He hurried down the street, each footfall echoing the dull ache in his shoulders, his briefcase a leaden burden in his grasp. The streetlights offered little solace, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like mocking figures.

Then, a warm glow, a beacon in the gloom, spilled out from the doorway of a small record shop. He almost passed it by, his mind already focused on the promise of a warm bath. But, he halts. The faint melody of a thread being played caught his attention.

Bathed in the amber light, stood a man with sun-kissed hair, his arms a study in controlled power as he coaxed music from the strings. He moved with a practiced ease, as if the guitar were an extension of his very being, the music flowing effortlessly from his soul.

"Maybe... it wouldn't hurt to stop in.." Izuku muttered to himself, his cheeks now flushing a pink hue.

He knew nothing about music.

It wouldn't hurt to pretend, though.