Sydney’s summer heat seeped through the cracked studio windows, suffocating and relentless.

  Humidity clung to the walls, saturating the air with a damp heaviness that settled into clothes and lungs alike. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed—a faint, constant drone adding to the claustrophobic atmosphere. Outside, the city pulsed with life: the sharp blare of car horns echoed from the congested streets, laughter and half-slurred conversations spilled from rooftop bars, and somewhere distant, music from another venue drifted through the night. The world beyond the walls was vibrant, chaotic—alive.

  Inside, it was a different battlefield.

  The studio smelled of stale coffee left too long in paper cups, sweat soaked into the carpet, and the faint leathery musk of well-worn instrument cases. Empty water bottles lay strewn across the floor like forgotten casualties, along with setlists scribbled on crumpled sheets and stray picks that had rolled into corners. Every surface seemed to radiate exhaustion, absorbing the frustration thick in the air.

  They’d been at it for hours—grinding through take after take in a desperate attempt to polish something that refused to shine. Without Nachi on drums, the music felt like a body missing its heartbeat. Takao’s bass lines held the skeleton together, each pluck deliberate but growing heavier with fatigue. Mamoru’s synth layered over it—clinical, precise—but couldn’t fill the void of an absent rhythm section. The click track—mechanical, unwavering—ticked away in their ears, sterile and unforgiving.

  Hideki stood at the mic, head bowed. His guitar hung low against his hip, fingers running through chords more out of habit than focus. Beads of sweat traced down his temple, dampening the collar of his faded black shirt. His breaths came shallow, but whether from exertion or frustration, no one could tell anymore. He strummed half-heartedly through another verse, the notes ringing hollow.

  Mid-chorus, he stopped. The sound died abruptly, strings buzzing under his slack grip.

  “Christ,” Hideki muttered, ripping out his in-ear monitors and letting them dangle. His voice, hoarse from overuse, cut through the tension like a blade. “This sounds like shit.”

  Mamoru, perched behind his laptop, didn’t even glance up. “It’s the rhythm,” he said, tone flat. His fingers moved across the keyboard, cueing up another track. “We can fix it with samples.”

  Takao leaned against an amp, dragging a towel over the back of his neck. His shirt stuck to his skin, soaked through from the heat. His bass still rested against his hip, the strap biting into his shoulder. “Yeah, sure. Samples,” he said, voice edged with sarcasm. “Because that’s really going to feel real on stage.”

  Hideki snorted, lips curling into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s like playing in a hospital waiting room.”

  Yuuki, who had been quietly observing from the corner, pushed off the wall. Arms folded, he shot Hideki a pointed look. “Maybe if you actually focused—”

  “Oh no,” Hideki interrupted, turning to face him fully, grin widening. “Doc’s disappointed. Tragic.” His sarcasm was razor-sharp, but underneath it, there was a flicker of something else—something harder to name.

  Mimmi, standing near the soundboard, sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples. Her patience, already worn thin, was disintegrating. “Enough.” Her voice cut through the simmering tension, demanding attention. “This isn’t about focus.” Her gaze shifted to Mamoru. “We’re working with duct tape and prayer right now. Without a drummer, we’re hanging by a thread.”

  Takao plucked a string absently, the low note reverberating through the room. “Feels like that thread’s about to snap.” His words lingered in the air like smoke—true, but offering no solution.

  Mamoru, unfazed, kept typing. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We’ll get through the Sydney dates,” he said, eyes locked on the screen. “After that, we reassess.”

  No one spoke for a long moment. The click track resumed—steady, relentless.

  Outside, laughter and music carried on—a world away from the four walls where everything was falling apart.

  Hideki stretched, arms arching over his head as his back cracked in protest. His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his skin, the fabric darkened along his spine and under his arms. Muscles pulled taut beneath the thin material, and for a fleeting moment, the tension that had been coiling in his shoulders all evening eased. His guitar strap tugged at his shoulder when he let his arms fall back down, and he exhaled slowly—more exhausted than he let on.

  “Great,” he muttered, rolling his neck until it popped. “More creative solutions.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was a fatigue beneath it that no amount of snark could fully mask. His hand ran through his sweat-damp hair, tousling it into further disarray as he glanced toward Mamoru’s laptop screen, where waveforms flickered meaninglessly. “Maybe we should just mime the whole set.”

  The joke hung in the air, half-hearted at best. No one laughed.

  Yuuki, still leaning against the wall with arms folded, let out a short breath through his nose. The overhead lights cast sharp angles across his face, his brows knitting together in thinly veiled frustration. “Or you could take this seriously,” he said, tone clipped but not sharp enough to cut.

  Hideki’s head tilted toward him, lips curling into a smirk. His eyes gleamed with that familiar spark—the one that always danced on the line between amusement and provocation. “Why start now?” he quipped. The grin didn’t reach his eyes, which were shadowed with exhaustion, but it didn’t matter. Hideki was practiced at wearing masks.

  Takao let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face. His palm felt sticky against the heat radiating from his skin. The studio’s humidity pressed against him, heavy and suffocating, making every breath feel like inhaling soup. His bass still rested against his hip, strap digging into his shoulder. He glanced at the floor, littered with empty water bottles and crumpled setlists, and let his gaze flick toward the ceiling, as if searching for patience there. “This is a mess,” he muttered, voice edged with resignation rather than irritation.

  Mimmi, standing near the mixing console, had been silent longer than usual—her fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the edge of her laptop. Her jaw clenched, and with a swift, decisive motion, she slammed the laptop shut. The sharp clack echoed through the room, cutting through the sluggish atmosphere like a snapped guitar string. “Break,” she said firmly, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. “Ten minutes. Cool off before we start throwing equipment.”

  No one moved at first. The tension lingered, stretched taut like a frayed wire ready to snap.

  Hideki, already peeling away from the mic stand, swung his guitar strap over his head and let the instrument thunk onto a nearby stand. His boots scuffed against the floor as he headed toward the door with a lazy gait, shoulders rolling back into nonchalance. “I’m grabbing a smoke,” he tossed over his shoulder, voice lighter than the weight settling over the rest of the room. “Try not to have a group therapy session while I’m gone.”

  The door creaked open—letting in a brief gust of warm, city-tinged air—before closing behind him with a solid, final thud.

  For a beat, no one said anything. The faint tick of the overhead clock filled the silence, counting down seconds that felt like an eternity.

  And outside, beyond the suffocating walls, the city’s muffled heartbeat of distant music, honking cars, and rooftop laughter played on, oblivious to the storm simmering inside the studio.

