Chapter 1 – The Voice Beneath the Ashes
The gray sky lay over the city like a funeral shroud. In streets lost between concrete blocks, there was no color left—no scent, no life. Everything had been silenced. The air was dry, and the silence clung to the skin like static. All that remained was a monotonous command echoing from digital screens:
“Only state-sanctioned voices may sing.”
That sentence had been etched across every corner of the city. Each word seemed to claw at the eardrums, smothering thought. The frequency of emotion was now a crime. The memory of melody—deemed a threat. Mizue stared out through the dust-covered window. There was a weight pressing against her chest, as if breathing itself had become a punishable act. The knot in her throat held the first note of a song long unsung. She placed her trembling hands over her heart. Her fingers quivered. Itsuki approached silently. The strings of his guitar were wrapped tightly, as if to remember a voice forbidden. He met Mizue’s eyes, but said nothing. In this city, silence lived longer than people did. Suddenly, a thin drop fell from the sky. Rain...
Mizue’s eyes widened. In that moment, the old song within her surged to the surface— like a melody echoing from her mother’s voice. She tried to suppress it. She failed. The sound found its own way. As the first syllable slipped from her lips, time slowed. Raindrops hung suspended in the air. The scent of earth returned. And right then, from a crack in the pavement by the roadside, a lotus flower bloomed. Itsuki’s guitar quivered. The soil had felt the vibration of the voice. It understood. This was no ordinary sound. It was forbidden, yes— but it was also a reminder. Of colors once lost, of emotions once buried, of a silenced past.
The song that had once begun with her soprano mother’s voice was now rising through Mizue like new breath, like rebirth. And for the first time in a long time, the city inhaled.
“Every song leaves a trace. And every trace touches another heart.”
A Few Days Earlier – The Hidden Refuge
In the basement of a building as dark as a bunker, the air was thick with the scent of rust and damp. When the electricity flickered, shadows danced across the walls— echoes of silenced pasts. Mizue had come here chasing a coded message sent only to those deemed trustworthy. At the end of the note, a single symbol had been drawn by hand: a broken musical note.
The door creaked open. A young man entered, carrying an old guitar case on his back. His eyes were cautious, but not weary. At first, Mizue thought he was ordinary— until she saw the symbol etched in metal on the neck of his guitar: the ancient sign of earth.
“Are you one of those who haven’t forgotten the sound?” Itsuki’s voice was low, almost a whisper. Mizue didn’t answer. She took a few steps back. “Who gave you this address?” she asked. Itsuki shrugged. “Wasn’t it you who called me?”
Silence.
Mizue pulled a small card from her pocket. Scrawled in nearly-faded pencil at the edge of the note were the words: “Only those who hear your heart can ever truly understand you.” Itsuki exhaled. “My sister found that note.
Someone slipped it into her bag. She didn’t do anything… she just—” His voice trembled. “—she just dreamed.
And that’s why they silenced her.”
Mizue’s face darkened. She stepped closer, slowly. “I don’t want you to understand me,” she said. “But will you help my voice be heard?” Itsuki removed his guitar. The strings were old, but the soul was still alive. He brushed them with his fingers— and somewhere beyond the wall, stones trembled. Mizue flinched. Her eyes widened.
“I can hear the earth,” Itsuki said. “Only the true sounds. I heard yours, too. Last night… in the rain.” For the first time, Mizue smiled—just slightly. “So… you were there.”
A few days later…
Mizue and Itsuki began working together. Her voice awakened the earth. His guitar stirred the city. But something was still missing… A rhythm. The song could not be completed without bending time itself. And just then…
Makoto appeared. A black hood. A composed, professional demeanor. And a glint in his eyes that whispered: “Don’t trust me.” “I heard your sound,” he said. “I was supposed to suppress it. But I couldn’t.” Itsuki’s hand moved toward the neck of his guitar. Mizue tensed. Makoto bowed his head slightly. “I play the drums. I can bend time.
But there’s something in my past… something I still can’t explain— and I don’t know why I can’t tell you.” In that moment, Mizue heard her mother’s warning echo in her mind— a whisper from long ago: “Don’t trust the ones who play with time. They are the ones who steal the most of it.”
