen. But she could write nothing. The line that should have run across the page hung suspended in the air. Kanata sat in the piano chair with both hands resting on the lid. He did not open it. The keyboard lid remained closed, its black glossy surface quietly returning the fading light. —Consumed as the tragedy of a dying genius. Rei's voice echoed repeatedly in his mind. Kanata had no words to kill that voice. He thought of the days of rehearsal with Rio. The night Rio had written in the score. The cold fingertips that had touched his trembling hand. All of it now pressed toward him in alternation with Rei's words. Are you also trying to use my tragedy? The question rose to his throat, and Kanata swallowed it. He knew Rio's eyes had been warm. He remembered the eyes that had filled with tears at the sound of music. But—he had also confirmed Rei's precision of calculation with his own eyes today. That man had read Kanata's inner self accurately. Then perhaps someone else too might have reason to read what lay within him. Between belief and doubt, Kanata could not move. Rio was watching Kanata's profile. Rei's threat had also eroded Rio's own ground. The wound from five years ago had opened again today. Something was flowing from it. In this moment, Rio did not possess the words she should speak to Kanata. Not possessing them was eroding her inner self further. "[cold]Let's end here for today." Rio spoke. Her voice was quiet. Untroubled. But it was slightly lower than usual. "[serious]……I see." Kanata nodded. Rio gathered her things. She placed her sketchbook in her bag, put away her tablet. The usual motions. Kanata watched her back. Three nights ago, Kanata had opened the curtains and watched Rio's retreating figure as she walked along the path by the Meguro River. That act remained in his hand tonight, unfinished. Kanata reached for the curtain. His fingertips touched the fabric. And stopped. He let go. The curtain remained closed, unmoved. --- As night deepened, Kirishima Rei had returned to the Noble Arts headquarters in Minami-Aoyama. Seated at his desk in the management division on the second floor, he operated his smartphone. His fingers slid across the screen. Smoothly, swiftly, with emotionless motion. The first contact was an indirect path to Katakiri Yoshiaki, the theater director of Theatre Iris. He used the name of Chairman Jōnouchi Masaomi. Indirectly, politely. Conveying the concerns of a man of influence, as though in passing. Next came contact with a video production company—providing information that there were concerns about Hayama's current reputation. This too was not direct. Circuitous. Rei was working. Not overtime. This was his work. --- Beginning in the deep night, messages arrived at Rio's workspace and office, a ten-minute walk from Studio Lilio in Yoyogi-Uehara. The first came under the guise of schedule adjustment. The project would be returning to blank slate, written in polite language. The next came from a different client. They wished to reconsider future contracts, the message read. The next, and the next after that. Rio opened each email one by one. With each one she read, her hands changed slightly. Not trembling. Not yet. But something was certainly changing. The strength in her fingers as she held the smartphone increased incrementally. Her nails touched the screen. They did not yet grip hard enough to turn white. Rio placed her production notebook on the desk. She tried to open it. Could not. The line that should have run across the page did not appear. --- In the corner room on the fifth floor of the apartment building in Nakameguro, Kanata held his phone in his hand. He displayed Rio's number and pressed the call button. The dial tone rang. Three times. Four. Five. It did not connect. Kanata placed the phone on the table. Screen down. Then he sat in the chair before the piano. He reached for the lid. Slowly, he tried to lift it—and Rei's voice played again. The name Haruno Kanata would be used to sell the flowers placed in a coffin. His hand stopped.