  Yuuki caught Mamoru by the vending machines outside the studio. “Hey,” he said, voice low but firm. “Whatever your plans are—leave Aiko out of it.”

  Mamoru didn’t stop inserting coins. “She makes her own choices.”

  “Don’t play dumb,” Yuuki snapped. “You know exactly how to pull strings. Don’t use her like that.”

  Mamoru retrieved a bottle of water and twisted the cap off. “And what if I do?”

  Yuuki’s jaw clenched. “Then you’ll have me to deal with.”

  Mamoru’s gaze drifted to his phone in his pocket, fingertips grazing it—inside, the photo of Yuuki and Mimmi after a show, her leaning on him for support. A weapon, if needed. But not now.

  Instead, Mamoru simply said, “Then I guess we’ll see.”

  Yuuki’s nostrils flared, but he turned away. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Mamoru murmured.

  Rehearsal wound down without resolution.

  The studio, once filled with a cacophony of off-beat rhythms and fraying tempers, fell into a thick, exhausted silence. Takao stayed behind, crouched beside his amp, coiling cables with practiced efficiency. Each loop of cord rasped against his calloused fingers, the small, repetitive action a welcome distraction from the tension that had settled like a fog over the room.

  The studio lights dimmed, casting long, slanted shadows across the scuffed floorboards. Dust motes swirled lazily in the humid air, illuminated by the flickering overhead bulbs. Takao wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, the heat clinging to him like a second skin. His shirt, damp from hours of playing, stuck to his back.

  The door creaked open. Mimmi stepped back in, a bass case in hand. Her movements were careful, measured—like someone holding something heavier than just its physical weight. Her face was impassive, but Takao could feel the tension radiating off her.

  “Takao,” she called, voice neutral but edged with something harder to place.

  He glanced up, resting his arm on his knee. “What now?” His tone hovered between exhaustion and mild irritation.

  Mimmi didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set the case down on a folding chair with a soft thump. The latches clicked open, echoing in the quiet room. She lifted the lid.

  Inside lay a black bass guitar—its finish scuffed along the edges, strings slightly dulled with age. Takao recognized it immediately—not from personal experience, but from old concert footage and photos. It was Aki’s.

  His gaze lingered on the instrument. He’d never met her, never played a show with her, but her presence still hung over the band like a shadow no one wanted to acknowledge. This wasn’t just gear—it was history. A legacy he hadn’t been part of.

  “Mimmi…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure about this?”

  Mimmi hesitated for a beat before speaking. “It was Hideki’s idea,” she said finally. “He told me to give it to you.”

  That caught Takao off guard. Hideki wasn’t exactly known for sentiment—or foresight. Why him? Why now?

  Mimmi added, “You’re already playing bass. This just… makes sense.”

  Takao frowned. “Feels like more than just practicality.”

  Before she could respond, a voice—sharp and cold—cut through the room:

  “Don’t.”

  Takao’s head snapped toward the doorway. Mamoru stood there, posture rigid, eyes locked on the bass. His expression wasn’t anger—it was something worse. A quiet, simmering hurt that settled heavy over the room.

  “It’s her bass,” Mamoru said, voice low but firm. “Put it back.”

  Takao straightened slowly. “Look, I didn’t ask for this.” He glanced at the instrument, then back at Mamoru. “But someone has to play. We can’t keep patching things with samples.”

  “It’s not about the samples,” Mamoru snapped. His composure cracked, just enough for the weight behind his words to show. “It’s about her.”

  Mimmi stepped in, calm but insistent. “We’re falling apart, Mamoru. This isn’t about replacing anyone. It’s about keeping the band functional.”

  “By handing off her bass like it’s just another instrument?” Mamoru’s voice faltered, catching at the edges. “It’s not equipment. It’s… hers.” His gaze never left the bass, as if looking at it too long might reopen old wounds.

  Takao exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t know her,” he said, quieter now. “I’m not trying to act like I did. I just…” He trailed off, searching for words. “We need a bassist. I’m standing here.”

  “You don’t get it,” Mamoru shot back. His hands clenched at his sides. “That was part of her. Every show, every rehearsal… She’s gone, but that’s still hers.”

  The room went still. The weight of absence filled the space between them—not Takao’s grief, but Mamoru’s. The kind that lingers in places, in objects, in sounds that aren’t there anymore.

  Takao’s jaw tightened. “Look, man… I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. But if Hideki thought this was the way forward, I’m not going to argue.” His fingers reached for the bass. The wood felt warm—worn in a way that spoke of years of use—but to him, it was just an instrument. Not a ghost. Not a memory.

  “Someone has to play,” he added.

  Mamoru’s face closed off, walls slamming back up. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.

  Takao stood there, bass in hand, the air thick with what was left unsaid.

  Mimmi sighed, rubbing her temple. “He’ll cool off. Or he won’t. But we don’t have time to sit in it.”

  Takao nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the instrument. It wasn’t about the bass. It was about what it represented.

  And like everything else with this band—nothing came without weight.

  Scene 4: City Night – Weight That Doesn’t Lift

  Outside, Takao where, leaning against a railing overlooking the harbor. The city glittered beyond—bright lights, blurred colors, people living their lives without the weight pressing on his chest.

  Outside, the Sydney night hit like a furnace.

  The summer air was thick and heavy, carrying the faint scents of street food, asphalt, and salt from the distant harbor. Neon signs flickered from nearby buildings, casting colored glows across the alley’s cracked pavement. Somewhere down the street, a car horn blared, followed by distant laughter spilling from a rooftop bar. The city was alive—loud, breathing—but here in the back alley, it was quieter. Almost still.

  Hideki leaned against the wall, one boot planted against the brick as he lit his cigarette with a flick of his thumb. The glow flared briefly, casting his face in warm orange light before dimming to a soft ember. He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl between his fingers, lungs burning with something familiar and grounding. His shirt, still damp with sweat, clung to his skin, and the cool air outside was a minor relief against the oppressive heat inside the studio.

  He tilted his head back, exhaling toward the sky. Smoke mingled with the humidity, drifting lazily upward before dispersing. His gaze traced the dark outline of power lines above, mind unfocused—half on the mess inside, half on nothing at all.

  “What a goddamn circus,” he muttered under his breath, lips curling into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  He brought the cigarette back to his lips, relishing the temporary calm—until the door behind him burst open with a loud bang that echoed through the alley.

  Mamoru stormed out, footsteps quick and purposeful. His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp with something beyond anger. Frustration. Hurt.

  Hideki barely had time to register him before—

  Snatch.

