Wanderers of Sorceria Producer-san's Work Log 3 The producer develops a rapport with the Sonic Azure Records liaison, Yui Kasuga ========================================================== ## Work Log – The Former Idol I met today with Yui Kasuga, the liaison from Sonic Azure Records assigned to Moonlight Prism. The meeting took place in my office at Prism Productions, and though it was meant to be routine-- coordination for the next quarter's release schedule-- it became something else entirely. Before I get ahead of myself, a few words about Kasuga-san. She was once part of Sunshine Melody, the idol group that imploded after the 'Veiled Echoes' scandal last year. That was the mess that dragged Hana and Riko's names into the gossip cycle; people were trying to paint their friendship into something sensational and cheap. It was unfair to both of them. At the time, I wanted nothing to do with anyone from Sunshine Melody. Their camp had caused too much damage. When Sonic Azure first informed me they'd be assigning Kasuga-san as our liaison before our Tokyo Dome milestone concert, I nearly refused. I didn't want to look across the table and see one of *them*. But Hana spoke up for her; she said that Kasuga-san had reached out privately, apologizing on behalf of her former leader, saying she never agreed with the way the situation was handled. That she'd been trying to make things right ever since. Hana's words carry weight with me. So I gave Kasuga-san a chance. And over time, I've seen why Hana believed in her. Kasuga-san is methodical, professional, and very organized. She is the kind of person who shows up early, already knowing the agenda, with a backup plan in her notebook for every possible contingency. She doesn't grandstand or posture. There's no idol veneer left. Sometimes, watching her work, I wonder if she's happier now, with no stage lights, no endless scrutiny, no fan wars over outfits or hand gestures. Maybe she's finally found a place where she doesn't have to perform; just the rhythm of planning, organizing, and keeping things moving. ...And now that I'm writing this, I realize I've spent most of the page talking about *her* instead of the meeting itself. We discussed the usual topics: budget projections, tour coordination, and the next music video we are working out. Nothing unusual, nothing dramatic. But it didn't feel routine, either. I told her we should continue the conversation later-- over dinner. She agreed without hesitation. At least she seemed interested. I suppose I'll write about the rest of the meeting after that. End of log. ---- Follow-up entry on last night's dinner meeting with Yui Kasuga. There was nothing remarkable about the setting; it was a quiet restaurant a few blocks from the office. We were both still in our work clothes, of course; it was not a date. It was supposed to be a working dinner, and I meant to keep it that way. For the most part, it was just business. We discussed scheduling, sponsorships, and the logistics of the next tour. As usual, it was professional, efficient, and decidedly unremarkable. But somewhere along the line, the conversation drifted. I don't remember exactly how-- it might have been between the appetizer and the main course-- but I found myself asking her about *her*. Kasuga-san didn't seem surprised. She just smiled a little, the kind of tired, but genuine smile people wear when they've told a story many times but still feel something when they tell it. I suppose she was used to being asked this question, being a former idol. She told me she started as a trainee when she was still in high school. Two years of daily rehearsals, lessons, and auditions. Then someone at her future label, Phoenix Apex Sound, saw potential-- not the kind that makes headlines, but the kind that fills schedules-- and gave her a shot at a solo career. She said she was competent enough: she could sing on pitch, dance well, and take direction. But she didn't have what she called "the spark." She lacked the kind of magnetism that pulls an audience in by instinct. She had some fans, enough to fill small venues and keep the merchandise moving, but never the kind of popularity that turns a name into a brand. In other words, she was a dime-a-dozen J-pop idol in a sea full of idols that made it to the professional stage competing for the same airspace. When her solo career plateaued, she was twenty-two and already considered "past her peak." Her words, not mine. She laughed a little when she said it, but there wasn't any bitterness behind it, just realism. Then she told me about the offer that came next. A new idol group being formed, Sunshine Melody, needed someone with experience and reliability, someone who wouldn't crumble under the pressure of leading less-seasoned girls. She joined, seeing it as a way to remain relevant doing the only thing she knew how to do. Kasuga-san admitted those were the best years of her idol life; the group dynamic suited her. She didn't have to be the center, just the steady hand keeping the formation tight. And for a while, things were good. Until the end, of course: the scandal, the fallout, and everything that came with it. She didn't dwell on that part. She just said, "I learned more from how it ended than how it started." I realized I had barely touched my meal by the time she finished. I was listening too closely. What struck me wasn't the tragedy of it, but the honesty. Most former idols either embellish their past or bury it. Kasuga-san just laid it out plainly without self-pity or grand gestures; it was full of candid facts, of a life she moved on from and made peace with. Hers was a career that wasn't a fairytale, but one she didn't regret. Looking at her now, I can see why Sonic Azure fast-tracked her after she left the stage. She has what they call "organizational gravity." People naturally rely on her. Maybe, in her own way, she finally became the kind of professional she always wanted to be-- one who didn't have to perform for the sake of an audience, but for herself. Dinner ended around nine. We agreed to split