Kid was the loudest of the bunch, dramatically recounting one of his on-stage mishaps from earlier in the tour. “An’ then, the bloody amp decides it’s had enough an’—BOOM! Nearly took my bloody foot off!” he exclaimed, waving his arms for effect. The table erupted into laughter, Urara clutching her sides as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“You’re an idiot,” she wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You tripped over your own cable. Admit it.”

Reyn smirked, raising his glass. “To Kid. The only man who can trip over a chord and make it a war story.”

“Oi, yer supposed to be on my side!” Kid shot back, but even he couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

Miura sat at the head of the table, she forced a smile at their antics, but her heart wasn’t in it. The laughter felt distant, muffled, as if she were watching from behind glass.

“Alright, alright,” their manager said, tapping his glass to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s raise a toast to the birthday girl. Miura, you’ve had an incredible year. Another sold-out tour, another chart-topping album, and another year of showing the world why you’re the best. Here’s to you.”

Glasses clinked, and everyone cheered. Miura managed a soft “thank you,” her voice barely audible over the noise. She took a sip of her drink, the warmth of the wine doing little to thaw the chill in her chest.

Urara leaned over, “you okay, Miura? You’ve been quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” Miura lied, standing abruptly. “Just… need to go to the bathroom.”

Before anyone could respond, she slipped away, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She pushed open the door to the ladies’ room but didn‘t stop. Instead, she walked past the doors, through the hallway, and out into the crisp night air.

The city was alive with light and movement, but Miura felt none of its vibrancy. She wandered aimlessly, her thoughts spiraling as the cold air bit at her exposed skin.

The weight in her chest had grown heavier throughout the evening, pressing down like an invisible anchor. No amount of laughter, music, or well-wishes could lift it. Her mother’s face flashed in her mind—the smile that once lit up her world—and her throat tightened.

“Why am I still doing this?” The question came unbidden, cutting through her like a blade. “Am I even happy?”

City lights began to blur around her as tears welled in her eyes. Each step felt hollow, mechanical, as if her body was moving out of habit rather than will. Her fingers toyed with the locket at her neck, its cool surface grounding her as the storm inside her swirled.

The words from the news segment earlier echoed in her mind. “Does she feel the burden of living up to her mother’s legacy, or is this how she honors it?”

She squeezed the locket tighter, her vision blurring. I don’t know anymore.

Her mother’s voice, gentle and warm, seemed to whisper from the depths of her memory: “You’ll always be my little star.”

But was she still? Or had the light gone out, leaving only the cold, empty shell of who she used to be? A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another, until she was blinking furiously, trying to keep herself together. She ducked into an empty side street, leaning against a cold brick wall, her breathing ragged.

“Why am I alive?”

The thought hit her like a tidal wave, and she immediately recoiled from it, her chest aching. How could she even think that? What would her mother say if she knew? What would her bandmates say? Her father?

But the hollowness wouldn’t go away. It gnawed at her, a relentless ache that no amount of success could fill. She slid down the wall, sitting on the cold pavement as she buried her face in her hands.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, letting the city’s distant hum wash over her. But eventually, a faint sound pulled her from the spiral—a muffled sob, small and heart-wrenching.

Miura lifted her head, wiping her face as she scanned the quiet street. The sound came again, softer this time, like the whimper of a wounded animal. She followed it, her heels crunching lightly on the gravel of a local park.

And there she saw her.

A little girl, no older than eight, was huddled on a bench, her thin frame trembling as she clutched a threadbare stuffed animal. Her fiery red hair caught the faint glow of a streetlamp, and her tear-streaked face was turned down, her small shoulders shaking.

Miura froze, her breath catching. For a moment, she saw herself in the girl—small, vulnerable, and alone. The memory of her own childhood loneliness surged forward, and her chest tightened painfully.

She approached cautiously, her voice soft. “Hey there… what’s wrong?”

The girl flinched, her wide, tear-filled eyes darting up to meet Miura’s. “I… I ran away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Miura crouched down, her gaze level with the girl’s. “Ran away? From where?”

“The orphanage,” the girl said, clutching her stuffed animal tighter. “They don’t care about us. They’re mean. And… and I didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Her words hit Miura like a punch to the gut. She could see it in the girl’s eyes—the same despair that had haunted her reflection moments ago. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t bear to leave the child alone in this darkness.

“What’s your name?” Miura asked gently.

The girl hesitated before murmuring, “Sona.”