  Mamoru’s hand darted out, grabbing the cigarette right from Hideki’s fingers. Without missing a beat, he crushed it under his heel, grinding the ember into the concrete. Smoke hissed out with the dying spark.

  Hideki blinked at the spot where it had been. “Wow,” he drawled, voice light but edged. “Passive-aggressive much?”

  Mamoru didn’t respond right away, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His shoulders were rigid, tension rolling off him in waves. “You gave him Aki’s bass?” His voice was low, but there was heat under every word.

  Hideki shrugged, pushing off the wall. “Yeah. Thought it was practical. We need a bassist—he’s standing right there.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Mamoru shot back. His fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t just hand that over like it’s spare equipment.”

  “It is equipment,” Hideki replied, tone still annoyingly calm. “What do you want me to do? Hold a seance and ask Aki for permission?”

  That earned him a sharp glare. “Don’t.”

  Hideki sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it—”

  “No, you don’t!” Mamoru snapped, voice cracking with intensity. “You think you can just push past it like it doesn’t matter, but it does. To me.”

  The alley fell quiet except for the distant hum of the city. Hideki’s smirk faded, replaced by something more neutral—watchful.

  Mamoru exhaled, rubbing his face. “You didn’t even tell me first.”

  “I didn’t think you’d need a memo,” Hideki muttered. “I made a call. We’re barely holding it together, Mamo. I’m trying to keep this band from falling apart at the seams. Someone has to.”

  Mamoru laughed—a bitter, exhausted sound. “And you think throwing her bass at him is how to do that?”

  “It’s not about her,” Hideki said, softer now. “It’s about us.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Hideki glanced down at the crushed cigarette. “You owe me a smoke, by the way.”

  Mamoru shook his head, stepping back toward the door. “Yeah, well… you owe me a hell of a lot more than that.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared inside, the door creaking shut behind him.

  Hideki stood alone again, the city noise filling the empty space where Mamoru’s anger had been. He sighed, fishing another cigarette from his pocket.

  “Drama queens, the lot of us,” he muttered, lighting it with a flick. The ember glowed, and for a brief moment, the alley was quiet again.

  Just him, the smoke, and the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

  Mamoru sat alone backstage, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched, the dull hum of fluorescent lights above grating against his nerves. The room was empty—quiet in the worst way. No instruments, no conversation, just the distant thump of bass reverberating through the walls, muffled by layers of concrete and exhaustion.

  He stared at the floor. Worn, gray concrete scuffed from years of gear being dragged across it. The same kind of floor every venue seemed to have—just another place that blurred into the last. His gaze sharpened on a stray guitar pick near his boot, the neon pink plastic dulled from use. Probably Hideki’s. Or someone’s. Didn’t matter.

  His mind refused to go still. Every attempt at reason circled back to the same, gnawing thought: They gave her bass to Takao. Like it was nothing. Like it was just another piece of equipment.

  The door creaked open. Mimmi appeared, leaning against the frame. Her expression was unreadable—familiar territory—but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier.

  “You know this isn’t about erasing her,” she said. Straight to the point.

  Mamoru didn’t look at her. “Sure feels like it.” His voice was flat, scraped raw from holding everything in too long.

  Mimmi exhaled, slow. “It’s about survival.”

  He let out a short, humorless breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Survival.” The word tasted bitter. “Funny how that always ends up meaning ‘shove everything under the rug and keep playing like nothing happened.’”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Isn’t it?” Mamoru cut her off, finally glancing up. His gaze was sharp, but not wild—controlled, as always, except for the edge of something colder beneath. “He didn’t know her. None of you did. And now he’s standing there with her bass like it’s just… another prop.”

  Mimmi’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “We’re not trying to replace her. You think this is easy for anyone? We’re all just—”

  ”—doing what we have to. Yeah, I got the memo.” Mamoru leaned back, rubbing his face with one hand. His skin felt hot, the kind of heat that came from simmering anger, not exertion. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Silence stretched between them. Not comfortable. Never that. Just a long, heavy pause filled with things neither wanted to say.

  Mimmi finally moved, crossing the room to sit beside him. Not close—she knew better—but near enough to make it clear she wasn’t leaving.

  Mamoru’s gaze drifted back to the floor. The pick was still there, catching the overhead light. Bright. Obnoxious. Everything kept moving forward. Whether he wanted it to or not.

  “I’m not sentimental,” he said after a moment, voice quieter but no softer. “I just… I know how fast people forget. How easy it is to turn someone into a fucking footnote.” He shook his head. “I’m not letting that happen to her.”

  Mimmi didn’t respond. There was nothing to argue with. She just let the weight of it hang.

  Outside, the city throbbed with life—traffic rumbling, people laughing, Sydney refusing to slow down for anyone’s grief.

  Inside, Mamoru sat still. Teeth clenched. Chest tight. Holding on to what was his.

  Hideki sat on the curb outside the venue, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the ash dangerously close to collapsing. His other hand rested on his knee, tapping out a beat that didn’t match the rhythm in his head. The Sydney air was still thick, clinging like a second skin, and the distant sounds of the city—horns, laughter, music—faded into background noise.

  He exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward. Not enough wind to carry it away. Just like everything else lately.

  He glanced at his watch—well, Mamoru’s watch, because he’d “borrowed” it months ago and never given it back—and muttered, “Perfect. Ten-minute break turning into existential crisis. Love that for me.”

  The cigarette burned lower. He should put it out. He didn’t.

  His gaze drifted to the alley wall across from him—cracked paint, someone’s half-assed graffiti of a smiley face that looked like it regretted being born. Hideki smirked. Relatable.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  But no amount of snark could stop his mind from looping back to earlier. Takao holding Aki’s bass. Mamoru losing his shit. Mimmi trying to play damage control like always.

  God.

  He rubbed his face with both hands, elbows on his knees, dragging his palms down until his skin felt raw. Why did everything have to be so goddamn complicated?

  It was just a bass. Wood, strings, pickups—equipment.

  Except it wasn’t. Not to Mamoru. Not even to him, if he was being honest—which he rarely was, especially with himself.

  Aki’s face flashed in his mind—sharp, uninvited. Black clothes. That chessboard-patterned shirt she loved. The look in her eyes that always saw too much. For a split second, he thought he could hear her voice—laughing at him for sitting out here brooding like an idiot—but that was just his brain playing tricks again. Memories. Or ghosts. Or whatever the hell it was.

  His chest tightened. Familiar. Unwelcome.