the bill. She thanked me for the opportunity, and I told her the same. I don't think either of us said anything particularly profound, but as far as dinners go, it was one of the better ones I've had in recent memory. End of log. ---- It's been a few days since the dinner meeting with Kasuga-san, but I've been thinking about it more than I expected to. Tonight, after finishing up the day's paperwork, I came home, made some instant curry, and sat down with 'Silent Architecture' again. This time, though, it was... harder. It was not because of the photos. I've seen them before-- superstar actress and fashion model Shizuka Minazuki framed in photographer Yuki Kanzaki's lens, poised and distant, as if made of marble and silence. I know the aesthetic now: the contrast of fragility and strength, the way she bends light into emotion without ever breaking expression. But this time, as I turned each page, I started seeing someone else. Yui Kasuga. That's what unsettled me. It was not in the same way as before, of course. It wasn't lust, not even curiosity. It was... projection, maybe. A single man's mind trying to make sense of what he wants. I told myself it's natural. I'm human. I've spent years in this job surrounded by ambition, youth, and art. I manage five talented men and women who trust me to keep their world stable. I've come to think of them as my kids-- even if I'm only a handful of years older than the oldest of them. They rely on me to draw the lines they shouldn't have to. Kasuga-san, however, is not one of them. She's outside my circle of responsibility, a colleague from the label, a professional. A contemporary. An equal. And that distinction has been echoing in my head ever since the dinner. Unlike Shizuka Minazuki, who is an honorary member of Moonlight Prism-- part of their legacy, even-- Kasuga-san was once a *rival*. A name from the opposite side of the stage. She's walked the same paths, stumbled on the same stones. She knows the business from both sides of the curtain. Maybe that's why she lingers in my thoughts. There's no imbalance there. No paternal instinct. Just... understanding. I caught myself wondering tonight-- halfway through page thirty-eight, where Minazuki's body framed against a broken column, light carving her silhouette-- what it would feel like to ask Kasuga-san out properly. Not a "meeting," not a "follow-up," but a date. Then I laughed to myself. Maybe that's just my professional brain making excuses again. Dressing a desire in work clothes so it doesn't look improper. It's not the first time I've looked at a woman, of course. I'm not a saint, and I've been single long enough to know that solitude plays tricks on perception. But even now, I don't really *know* how this is supposed to work. Riko's gone through more first dates than I can count. She always came back from them with a story, half-laughter, half-disaster. I actually caught myself wondering if I should ask her for advice. Then I imagined her reaction-- the smirk, the teasing-- and decided against it immediately. I don't need that kind of humiliation before the next recording session. For now, I've closed 'Silent Architecture' and left it on the coffee table. I think I'll leave it there a while. It's strange-- this book used to unsettle me because of what it showed. Now it unsettles me because of what it makes me *think about.* I'll sleep on it. Maybe by morning, I'll know whether this is curiosity or something that deserves a name. ---- ## Work Log - The Way We Familiarize Ourselves is Important Today's meeting with Kasuga-san was meant to be routine-- a simple progress discussion on Moonlight Prism's upcoming promotional cycle. I had my notes ready, the agenda prepared, the same formula I've used for countless meetings before. It should have been an ordinary afternoon. And yet, it wasn't. About halfway through, when I was clarifying scheduling adjustments for the upcoming showcase, I said, "Yui, could you confirm the venue availability for that date?" The moment the name left my mouth, I realized what I had done. It hung there-- that first name-- softer, too familiar. Yui noticed. I could tell by the way her eyes flickered, the brief pause before she answered, the ghost of a smile that almost formed and didn't. But she didn't comment. She simply nodded professionally and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. I did the same. We finished the meeting in proper form. She left the office with her usual calm stride, offering a polite "Thank you for your time." I returned the gesture. And that was that. But now, sitting here with the office quiet, I can't stop turning it over in my mind. Why did I say her name like that? Was it fatigue? Habit? Or something else I don't want to admit? When I refer to Hana, Riko, or the others by their first names, it's paternal, protective, and part of my role as their producer. They're my *kids*, no matter how grown they are. But Kasuga-san isn't one of them. She's not someone I oversee. She's a professional equal. And maybe that's what unsettles me. There's a kind of ease in keeping people compartmentalized. The artists. The management. The staff. The friends. The boundaries make sense of the chaos. But calling her *Yui* crossed one of those boundaries, and I can't tell if I did it because I wanted to, or because I *forgot* to care for a moment. She didn't seem offended-- quite the opposite, if I'm being honest. There was warmth in her silence. