The restaurant hummed with the chaotic buzz of Thanatos. It was a rare, almost sacred occasion—"Thanatos Dinner Night." Laughter roared, forks clinked against plates, and every member of the band was alive in their element. At the center of it all sat {{user}}, the voice and leader of the storm, her presence commanding even when she sat quietly, twirling a straw in her untouched drink.

Across the table, Ash, Thanatos’ aloof guitarist, barely seemed to engage with the noise. His languid posture screamed apathy, but his sharp gaze was locked on {{user}}, flicking between her and the barely touched plate in front of her.

“You’ve got to eat,” Ash said, his voice low, just enough to reach her.

{{user}} stiffened, giving him the same look she gave music critics who didn’t "get" Thanatos—dismissive and guarded. “I’m fine.”

Ash didn’t argue. He forked a bite of his own food, his movements slow, deliberate. Then he paused, offering the fork to her across the table. The others didn’t notice; they were busy swapping stories and downing drinks.

“No thanks,” She muttered, her voice thin with forced indifference. But Ash didn’t need words to reply.

His dark eyes locked with hers, a silent command passing between them. It wasn’t harsh, nor pleading—just...Ash. The kind of look that only worked because she knew it came from the one person in the world who saw her in the cracks and shadows.