Night had fallen. Like a soundless lament, it draped itself over the city. Gray buildings faded into the heavy mist descending from the sky. In a distant corner, Mizue was doing vocal exercises. She was trying to suppress her voice— but in the trembling notes, the fracture in her heart was unmistakable. Itsuki sat on the old stone steps with his guitar, his eyes fixed on Makoto. Silent. Not cold— but fully awake. Makoto leaned against a rusted steel pillar in the depths of an abandoned subway line. His eyes were fixed on his practice drum pad— But he wasn’t really looking at it. He was staring into the conflict inside him. “Being in this group… it’ll either set me free… or destroy me completely.” That thought echoed in his mind. He didn’t say it out loud. He had grown up under his father’s orders. From a young age, he was taught not to control time— but to conquer it with every beat.
His family, loyal supporters of the state’s anti-music doctrine, had always insisted that he use his talent for the “right purposes.” “A person who can bend time shouldn’t take sides. They only disturb balance,” his mother once warned.
But these kids...
Mizue made flowers bloom with her voice. Itsuki stirred the earth. And Makoto... He was the one who bent time. He paused for a moment. His eyes landed on Mizue. She was softly humming an old melody. It was so familiar…
It sounded just like a hidden lullaby he’d once overheard from his mother’s room. “Where did you learn that melody?” Makoto asked, almost without thinking.
Mizue hesitated. “From a memory I kept hidden… maybe from my mother.”
Makoto’s heart skipped. A sharp ache tightened in his chest. He had heard that same melody,
years ago— not from a voice, but in the secret hours, from the old cassette tapes his mother used to hide.
“Was your mother… a former soprano?” he asked, voice trembling. Mizue lowered her head. She didn’t answer—
but her eyes had already whispered yes. Itsuki stood up.
He stepped closer, suspicion in his gaze. “We know little about your past, Makoto. You can bend time… but how far will you walk with us?”
Makoto bit his lip. He looked away. He didn’t want to answer— because he didn’t know himself. He only whispered: “If I’ve been silenced too… and yet I still have the power to play with time… then maybe I can steal a moment for people like you— just a breath of time to keep you from drowning.”
Itsuki’s gaze softened, yet his doubt lingered. Mizue’s thoughts swirled in turmoil—familiar melodies, lost voices, fragmented memories… all beginning to intertwine with Makoto, but trust had yet to fully take root.
That night, even the wind dared not make a sound. The rusted metals had fallen silent, yielding to the oppressive quiet. Mizue’s voice was pulled back into her throat, afraid to echo beneath the stones. Itsuki didn’t touch the guitar strings; his fingers traced only the outlines of the strings, hesitant and tentative. Makoto was ready to set the time loop in motion, but… something hung in the air.
A strange tremor. Invisible, yet seeping into the bones.
Suddenly, the sky shifted from gray to black. A digital crackle. A red light flickered in the metro system they thought had been dormant for centuries.
“Illegal frequency detected. Area quarantined. Sound sources are being identified.”
Mizue flinched. Makoto narrowed his eyes. Itsuki slung his guitar over his shoulder, readying himself as if to go into battle. “They’re watching us,” Itsuki said. “But how? This zone was isolated from external frequency scans.”
Makoto hesitated. “Only one person called us here…” His gaze involuntarily shifted toward Mizue. Mizue narrowed her eyes and took a step back. “Do you think it was me…?”
Makoto quickly stepped back. “No! No… It’s just… Maybe someone has been watching us. Maybe from the very beginning.”
Three figures appeared at the edge of the rooftop, clad in digital camouflage. Their faces were obscured—only white-gray masks covered them. Known as the “Sound Hunters,” this unit was the government’s deadliest agents. They could see sound and sever melodies. “Run,” Itsuki warned. “Mizue, don’t use your voice. They’re hunting for it.”
Mizue held her breath. But the trembling in her throat betrayed her. With every beat of her heart, the melody she tried to suppress struggled to rise. Then, her lips parted involuntarily. “A drop of rain…” The lotus flower bloomed.
The Sound Hunters sprang into action. Symbols glowed on the gray floor. Makoto triggered the time loop—but it was limited. Itsuki slammed his guitar onto the ground, shaking the earth. Mizue’s voice choked off, silenced along with tears. But it was too late.
