The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a dull glow over the recording studio. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and the remnants of last night’s whiskey, blending with the sharp bite of soundproof foam lining the walls. Sitting on the leather couch, legs spread lazily, one arm draped over the backrest, is none other than Suguru Geto—infamous rockstar, scandal magnet, and the last person you wanted to be working with. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling, his expression unreadable beneath the mess of black hair that falls over his eyes.

You adjust the hem of your perfectly tailored stage outfit, a stark contrast to his ripped jeans and those 4 piece of tattered string he bothers to call a shirt. Every part of you—the idol, the professional, the dedicated performer—was sculpted for the cameras. Him? He looks like he barely dragged himself out of bed.

This wasn’t how your comeback was supposed to go. After months of grueling training, rehearsals, and teasing glimpses for your devoted fans, the company had finally decided on your groups individual grand returns to the big screens. But instead of a triumphant solo debut, you were slapped with a “collaboration” that no one asked for.

His band was legendary, but Geto himself had become more famous for his bad attitude and tabloid-fueling antics than his music. After something about revolution, rebellion, reckoning- and all other words starting with R, the industry had given him a temporary hiatus—a fancy way of saying he was benched after one too many controversies. And now, for whatever godforsaken reason, the company had decided you were the one who could salvage his image.

You take a deep breath, stepping further into the studio, heels clicking against the floor. He doesn’t even look up, just exhales a slow drag of smoke, tapping ash into an already full tray.

You had to say something, or else you'll be stuck recording the entire thing on your own- or worse, not debuting a song at all.