she said, smiling for the first time. It was not a warm smile. “He’s in a police station in Shibuya. He was arrested ten minutes ago, during my first chorus.”
she whispered into the mic, so that only the first few rows could hear—but the cameras caught every syllable. “This is a reckoning.”
The silence returned. Fifty thousand people stared at the empty chair.
From the center of the stage, a pillar of dry ice and violet laser light erupted. And there she stood.
She pointed to a single seat in the VIP section. The cameras zoomed in. It was empty. But a nameplate glittered on the velvet cushion: Takada Productions.
She raised a single, chrome-plated finger to her lips.
Halfway through the third song, she stopped. The music cut. The lights went red.
The crowd gasped. Not at the music. At the data .