Secret Chat Panic
“Argh! I’m screwed!”
Sakuya clutched her head with both hands like some guy scribbling in a Death Note.
“Sis! What do I do?!”
Miki, lounging on the bed scrolling through reactions to her cosplay pics on SNS, tilted her head.
“What’s up?”
“Forget why or whatever—I’m totally done for!”
“Done for how?”
“Well, it’s like…”
It was hard to explain, so Sakuya just roughly scratched at her head.
“He keeps…”
“Keeps?”
“Keeps calling me…!”
“Stalker?”
“Not a stalker, it’s just…”
Sakuya kept hemming and hawing, so Miki sighed and sat up from the bed.
“What’s the deal?”
She walked over to the desk and checked the name on the smartphone screen in Sakuya’s hand.
“Ta… Tae… Wait, Tae-il? Oh!”
Miki clapped her hands.
“That guy who dragged your blackout-drunk ass home yesterday?”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“Really?”
There hadn’t been any booze smell, but anyone looking at Sakuya back then would’ve sworn she was plastered.
“I wasn’t drunk! Just… caught up in the vibe a little?”
“A little?”
“Anyway, whatever. Yeah.”
“Suure?”
Miki grinned slyly, and Sakuya ducked her head.
Pa Cheonhwang. One of the nicknames they used for Sakuya back home.
Miki had gotten her share of finger-pointing for her otaku hobby too, but Sakuya took it to another level. Miki had at least hidden her manga-drawing until adulthood. Sakuya, meanwhile, had ditched her family and everything at a young age to come to Tokyo solo. Sure, Miki had helped, but she’d carved out her spot here through sheer grit.
My cousin’s no ordinary girl…
Seeing that same Sakuya in such a tizzy was just plain fascinating to Miki.
Tae-il, was it…?
Even by Miki’s standards—who’d locked eyes with countless guys at Comic-Con—that boy had an innocently harmless vibe. The intriguing part? As a woman before cousin, she could sense that subtle distance. The boy had been focused on supporting Sakuya, but Sakuya had clung to him in a weirdly intimate way. Even blackout drunk.
A guy Sakuya could let her guard down around completely. Miki shot her a suspicious look.
“So, what’s with his calls?”
“He found out about the group chat!”
“What?”
“I made a group chat leaving him out, and he found out!”
“Hmm.”
Miki thought of her own group chats. The unspoken rule with her friends: max five people. But they kept splintering and somehow multiplying into six or more—the miracle of the obese chat rooms. And each one had slightly different members. Beyond the sacred five, there’d be someone’s acquaintance in another, and so on. Total mess.
They glossed over it tacitly, but if it ever got caught? Instant friendship apocalypse.
If the chat’s existence ever leaked? One way out of absolute crisis.
“Just cut him loose?”
“I can’t!”
Sakuya wailed in pure agony at Miki’s advice. Her voice was louder and more resolute than when she’d declared independence.
It made sense. If she could cut Tae-il loose that easily, she never would’ve started the band in the first place.
“Hmmm?”
Miki smirked at her reaction. Comparing her to that idiot from Owari, even Pa Cheonhwang was squirming like this—the guy must really have that pull.
“Just apologize honestly first.”
“A-apologize?”
“Yeah. He’s probably super hurt right now, you know?”
Timing was everything in apologies. Even the sincerest one missed its window, and it’d just come off as mockery. The wound on the other side would fester bigger, harder to heal.
“You know once a relationship cracks, it’s tough to fix, right Sakuya?”
“Ughhh…”
“Quick. Every time you ghost him, it’s chipping away at his lifespan.”
So pick up already, Miki urged.
“Ughhh…”
Sakuya still hesitated. The fear was huge. And now worry about the future was creeping in—had her feelings ballooned this much? Was she turning into Ayane? Horrifying.
Sakuya romanticized love; she didn’t want to be some blind obsessive like Ayane.
Wait, but is that always bad?
Imagining Tae-il loving only her, monopolizing it… kinda tempting.
As Sakuya’s standards wobbled, Miki eyed her endless waffling with pity.
“Hey. He a good guy?”
“He’s a good guy…”
She couldn’t call him good after seeing him flirt with other girls, but Miki didn’t know. Trusting Sakuya’s rose-tinted words, she advised earnestly.