  “Nope,” he muttered, shaking his head as if that could clear it. “Not doing that tonight.” Panic attacks were old news. He wasn’t thirteen anymore. Or sixteen. Or whatever age he’d been when hearing her name used to make his lungs stop working.

  Except… it never really went away, did it?

  He brought the cigarette to his lips again. Pause. Didn’t smoke it. Just… held it there.

  Everyone kept treating this like a moral dilemma—Should Takao play the bass? Shouldn’t he? Hideki didn’t have the energy for that debate. The band needed to survive. Period. People didn’t buy tickets for grief counseling—they came for the music. For the show. And if the only way to keep things moving was putting that instrument in someone else’s hands, so be it.

  He thought he was okay with that. Until Mamoru looked at him like that—like he’d just dug up a grave and started selling tickets.

  “Fuck’s sake,” Hideki sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the night sky. No stars. Just city glow swallowing the dark. “Would’ve been easier if you’d just stayed, you know?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Talking to no one. Or maybe her. Or maybe just himself.

  A beat of silence. Long enough to feel stupid. He huffed a laugh—dry, humorless. “Or maybe not. You always did have terrible timing.”

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Probably Mimmi. Or Mamoru. Or Takao trying to be polite about this whole mess. He didn’t need any of that. He just needed… five minutes to breathe. To not think about bass guitars or setlists or the fact that he was outliving someone who should’ve had more time.

  That part—that was the joke no one laughed at.

  Aki had always been the careful one. The cautious one. And here he was, lungs full of smoke, heart running on borrowed time, still standing.

  “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “Hilarious.”

  He flicked the cigarette into the gutter, watching the ember fizzle out. Done with that. Done with… whatever this was.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Hideki rolled his shoulders, smoothed down his sweat-stuck shirt, and put the mask back on. The smirk. The nonchalance. Easy. Automatic.

  He headed for the door, calling over his shoulder to no one in particular, “Alright, drama club. Let’s get back to pretending we know what we’re doing.”

  And if his chest still ached under the sarcasm?

  Well, that was nobody’s business but his.

  Shibuya, near the the NHK Broadcasting Center – Late Night

  The hotel room was suffocating. Not from heat—just a wrongness in the air. Aki lay on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her brain refusing to shut off. She had already counted the ceiling tiles—twelve across, eight down. Ninety-six. Recounting wouldn’t help, but the urge sat in her bones. Lines from today’s shoot replayed in her mind: missed cues, uneven delivery, a microsecond delay in her eye movement the director pointed out. Error margins. Always there. Always unacceptable.

  She couldn’t stay still anymore. Slipping out of bed, she grabbed her hoodie. Hideki sprawled across his bed like a lazy cat, mouth open, arm dangling off the edge. Mamoru slept on his side, breaths perfectly timed—countable. She knew it was 14 breaths per minute. His consistency annoyed her.

  The hallway carpet’s swirling maroon patterns blurred beneath her feet as she walked. Focus. Don’t look at them. Focus on steps. Left foot, right foot—patterned movements offered relief.

  Outside, the cool October air bit at her skin, grounding. Neon lights flickered, vending machines humming like mechanical lungs. Her eyes scanned the colorful rows—choices already calculated: Van Houten cocoa. High sugar, warm, efficient. Her fingers fed coins into the slot, each metallic clink syncing with her heartbeat.

  The can dropped with a satisfying thunk. Warm. Weighted. Familiar. Her thumb traced the embossed letters. V-A-N H-O-U—Stop. Her brain tried to anagram them again—habit, compulsion—but—

  "Yo."

  Aki’s muscles tightened. Hideki’s arm shot past her shoulder, snatching the cocoa from her hand.

  "That’s mine," she said flatly, voice devoid of irritation—just a statement of fact.

  Hideki grinned, eyes sharp beneath messy hair. "Late-night cocoa run? Scandalous. Bet the tabloids would love this. ‘Child star in vending machine drama.’”

  "Your grasp of humor is subpar," she replied.

  He took a sip, face contorting. "God. That’s sugar in a can. How do you drink this?"

  "Efficient glucose delivery," she said. "Better than watching you waste money on vending machine coffee that tastes like regret."

  Hideki chuckled, leaning against the machine. "Most of my money’s just sitting in some account. Not like I use it."

  "Yes. We know," Aki deadpanned. "You let the orphanage handle it. Fascinating financial strategy: willful ignorance."

  He shrugged. "Hey, I focus on the art, not the yen. You blow yours on Pocky and overpriced black clothes, so what’s worse?"

  "Upgrade from Pretz to strawberry Pocky was an investment. Added blueberry for variety. Complex flavor profiles. Not that you’d appreciate nuance."

  Hideki snorted. "You eat them together. That’s not nuance, that’s sugar addiction."

  "Efficient dopamine source," she corrected.

  He sipped again, grimacing. "Still gross."

  "Give it back then."

  He held it out, only to lift it above his head at the last second. Aki didn’t react—just stood there, gaze steady. The lack of response took the fun out of it. Hideki sighed, handing it over. "You’re no fun sometimes."

  "Your definition of fun involves petty theft. Not compelling."

  A pause settled between them. Lights buzzed overhead, casting flickering shadows. Hideki’s gaze shifted upward. "Stars are clearer here than Tokyo’s usual smogfest," he muttered.

  "No pollution to obscure visibility. Ninety-six stars visible from this angle. Approximately."

  "Bet you counted."

  She shrugged. "Estimations suffice."

  Another breeze swept through, dandelion seeds floating past. Her gaze tracked them automatically. Seventeen within reach. Six touched the ground. One clung to Hideki’s hair.

  "Make a wish," he said.

  "Not a statistically supported practice," she replied, but her fingers closed around a floating seed anyway. No wish made—just observation. Delicate structure. Temporary existence. Like everything else.

  The train ride home blurred into rhythmic clatter and muted station announcements. Now, the world stretched out in silence—open fields swallowing the horizon, the kind of dark that pressed against the skin. The town lights glowed faint behind them; ahead, only stars.

  Aki lay down first, grass cool against her back. Her jacket rustled, fingers folding across her stomach, cocoa can still warm in her grip. Above—an expanse of stars—points of data. Connect-the-dots patterns unfolded: Cassiopeia. Orion. Ursa Minor.

  Hideki dropped down beside her. "If I get grass stains, you’re washing my pants."

  "Statistically unlikely given fabric composition," Aki said.

  "God, you’re such a robot," he grinned.

  "Better than being terminally lazy."