They took refuge in a narrow underground passage. Breaths were uneven. Hearts pounded in panic. “They found us,” Itsuki said. “And they won’t stop hunting us now.” Makoto was silent, lost in thought. “What if one of us unknowingly leaked our location?” Mizue lowered her head. For the first time, her eyes held more than fear—questions. Guilt. And the pain of not being able to share her voice with anyone.
Mizue’s melody stirred nature once again. But at the same time, it drew the watchful eyes of the government onto them. Now, they had to hide not only their voices but their very existence. The dim lights of the underground corridor hit the cold stone walls. Breaths quickened, hearts raced in panic. Itsuki listened to footsteps behind them. Mizue felt the tightness caused by the melody suppressed deep in her throat. Makoto was silent, carefully scanning their surroundings. Suddenly, a worn symbol caught his eye at the corner of the passage. On a broken metal plate, an elegant lotus flower was etched, with an old soprano note beneath it. Mizue’s eyes widened. “That… is the same symbol my mother had…” “That’s why she had to hide her voice,” she whispered.
Itsuki and Mizue exchanged looks. Makoto, however, seemed not to notice the moment. He averted his eyes. As they stepped outside, Mizue turned toward Makoto. “Did you see that symbol? You acted like you didn’t know…”
Itsuki joined in: “Why did you stay silent? Are you really with us?”
Makoto hesitated briefly. “I don’t know… but now isn’t the time to argue about that. The government’s tracking us. Trust is a risky word right now.”
“But we are a team,” Mizue said, “and keeping secrets pushes you away from us.”
Itsuki shook his head sharply: “If you’re our enemy, we need to realize it immediately.”
Makoto lowered his eyes. He carried both helplessness and a mysterious secret.
The gray city was silent, but it was watching them. The lotus symbol was a key from the past. Makoto’s secrets would decide the team’s future.
A Piece from Makoto’s Past
A cold room. State emblems hung on the walls, the hum of heavy electronic devices filled the air. Makoto, dressed in a black uniform, sat opposite a desk. In front of him, a large screen displayed streaming frequency waves.
“Is the mission complete, Makoto?” A cold, harsh voice. The government official’s gaze pierced through him.
Makoto pressed his lips tight. “No, sir. The frequencies are more unstable than expected.”
“This much failure is unacceptable.”
“You know my family situation…”
“You know nothing about your family or personal feelings. Only the mission matters.”
Makoto closed his eyes. He remembered that moment in the past when his little sister had hugged him. Her voice was an old lullaby banned by the government. While trying to protect her, he had been torn from his family and pushed into the shadow of the state.
“You need us, Makoto. You cannot silence the voice within you.”
Those words echoed like an old recording left by his mother years ago.
As the red alarm light on the screen blinked, the hesitation and regret on Makoto’s face grew more apparent. He had to be both the shield of the government and hide the rebellion within himself. Makoto quietly stood up. Looking into the darkness, he thought, “Can I even be trusted?”
The wind echoed through the old city streets along with ashes as the three of them took refuge in a ruined building. Mizue was still cautious of Makoto; Itsuki watched his steps but said nothing. Inside, they found a half-buried mural. A faint but familiar symbol, visible only to careful eyes: a lotus flower blooming on the chest of a woman who once sang.
Mizue’s fingers reached for the painting involuntarily. Suddenly, an echo resounded: “Sopranos never fell silent forever. You cannot erase us from the frequency.”
A spark ignited inside Mizue. This recording, so much like her mother’s voice, was sealed within the wall. And as if in response... the sky cracked open for the first time. A slit appeared in the gray veil. A thin beam of light seeped through.
Itsuki gripped his guitar tightly. “This... is no ordinary reaction. Someone is watching us.” Makoto took a step back. His hand went into his pocket. The old device he kept there, a frequency scanner, started vibrating. Suddenly, a sharp buzzing sound came from outside. A patrol drone hovered in front of the building. The government had sent its first threat. As sirens approached, Makoto’s eyes narrowed—but the other two still didn’t fully trust him. “How did they find us?” Mizue asked. “Makoto... what are you hiding?”
The black screen shut down with these words:
“If the voice is a lie, how dangerous will the truth be now?”
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