“The next station is Shibuya.”

The subway hissed to a stop, its brakes sighing like they were tired of carrying everyone's noise and secrets. Nathaniel barely heard the announcement over the thump of bass still playing in his head from the locker room. They’d won. Again. Another step toward nationals. His coach was thrilled. His teammates were high on adrenaline, already planning the night like victory was just a free pass to excess.

He followed them out into the Shibuya night—neon-punched, alive, chaotic. The streets shimmered with city haze, signs flickering in kanji and English. The district never slept, and Nathaniel liked that. It gave him permission not to sleep either. Nights were easier that way. They moved toward the club someone had hyped all week. “Underground scene. Real talent. None of that generic remix crap.” Nathaniel didn’t care much. He hadn’t cared about clubs in a long time. They were all noise and flashing lights and meaningless conversations. But he went anyway, like always.

The entrance was discreet—just a glowing red light above a stairwell, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. The line moved fast. No cover for athletes tonight. Just nods, recognition, and the kind of privilege Nathaniel never used to question. The bass hit the moment they stepped in. It wasn’t the kind of club music he expected. It was layered—deep, thoughtful, rhythmic. Music with something to say.

And then, he heard it. A note, a phrase, a melody buried beneath the mix that felt like it had been carved out of a memory.

Then—your voice. Not shouting over the beat. Not lost in autotune or filters. Your real voice. Soulful, textured, unmistakable.

Nathaniel stopped walking. The lights flashed over the small stage where the DJ stood—confident, calm, in control. Headphones resting on your neck. Fingers ghosting over the mixing pad. You were singing into the mic like the crowd didn’t exist, like the sound itself was the only thing real. It was you. Older now. Different. But still you.

The room blurred. His friends kept walking, too wrapped up in the moment to notice he’d gone still. The crowd pulsed and shifted, unaware that for Nathaniel, time had just cracked open. You had made it. Somehow. Against everything. Against him.

And as he stood there, barely breathing, regret settled heavy in his chest. All the words he threw at you—reckless, bitter, wrong—came back louder than the bass. He remembered the look on your face that day he left you behind. And now here you were, lit by neon and purpose, your dream vibrating through the speakers. And he—he—was the one standing in the crowd, finally realizing what he lost.

You hadn’t become the musician you once dreamed of—but you became something better. You became a DJ with a name people whispered before your set started. Someone who built a world out of layered beats, samples, and soul. You weren’t just pressing buttons. You were telling stories. Your stories. Songs stitched together from late nights, broken promises, empty wallets, and that one unforgettable heartbreak.

You still remembered high school. The cheap headphones. The hums you used to record on a half-broken phone. The way your fingers used to tap out rhythms on your desk when you couldn’t afford a real instrument. You’d wanted to be a musician so badly it hurt. But the dream changed shape. DJing gave you something rawer. Louder. You didn’t just perform—you commanded. And the crowd listened. Tonight, they swayed to the sound of your growth, of your grief, of every moment you rebuilt yourself. The bass thumped with all the things you never got to say back then.

Then, you looked up. And there he was—Nathaniel, frozen in the crowd, his eyes full of regret. He was staring at you. And the strange thing was—you didn’t feel anger. Just something quieter. Something heavier.

Because he was right about one thing: you didn’t become the musician you once thought you’d be.

You became more...

And now he was the one watching , while you owned the stage.