Chapter Two: Withdrawing from the Team

Since its opening in 1885, Shinjuku Station has become a labyrinth of nine railway lines, including the national JR and Tokyo Metro, with a daily passenger flow of three million—the highest in the world. No matter when you arrive, you’ll always find yourself amidst a sea of people, and with as many as sixty exits within the station, countless souls have lost their way in this sprawling maze of transportation.

Ye Zhao mused that, were it not for the memories left behind by his predecessor, he might very well have perished, lost forever within Shinjuku’s endless corridors.

He followed the bustling tide of people out of the station, crossed three intersections, and turned into a narrow alley. Before the small entrance to an underground passage stood a sign adorned with neon lights: "Giraffe." This was the club where the band would perform.

Though the club could only hold a few dozen people and seemed insignificant at first glance, even such a modest stage required significant talent to secure regular gigs. In Tokyo, the number of aspiring underground bands and artists was as countless as carp crossing a river, but most could only perform outdoors in places like stations and parks.

At four in the afternoon, there were still hours before the club would open to guests. Ye Zhao pushed open the door and immediately spotted his bandmates gathered in a corner, occupying a four-person table.

“Sorry I'm late,” Ye Zhao slipped naturally into his role, set his guitar by the wall, grabbed a nearby chair, and sat down beside Watanabe Riku.

“小叶, why do you look so pale?” the keyboardist, Shimada Ryo, asked with concern. He was a chubby fellow, equal in height and weight at 170 centimeters and kilograms, with a buzz cut and a round face that made him seem approachable.

“It’s nothing, just a bit of sleep deprivation,” Ye Zhao replied offhandedly, fabricating an excuse.

“No need to say it—must be because of that woman, Ogawa, right?” The drummer, Murakami Shuji, spoke with a rakish air. “Ye, you’re still too young. She was clearly just playing around. Loosen up. Next time, I’ll take you to Shibuya to pick up some hot girls.”

Shibuya’s “hot girls”? More like an assault on the eyes. Ye Zhao chuckled inwardly—he had no interest in the so-called “gyaru” of Shibuya, with their exaggerated outfits and makeup verging on plastic surgery.

After a few words of small talk, Watanabe Riku spoke up. “Yuta, didn’t you have something to announce? Now that everyone’s here, go ahead.”

All eyes turned to Kojima Yuta, who had been silent until now. Only then did Ye Zhao notice that Kojima Yuta was as handsome as his predecessor—though where the original had striking, angular features reminiscent of a film star, Kojima Yuta’s lines were softer, carrying the air of a pop idol. For an obscure underground band to boast two strikingly attractive members—such odds were truly remarkable.

Kojima Yuta nervously cracked his knuckles, visibly struggling for words, his demeanor betraying that this was unlikely to be good news. Under the scrutiny of his bandmates, he clenched his jaw and spoke in a low voice, “I’m quitting the band.”

Quitting?!

Band member changes are, in fact, quite common. Where people gather, strife follows—perhaps due to clashing personalities, lack of skill, or personal reasons. Even famous groups have often swapped members, let alone a struggling underground band like theirs. If a musician leaves, a temporary replacement can be found, but if the lead singer departs, the band is left paralyzed.

So when Kojima Yuta spoke, everyone was astonished. Ye Zhao was baffled as well—he’d hoped to rely on his secret advantage to help everyone rise together, yet now the lead singer wanted to leave, just like that?

Watanabe Riku frowned, lighting a cigarette. “Money’s tight again? Or has your family started nagging you?”

After finishing junior college, Kojima Yuta had come to Tokyo to look for work, but instead joined the band. His parents back home in Shikoku never understood, and with the band’s lack of progress over the past year, they had cut off his financial support to force him to give up. Kojima himself was reckless with money, often relying on his bandmates for help.

In truth, all the members shared similar struggles: none had formal musical training, drawn together solely by passion. Only Watanabe Riku came from a wealthy family; the rest had to scrape by with part-time jobs.

Kojima Yuta shook his head. “Actually, an agency has taken an interest in me and wants to sign a contract.”

“You agreed?” Watanabe Riku’s expression darkened.

“I’m sorry!” Kojima Yuta stood up, facing his bandmates, and bowed deeply. “I know I’ve betrayed you all, but I have no choice. I’m nearly twenty-four. It’s so hard to get this kind of chance. If I don’t seize it now, I might never get another!”

“So you just ditch us? You get your chance, but what about us?” Murakami Shuji slammed the table and lunged forward, grabbing Kojima Yuta by the collar.

“Hey, hey—” the timid Shimada Ryo waved his hands anxiously, wanting to intervene but lacking the courage.

“That’s enough, let him go,” Watanabe Riku commanded.

“He’s betrayed us!” Murakami Shuji, blinded by anger, ignored even Watanabe Riku’s authority. Seeing Shimada Ryo wouldn’t back him up, he turned to Ye Zhao. “Ye, say something!”

The ball was now in Ye Zhao’s court. He paused in silence. To be honest, upon hearing the news, he too felt a surge of anger. Even if one wants to pursue their own future, shouldn’t it at least be discussed with everyone first? Signing a contract in secret and leaving behind a mess—what sort of teammate does that?

Yet, though he was angry, Ye Zhao’s reaction was less intense than the others’. Perhaps, having inherited a new soul, he felt little attachment to the band, and so did not experience the sting of betrayal. In fact, he thought that if the band broke up, it might be a relief for him. After all, his initial reluctance to leave was only out of a sense of duty; now that this duty had been broken by Kojima Yuta, he saw no reason to maintain it.

With that in mind, Ye Zhao calmly said, “Yuta, I just hope you won’t regret your decision.”

Amid the standoff, a phone suddenly rang. At the sound, Kojima Yuta seemed to gain new strength, quickly breaking free from Murakami Shuji, not bothering to straighten his rumpled collar. He pulled a battered old Nokia from his jeans pocket, pressed the answer key, and spoke eagerly, “Hello, this is Kojima.”

Murakami Shuji snorted and turned away, too disgusted to watch his display of obsequiousness.

Ye Zhao’s attention, however, was drawn to the phone. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was the legendary Nokia 1011—the world’s first phone capable of sending text messages, the device that secured Nokia’s place in history. Though he’d seen all manner of smartphones in the future, this antique held little charm for him, but in an era where mobile phones had only a 1.7% market share, owning such a device was truly a status symbol.

Kojima Yuta, always strapped for cash and dependent on his bandmates, yet insisting on such luxuries—no wonder he was so eager to betray them for fame and fortune. The temptations of show business were simply too great for him to resist.

After hanging up, Kojima Yuta bowed to his bandmates and said, “Sorry, the agency needs me for something urgent. I have to go.” Without waiting for their response, he slung his bag over his shoulder and hurried out of the club.

With Kojima Yuta gone, the four remaining members now faced a harsh reality: what path lay ahead for them?