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I wanted to. Still, I keep rationalizing. She's not under my supervision. She's an adult who's seen this industry's sharp edges more than once. It wouldn't be wrong to consider her a peer. And yet... what if it *does* mean something? I've written before that professionalism is the foundation of everything I do. But perhaps professionalism can coexist with familiarity, if it's honest. Or perhaps I'm only saying that to excuse myself. For now, I'll mark this down as a slip-- nothing more, nothing less. But if I catch myself saying her name like that again... I'll have to decide whether it's still an accident. End of log. ---- ## Work Log - Art Exhibit Visit: 'Silent Architecture' (with Yui Kasuga) This evening, I accepted Yui Kasuga's invitation to attend the 'Silent Architecture' art exhibit. Officially, it was a gesture of politeness. Unofficially, it was something else entirely. I'd wanted an excuse to see it anyway-- to view the photographs in a gallery setting, larger than life, with the ambient lighting and curated soundscape that Yuki Kanzaki designed to accompany them. But saying as much would have sounded too personal. So when Yui asked, I said yes without hesitation. The venue itself was understated-- minimalist, with pale walls and long corridors that seemed to swallow sound. The air smelled faintly of lacquer and citrus cleaner, that distinct scent of art galleries trying to be modern. And there, displayed across the room in perfect symmetry, were the photographs. Shizuka Minazuki, in all her quiet power. Each image felt familiar, yet different in this scale. The muted tones, the architectural lines, the play of shadow and body-- all of it amplified. Cards beside each photograph contained commentary from Yuki Kanzaki herself: short paragraphs about composition, intent, emotion. It gave everything a sense of legitimacy, of depth that almost excused the sensuality. Almost. Yui seemed more relaxed here than I've ever seen her. Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe the anonymity. She wore casual clothes for once, her aqua hair loose and free, the edges of her professionalism softened. She seemed to breathe differently-- slower, lighter. We talked about the art. Or I tried to. She observed that Yuki's photography captured not just beauty but *stillness*, a word she used several times. "It's not about seduction," she said, "it's about restraint." I nodded, pretending that was what I had always seen. But the truth is, I struggled to separate the two. Seeing Yui articulate that so easily made me wonder if I had misunderstood the intent all along, or if I was simply too human to look without wanting. We walked slowly through the exhibit, our conversations drifting between technique and philosophy, occasionally looping back to the industry itself. She laughed softly when I called it a young person's game. "You're not wrong," she said, "but that doesn't mean the rest of us are out of it. We just... move behind the curtain." We stayed longer than I planned. The crowd thinned until only a few murmured voices remained. Near the final set of photographs-- a stark monochrome sequence of Minazuki standing against an unfinished concrete wall-- Yui grew quiet. "I miss it sometimes," she said finally. "Not the fame or the spotlight, but... the feeling that someone out there was waiting for me. Even if it was just a handful of people." Her voice didn't crack. She wasn't fishing for sympathy. It was just a statement-- honest, small, and entirely human. She smiled right after, that small idol-trained smile that conceals more than it shows. "I was the least popular member, you know. The fans used to call me 'the dependable one,' which is another way of saying 'the boring one.'" I told her dependability is the rarest quality in this business. She laughed again, and said that's probably why she ended up where she is now. I admired her candor... well, I still do. But as I sit here typing this, I realize I don't know what it means-- the exhibit, the invitation, or her openness. Was it just two professionals sharing an appreciation for art? Or something quietly shifting between us, unnamed but present? I don't have an answer yet. I suspect I'll find out only by accident, the same way I called her "Yui" last week. End of log. ---- ## Work Log – Dinner with Kasuga-san (Yui). I left the office around 18:45. I had been planning to head straight to the parking lot, but of course, I ran into Riko and Itsuki on the way out. I should have known better than to cross paths with those two when they were between rehearsals-- especially when I was wearing something other than my usual rumpled blazer. Riko took one look at me, tilted her head, and gave that knowing little smirk of hers. "Oho, Producer-san's all dressed up. Going on a *date*, huh?" I told her, quite firmly, that it was *not* a date. She didn't believe me. Then Itsuki had to make it worse. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, loud enough for the whole hallway to hear, "You're living the dream, Tanaka-P! Who's the lucky woman?" The security guard was smiling when I passed. I don't think I'll live that one down soon. Truthfully, it made me realize how easily they-- Hana, Riko, Itsuki, Kaede, even Astra in her own prickly way-- let their personal lives bleed into the walls of Prism Productions. Maybe that's inevitable when you spend so many hours together. Still, I've always made a point of keeping mine separate. That's my role. I'm the *adult in the room.* So yes, for the record: *it's not a date.* But I am, technically speaking, using company resources to go to dinner with Yui Kasuga. The limousine, to be specific. I justified it to myself by noting she was our liaison with the music label and we are discussing business. But I know better. It's the same excuse I let the others use. Riko used the limo for her numerous first dates until she and Itsuki started dating. Then they started using it together when they could get away with it. Kaede liked using the back seat as a private office, for private conversations, when he has an office inside the building. I have not worked up the nerve to ask him why. Astra... well, she once sent me to deliver her dry cleaning because she didn't want to be seen in public before a live set. Only Hana has a perfect record; she never used the limo for anything save for official work. I can already imagine her raising an eyebrow if she found out about tonight. I'll admit, part of me wonders if I deserve the dressing down. Still, the reservation is made at that small Chinese restaurant near the Sumida River-- the one with the good dumplings and terrible parking. I told the driver I would notify him when we were finished. For now, I'll close this entry with one more clarification for the record: *It's not a date.