“Then quit overthinking and pick up. He’ll accept your apology for sure.”
Miki added maturely with a smile.
“Assuming your eyes aren’t totally off, of course!”
“That caveat bugs me…”
“It’ll be fine! No harm in trying!”
Sakuya swallowed dryly at Miki’s persistence, gingerly sliding the green call button.
The call connected.
Sakuya shakily pressed the phone to her ear.
“Why’d you finally pick up?”
A voice thick with bottled-up grievance and a hint of anger.
Click.
Sakuya hung up right there.
“Sakuya!?”
Apologies took guts. Sakuya didn’t have enough yet.
“Hahahahaha!”
The manager roared with laughter, pounding the counter as Tae-il recounted getting sidelined by the girls in his own band.
Of all things. The lone guy leading an all-girl band, and he’s the outcast. Hilarious. Perfect.
Beyond the schadenfreude, he was laughing so hard tears welled up.
“Whew. Nearly died laughing. For real?”
Tae-il, silently swapping the water cooler jug, nodded with pursed lips.
“Kuhahaha!”
Another burst. Without the soundproofing, noise complaints would’ve flooded in—that was some volume.
The manager was thrilled with his new part-timer. He’d visited the hospital out of worry at first—precious worker, loyal customer over five years, some affection there.
But the Tae-il he met was surrounded by hotties. Looked blissful.
Being nursed by beauties? Every man’s dream—and the manager’s nightmare.
So when Tae-il got discharged, he’d teased instead of welcoming him. Bet you miss those girls now that you’re out, huh?
Tae-il took it quietly. Manager was a lifelong singleton, after all.
But beyond the jabs, Tae-il came back with a bundle of juicy stories. Now’s the time! The manager saw his chance.
Prime opportunity to save a rocker ensnared by feminine wiles!
“I told you! Women are poison to rockers!”
“Poison?”
“Look at the Beatles’ downfall!”
The idol band that rocked the world ended shockingly. Assassinated? Unthinkable!
“If John Lennon hadn’t died, they probably would’ve reunited eventually, right?”
“Even so, no excuse for wasting their prime on women! Fans’ hearts shattered!”
The manager fake-cried with Oscar-worthy flair.
“Get it now? Rockers and women—never ends well!”
“Wellll…”
Tae-il peeled off his gloves with a smirk.
“Kinda rings hollow coming from a confirmed bachelor, y’know?”
“Gah!”
The manager staggered, clutching the counter. Critical hit. Brutal for a virgin soul.
“Gonna check the recording room.”
“Urk…!”
He clutched his chest in final throes.
“Rock’s for losers and the oppressed—rebellion! Guys flirting in girl packs can’t get it! Fake! All fake!”
“Pfft.”
Rock was once rebellion, sure. Spoke for the weak.
But it symbolized unity too. Capitalism weaponized American/British rock to topple the Cold War wall. Unintended, but it happened.
And the Beatles? Idols. Tough childhoods seeped into their worldview via music, but idols. Acted for agency and fans, hid marriages.
Even the legendary Beatles started as idols—acting like the manager was outdated.
Tae-il knew it was the manager’s flop-era rocker coping. Unsuccessful despite band success—no shade, just pity.
Leaving the manager’s pathetic wails behind.
Tae-il finished the water swap and tidying, then entered the recording-equipped practice room.
Why this neighborhood spot—nothing special but rentals—was band-famous: pro-level studio gear.
Pricey equipment meant deposits and higher hourly, but customers raved it was worth every yen.
Click.
Lights on: tighter than regular rooms, double structure with soundproof window like school broadcast booths. Or radio studios.
“Feels like another world.”
Crude but: manager spared no expense.
Into the studio. Peak manager splurge: amps Tae-il couldn’t dream of (100-200k yen), mics that shamed his cheap home ones—five top brands.
“No wonder he’s single.”
Sorry to the owner, but circling the room confirmed it. Soul sold to music—marriage too much. Unless she sold hers too; otherwise, she’d bolt.
First, scan for sessions.
Semi-transparent band members projected in Tae-il’s gaze.
“Rena’s spot.”