Miura nodded, the name echoing softly in her mind. She sat down on the bench beside Sona, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. “Alright, Sona,” she said finally. “Let’s figure this out together.”

The walk back to the orphanage was quiet, but Miura’s mind was anything but. She glanced down at Sona, who clung to her stuffed animal like a lifeline, and felt a fierce protectiveness swell within her.

This isn’t right, she thought. No child should feel this alone.

When they reached the orphanage, a dilapidated building barely illuminated by the flickering streetlamp, Miura’s resolve hardened. The woman at the front desk barely looked up as they entered.

The orphanage door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway that smelled of mildew and neglect. Miura’s sharp eyes took in the peeling wallpaper, the scuffed floors, and the faint sound of crying echoing from somewhere deeper inside. A wave of revulsion rose in her chest.

Behind the desk, a woman sat with a slouched posture, her thinning hair pulled into a messy bun. She looked up lazily as they entered, her expression indifferent. When her gaze landed on Sona, a flicker of recognition crossed her face, but it wasn’t warm. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman said flatly, her tone dripping with annoyance.

Miura froze in place, her disgust deepening. She felt Sona clutch her leg, the small girl trembling like a leaf. Miura glanced down and saw the fear in Sona’s wide eyes, her hands gripping the stuffed animal like a shield.

That was all it took.

“How much?” Miura asked coldly.

The woman blinked, confused. “What?”

“To adopt her,” Miura clarified, her voice low and even. “How much do you want?”

The woman’s demeanor shifted instantly. Her lips twisted into a grin that rivaled the Grinch, her eyes glinting with greed. “That’s a lovely dress you’ve got on,” she said, her tone mocking. “Must be expensive… twenty thousand.”

Miura didn’t flinch. Without a word, she opened her purse, pulled out a sleek checkbook, and flipped it open. Her hand moved with elegant precision as she wrote out the amount, each stroke deliberate. Tearing the check free, she handed it over with the poise of someone accustomed to making decisions with finality.

“Let’s skip the waiting,” Miura said coolly, her purple eyes sharp as ice. “She’s coming with me.”

The woman stared at the check in disbelief, her hand trembling as she took it. Her fingers fumbled for her phone, quickly opening her banking app. When the deposit confirmation appeared on the screen, her grin widened.

She reached under the desk and pulled out a single piece of paper, slapping it onto the counter with a dismissive wave. “Sign here,” she said, her tone dripping with indifference. “She’s your problem now.”

Miura picked up the pen, scanning the paper briefly before writing with the same refined precision. When it came to the address, she hesitated for only a second before scribbling down her father’s. “I’ll explain it to him later,” she thought. For now, this girl needs a home.

The woman snatched the paper back and gave a lazy shrug. “All done. Have fun.”

Miura didn’t dignify her with a response. Instead, she knelt down, placing a hand gently on Sona’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said softly.

Sona nodded, her grip on Miura’s leg loosening but her tiny hand quickly finding Miura’s. Together, they stepped out into the cold night, leaving the orphanage behind. The air felt lighter, freer, as if they had escaped a suffocating weight.

As they walked, Miura turned her phone back on, dozens of missed calls and messages from her bandmates and manager blew up on her screen. She sighed, dialing her manager’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Miura? Where are you? Everyone’s worried sick!”

“I’m fine,” she replied, her voice calm. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I left early. Let everyone know I’m alright. I’m heading back to the hotel now. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, though his tone was still tinged with concern. “Take care, okay?”

“I will,” Miura said, ending the call.

By the time they returned to the hotel, Sona was practically asleep on her feet. Miura carried her up to the room, her arms steady despite the weight of the girl and her stuffed animal. Inside, Miura ran a warm bath, gently washing the dirt from Sona’s small hands and feet, her motions careful and tender.

Afterward, Sona curled up in the plush hotel bed, her damp red hair framing her peaceful face. She clutched her teddy bear close, her breathing slow and even. For the first time since Miura had found her, she looked truly at peace.

Miura stood by the window, staring out at the glittering city lights below. The night had taken a turn she hadn’t expected, but as she looked back at Sona, a warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t the kind of blazing fire that came from the stage or the roar of a crowd. It was quieter, deeper—a gentle sense of gratitude.

She adjusted the locket around her neck, the weight of it feeling a little different now. As she lay down on the couch, her thoughts finally quieted, and for the first time in a long while, Miura felt she had done something that truly mattered.