“First, have you ever thought about why your one-month hiatus affected the entire agency?”
“Because… my income makes up a third of the agency’s revenue?”
“That’s right, but that’s just a small part.”
Kirishima placed his mug on the coffee table, crossed his hands on his knees, and leaned forward slightly.
“Your income is the most direct part. But more importantly, your very existence is Stras’s credit.”
“Credit?”
“Mm.”
He thought for a moment and used a common analogy.
“You know how when you go to get a loan from a bank, you need collateral? A house or a car, something like that. It’s the same principle when the agency does business with the outside.”
“When we negotiate with TV stations for appearances, with brand partners for endorsements, and with record labels for releases… in every negotiation, the other party is weighing one thing in their minds: ‘Is this agency reliable? What cards does it hold?’ And the biggest card our agency holds…”
He extended a finger and lightly pointed at Haruka.
“You are our ‘house’.”
“…”
“I know that sounds bad, like I’m treating you like a commodity.”
Kirishima smiled and waved a hand.
“But that’s the reality. Stras isn’t some industry giant with hundreds of artists and multiple buildings. We’re a medium-sized agency with limited resources and limited brand power. In fact, before you came along, Stras was just a small agency that could have been eliminated at any time.”
“In the industry, when people mention Stras, what’s the first thing that comes to mind? It’s ‘Oh, that’s Hoshino Haruka’s company.’”
“You are our business card. With you here, others feel that this company has strength and stability. But if you’re gone even temporarily—even due to an unavoidable car accident—others will immediately start doubting: ‘Is this company falling apart?’”
Haruka was silent for a few seconds.
She had been an idol for over a month, but she had never thought about it from this macro perspective.
She had naively believed that an idol only needed to shine on stage, that as long as she worked hard enough, that was all that mattered.
But the president’s words told her that as an idol, she was a commercial asset that could affect the whole with a single move.
“So this past month,” Kirishima continued, “it wasn’t just your personal cut that was lost. Money can be earned back. With your talent and fan loyalty, a few more live shows would fill the gap.”
“But what’s truly fatal is the agency’s credit rating in the industry. Some partners saw our ace fall and started hesitating, thinking things like, ‘Maybe we should cooperate with a more stable agency instead.’ Some new projects that were under negotiation have been postponed indefinitely. Not to mention the competitors who swooped in like vultures during this window to grab our resource slots and exposure.”
“And this loss of trust and resources can’t be recovered just by saying ‘Hoshino Haruka has been discharged from the hospital.’ We need time—and we need you to prove to the market again with new works and an impeccable stage that Hoshino Haruka is still here, and more dazzling than before.”
At this point, he realized his tone had become heavy, so he stopped and looked at Haruka.
“Do you understand? Is it too deep? If it gives you a headache, it’s okay not to listen.”
Haruka nodded, her expression surprisingly calm.
She probably understood better than President Kirishima expected.
Because she wasn’t just listening as an idol—she was processing it with the mindset of a “longtime fan” and “industry observer.”
She used to read long analytical posts on forums, discussing how the industry landscape would reshuffle when a top star fell or retired.
Back then, she was just amused by others’ troubles.
Now, she was the butterfly being discussed.
“But I’m saying all this not to pressure you.”
Kirishima’s voice suddenly softened, and his eyes shifted from those of a shrewd businessman back to a gentle elder.
“On the contrary, I’m telling you not to put too much pressure on yourself.”
Haruka looked up at him in surprise.
“You just came back from the brink of death. Your body needs to recover. Your dancing needs practice to regain form. Your condition needs time to readjust. Everyone in the agency understands that.”
“So if you feel unwell during the recovery period, don’t force yourself—just say it directly. If you think a certain appearance is too tiring and you don’t want to take it, you can say that too. If you feel you can’t keep up with the company’s pace and need rest, you’re always free to speak up.”
He picked up his mug again and took a sip of tea.
“The agency is your backup, not a vampire draining you dry. You just stand in front and shine. As for the hidden arrows, the wind and rain behind—the agency will bear them for you. That’s my job as president.”
“And it’s the duty I must fulfill as your Uncle Shinji.”
Haruka stared at him blankly.
She remembered what Ritsu had said to her in the practice room a few hours ago: “I’m here for you, so don’t worry.”
And now, Kirishima had conveyed the exact same promise in a different, adult way.
“…Thank you, Uncle Shinji.”
Her eyes were slightly warm, and she smiled sweetly.
“I’ll do my best. But I won’t push myself too hard.”
“Mm.”
Kirishima nodded with satisfaction, his tone completely relaxed.
“Like I said at the beginning, without you, there would be no Stras today. To those outside, you’re the ‘ace’ and the ‘cash cow.’ But to me, you’re first just a child who hasn’t come of age yet, and second an idol.”
After saying this, Kirishima quickly “switched faces,” returning to his languid posture, half-reclining on the sofa with one leg crossed over the other, as if the serious president from a moment ago had never existed.
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Huh?” Haruka blinked.
“Go to school this afternoon.”
“…Eh?”
“Like I just said, you’re only sixteen after all.”
Kirishima smiled warmly at her, like he was looking at a high schooler whose game console had been confiscated.
“First, you’re a child, a high school student. Even though at your performing arts high school, taking leave and leaving early is routine. But you used to go back to school every couple of days. Now you’ve been absent for over a month. You can’t keep skipping forever. Official appearances start tomorrow, so consider today your last day off. Go to class for half a day, say hi to your classmates, and get back to earth.”
Haruka’s mouth hung open, not knowing what to say.
School.
That word felt distant to her.
“…Okay, I understand. Thank you, Uncle President.”
Her voice carried a very subtle, complex emotion, as if she were about to be sent to the execution ground.
The president waved his hand, telling her to go eat and rest, and Haruka left the president’s office.
On the way, Haruka floated lifelessly toward the lounge area.
She sat down on a chair, mechanically eating a mentaiko rice ball while staring at the bustling Shibuya skyline outside the window.
Her mind was still digesting the long string of information she had just received—
Credit ratings, industry structure, company management… every piece was a real world she had never touched as a fan.
“Being an idol isn’t easy.”
She had heard that phrase countless times in ACG works, in online posts, and in various industry articles.
But “hearing it” and “experiencing it firsthand” were completely different.
It was like reading on Wikipedia that the diameter of the observable universe is about 93 billion light-years, but you could never truly visualize what 93 billion light-years meant.
And now, she was standing inside that vast universe.
She was standing at the starting point of those “93 billion light-years,” carrying the livelihoods of over thirty people and millions in liquidated damages, ready to set sail.
Being an idol really wasn’t easy.
Not only did she have to sing and dance, handle crisis management, and maintain her persona, but now she also had to balance high school coursework.
But—
She swallowed the last bite of the rice ball, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it accurately into the trash can.
“…Who cares if it’s not easy.”
Since she had somehow ended up here, since she had taken up Hoshino Haruka’s crown.
“Then I’ll walk this path beautifully, all the way to the end.”
She turned and walked toward the elevator, glanced at the time—it was one in the afternoon.
In another hour, this “twenty-nine-year-old high school girl” would have to go to school.