  Dandelion seeds drifted overhead. She tracked them—eleven passing above, three caught on Hideki’s jacket. Another landed on her chest. She brushed it off. Temporary. Ephemeral. Like most things.

  "Bet Mamoru’s freaking out we’re gone," Hideki said.

  "He schedules breathing if he could," Aki muttered.

  Right on cue, Mamoru’s voice cut through the dark: "You guys seriously came out here? It’s freezing."

  He appeared at the edge of the field, jacket zipped to his chin, exasperation bleeding through every word.

  "Join or shut up," Hideki called.

  Mamoru sighed but sat beside them, stiff, back straight. He glanced at the stars, then at Aki’s calm expression. She wasn’t looking for beauty—just data. That unsettled him more than he’d admit.

  "Why do you always act like nothing matters?" Mamoru asked.

  "Because emotionality clouds judgment," Aki answered. "And it’s inefficient."

  Hideki huffed. "Wow. Real Hallmark card energy, sis."

  "Not here to comfort you."

  Dandelions swirled again. Hideki reached up lazily. "Make a wish, Mamo."

  "We have school tomorrow—"

  "God, shut up for once," Hideki said, smirking.

  Mamoru exhaled through his nose but lay back, just this once. Stars stretched on. Too many to count. Not that he wouldn’t try.

  Aki’s voice, quiet: "I wish..."

  Hideki tilted his head. "Huh?"

  "...that you’d both stop being idiots for five minutes."

  Hideki grinned. Mamoru rolled his eyes. A dandelion seed landed on Aki’s lips. She didn’t flinch—just flicked it away.

  Above them, the stars burned cold. Below, three kids lay on grass—sarcasm, logic, and over-preparedness tangled in silence. Just this once, none of them moved to end it.

  Outside the studio, Sydney’s late afternoon heat clung to everything, the humidity settling into clothes and sticking to skin. Hideki leaned against the building wall, cigarette between his fingers, head tilted back to stare at the sky. Clouds rolled lazily overhead. His chest rose and fell with practiced, shallow drags. Not for the nicotine—just something to do. A habit. An anchor.

  The dandelion pendant hanging from his neck glinted faintly in the light. A single dried flower, carefully encased in resin—the last remnant of that childhood field in Hokkaido. His fingers brushed it absently, thumb pressing against the smooth surface. He never took it off. Mamoru’s was different—still hanging untouched on the wall back in their Roppongi Hills penthouse, gathering dust like a relic neither of them dared move.

  His phone buzzed. Glancing at it, he saw Mimmi’s name flash across the screen. He ignored it. Two minutes later—another buzz. This time, a text:

  Mimmi: "Nachi’s on board. Don’t care how. You greenlit the bass thing, remember? We’re fixing this mess, Yano. Get back inside."

  Hideki exhaled through his nose, flicking ash off the cigarette. Yeah, yeah. He’d told Mimmi to give Takao the bass—logical choice. Takao could handle it. Better than empty air on stage. Didn’t mean Mamoru would take it well.

  Inside the studio, Mimmi’s voice echoed as she stepped out of the office, phone still pressed to her ear. "Nachi, I don’t care how much it hurts. You get on a plane, you take the meds, and you show up. This is what you signed up for. No, I’m not playing sympathy games—we need a drummer, and you need to stop moping. Painkillers are there for a reason. Use them. Rehearsal’s tomorrow. Figure it out."

  She hung up without waiting for a reply. Her gaze flicked toward Hideki reentering the studio, faint smoke trailing from him like a signature. The dandelion necklace caught the studio lights, refracting a small glint—blink and you’d miss it.

  Inside, the air was thick with frustration. Takao adjusted the bass strap, fingers idly testing notes. The room still felt off—like something important was missing, but it’d have to do. Mamoru sat at his laptop, headphones half-off, typing something into a mixing program. His jaw worked tense, eyes flicking toward the entrance as Hideki pushed the door open.

  Then—Mamoru’s nose wrinkled. His head snapped up. "Seriously?" His voice cut sharp, echoing off the walls. "You went out for a smoke? Are you kidding me right now?"

  Hideki shrugged, unfazed. "Wasn’t gonna come back any saner if that’s what you were hoping for."

  Mamoru stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor. "You’re unbelievable. You can’t just—God—do you even care about your lungs? Your heart? Or are you actively trying to make this worse?"

  "What, you smelling it from across the room now? Got bloodhound genes?" Hideki shot back, tossing his jacket onto a nearby amp. His fingers brushed over the pendant unconsciously, the cool surface grounding him.

  "This isn’t funny!" Mamoru’s voice rose, the weight behind it heavier than just the smoke. It was everything—stress, exhaustion, the way Hideki never took anything seriously. "You—You sit there, joking, while we’re—while you’re—" His words caught, anger spilling into the room like a cracked dam.

  Hideki’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Careful, Mamo. You’ll pop a vein before I do."

  Mimmi stepped between them, voice flat. "We don’t have time for a domestic. Takao, you good with the bass?"

  Takao glanced up, one eyebrow raised but didn’t intervene. "I’ll manage. Doesn’t seem like I’m the main issue here."

  Mamoru’s shoulders tightened. His gaze burned holes into Hideki’s back as the latter wandered over to the mic stand, adjusting it with an infuriating calm. His eyes darted once toward the pendant before looking away.

  "Look," Hideki said, voice lighter but edged, "we’re all just duct tape and bad decisions at this point. Let’s get through rehearsal. You can yell at me on your own time."

  Silence stretched. Takao plucked a low note that hummed through the speakers. Mimmi sighed, rubbing her temples. "Ten minutes over. Let’s go. From the bridge."

  Hideki’s fingers curled around the mic. The smoke smell lingered in the air, mixing with sweat and frustration—thick enough to choke on. The dandelion pendant swung slightly with his movement, catching a fleeting spark of light—a ghost of a field, a wish, and a sister neither of them spoke about anymore.

  And somewhere on the other end of a dial tone, Nachi stared at a prescription bottle, Mimmi’s words echoing in his head: Painkillers are there for a rereason. Use them.

  Tomorrow was going to be worse.

  The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the arrivals terminal. Nachi trudged through the crowd, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hood pulled up to hide the exhaustion dragging at his features. His breath hitched with each step—pain radiating through his side—but he kept moving.

  His phone buzzed again. Mimmi’s name flashed on the screen. He didn’t pick up. Not out of defiance—just no energy left for the inevitable lecture.

  The painkillers dulled the edge, but not enough. His muscles ached, stitches pulling with every breath. The hospital had warned him: Rest. No exertion. No drumming. Mimmi’s response? "Doctors worry too much."

