My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

The light bulbs that illuminated the classroom at night were off since it was daytime. Instead, sunlight streamed in, lighting everything up unnoticed, like something taken for granted.

The phone fell in a perfect parabola, landing just inches away from that guy.

It wasn't that it had fallen far from us, but it had landed perfectly next to Nowak, who adjusted his posture and leaned down until his arm reached the device.

No matter how angry he might have been moments ago, he wasn't a bad person—certainly not a rude one.

When the phone hit the white tile floor, a sharp crack echoed. Even I winced at the harsh sound hitting our ears. That was an expensive phone, one you could practically pay for with its weight in gold.

If I had one like that in my hands, I probably would've put it in a display case like a trophy.

"NO, NO, NO! I just bought this… God, well, whatever. I'll just buy another one."

"Don't worry, I don't think it's broken. Here…"

"...Thanks, Nowak. Hey, don't let Abantino's words get to you. I'm sure you're really talented."

Nowak's face twisted into a warm smile. Anyone would smile at another's empathy, even if it came from a stranger. Sometimes, the kindness or encouraging words of a complete nobody can change your mood for the rest of the day.

But then his smile contorted into an expression of shock—subtle, hidden beneath his stunned face like someone who had just met one of their equals, maybe even a little thrilled.

In that moment, his entire demeanor changed, as if he'd become a completely different person.

"...VILCA. Wait. You know her, miss?" His excitement was undeniable. That earlier astonishment had melted into a wave of positive emotions. Any lingering sadness was forgotten.

"...Huh? Well, I discovered her recently. By the way, I'm Emilia Ronova... If I had to say anything, I really like this one—look. It's called 'The Ballad of Escoffier.'"

"'The Ballad of Escoffier' is VILCA's latest single, released on January 2nd of this year. With a total of 103k views. In my opinion, it's in my top three songs. The lyrics tell a story of silent perfection, of giving without receiving, of being left with only the scent of what was given..."

"Uh… I see." Of course, that girl was unusually uncomfortable now.

With a machine gun hidden in her tongue, she began firing off words at breakneck speed. Even with her crisp diction, it was hard to keep up with the flood of concepts she was spewing.

Yeah, this guy was a fan of my sister—and a pretty intense one at that.

"VILCA is a genius, an anomaly. When I heard her a year ago, I finally knew music was my path. VILCA changed my life. What's your story with VILCA, Ronova? Are you a fan too? When she announced she was taking a break from online music production, I felt like jumping off a building!"

He's insane.

He began to walk and move his hands from side to side as he spoke passionately.. He even invaded our personal space, stepping way too close, probably not even noticing the discomfort on mine and Emilia's faces.

Meanwhile, my sister remained unfazed, as always, lost in her own world, completely unaware of what was happening.

He was a total fanatic, borderline crazy, passionately explaining his obsession to apparent strangers.

Has he no shame? Well, actually, expressing what you love isn't a bad thing, and he was indirectly complimenting my sister—and me (yeah, because I helped a little with the single's production too).

"Though it seems VILCA has gotten used to hiring mediocre sound engineers. If she realizes that and hires a top-tier one, I'm sure she'll reach divine levels."

Okay, now I don't like him.

I signaled Emilia to pack up so we could leave—this guy was getting way too intense.

He started explaining the most obscure technical details of my sister's music.

*"'The Ballad of Escoffier' is a piece that combines a minimalist orchestral foundation with an irregular 6/8 pulse, where the rhythm blurs through subtle shifts in accentuation and expressive rubato. The harmony oscillates between a melancholic Aeolian mode and artificial scales (like the octatonic scale or altered modes), creating a sense of nostalgia and mystery. Dissonances resolve unconventionally, avoiding traditional cadences in favor of chromatic movements or wide interval leaps (like sixths and ninths). The instrumentation blends piano with pizzicato strings (like in Stravinsky's works) and subtle electronic textures, reminiscent of Yoko Kanno or Joe Hisaishi's soundtracks. The vocals alternate between free recitative and singable passages, similar to Momocashew's (Mili's vocalist) performances. Instead of functional harmonic development, the piece moves in blocks of tonal color, with soft clusters and harmonic pedals creating static tension. Sudden silences and abrupt dynamic shifts add drama, and..."

YES, this guy is insane.

And I don't even know what he's saying. For all I know, he could be insulting me in another language.

"Okay, thanks, Nowak, but we have to go."

"What? But I haven't even talked about VILCA's lyrics and her use of language yet! Wait, give me your phone numbers so we can talk another day!"

He pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped toward us, ready to exchange numbers. We were already retreating, practically at the doorframe.

Okay, now I feel a little bad.

We were at the door, Nowak just a few steps away. As I was about to leave with Emilia and my sister, I finally realized—she hadn't moved.

She stood frozen, staring at Nowak with interest, her head tilted slightly like she was watching a curious animal perform a funny trick.

"Hmm. I did all that?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"That whole analysis was nice, but none of it was planned. It just flowed. I didn't think it was that pretty."

"I see, so you're a VILCA fan too. But you have a different way of seeing things. That's interesting—how about we talk more in-depth another time? No, better yet, right now."

"Hmm. I see you really like my music."

Nowak stared at my sister, confused. His face froze at such a bold statement. If this were a cartoon, a giant question mark would've floated above his head.

I started signaling Maria to leave, but she didn't seem to get the hint.

"Are you implying… you're VILCA?"

"Uh-huh. Look." I don't know when my sister snatched the old phone we share from my pocket.

It's a cheap model—overheats easily, cracked screen, bulky case, discolored plastic. Yet she held it up, showing Nowak the screen.

