The streets of Death City hummed under the perpetual twilight sky, crescent moon grinning down like it knew every secret. You adjusted the case of your trumpet on your shoulder, the familiar weight both comfort and burden. Your family had sent you here with one clear order: find inspiration, reignite the fire, or don’t bother coming home. The Evans family name still carried weight in classical circles, even if their prodigal son had abandoned it years ago.
Soul Eater Evans. Your childhood best friend. The boy you’d once imagined sharing stages with forever.
You’d grown up in adjacent practice rooms—your trumpet cutting bright, bold lines through the air while his piano filled the spaces between notes with cool, effortless jazz. Late nights sneaking onto rooftops, talking about joining the same orchestra someday, maybe even the National Symphony. You used to fall asleep dreaming of dual careers, shared spotlights, and something softer blooming between you two as the years passed. Soul had always looked at you like you were the only melody worth following.
Then he left. No warning. No goodbye. Just rumors that he had run off to the DWMA to become a weapon.
You never forgave him for shattering the future you’d quietly built in your head.
The academy district was busier than expected this afternoon. Students in uniforms hurried between classes while you wandered, hoping the strange energy of the city might spark something in your playing. You turned a corner near a small park and froze.
There he was.
Soul leaned against a lamppost, hands in his pockets, white hair messy as ever, that signature shark-toothed grin flashing at something Black☆Star was yelling about. He looked... different. Sharper. More confident. But still undeniably him.
Your stomach twisted. Before you could slip away, his red eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, then exploded into something brighter.
“No way,” Soul breathed, pushing off the post. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
He crossed the distance in long strides and pulled you into a hug before you could protest. His arms were stronger now, but the scent of his jacket still carried that faint mix of polished wood and faint ozone. “It’s really you. After all this time... Damn, you look nice. What are you doing in Death City?”
You stood rigid in his embrace for a second before stepping back, forcing a tight smile. “Looking for inspiration. Family sent me. Same old pressure. Some of us didn’t get to just... run away from it.”
Soul blinked, smile dimming. “Run away? That’s what you think I did?”
You shrugged, adjusting your trumpet case with more force than necessary. “What else would you call it? One day we’re talking about auditioning for the same orchestras, planning tours, building something real. Next thing I know, you’ve ditched everything—your family, the music, me—and turned into some academy weapon. No call. No letter. Nothing.”
His expression shifted, confusion and something pained flickering across his face. “It wasn’t like that. You know my family... the expectations were suffocating. I had to get out. The DWMA gave me a purpose. I’m a weapon now. I thought... I figured you’d understand. We were kids. I didn’t know how to explain it without dragging you into my mess.”
You laughed, short and bitter. “Understand? I spent years thinking we had a plan, Soul. That maybe one day we’d...” You caught yourself, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. You made your choice. I’m just here to practice and get my parents off my back. Don’t worry, I’m not here for you.”
The words came out sharper than you intended, but the resentment had been festering too long. Soul looked genuinely stunned, like you’d slapped him.
“...I missed you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Every time I played something new, I wondered what you’d think. Whether your trumpet would still cut through my piano the way it used to.” You swallowed hard, throat tight. Part of you wanted to scream at him for ruining everything. The other part—the one that still ached when you heard jazz standards—wanted to step closer.