Chapter 33 - A Closed-Door Trial

A week after the walkout incident that had rocked the main practice room of the Music Arts Conservatory, an official summons letter from Professor Hans's desk landed in Michi's personal email inbox. There was no explosive fury, no disciplinary hearing summons like the ones her classmates had feared on her behalf—no small comfort, since half the graduating year had spent the week whispering bets on exactly how bad the fallout would be. What it contained was nothing more than a brief instruction: Main Recital Room, 4:00 PM. No audience.

When Michi pushed open the heavy door of the recital room that afternoon, the air inside felt noticeably colder than usual. Professor Hans stood alone in the middle row of seats, arms crossed over his chest, while the stage lights lit up the pitch-black grand piano at the center of the room like a courtroom bench.

"Do you think that cheap little act of courage of yours is going to save your future on an international stage, Arunika?" the professor's hoarse voice broke the silence, sharp and uncompromising. "The Vienna committee doesn't need a rebel. They need precision."

Michi didn't bow her head. She walked calmly toward the stage, set her score bag down on a small chair, then sat up straight facing the piano keys. Inside her chest, her heartbeat thundered, but no longer out of fear. There was an unfamiliar calm flowing through every vein in her body—a calm she had discovered through the freedom of playing music without a weight pressing down on her, born from all those quiet hours in the basement studio with Rimba. She thought, briefly, of what he would have said if he'd been standing at the back of this room instead of the professor—something irreverent, probably, meant to needle the nerves right out of her.

"I didn't come here to justify some act of rebellion, Professor," Michi answered firmly, her voice echoing through the empty recital room. "I came to prove that music doesn't have to die in order to become perfect."

Professor Hans didn't respond. He simply gave a small, cold nod, gesturing for Michi to begin.

Michi drew a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second to gather every one of her senses into one. The moment her fingers struck the first key of the Chopin repertoire, the room seemed to come alive. She wasn't playing like some typewriter of the score sheet. She released every note with the kind of high-level technical precision that had always been the academy's standard, but wrapped in a depth of feeling, a wild, breathing dynamic range, and a jolting emotional honesty. She played the climactic section with full intensity—fusing the rigid discipline of classical training with the free spirit she had learned from her nights in an entirely different world.

Time seemed to stop inside that high-ceilinged, acoustically tuned room. When the last note hung in the air and slowly faded into silence, Professor Hans stood frozen in place. The horn-rimmed glasses on his aged face had slipped nearly to the point of falling off, while his eyes stared straight at the stage with an expression difficult to read—somewhere between disbelief, awe, and the stark realization that his prized student had now transformed into a true artist.

"Extraordinary," Professor Hans finally whispered, his voice losing every trace of the sharp, curt tone he usually carried. He stepped slowly toward the stage. "You were right, Arunika... the Vienna committee really isn't looking for a mechanical doll. They're looking for a soul."

Two days later, a recommendation file, filled with special notes from the professor, sailed smoothly onto the desk of the international selection committee. The plane tickets and travel documents for Austria were officially in hand at last.

That night, at Basement Studio Number Three, Michi laid the official envelope from the embassy down on the mixing desk in front of Rimba. He went still for a moment, reading line by line through the scholarship confirmation letter, complete with the highest possible score her scholarship had just been awarded.

"Highest score?" Rimba's eyebrows shot up, half in astonishment, half in pride. He looked at Michi with the most sincere smile she had ever seen on him. "That old professor really did give in to how stubborn you are, huh?"

Michi laughed easily, wrapping both arms around Rimba's neck as he rose from his chair. "He didn't give in. He just realized he couldn't cage me anymore, not really."

Rimba returned the embrace tightly, breathing in the scent of vanilla and score paper that always clung to Michi. Beneath the warmth of that hug, his expression softened for a moment in silence—holding a deep, private admiration for the woman in his arms, never once knowing that beneath this classical pianist's graceful surface, there lived the rhythm of Midnight Frequency's drums, hammering out a world every single night that he had never once set foot in. The secret was still safe, waiting for the right moment to finally detonate on the next stage fate had in store for them.

Michi held on a little longer than she needed to, letting her cheek rest against his shoulder, feeling the quiet weight of that one unshared truth settle back into its familiar place. It wasn't guilt exactly—not anymore, not after everything they'd survived together—but it was something close to it, a small, persistent awareness that even now, standing this close, there was still a version of herself he hadn't met. She told herself, the way she always did, that there would be time for that later. Tonight belonged to the letter on the desk, to the number at the top of it, and to the fact that for once, every door in front of her seemed to be opening rather than closing. She pulled back just far enough to look up at him, memorizing the unguarded relief on his face, and thought, not for the first time, that she wanted to be the one who kept putting it there.