Corner drums: her fortress, band’s heart. Toughest to record. After vocals, probably longest.
“Ayane’s spot.”
Two steps from drums: slightly smaller cab/amp than his. Heart’s blood, bass supplies body-wide.
Band’s drive.
“Sakuya’s spot.”
Opposite Ayane, drums between: grander cab for lead guitar. Lungs breathing life. Not quite there yet, but battle-strong—he believed.
“Finally.”
Four steps from bass drum. Standing mic. Vocalist Iris’s throne. Monitor room behind—direct view through glass.
Face all her singing emotions. Shivers just imagining.
Fantasy turning real here.
“Fwew.”
Tae-il turned to the monitor room. Computers, MIDI, gear galore; crashed on break sofa.
“Soon.”
No same-day finish planned. Pace with members’ condition.
But excitement hard to hide.
Hands clasped over mouth. Wanted to scream joy—not save me, but share the thrill.
Held back.
No celebrating too soon.
One more hurdle post-recording.
Recently, Big O Pumpkin recorded their fall comeback here—like always. Same day as BARD concert.
Working then, Tae-il asked acquaintance Sarina on purpose.
“Mixing?”
“Yeah. I can handle recording, but mixing…”
His composition. Directing he could fake with experience. Mixing? Issue.
“Know any mixing engineers?”
“Hmm…”
“Not pro-level; amateur producer fine.”
“Sorry.”
Sarina apologized.
“We’re mystique band—narrow circle.”
“Ah.”
“Plus we rely on company for recording/mixing.”
“Figured.”
“Yeah. And masked activities… hard to mingle.”
Even probing, Sana Tsuchi’s network useless. Underground idol life’s rough.
“Sorry I couldn’t help.”
“Nah, I was rude asking.”
“It’s fine. Cute disciple.”
“Disciple? Feels mostly self-taught…”
“Hey!”
Sarina blocked his lips with a finger, teacher aura flaring.
“Direction in self-study makes worlds of difference!”
“Well, true…”
She’d nipped bad drum habits early.
“I’ll ask members.”
“Cool?”
“They’re office workers, slim odds, but disciple request!”
“Don’t push.”
“Just asking. You really debuting?”
“Uh… yeah. Indie/school band start.”
Shy, eyes averted.
Sarina beamed, ruffled his hair roughly. “Cute!”
“Ow! What?!”
“Punishment. Kept me waiting.”
Live house kid since little; expected quick debut. Took forever.
Sensed hesitation teaching drums. Thought it’d pass. Nope.
His world-fear bigger than imagined. Shocked when he brought pretty girl to Sana Tsuchi live, bragged new band.
“Confident?”
“Ever hear ‘blue emerges from azure’? I’ll catch up, major-league. Prep your throat.”
“Oh? Challenging fall’s absolute queen?”
“Sana Tsuchi falls in a month.”
“Hey!”
Studio erupted.
“Right! One month plenty for Sana Tsuchi!”
“You too? One week tops.”
“Same to your leader!”
Quietly eavesdropping Big O Pumpkin members pounced on Sarina. Her underground idol schtick pained them.
“Perfect timing. Heard you? Know any mixers?”
“Department store girl like me?”
“Lower.”
Fall-only comebacks for a reason. Big O Pumpkin was a lonely autumn band, seasonal af.
“Our producer’s coming later. Ask then?”
“Nah, it’s…”
Individuals fine; companies complicated. Like Sarina said.
Tae-il wanted indie collab guidance, not pro-industry.
“I’ll find someone.”
“Ask manager here?”
“Manager?”
“Heard he’s veteran. Gear suggests skills.”
Then suits arrived; Tae-il bailed. No peeking at famous band session—sad—but got advice.
Of course, manager’s answer per Sarina: textbook.
“Mixing? Didn’t exist back then.”
“Huh?”
“Pure raw wins. Indie demos are that.”
No dice. Wanted high-quality newbie indie buzz. Bit bummed.
Then someone useful popped up.
Guess gotta lean on this side…
Fiddled smartphone. Busy lately, chats buried deep.
Wonder if this perv’ll help…
Talent aside, sketchy guy—untrustworthy. Tae-il hesitantly scrolled their chat.