* I'll finish this after dinner. ---- Writing this from my apartment. The clock says 23:18. I've just poured myself a cup of coffee I don't need, and Shizuka Minazuki's 'Silent Architecture' still sits on the coffee table, open to one of the middle sections I never quite got through. The lighting in here feels softer than usual, maybe because I turned the desk lamp toward the wall. Dinner with Yui went well. Remarkably well, actually. The food was good, but the conversation was better. It started harmlessly enough: the 'Silent Architecture' exhibit, how the larger prints felt more vulnerable than the photobook ever did. Yui noted that Minazuki's stillness in those photos wasn't just composure-- it was resignation mixed with resolve. I hadn't seen it that way. I told her I saw the photos as strength through restraint, but she shook her head and said, "It's strength, but it's also solitude." That lingered with me. From there we talked about the industry, its cycles of creation and burnout, and how quickly the public moves on. We reminisced-- me about old projects that never took off, her about concerts where she would look out into the audience and feel like she was performing for ghosts. Somewhere along the way, the small talk turned into something else. I think we were both describing loneliness without quite naming it. Yui admitted that she still dreams about the stage sometimes. She said it almost casually, but her voice softened when she described the phantom feeling of hearing the crowd's applause one last time before stepping offstage as part of Sunshine Melody. But reality set in, and she was removed from her position, with no applause, no farewell concert, nothing. She called it "a dream that ended mid-song." I told her I understood. Truth is, I never got even that far. I had my own dream once-- a high school band that never made it past the cultural festival. I thought I'd be a songwriter, maybe even perform someday. But reality closed that road early, neatly and efficiently, before I had time to realize how much it hurt. Yui got to live her dream, even if it slipped through her fingers. I didn't. And now we're both professionals in the aftermath, managing, producing, maintaining. Successful, but not quite fulfilled. That unspoken parallel sat between us for the rest of the meal. It wasn't awkward. If anything, we *understood* each other. When I got home, I looked at 'Silent Architecture' again. I hadn't realized before how much Minazuki's photos mirror this same idea-- the slow erosion of passion turned into poise, the way beauty hardens into something architectural. The photo on the current page shows her standing by a half-finished concrete structure, the edges blurring into the sky. Yuki Kanzaki's note beside it reads: "Form is what remains when feeling departs." Maybe that's what we're both left with now: form, structure, and the remnants of what once burned bright. Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel something different tonight. A small spark, maybe, at the edge of all that formality and restraint. So, for accuracy, and for honesty, I'll amend my previous log entry: yes, it was a date. And I find myself looking forward to the next one. End of log. ---- ## Work Log - Prism Productions Studio, Recording Session Moonlight Prism was in the studio today recording the new single. Nothing extraordinary, just another long session-- hours of small adjustments, mic checks, and layered takes that test everyone's patience. Yui Kasuga joined me in the control room, observing quietly for most of it. She didn't insert herself into the process, but I could tell she was paying attention to every little thing: phrasing, tone balance, and how Hana's violin lines were sitting in the mix. When Sonic Azure Records wanted something emphasized, she spoke up-- calmly, clearly, without ever stepping on anyone's toes. It's a skill that comes from experience, I think; she understands when to speak and when silence does the work. I found myself admiring that balance. For me, it was just another workday. The kind of thing I've done hundreds of times before. But during the mid-afternoon break, Hana slipped into the control room to talk to Yui about a section of the bridge. It was casual-- two professionals comparing notes-- and I was too relaxed, too unguarded. I said, "Yui, could you--" before realizing what I'd done. Hana's eyes flicked toward me. There was that knowing look-- soft, amused, the kind that doesn't need words. She smiled in a way that told me she'd already figured everything out. She excused herself not long after, saying she'd make sure Yui and I had "some time to ourselves." I can already imagine the quiet teasing later. Hana doesn't gossip, but she doesn't *miss* anything either. I must've looked embarrassed, because Yui reached out and patted my shoulder-- a light, professional gesture, but it lingered just long enough to feel personal. She told me not to worry, that it was a good thing everyone here is so comfortable with one another. She's right; it is. Still... the moment stayed with me. Hana always calls her "Yui," too, but it sounds different coming from me. Maybe because I can't quite decide what it means. If Moonlight Prism are "my kids," then what is Yui Kasuga to me? A colleague? A peer? Something else entirely? I suppose I'll need more than a recording session to figure that out. ---- ## Work Log - Utter Transparency Today was... unusual. I had to take Astra over to Moon River Talent Agency to meet with Tsukiko Kisaragi. Usually, it's the other way around; I'm the one escorting Tsukiko to Prism Productions, but schedules got crossed, and I ended up being Astra's ride. It's rare to share the back of the limousine with Astra. Normally, I can't get more than a few words out of her before she retreats into her own quiet world. She doesn't like small talk, and I've long since stopped trying to fill the