Rewriting the Score

The softness of the sheets felt alien against my skin as I blinked awake, the sunlight streaming through the window. Yesterday's events played in my mind like a surreal movie - the bus, the apartment, that bizarre document... and her. 

I swung my legs off the bed, my feet hitting the cool floor. "Focus, Akira," I muttered. "Basics first, existential crises later."

The kitchen greeted me with a depressing sight: a single, half-empty ramen packet on the shelf. I sighed. Guess my mysterious benefactor didn't believe in fully stocked fridges.

After a shower that felt like pure luxury compared to the orphanage's ancient, sputtering facilities, I pulled on clothes that weren't threadbare hand-me-downs. The fabric felt strange against my skin, too new, too clean.

The supermarket was a dizzying wonderland of abundance. Colors screamed from every aisle - the red of peppers, the almost artificial green of herbs, the alien shapes of vegetables I couldn't name. My hand twitched towards them, the urge to taste, to experience, nearly overwhelming. But the weight of my past held me back. I stuck to the basics: apples, carrots, onions, potatoes. Safe. Familiar, even in their strangeness.

The meat section was a different kind of shock. This much protein in one place seemed obscene. Back at the orphanage, a sliver of chicken was a once-a-week treat. I hesitated, then grabbed a package of ground beef. The price made me wince, but I forced down the old panic. I needed this. My body was my instrument, and I had to keep it tuned.

Toiletries and cleaning supplies were a minefield of choices. Scents, brands, promises of impossible cleanliness - it was overwhelming. I grabbed things almost at random, trusting in the wisdom of discount pricing.

At the checkout, a sudden terror gripped me. What if the card didn't work? What if this was all some cosmic joke? But the machine beeped, the cashier smiled, and I walked out with bags digging into my palms, each twinge a reminder of my new reality.

I was struggling up the stairs, bags threatening to split, when a door burst open. Apartment 6. Hers.

She rushed out, her purple hair hastily thrown into a ponytail, a stark contrast to the polished perfection of her stage persona.

"I'm off to dance practice, my darlings!" Her voice was bubbly, but I caught the undercurrent of strain. Then her gaze fell on me. A flicker of recognition, quickly masked.

I slipped into my well-worn charm like a comfortable jacket. "Busy day ahead, huh?" I grinned, shifting the bags. "Me too. Gotta turn this bachelor pad into something livable."

She blinked, thrown off balance. "Ah, y-yeah! Well, have fun with your..." Her eyes caught on a bright banana peeking out of a bag. "...bananas?"

The apartment door clicked shut, and the practiced charm fell away, replaced by a hungry intensity. We were playing the same game, her and me. Two masks, two carefully constructed lives. This was more than just a new apartment; it was a battlefield. And I, Akira Ueno, never backed down from a challenge.

But first, the practicalities. The bags thudded onto the kitchen counter. Unpacking wasn't just about groceries; it was about claiming this space. The scent of fresh produce mingled with the faint smell of cleaning supplies. 

With the apartment now feeling like a proper base camp, it was time for Phase Two of my master plan. The electronics store pulsed with a hypnotic glow, rows of sleek devices whispering promises of musical mastery. Each step brought a surge of exhilaration. This was where the transformation would truly begin.

First stop: the computer section. I needed a machine that could handle everything... composing, recording, editing. It was strangely thrilling to not just window-shop, but to know I could actually choose what I needed, thanks to that mysterious windfall.

Next, the audio gear. Headphones that felt like velvet clouds over my ears, letting me get lost in every nuance. Microphones so sensitive they might as well be reading my mind. I lingered over mixers, imagining myself tweaking and tuning my sound into pure gold.

But all this hardware was useless without the right knowledge. Swallowing my slight embarrassment, I approached one of the blue-shirted employees. After my clumsy explanation, a spark of understanding lit up in his eyes.

"So, building out a home studio?" He grinned. "You've come to the right place."

We were soon lost in a whirlwind of tech-speak - audio interfaces, preamps, the holy grail of software. It was exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time. But his enthusiasm was contagious. He listened carefully to my rambling about goals and ambitions, then pointed me towards gear that fit my current needs without breaking the bank. That balance between dreams and reality was key.

The trek back to my apartment felt like a victory march. Each box in my arms wasn't just equipment; it was potential, the raw materials of stardom. My living room transformed into an obstacle course of gleaming tech, waiting to be unleashed.

Step one: the heart of my operation. Building the computer was difficult, but nothing a youtube video couldn't fix. Software installations hummed in the background, turning a blank slate into my own digital canvas.

Next came the speakers, strategically placed to fill the room with pristine sound. A slight adjustment to the monitor angle, ensuring the perfect line of sight for those late-night editing sessions. Microphones emerged from their packaging, sleek and sensitive, ready to capture my raw energy.

I began connecting everything. A symphony of wires snaked across the floor, waiting for the moment they'd thrum with life. Audio settings crackled as I fumbled through them - adjustments, testing, ensuring everything was aligned. The first tentative sounds emerged, crackling with the static of creation.