  He snorted under his breath, regretting it instantly as pain flared up his ribs. "Yeah, genius move, Yamaoka."

  A driver held up a sign: Yamaoka. Nachi gave a half-hearted wave and climbed into the backseat of the waiting car. The leather stuck to his jacket, the scent of cheap air freshener clawing at his senses.

  Eyes half-lidded, he let his head rest against the window, Sydney’s lights blurring into streaks of amber and white.Every bump in the road sent sparks of discomfort through his body. He bit down on it. Pain’s just another beat to keep time with.

  The rehearsal space smelled like sweat, stale coffee, and yesterday’s frustration. Takao tuned the bass quietly in the corner, eyes flicking up when the door creaked open. Hideki sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at his guitar strings without playing anything coherent. Mamoru stood by the mixing board, tension radiating off him in waves.

  The door swung wider. Nachi stepped in. Hood down now, hair damp from the humidity. His gaze swept the room—eyes lingering on the empty drum kit like it was a dare.

  "Look who decided to show up," Hideki drawled, not looking up. "Thought you’d ghost us forever."

  "Good to see you too," Nachi shot back, voice rough from the flight. "Mimmi send a marching band, or just you assholes?"

  Takao gave a half-smile. "Surprised you’re upright."

  "Yeah, me too." Nachi winced as he shrugged off his jacket. The bandages wrapped around his torso and right arm, the edges barely visible beneath his shirt sleeve. His movements were stiff, every motion betraying the underlying pain.

  Mamoru’s gaze darkened. "You shouldn’t be here."

  "Tell that to our beloved manager," Nachi muttered, dropping his bag. "Apparently, painkillers fix everything."

  Hideki’s lips twitched. "If you die mid-set, it’s bad press. Just saying."

  "Not planning on it," Nachi shot back, though the half-smirk faded as he lowered himself onto the drum stool. Every movement was calculated, careful. Hands hovered over the sticks, hesitation flickering in his expression—then gone. Habit took over.

  He tapped out a slow rhythm—soft, controlled. Felt like playing through syrup. Everything heavier than it should be. Every beat a reminder of stitches pulling, lungs burning.

  "We don’t need you collapsing," Mamoru said, voice tight. "This isn’t worth permanent damage."

  Nachi paused, drumsticks resting against his knees. "It’s not about what’s worth it. It’s about what has to be done."

  The words hung there. Heavy. Too familiar.

  Hideki’s gaze flicked to his necklace—the dandelion pendant catching the overhead lights. He said nothing.

  Mimmi walked in then, clipboard in hand, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. "Good, you’re all here. Nachi, you’re a saint. The label’s breathing down my neck, so let’s power through. Takao—bass is sounding tight. Hideki, try not to keel over. Mamoru—"

  "Yeah, yeah," Mamoru muttered, already adjusting levels on the mixing board. His jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

  Mimmi clapped her hands. "Places. Let’s run the setlist. No heroics—just get through it."

  Nachi rolled his shoulders. Regretted it instantly. Pain spiked, bright and hot. He forced his hands steady. Sticks up. Count in. One, two—

  The beat dropped. Off-kilter at first—like trying to run on a broken leg—but momentum kicked in. Hideki’s guitar joined, Takao’s bass a low hum beneath it. Mamoru’s synth layered over, smooth despite the tension in his posture.

  The studio filled with sound. Messy. Frayed. But alive.

  And for three minutes, the pain blurred into rhythm.

  Rehearsal had drained the room of energy. Sweat clung to skin, breaths heavy, and tension hung thick. Nachi lowered his drumsticks with a grunt, shoulders heaving. The stool beneath him felt like a bed of nails—every minute sitting had been a battle. Pain radiated up from his lower body, sharp enough to make his vision blur. He wiped a forearm across his forehead, cursing under his breath.

  Mimmi watched from the corner, arms crossed. Her sunglasses were off now—eyes narrowed as she took in the way Nachi gingerly stood, using the drum kit for support. His hands trembled, not from exertion, but from sheer endurance against painkillers losing their grip.

  "This isn’t going to work," she said bluntly.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Nachi muttered. He stretched—regretted it immediately as his body protested. Searing heat licked through his core, stitches pulling like taut strings ready to snap.

  Takao offered a water bottle. Nachi took it with a nod, downing half before wiping his mouth. "Stool’s the issue," he admitted finally. "Sitting’s... not gonna cut it. Not like this."

  Hideki, toweling off, glanced over. "What, you gonna hover mid-air now? Be a badass Jedi drummer?"

  "No, genius," Nachi shot back, too tired to fully commit to the sarcasm. "I’ll stand. Adjust the kit. Less pressure. Won’t tear myself apart."

  Mamoru’s expression darkened. "You shouldn’t be doing any of this," he snapped. "You think standing fixes internal bleeding risk? You’re pushing yourself straight into a hospital bed again."

  Nachi shrugged one shoulder. "Better than dropping mid-show. Standing’s the compromise. Deal with it."

  Mimmi sighed but waved at a crew member. "Raise the kit. Pads at chest height. We’re adapting, not losing him."

  "We should be giving him a damn break," Mamoru muttered, but no one responded. Silence settled—heavy with reality and deadlines.

  The drum kit had been reconfigured—cymbals angled upward, snare elevated, and electronic pads mounted for easier reach. Nachi stood behind it, legs slightly apart for balance. It hurt—still hurt—but less. Manageable. For now.

  Hideki grinned. "Not gonna lie, you look like you’re about to perform a synth-pop set from the ’80s."

  "Shut up and play," Nachi muttered, raising his sticks.

  The beat dropped—rough at first but steadied. His core burned, legs tensed to keep himself upright. Every hit was a negotiation with pain. But the rhythm came back, muscle memory overriding agony.

  Mimmi watched closely. Better. Not good—but survivable. That was enough.

  The hotel bar was dimly lit, soft jazz humming in the background—a sharp contrast to the noise and chaos of rehearsals. Nachi sat at the far end, bourbon glass in hand, the amber liquid catching the glow from overhead lamps. Jim Beam—nothing fancy. Cheap, reliable. Like the bad choices he kept making.

  He swirled the drink, watching the liquid climb the glass walls before settling again. His reflection in the polished wood bar top looked worse than he felt—bruised under the eyes, jawline shadowed with stubble, exhaustion carved into every line.

  And yet, Mitsuki’s face wouldn’t leave his head. Not the mask of Anna Hoshikaze—the idol persona with the rehearsed smile—but Mitsuki. The girl from the institution. Her laughter, soft and real, echoing somewhere between his ribs and regrets.