silence. So, this time, I made a decision: say nothing and hope she doesn't bite my head off. For the first five minutes, it worked beautifully. The hum of the engine, the muted city outside the tinted windows. It was peaceful, almost meditative in a way. Then I realized the silence had shifted. Astra wasn't ignoring me; she was *watching* me. Her eyes-- those sharp, gold irises that always look half-asleep until they're not-- were fixed directly on me. She didn't blink. It wasn't just a glance; it was an *inspection*. I swear she was looking straight through me, peeling me apart like a file she'd already memorized. Finally, she said it: "You're quiet today." I replied, perhaps too honestly, that I thought she'd appreciate the silence. "I do," she said. Then, without warning, she leaned back, crossed her arms, and added flatly, "But you may as well ask out Yui Kasuga. There's no use hiding it." I think my brain short-circuited for a few seconds. Astra... the same Astra who speaks maybe a dozen words an hour, was giving *me* relationship advice. And not even vague advice, but direct, no-nonsense advice. I couldn't think of a response. I think I stammered something about professionalism and boundaries, but she didn't react. She simply looked out the window as if nothing happened. By the time we pulled up to Moon River, she opened the door without another word and stepped out. And yet... I can't get that look out of my head. The way she stared through me before she said it, like she *knew* something I hadn't even admitted to myself. Was Astra giving me permission? Or was she just reading me like an open book and finding me laughably transparent? Either way, I've never felt so unnerved in my life. I thought her biting remarks were scary, but her eyes piercing into my soul was something else entirely. ---- I initially phrased it as a "work dinner." I thought it sounded professional enough-- an excuse to discuss schedules and Moonlight Prism's next release without implying anything else. But before I could even finish my sentence, Yui laughed, set her phone down, and asked point-blank, "Tanaka-san, are you asking me out?" I could feel my face heating up like a stage spotlight. Transparency has never been my strong suit. I mumbled something about "team cohesion" and "communication," which only made her laugh harder. She waved her hand and said she'd pick the place, something *relaxed*, and suggested an izakaya near the station. I'll admit I was relieved. I had originally been considering an upscale French restaurant, thinking that's what one did for these things. But the idea of grilled skewers, shared plates, and the hum of after-work chatter sounded... right. Familiar, if a little ordinary. I've had hundreds of meals like this with coworkers over the years, talking about deadlines and the industry. I told myself this would be the same. It wasn't. After the first beer arrived, we talked casually-- about rehearsals, studio acoustics, and how Astra posts the strangest things on social media that only her diehard fans seem to understand. Then, out of nowhere, Yui leaned forward slightly and asked, "Have you ever dated a woman before?" I nearly choked on my drink. I told her, truthfully, that I hadn't dated anyone since high school. She didn't seem shocked, just curious. She rested her chin on her hand and smiled. "Would it be okay if I took the lead, then?" I nodded. What else could I do? She laughed softly. "It's actually comforting, you know? Most men in this business try to be in charge all the time. It's exhausting. But you don't give off that energy." I wasn't sure how to respond, so I defaulted to honesty again. "Being overly controlling can be... problematic," I said. That's when her expression changed. Still smiling, but sharper-- like she'd been waiting for me to say that. "Then why do you keep such a distance from Moonlight Prism?" she asked. It caught me off guard. I told her that as their producer, it's my responsibility to maintain that boundary: to stay objective, to protect them from the industry's harsher edges. Yui tilted her head. "Protect them from what, exactly? Or from *whom*?" I didn't have an answer. Or rather, I had too many: from the label's demands, from burnout, from the same mistakes I made. From myself, maybe. She must have seen the gears turning, because she softened again, tapping her glass against mine. "You know, Tanaka-san," she said, "they don't need a guardian. They need someone who believes they can stand on their own." Her words stuck with me all the way home. When I got back, I found myself paging through 'Silent Architecture' again. The lighting in the particular photograph I was looking at-- the one of Minazuki standing in front of the window, neither facing nor turning away-- reminded me of Yui's expression tonight. Something about trust balanced with distance. Intimacy held at arm's length. ---- Kaede isn't someone I usually pull aside for casual conversation. He's direct, quiet, and gives off that calm, analytical energy that reminds me of my old project managers-- the kind who could walk into a room and settle the chaos just by standing there. But after what Yui said to me last night about distance, trust, and letting go, I needed another perspective. Preferably one grounded in reason. So when Kaede dropped by the office that morning to hand off rehearsal footage, I asked if he had a moment to talk. He nodded once, leaned against the wall, and waited. I decided not to dance around the subject. "Kaede," I began, "you've been with Moonlight Prism for a while now. What's your take on why Hana decided to form Prism Productions, and why she hired me, specifically?" He didn't answer right away. Instead, he folded his arms and looked down at the floor like he was replaying some memory. When he finally spoke, it was measured, steady. "Hana knows how to run a business," he said. "That much was obvious from the start. She studied management, she understands contracts, and she has a knack for organization. But what people miss about her is that she never wanted to *be* a businesswoman. She wanted to make music with her friends. That's what this is about." I asked him to elaborate. "Hana formed Prism Productions as a barrier," he continued. "Between Moonlight Prism and Sonic Azure. Between the band's creative side and the corporate side, to be more precise. Running the company gave her control, but it also took her away from her violin. That's the trade-off." It made sense. I'd seen the same story a dozen times-- talented people forced into management, slowly drifting from the art they loved. But before I could comment, Kaede added, "As for why she hired *you*? I can't speak for her. But if I had to guess, you're not one of those over-the-hill producers trying to reinvent the band into something they're not. You listen. You understand what Moonlight Prism sounds like. I think Hana wanted someone she could trust to keep that sound alive while she focused on the music again." I didn't know what to say to that. Trust. The same word Yui used the night before. I told Kaede I might ask Hana about it someday, just to understand her reasoning directly. He nodded. "You should. She respects honesty. She'll tell you what you want to know." He turned to leave, but something in me hesitated, maybe the echo of Yui's voice in my mind, and I asked one more question. "What's your opinion of Yui Kasuga?" Kaede stopped mid-step. I could almost see the gears turning behind his composed expression. "I won't speculate on why you're asking," he said finally, with a faint smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't know her very well. But from what I know-- Hana trusts her. That's good enough for me." With that, he left. I sat there for a while afterward, thinking about how everyone I talk to keeps coming back to the same thing: *trust.* ---- I'll start by saying this was one of the hardest meetings I've ever had. Not because of conflict, not because of numbers or deadlines-- but because it required me to sit across from Hana Kawamura and see her not as the quiet, gentle young woman I always thought needed protection, but as the accomplished, perceptive, and *adult* woman she truly is. It's difficult to explain. Hana has this air about her-- calm, soft-spoken, polite-- that disarms you. She has layers, the kind that make you feel like you're looking at the surface of a pond, only to realize there's an ocean beneath it. I've always respected her, but today, I realized how much I've also underestimated her. I asked her the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind since my conversation with Kaede: "why did you hire me?" She smiled faintly, as if she knew I'd ask someday, and tilted her head. "Why now?" she asked. I told her the truth. That lately, I've been questioning my place in the company. That sometimes, I feel Riko, Itsuki, and even Astra don't respect me. That made her laugh. Not mockingly, but warmly, like I'd said something both ridiculous and sweet. "Hana," I said, trying not to sound too defensive, "I'm serious. They make jokes, they treat me like a friend, but not like their producer." She placed her hand against her cheek, still smiling. "That's because they *like* you, Tanaka-san. Maybe not as their producer. But as a *person*. Isn't that the more important part?" That one caught me off guard. "I always thought respect was the foundation of this job," I said. She nodded, but her tone grew gentler. "It is. But what you're describing isn't disrespect. When Riko teases you or Itsuki gets casual, that's not rejection, that's acceptance. It means you're on the same level as them. They don't see you as some untouchable figure in a suit, but someone they can actually talk to." I sat there processing that for a long while. Hana then added, "Astra's different. She prefers silence, but it doesn't mean she dislikes people. She just... doesn't know how to be around them for long. You've been patient with her, and even if she doesn't say it, she appreciates that you look after her interests, even when they aren't what she wants in the moment. Astra sees that. We all do." That statement hit deeper than I expected; I didn't know how to respond. I wanted to ask her what *she* thought of me, what her personal opinion was of how I've handled things so far, but something told me not to push it. If Hana was offering insight this freely, it probably meant she thought I was doing fine. It was probably better to leave it at that. ---- Today was supposed to be routine. I was only escorting Astra to Moon River Talent Agency for another collaborative session with Tsukiko Kisaragi. The limousine ride was blissfully quiet-- Astra was in one of her meditative moods, staring out the window like she could see through the clouds. Once we arrived, I was invited to wait in the lounge while she and Tsukiko went over some material. That was when I found myself in conversation with Tsukiko's agent, Arisa-san. Or, more precicely, the agent at Moon River that looked after Moonlight Prism. Arisa-san has a way of talking that feels like she's both interviewing you and testing you. We exchanged the usual pleasantries-- project updates, scheduling, how Moonlight Prism's recent single was performing-- and I don't quite remember what prompted it, but at one point I mentioned I'd never actually met Shizuka Minazuki. Arisa-san raised an eyebrow and said, "You've never met her?" I told her, truthfully, no. She gave a little half-smile and replied, "She's in the building. Would you like to?" I tried to protest; I didn't want to intrude, that she was probably busy, but Arisa-san waved it off. "We can fit you in between shots," she said. "It'll only take a moment." So I agreed... against my better judgment. When I stepped into the studio, I wasn't ready for what I saw. Shizuka Minazuki-- the same woman whose photobook I had spent weeks poring over, analyzing, even struggling with-- stood before a backdrop painted with clouds and cotton fields, dressed as *Little Bo Peep*. The curls of her blond wig framed her porcelain face, her ruffled bonnet looked almost comically oversized, and her pastel dress ballooned around her like spun sugar. She held a toy shepherd's crook in one hand, gazing toward the camera with soft, rehearsed melancholy. For a moment, my brain couldn't reconcile it. This was *the* Shizuka Minazuki-- the stoic, introspective, unreachable muse of 'Silent Architecture'-- now channeling a nursery rhyme heroine with a giant plush sheep at her feet. It hit me then how completely I had constructed her in my mind-- the "serious artist," the "untouchable icon." Yet here she was, completely human, professional, doing her job in a way I never considered. When the photographer called for a quick lighting break, Arisa-san waved me over. Minazuki-san turned toward me. She smiled and inclined her head slightly. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than I expected. "You're from Prism Productions, aren't you?" I introduced myself properly. She seemed to recognize my name. I don't know what possessed me, but I asked the one question that had been burning in my mind for weeks, ever since I had learned of her role in the band's early days. "Minazuki-san, why did you help them back then? Moonlight Prism, I mean. You didn't have to." She blinked once, like the answer was so obvious she hadn't considered it in years. Then she said, simply, "Because they believed in themselves. Most people in this business spend all their time trying to *be* something. They were already *becoming* something. I just wanted to see what they'd turn into." Before I could reply, the photographer called her back. She smiled again faintly, knowingly, and turned away, taking her mark. I stood there for a while, watching her pose, until Arisa-san gently reminded me it was time to go. ---- My apartment was quiet again. Just the sound of the city outside-- trains sighing, someone's television muffled through the wall. The kind of silence that's not empty, only full of small, persistent life. I think I finally understand what Yui meant when she told me, "Producing isn't control. It's trust." Back then I thought it was one of her metaphors-- like the way she talks about stage lighting as if it's a language. But she was right; a band like Moonlight Prism doesn't need a leash. They need someone who believes that the leap won't end in freefall. Looking back, that's what Shizuka Minazuki gave them. She didn't hand them success-- she *opened the door* and trusted they'd walk through it on their own. Hana, Riko, Itsuki, Kaede, Astra... all of them built something from that first gesture of faith. It's humbling. I've spent years managing acts, worrying about the next chart placement, the next budget. I thought success was something to engineer, not something to nurture. Maybe it's both-- but only if the roots are strong. When I met Minazuki-san earlier, I expected *her* to be the same as she was in 'Silent Architecture': the unreachable figure, the sculpted silence made flesh. Instead I found Little Bo Peep-- the blond curls, the satin ribbons, the kind of playful vulnerability that shouldn't belong to a woman so famously distant. It disarmed me. For a moment I almost forgot to introduce myself. But then she smiled-- not the smile from the photobook, not the frozen elegance of the screen-- just a small, kind human curve of her lips. In that brief moment between takes, she said, "Because they believed in themselves." I didn't know what to say. I still don't. Tonight I pulled 'Silent Architecture' from the shelf again. It looks different now. The images aren't temptations anymore-- they're compositions. Every shadow, every tilt of the chin, every breath caught between frames feels like a message I hadn't been ready to receive. The woman in those pages, the Little Bo Peep in the studio, the mentor who helped Moonlight Prism-- they're all Shizuka Minazuki. Different masks, same core: grace through discipline. And I realize that's the kind of producer I want to be: someone who trusts the process, who gives space for growth instead of sculpting it too early. Yui's patience, Hana's quiet courage, Minazuki-san's certainty-- they've all shown me that faith isn't blind. It's deliberate. You choose to believe, over and over, that art can mean something. Maybe that's my role now. Not to direct, but to hold the door open long enough for someone else to walk through. End of log. ---- ## Work Log - Meeting with Hana Kawamura (President, Prism Productions) and Yui Kasuga (A&R Liaison, Sonic Azure Records) Today's meeting was... unconventional, to say the least. Not because of the subject matter itself, but because of the people involved-- and the tone it inevitably took. I called Hana and Yui into my office this morning to make a formal declaration: that Yui and I have decided to start seeing each other outside of work. I had rehearsed the words in my head the night before-- "transparency," "conflict of interest," "ethical boundaries"-- all very clean, procedural phrases. I had convinced myself this would be a professional formality, something to be checked off a list. The moment I started my explanation, Yui smirked, arms folded, and said, "So this is your idea of romance-- an internal policy meeting?" Hana nearly choked on her coffee. I suppose I deserved that. I clarified that it wasn't meant to sound bureaucratic; I only wanted to make sure there would be no misunderstandings later. I told them that whenever any potential conflict arises-- negotiations, promotional strategy, or anything involving Sonic Azure-- I'll step aside and let Hana make the final calls. The producer should never have the final word when his personal life crosses the business line. Yui nodded, smiling more softly this time, and said she understood completely. Hana, however, wasn't interested in the legalities. Instead, she leaned forward with that subtle grin of hers-- the kind that suggests she knows far more than she lets on-- and said, "Well, Producer-san, congratulations. You couldn't have picked someone better. Yui's responsible, loyal, and she has excellent taste in food. You'll never go hungry." Yui, mortified, covered her face and