Finally, a moment to sit back. The workspace was still a bit chaotic, wires snaking haphazardly and boxes piled precariously. But a sense of order was emerging. I'd begun to tame the beast; to turn a blank apartment into a shrine to my dreams.

As night fell, I hit a tentative key on the keyboard. A single synthesized note echoed in the room, clear and bright. It was just one note, but it felt like a million. I wasn't just dreaming anymore; I was building. 

With the studio finally set up, the pent-up energy within me demanded release. It was time to stop tinkering and start creating. 

The software was a maze at first, a complex beast I'd need to learn to tame. I fumbled through menus, clicking buttons, letting sounds wash over me. Synthetic beats pulsed beneath a tentative melody, fragments of ideas I'd been carrying around for months now given form.

Songs from my old life echoed in my head, demanding to be translated into this new world. But which one first? It needed to be one that is great on it's own, but also gives me room for growth in newer songs. Should I go with the catchy pop hooks of "Bad Habit," the upbeat summer vibes of "Water," or dive into the moody electronica of "Slow Dancing in the Dark"?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. "Water," it didn't fit the season, didn't resonate with who I was right now. It could wait.

Then "Slow Dancing in the Dark." There was something hauntingly beautiful about it, but did I want my debut to be soaked in melancholy? Did I want to be known as the guy who sang about heartbreak?

No. If I was going that route it couldn't be too on the nose. I needed something that crackled with energy. Something like "Bad Habit." The drums alone, that driving rhythm, felt like gasoline. I could twist those catchy lyrics into a declaration of intent. 

A grin split my face as I dove in. Tracks snapped into place, harmonies bloomed under my touch. It was rough, unpolished, but it pulsed with a raw vitality that made my heart pound in my chest. This wasn't just practicing; it was a declaration of war. The world wasn't getting a rehash of old hits. It was getting a taste of Akira 2.0, an unstoppable force ready to seize the spotlight.

[Ai POV] 

My legs ached, a pleasant reminder of the hours spent drilling complex choreography. Yet, as I approached the apartment building, a practiced smile snapped into place. Exhaustion was something to be hidden, not worn like a badge of honor. 

Then, a truck parked outside caught my eye. "Haku Electronics," the bold lettering proclaimed. My heart gave a tiny, curious skip. Could it be...? A surge of childish excitement washed over me. Had the president finally relented and bought new stage gear?

The images on the truck enhanced that sweet thought. Microphones, speakers, what looked like a mixing desk... That could be for B-Ko. My gaze followed the delivery workers as they emerged, carrying heavy boxes. Of course, they'd head towards apartment 6. 

But they didn't. Instead, they marched right past my door, heading for the one at the end of the hall. Apartment 7. My new neighbor.

Was he a musician? A producer? If so, why didn't he recognize me? 

The men delivered the boxes and left, leaving a lingering sense of change. I knew, without a shred of doubt, things wouldn't be the same. My neighbor, with his handsome practiced smile and hidden goals, had just gotten even more interesting. 

"I'm home!" I chirped, the brightness a little forced. But I have to. This is how I show my love. 

"Mama!"

Opening my arms, I embraced Ruby while nuzzling my cheek against hers. "Aww, you're just the thing I need. Mommy worked so hard at practice today, you know. I need my sweet Ruby to recharge!"

Continuing to dote on my daughter, I eventually stopped to hug Aqua. "How were you two?"

 "We were fine as usual, Ai. Was practice any different?" 

"Hmph, you're no fun. And for your information, yes it was. We got this choreographer to teach us new moves for the next concert. He was really strict, but I think I impressed him!" My voice was teasing, playful, but underneath it churned an undercurrent of pride. I was good at what I did, damn good. 

Aqua tilted his head, his gaze surprisingly perceptive. "Mama, you seem far away."

My practiced smile faltered for just a moment. It wasn't just the new routine. It was the weight of it all... the smiles, the secrets, the fear that one wrong move could shatter this fragile world I'd created. But these were my burdens, not theirs.

"Just thinking about making dinner extra special tonight!" I replied, my laugh a touch too bright. "Anyone in the mood for curry?"

They cheered, the crisis averted, and I retreated into the familiar routines of motherhood. Yet, as I chopped vegetables, the image of his face lingered. He might not know who I was really, but a part of me wanted him to. If he was any good at music... having someone my age that understood this hunger - it would be a breath of fresh air amidst the endless lies I spun.

Maybe it was just a foolish dream. But looking at my children I wondered. Could I show them what real love looked like? If I couldn't find someone to share the burden with, could I at least teach them the difference between masks and hearts? If they understood, maybe one day this wouldn't feel like such a desperate act. 

The water started to boil, and I snapped back to the present. Dinner first, existential crises later. Curry, at least, was something simple I could do perfectly. But those lingering thoughts about my mysterious neighbor, the faint beat of his new music through the wall... they were a spark of something dangerous and thrilling. And even Ai, the idol, sometimes craved a little danger.