Debut, Wen Yao Girls! - Chapter 2

Who Is Moving the Pieces Behind the Scenes?

The bitter aroma of cold brew coffee drifted through Fujiwara’s office. Ranpo stood on the beige carpet, the creases from her shoe heels like tiny cracks.

“You knew there was something wrong with the equipment all along?” The mentor’s voice was sharper than his judgments on stage. His metal fountain pen tapped a rhythmic, broken beat on the table.

Ranpo looked at his hand resting on his knee—the knuckles had faint red marks from years of wearing cuff links on his performance outfits, a professional mark of a former idol.

She tilted her head, her hair brushing her collarbone. “Does the teacher think a newcomer would mark six escape points on the choreography chart three days in advance?”

Fujiwara’s pen stopped tapping.

Indeed, three days ago during the first rehearsal, the choreography chart Ranpo submitted had six coordinates circled in red pen. They now corresponded to the trajectory of her dive when the light stand fell.

He took off his black-rimmed glasses to clean them, his pupils contracting slightly behind the lenses. “You’re testing me.”

“The teacher was the one who first showed a flaw,” Ranpo said, lightly tapping the Idol Stage Safety Guide on his desk. Half a surveillance screenshot was pressed against its spine. The image showed Shiraishi Yuna’s figure lingering in the equipment area.

She smiled, her canines flashing in the twilight. “After all, the way you looked at the light stand was three times more focused than when you watched me dance to The D-Slope Murder Case.”

Fujiwara’s throat bobbed. He finally loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. “Get out.”

The fluorescent lights in the hallway were a bit harsh. As Ranpo turned the corner, she heard the sound of leather shoes tapping on the ground.

Shiraishi Yuna stood in front of the fire exit. Her beige shirt was tucked into her high-waisted trousers. The pearl bracelet on her wrist jingled as she raised her arm. “Edogawa-san’s luck is better than I thought.”

“Luck?” Ranpo stopped. Three steps separated them.

She noticed a fresh chip in the rose-colored nail polish on Shiraishi’s left fingernails.

“If it’s a ‘Heart Reading’ ability, you should have known that I never rely on luck.”

Shiraishi’s pupils contracted.

This was the forbidden name for her ability. The company’s official press releases only called her an “empathic resonance type.”

She unconsciously squeezed her pearl bracelet until the pearls dug into her skin. “You’d better not get too cocky.”

“What I’m cocky about is—” Ranpo leaned in. The scent of lime followed her. “Someone is in a hurry to reveal their flaws.”

Shiraishi suddenly took half a step back, her back hitting the fire hydrant.

She watched Ranpo’s back as she walked away, hearing her own ragged breathing echoing in the empty hallway, like a popped balloon.

The single bed in the dorm was uncomfortably hard. Ranpo lay on her desk and pulled up the accident footage.

In the surveillance video, Shiraishi deliberately knocked over a clothes rack while changing in the dressing room. While the stage manager was bending down to pick up the clothes, she slipped something into her jacket pocket. Two hours later, the scratch on the light stand was at the exact spot where she had been standing.

“Swiss Army knife,” Ranpo whispered, recalling the stage crew member’s shriek.

She opened the notes app on her phone and wrote down the timeline: Shiraishi used the dressing room to create an alibi → used her ability to induce the stage manager’s negligence → sabotaged the equipment → framed it as an accident.

But in the cold light of the screen, her lips curved into a smile.

She quickly typed on the keyboard and sent a backup of the choreography chart to her assistant. “Send this to the stage crew. Say that trainee Edogawa suggests adjusting the lighting coverage.”

The next morning during practice, the dance studio floor had an unusual shine.

Shiraishi stumbled as she spun in her jazz shoes.

She instinctively grabbed the nearby ballet barre, only to see a drop of oil slowly spreading on the mirrored floor—it was olive oil, the same brand she had bought at the convenience store last night.

“Shiraishi-senpai!”

Amidst the exclamations, Ranpo was the first to rush over, reaching out to support her waist.

The girl’s body carried the scent of lime. Her tone was just the right amount of concern. “Be careful of the oil on the floor. Maybe the props team spilled it when they were moving the hot pot set.”

Shiraishi’s face instantly flushed.

She shook off Ranpo’s hand and took two steps back, only to see the other trainees already gathered around, talking animatedly about calling a team doctor.

She looked down at her ankle—it was only a minor sprain, not nearly enough to affect training.

“Thank you.” She gritted her teeth and forced out the words. As she turned, she glimpsed the screen of Ranpo’s phone, hidden in her sleeve—it was a record of a “kitchen supplies” order from an online shopping platform.

The blinds in the monitoring room were drawn. Fujiwara stared at the screen, watching Ranpo helping Shiraishi. His thumb unconsciously rubbed the remote control.

He had pulled up the choreography chart from three days ago to compare. The circled red areas perfectly avoided the spread of the oil slick.

“This kid…” he murmured softly. His finger paused on the “Save” button and finally pressed “Favorite.”

When practice ended, the broadcast announced, “All trainees, please gather at the main stage.”

Fujiwara stood in the center of the lift platform, his suit looking like a precise instrument.

His gaze swept over the crowd and finally landed on Ranpo’s bright eyes. “The next stage theme is the fusion of literary abilities and performance. You need to prove that an idol’s stage isn’t just about singing and dancing, but the physical manifestation of literary resonance.”

Ranpo’s fingers gently curled.

She could feel her bl00d boiling in her veins, a thrill like finding the key to a puzzle.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shiraishi’s clenched fists, her knuckles white.

“Group discussions will be in three days,” Fujiwara’s voice held a certain fascination. “I look forward to seeing who can truly make literature and idols resonate.”

As they dispersed, Shiraishi turned and blocked Ranpo’s path.

A sharp light danced in her pupils, but a sweet smile was on her lips. “Edogawa-san, I choose you as my opponent.”

Ranpo looked at the swaying stage lights behind her, remembering the detail she had deduced last night—Shiraishi’s Swiss Army knife was now lying in a hidden compartment in her dorm room drawer.

“Okay,” she said, tilting her head with a smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

The morning light streamed in from the window at the end of the hallway, casting their shadows together.

In the distance, the sound of staff adjusting the lights could be heard. A trainee’s voice drifted over: “I heard they’re installing a sensor device for this stage that can display real-time resonance…”

Shiraishi’s nails dug deep into her palm.

She watched Ranpo bouncing and running toward the practice room. She took out her phone from her pocket and quickly typed: “Prepare the second plan.”

In a hidden corner, Dazai Osamu leaned in the shadow of the fire exit, a corner of the bandages on her wrist lifted by the wind.

She watched them leave, her fingertips lightly touching her earpiece, and let out a soft laugh. “This is getting more and more interesting.”