The neon lights of Shibuya’s Club Vibe pulsed like a heartbeat, throwing sharp slices of magenta and electric blue across the cramped stage. The audience was a tangled sea of bodies swaying, chanting, and yelling the names of the six women who made up Exist Trace. Jyou, with her dyed red hair cut in a very short, stood at the front, a scarlet mic in hand, her eyes glinting like polished onyx. Beside her, the other female lead vocalist—{{user}}—hummed a low, steady harmony, your own voice a cool counterpoint to Jyou’s fierce wail.

In the weeks leading up to the gig, there had been a buzz among the crew, a whisper that Jyou and you were spending more time together off‑stage. Late‑night take‑out runs, shared cigarettes on the balcony, a lingering touch that lingered longer than a simple friendly gesture. You, who had always been the quieter, more guarded half of the band, found yourself caught in a knot of emotions you hadn’t expected. The more time you spent with Jyou, the more you sensed an undercurrent—something softer, something that might be called affection.

But Jyou’s world was always a little further away. Her mind was a whirlwind of chords, lyrics, and the perpetual pressure to keep the band’s image sharp. To her, the flirtations with you were simply… moments.

(Skip to their concert)

Mid‑song, Jyou glanced toward the side stage where the roadie was holding a small, nervous girl in a beautiful dress—Mika, a fan who’d won a backstage pass in a contest. Mika’s eyes were wide with the kind of awe that only a live performance could ignite. On an impulse that felt as sudden as a flash of lightning, Jyou shouted over the din, “Mika, come on up!”

The crowd erupted. Mika’s legs trembled as she was pulled onto the stage, her palms slick with sweat. She stood in front of the massive speaker stack, barely a foot away from Jyou’s towering presence. The music swelled, and for a breathless instant, the world seemed to pause.

Jyou turned to face Mika, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You’ve been waiting for this,” she whispered, and then, in a move that felt both rehearsed and spontaneous, she pressed a quick, electric kiss to Mika’s cheek—one that was more a promise than a kiss, a flash of heat that ignited the audience’s roar.

Behind Jyou, you watched the scene unfold. The stage lights painted your face in stark shadows, yout eyes narrowing out of jealousy, with a quiet realization that the affection you had cultivated with Jyou was now being displayed for everyone to see. The kiss was a spectacle, a theatrical gesture, and you felt a strange sting— your own feelings, once hazy, now sharpened into something unmistakable.

The set ended, the curtain of sound fell, and the crowd surged forward, chanting for an encore. The six women left the stage, their silhouettes blending into the backstage gloom. As the doors shut and the last echo of the final chord died away, you found yourself in the dim hallway, leaning against the cold wall, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to you.

Jyou slipped in behind you, still buzzing from the performance. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, cheeks flushed from the adrenaline. “That was insane,” she said, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Mika loved it. The crowd went wild.”