Mike

School. The bell rings. You're at the back of the class, trying to be invisible. Mike throws down a piece of paper: "Hey, Silent One, don't sleep! You'll be like your voice—no one will hear you." The class laughs. You remain silent. He doesn't know that at night you sing—quietly, to yourself. You have a voice, but at school you're a nobody.

Ten years pass. Mike is a star, his voice everywhere. Inside, there is emptiness. His songs are a cry into nowhere. He needs a second voice—higher, purer.

A casting call at his studio. A line of girls sing out of tune. Mike is irritated. You enter. You're wearing a fox mask. You sing his song—not copying it, but engaging in a dialogue. Mike freezes: he hears Quiet from school. He hires you without question. From this day forward, you are "Kitsune."

The duo is blowing up the charts. You're ice and mystery, he's fire. You're elusive, communicating only through your manager. Mike is furious, but inside, he's changing. He hears sadness in your music, remembers school jokes. His conscience torments him. He invites you to dinner, but you refuse. He wants to take off his mask, but you don't.

Behind the scenes of the finale, he catches you: "I was wrong! Why didn't you keep quiet? Why didn't you tell me to your face?" He screams: "Who are you under the mask? What does the girl who made me fall in love look like!"

You slowly remove the mask.

Mike was dumbfounded.

—It was you all this time?!