  Could’ve done things differently. Should’ve said something. Should’ve stayed.

  He took another sip, warmth spreading down his throat—burning just enough to keep him tethered.

  "Heavy drink for someone with a show tomorrow," a voice drawled beside him.

  Nachi didn’t need to look. Mimmi slid onto the adjacent stool, ordered a whiskey neat, and drummed her nails against the counter. Her gaze flicked to his glass. "Jim Beam? What is this, a college frat party?"

  "It’s wet," Nachi muttered. "Didn’t come for top shelf."

  Mimmi chuckled dryly, sipping her drink. Silence stretched between them, broken only by clinking ice and the muted hum of conversation.

  After a beat, she said, "You thinking about reconstructive surgery or just brooding for sport?"

  Nachi stiffened. "Not your business."

  "I manage you. Everything’s my business." Her tone softened—just barely. "Look, you’re still young. Don’t do something permanent just because it feels like the world caved in."

  He stared at his glass. "Sometimes it did."

  Mimmi exhaled through her nose, gaze distant. "Yeah. Know the feeling." She rolled the rim of her glass between her fingers. "My old man used to drink this crap. Didn’t stop him from—" She paused, lips pressing into a thin line before continuing. "And my cousin... well, let's just say 'family' doesn’t mean shit sometimes. You survive it, or it swallows you whole. No in-between."

  Nachi’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t expected that. Mimmi glanced at him sideways. "Point is... love’s complicated. Messy. Doesn’t mean you stop trying. Anna... she messed you up. I get that. But don’t let it be the last page of your story."

  Before he could respond, her phone buzzed, cutting through the moment. She glanced at the screen, lips pulling into a scowl. "Duty calls. Don’t get blackout drunk, Yamaoka. You still owe me a clean set tomorrow."

  She tossed back the rest of her whiskey, stood, and left without waiting for a reply—heels clicking against the polished floor until the door swung shut behind her.

  Nachi sat in the quiet that followed, bourbon warming his hand. Her words twisted in his chest like barbed wire. Last page... huh?

  Then another figure slid onto the barstool Mimmi had vacated.

  "Wow," Takao muttered, glancing after the door. "What’s with her tonight?"

  "Nothing that concerns you," Nachi said, voice rough.

  Takao flagged the bartender for a drink, then turned back, expression serious. "We need to talk. It’s about Anna."

  Every muscle in Nachi’s body tensed. "We’re not doing this now."

  "We have to." Takao lowered his voice. "The label’s erasing everything. Studio records, contracts—hell, some fan forums are already spiraling into conspiracy theories about her disappearance. If you press charges, we can force them to cough up what’s left before it’s buried. I’m working on legal channels, but your statement would—"

  "Shut up."

  Takao paused, taken aback. "Nachi—"

  "I said shut up!" Nachi’s hand clenched around the bourbon glass, knuckles white. "You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I haven’t thought about it? Christ, you don’t—" His voice cracked, anger and guilt colliding in his chest.

  Takao’s gaze softened. "Look, I get you’re pissed—"

  "You don’t get shit."

  In one swift motion, Nachi threw back the rest of his bourbon and hurled the empty glass toward Takao. It bounced off his shoulder, clattering to the floor—startling the bartender and a couple of nearby patrons.

  Breath heavy, Nachi stood, chair scraping back hard enough to echo. "Stay out of it, Takao."

  Takao didn’t flinch, just watched him go. "You keep running from this, it’s gonna eat you alive."

  But Nachi was already pushing out the door, the weight of bourbon, ghosts, and a thousand unsaid things dragging after him.

  Early morning draped Sydney in a pale orange glow, the city still waking beneath a soft hum of distant traffic and gull calls. Hideki stood on the hotel balcony, elbows resting on the railing, gaze unfocused on the skyline. The air was cool, a light breeze tugging at the hem of his shirt.

  In his hand—a Voss water bottle, worn from time and travel. The label had long since peeled off, leaving smooth glass beneath his fingertips. It wasn’t filled with water. Cold brew coffee sloshed inside, dark and rich. He lifted it, taking a sip, bitterness biting his tongue.

  “Mamoru would kill me if he knew I’m drinking coffee…” The thought slipped through, amused but edged. Caffeine wasn’t on the approved list. Not with his heart. Not with the stakes. Not with everything looming.

  And yet—here he was. Breaking rules. Her fault.

  His thumb traced the glass, remembering the moment she’d handed it to him—Anna’s perfectly manicured nails tapping against the bottle, that faux-sweet smile hiding knives underneath. A calculated gesture, like everything she did. Mitsuki Shion. The girl beneath the idol veneer. The chess player he hadn’t seen coming until it was too late.

  His pulse quickened—anger, admiration, something tangled between. No one beat me so good as her.

  He grimaced, jaw tightening. She won.

  And yet…

  A slow grin unfurled across his face—sharp, intrigued. "You amuse me, Mitsuki Shion," he muttered under his breath, gaze lifting to the horizon where the sun bled into the sky.

  Another sip of coffee. Bitter. Perfect. Game recognized game.

  The venue buzzed with restless energy. Fans packed into the arena, a sea of flashing lights and roaring anticipation echoing off the high walls. Backstage, tension thickened with every passing minute. Mamoru adjusted his in-ear monitors, gaze flicking toward the corner where Nachi stretched cautiously, wincing with every movement. Bandages under his shirt strained against his skin with each breath.

  "You sure you can do this?" Takao asked quietly, concern edging his voice.

  Nachi smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Gotta try. Don’t need training wheels."

  Mimmi stood off to the side, phone glued to her ear, already dealing with post-show logistics. Her gaze darted to Nachi, lips pressing into a line but saying nothing. Too much rode on tonight. The label was watching. The world was watching.

  Hideki, standing by the curtain, rolled his shoulders. His fingers traced the dandelion pendant around his neck for a fleeting moment before glancing back at his bandmates. The weight of the show loomed, but his gaze lingered longest on Nachi. Beneath the smirks and bravado, he noticed the stiffness—the grit-forcing-pain-away posture.

  "We good?" Mimmi called. "Three minutes. Positions."

  Hideki slipped his chair onto the stage behind him—a last-minute decision. Something flexible. Something different.

  Lights exploded as the first chords rang out. The crowd’s roar surged like a tidal wave, washing over the band. Mamoru’s synths pulsed, Takao’s bass humming deep and steady—but Nachi’s drumming stayed soft, restrained. A heartbeat instead of thunder. Every fill was minimalist. Every beat a compromise.

