Miyama Ranko never thought much about the old vending machine at the edge of the idol practice room’s parking lot. It was dented, its light flickered a sickly yellow, and it only sold two things: warm barley tea and a brand of grape juice so artificially purple it looked radioactive. But it was 11:47 PM, she’d just finished three hours of solo vocal drills, and the convenience store was a fifteen-minute walk in the opposite direction of her train home.
Silence. Then: "Ranko, are you sick?"
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