There, open, was the Virtual Studio of the video platform, accessible only to content creators. In the top corner was a cartoonish panda (her profile picture), and on the right, clear as day, the name "VILCA."

The owner of the music project with 200k followers—was her.

That might sound like a lot (you'd need multiple stadiums to fit them all), but in the language of the internet, it's actually pretty small. Some people have millions, just like there are millions of people in the world.

That's why I never thought this would happen—that we'd meet a real-life fan of my sister.

When Nowak saw that screen, it was like a bolt of lightning shot out and struck him in the head, because his entire system seemed to reboot.

He lost his balance, dropping to his knees like he'd taken a fatal blow to the stomach.

And there, kneeling, as if he'd seen a god he worshipped, he bowed his head before all of us.

"Lord VILCA, it's you. I'm your biggest fan—founder of the VILCA Fan Club in this city..."

Fan club?

"It's just Ana and me, but I'm a good club president. We have weekly meetings. But that doesn't matter, my lord. It's an honor to meet you. Forgive me for not realizing sooner that I was sharing a classroom with the most talented singer-songwriter and composer in history. Have mercy on me."

The weirdness level just skyrocketed. This guy was like one of those crazy cultists who worship some pagan god—the kind who wear red robes and make sacrifices.

Just when I thought things couldn't get more surreal, Nowak made his final plea.

"Lord VILCA. Teach me everything you know, and help me defeat Ana Abantino in the next exam."

I had no choice but to intervene.

At first, I planned to just grab my sister's arm and leave—maybe watch Emilia cook that paella she kept talking about at our place.

But this situation was too convenient. We were missing one member to meet the maximum allowed for the special "Synergia" exam.

The more people we had helping, the higher our chances of acing it with top marks. Plus, if we worked as a team, we could get an extra 30% on our grade in the best-case scenario.

A win-win.

Coincidentally, Alex Nowak—who, according to Emilia, was one of the department's most promising students—had just served himself up on a silver platter to work with us.

With Nowak's enthusiasm and support, maybe he could finally get these slackers to work.

The risk of running out of money would drop significantly.

I stepped closer to Nowak. The moment he made that request to my sister, his crazy fan expression vanished. Instead, he clenched his eyes shut, terrified of rejection.

He really wanted to beat Abantino—to prove he didn't need her to shine. He believed that without his greatest idol (VILCA), his chances of winning were slim.

"I think you already know." Just like he told me on the second day of class, "I'm Lucas Vilcanoba, María Vilacoba's brother. I help my sister with her music production..."

"You help VILCA… Then you're the mysterious narrator in 'The Ballad of Escoffier.' You're the person who strives to protect without receiving anything in return..."

My sister included me in her single as the main theme of her lyrics? I remember editing the audio, but I never paid much attention to the meaning behind it.

Nowak continued.

"...You're also Lord VILCA. Please, Lord VILCA, I beg you to accept my request."

"Oh, sure."

"What? Just like that?"

He was stunned by how easily his request was accepted. He blinked several times, even pinching his forearm to check if he was hallucinating.

His body, uncomfortable from the kneeling prayer position, stood up.

With a radiant, confident smile, he raised his hand to shake mine.

He returned to his usual aloof, relaxed attitude, leaving behind the crazy fan persona.

"Lord VILCA, I won't let you down. Together, we'll get the highest marks in the department."

"What's happening here?" Emilia was confused, looking at us like we were a bunch of weirdos while she was the only normal person in the room.

"So the weird guy is part of our team now?" My sister said it, but she didn't really care. She had already wandered off, out of the classroom, doing whatever—because she always moves at her own pace and waits for no one.

*** 

"Sorry for getting worked up. I always get emotional when talking about Lord VILCA. Though Ana's the same way."

"Ana? Ana Abantino?" He'd mentioned her before, but I couldn't believe that the arrogant Ana Abantino was a fan of my sister. Worse yet, that they shared a classroom and hadn't realized it.

This was probably because my sister hadn't really sung yet. Neither in Miss Valdes' class nor anywhere else had she needed to perform an a cappella piece in front of everyone—or anything like that.

At least in these past two weeks, classes had been mostly theoretical and written. There hadn't been any practical demonstrations (from the students) aside from that first day, when even the students couldn't tell whose voice was whose.

We were invisible. No one noticed us.

For us, the status quo was attending class, listening to the bell marking the end of the day, and going home.

We didn't care what happened afterward.

Basically, aside from pretending to pay attention in class, we just hung out with Emilia. That was all we did, which was why school days felt so peaceful. But something told me this was just the trial period.

Though sometimes, Emilia would wander off during the days we ate in the school cafeteria (Tuesdays and Thursdays, when classes didn't let us go home). According to her, she was gathering information. Honestly, with all the time she spent with us, I'd started worrying she didn't have any other friends. But the Social Harpy was working silently.

Once, she showed me her phone, packed with contacts from people at the academy. But none of them were significantly important. Still, it had only been a week. I wondered what this person could accomplish in a couple of months.

Apparently, the fight between Abantino and Nowak marked the end of this routine—now that I'd set a specific goal. Even though I'd said it didn't affect my daily life, I was wrong.

At my question, Nowak smirked to himself with a hint of satisfaction.

"Now that we're not friends, I don't have to tell her I just met Lord VILCA. Sucks for her."

"So what do we do, brother?" Maria, already bored of waiting, started tugging at my sleeve, clearly wanting to go home.

"Alright. Nowak, follow us. You're going to tell us everything you know."

Looks like I have no choice but to bring another stranger into my home.