  Hideki shifted gears fast. Where the setlist called for explosive guitar riffs, he pared it down—stripping songs into acoustic improvisations, melodies bending to the space between sounds. His voice dipped lower, rougher, pulling the audience into something raw and unexpected.

  Fans waved lights, swaying instead of jumping. It wasn’t the usual Well of Fortune chaos—but it worked. Intimate. Atmospheric. Mamoru shot Hideki a glance mid-song, confusion flickering. Why are we pulling back?

  Takao caught on first—his gaze darting from Hideki to Nachi. He realized the shift wasn’t for showmanship—it was for preservation. Nachi kept up, sweat glistening along his jaw, but relief ghosted across his face when the tempo stayed gentle.

  Third song in, Hideki grabbed the mic, pulling his chair forward. The audience quieted as he sat, guitar balanced on his knee. "We thought we’d change things up," he drawled. "Slower tonight. Don’t worry—still us. Just... less chance of someone dying on stage. Thought that’d be cool."

  Laughter rippled through the crowd. Mamoru shot him a sharp look but said nothing. Takao shook his head, smiling despite himself.

  The next track, usually a high-energy anthem, melted into an acoustic ballad, Hideki’s voice carrying weight the original never held. Nachi tapped a tambourine instead of pounding the kit, subtle but effective. The audience leaned in—captivated by the vulnerability bleeding through the performance.

  Between songs, Hideki took another sip from his Voss bottle—ice-cold brew instead of water. Mamoru’d flip if he knew,he thought with an inward grin. His gaze flicked toward Nachi. You’re holding up, drummer boy.

  By the final song, Nachi’s face was pale, shoulders trembling with the effort. Hideki adjusted again—stripping the final track to a single guitar line, letting the crowd carry the chorus. Voices filled the arena like a wave, lifting the pressure off the stage.

  Lights dimmed. Applause thundered. Hideki stood, bowing slightly, the pendant around his neck glinting in the spotlight. "Thanks for being cool with the switch-up," he said into the mic. "See you next time—maybe faster. Maybe not. Depends who wants to survive."

  Backstage, as the adrenaline faded, Mamoru confronted him: "What was that? We planned a full set."

  Hideki shrugged, wiping sweat from his neck. "Figured we didn’t need to break the drummer tonight. You’re welcome."

  Mamoru opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. "You could’ve said something."

  "Where’s the fun in that?" Hideki smirked—but his eyes flicked toward Nachi being helped offstage, face twisted in pain despite the careful pace. Concern lingered beneath the sarcasm.

  Takao clapped Hideki’s shoulder. "Nice save out there. Was smoother than I expected."

  "Naturally," Hideki said, grinning. But as the others filed out, his gaze lingered on Nachi. Beneath the showman exterior, he’d accounted for his friend’s limits all along.

  Backstage buzzed with after-show adrenaline. Crew members rushed around packing equipment while the band slumped into chairs, catching their breath. Nachi sat on a crate, towel draped over his shoulders, visibly drained. His hands trembled from exertion, but the relief in his eyes was palpable—he’d made it through.

  "Barely," Takao muttered, handing him a water bottle. "That was insane."

  "Yeah, well," Nachi managed, voice hoarse, "living’s overrated anyway."

  Mamoru hovered nearby, concern etched deep into his features, but words failed him. He just shook his head and started unplugging his synth cables with quick, precise movements.

  Away from the group, Hideki leaned against the wall, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. His chest still heaved from the final song’s strain. The pendant around his neck was cool against his skin, grounding him.

  Good enough, he thought. Got through.

  Then—

  A voice—soft, lilting—slipped through the static of his thoughts:

  "Took you long enough to realize."

  His eyes snapped open. Heart jumped. He turned—fast—scanning the area. Empty. Just the echo of bustling crew and distant laughter. No Anna. No Mitsuki. No one.

  He let out a breath, running a hand through sweat-damp hair. "Losing it, Yano," he muttered. But the air felt heavier now—like someone had been there. Like she’d brushed past and vanished.

  Far from the noise and flashing lights, a storm rolled over Hokkaido’s mountains. In a weathered hut tucked into the trees, Anna sipped Van Houten hot chocolate, steam curling from the chipped mug. The warmth seeped into her fingers, offering a small comfort against the chill that had settled into her bones.

  She glanced toward the frost-speckled window, rain pattering softly outside. A blanket draped over her legs, laptop open on the table beside her. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. One last thing to do.

  Her gaze flicked to a folded document—her will. Signed, dated. Final. Beside it, a drafted email:

  To: Mr. Hideki Yano

  Subject: Goodbye

  I’m sorry, Mr. Yano. Looks like I have to leave first. Goodbye.

  Her lips twitched into a half-smile—bitter, amused. Typical him. Betting she’d outlive him. Stubborn to the end.

  Her mind flashed to a few moths earlier when she followed them on tour,

  Dim hotel room. City lights glowed through sheer curtains. Hideki lay sprawled across the bed, arms tucked under his head, the Voss bottle half-empty on the nightstand. Anna sat beside him, legs folded, watching the ceiling.

  "I’ve been saving up," Hideki said after a stretch of silence. Voice casual, words not. "Making sure the band stays afloat. Just in case… y'know." His hand drifted to his chest—unspoken things hanging between them.

  Aplastic anemia. Not outright said. He let the lie breathe in the room like stale air. Anna didn’t correct him. Didn’t need to. She knew the truth anyway.

  "You planning to die on me?" Her tone was sharp—but beneath it, something cracked.

  Hideki smirked.

  "Guess the anemia gonna get me first. Too bad,wanted to beat you at this whole dying thing."

  "You really think I buy that crap?"

  "Doesn’t t matter. Makes the PR team sleep better. Besides , think you’d miss me that much?"

  "I’d miss having someone to argue with," she shot back, but her gaze softened. Fingertips brushed the sheet between them. "Got an oncology appointment when I get back home."

  The grin slipped from his face. "I see"

  "Yeah." Her voice barely above a whisper. "Won’t make a fuss about it. Just... felt like telling you."

  Silence stretched. Too much unsaid. So Hideki deflected—like always. "Bet you’re too stubborn to die before me."

  Anna laughed—quiet, throat catching. "Probably."

  Back in the present, Anna’s gaze lingered on the email. Fingers hovered, then tapped send.

  Finality settled over her. A weight lifted, replaced by a heavier kind of calm.

  She took another sip of her hot chocolate, eyes returning to the rain-streaked window. Outside, the world kept turning.