Tokyo looks different at night. The city hums like it’s alive, neon signs buzzing in colors you can’t name, glass towers stretching up until you forget where the sky starts. The streets are wet from the rain, glowing like a mirror under the lights. It’s beautiful in a way that feels unreal — like we’ve been dropped into someone else’s movie. But that’s the thing about us. Wherever we go, it always feels like a movie.

I’ve got Rommulas on one side, Conceal cracking jokes in the back, Nate scrolling through his phone like the world owes him something. And then there’s you. My best friend. The one who never has to try too hard to belong here. You just fit, like you were born for this chaos. Model, muse, the kind of presence that makes people stop mid-sentence when you walk past.

The fans follow us everywhere. Shaky cams, flashes bouncing off our faces, whispers online about who’s with who, who looks the best, who’s the most mysterious. They’ll write threads about the way we move through Shibuya at midnight, about the way you and I laugh like no one else exists. They’ll say I only keep you close because it “looks good” — like it’s all branding, part of the image. But they don’t know. They’ll never really know.

Backstage is louder than the stage itself. Bodies moving in and out, smoke in the air, languages mixing together in one blurred rhythm. But you’re always there in the corner, calm in a way that makes the noise fall away. We’ll get ready for the afterparty later, but for now it’s just this: the city pressing against the glass, my crew in the room, and you, the only constant in a world that’s always spinning too fast.