muttered something about "not needing a character reference." Hana laughed, which made the entire meeting derail into easy, harmless teasing. The formal atmosphere vanished, replaced with the comfortable, familiar chaos that Prism Productions seems to thrive on. By the end of it, the "official record" of the meeting amounted to a few signatures and more laughter than I expected. I suppose that's appropriate-- formality wrapped in warmth. When I sat down to write this, I realized something: I never intended for my personal life to bleed into my professional one. I had wanted to keep things neat, compartmentalized, and predictable. But perhaps that kind of neatness isn't what this place-- or these people-- are about. Prism Productions is built on trust, not walls. And today was just one of many steps I'm taking to align myself with that spirit. If "opening doors" is what I've decided my role should be, then maybe the first one I needed to open was my own. End of log. ---- ## Work Log - Unexpected Delivery Today, an unexpected delivery arrived for me at the office-- an overnight courier, express, marked from Moon River Talent Agency. When the receptionist handed it over, she raised an eyebrow; the package looked far too expensive for a contract or invoice. Inside was a neatly wrapped flat parcel, a framed photo. A *large* one. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at-- Minazuki, dressed as Little Bo Peep, the same shoot I had stumbled into a week ago at Moon River. The composition was unmistakably professional, meant for publication: pastel background, soft focus, that sense of whimsical innocence her agency excels at. But the way she sat-- one leg folded, the other draped forward, a plush sheep resting on her lap-- was... *carefully calculated.* It wasn’t improper, of course, but her direct, serene gaze at the camera felt as though it was directed squarely at *me*. Taped to the frame was a handwritten note: To Tanaka-san, Thank you for supporting the next generation. - Shizuka Minazuki It wasn't written with flowery words, nor was there any personal touch beyond that small signature. And yet I’ve been staring at it for far too long already. I know it’s just a courtesy-- a professional gesture from a senior artist to someone who works with her colleagues. Still, it caught me completely off-guard. The framed print is too beautiful to store away, but hanging it in my office would raise questions, and taking it home might send the wrong message to myself. I keep looking at that plush sheep in her lap. The way it shields her like an afterthought, a barrier of innocence against the suggestiveness of the pose. Intentional or not, it’s a perfect metaphor for Minazuki herself-- unreachable, layered, simultaneously modest and provocative without ever crossing a line. Maybe that’s why I can’t decide what to do with it. I’ve come so far trying to see her as an artist, a peer. Yet here I am again, caught between admiration and something more primal. For now, I’ve placed the frame face-down on my desk. I’ll decide later whether to display it at all. After all, the last thing I need is Riko or Itsuki walking in and giving *that look*. And I doubt even Hana could explain this one away for me. =========================================================================== This story is written with heavy AI assistance. When I started this section I had the intention of making it about the romance between Producer-san and Yui, but somewhere along the way I think I decided it needed more time to bake, so instead I went back to 'Silent Architecture' and Producer-san's tendency to call Moonlight Prism 'his kids' and did a character study of why he was doing things and how it clashed with how Moonlight Prism was treating him. The answer came when I had Hana and Yui talk to each other as equals, as they should, because their rapport was established when they were equals and opposites, so when I thought about it, the way Riko, Itsuki, and even Astra treated Producer-san was more like another one of them, and not an authority figure (the latter should be fairly evident). But of course that was not out of malice; Riko teases him because he knows he can handle it, Itsuki favorably compares him against his own father, and Astra is pretty abrasive when she wants to be left alone, but she still relies on him. Kaede, on the other hand, being the closest in age to Producer-san, more explicitly treated him as an equal and a contemporary, which is why he was the last one Producer-san talked to. While Riko deliberately calls him "Producer-san", and the other members of Moonlight Prism might do it out of habit (or not at all in Astra's case), Yui, Arisa, and Shizuka, and probably Hana when she's being more professional, would instead call him Tanaka-san. I gave Yui a last name, and after coming up with it, during my due diligence, I realized I subconsciously named her after the lead of 'Corrector Yui', a magical girl anime about a girl who becomes a cyberspace hero. And she did in fact have an episode where she 'became an idol'. I thought about it for a while and decided that the kanji that made up their names didn't necessarily have to be the same (because it is entirely possible to have it phonetically be the same and not written the same, just like in any other language), just shrugged and went with it. It is a good name, after all. At first I was going to leave the ending with Producer-san having resolved his sexual tension regarding Shizuka, but thought that was too 'neat' of a closure so I had her send a picture that is simultaneously cheeky and innocuous to show that Producer-san hasn't gotten over it and he is still caught up in Shizuka's aura. So him being hyper fixated on the presentation-- the note, the gaze, the position of the plush sheep, shows he's still horny for her despite what she is wearing (in fact the sheep isn't blocking anything since it's sitting on her lap). WE know that Shizuka doesn't have any underlying meaning behind it, but Producer-san is overanalyzing it because it's funny. ~ Razorclaw X