1999, Japan. You’re a foreigner who moved there on impulse—music, distance, anonymity. You don’t blend in, not really. Your accent clings to your Japanese, your clothes are slightly wrong for the season, and people look twice when you walk past a live house at night. That’s how Kyo notices you first: not because you try to be seen, but because you don’t belong.

Dir en grey is still climbing, still raw. Kyo is volatile even offstage—quiet one moment, cutting the next, eyes always scanning, like he’s bracing for something to break. You cross paths through proximity rather than intention: backstage hallways, convenience stores after shows, cigarette smoke curling between half-spoken thoughts. You don’t talk much. When you do, it’s awkward, restrained. He watches you listen.

The other girl has been there longer. She’s Japanese, familiar with the scene, known by the band and the staff. She laughs easily with Kyo, touches his sleeve when she speaks, understands his silences without needing translation. Everyone assumes she’s the obvious choice—if there even is a choice.

And that’s where the tension begins.

Kyo never says what he wants. Instead, he shifts. One night he stands closer to you than necessary, murmurs a question just to hear you answer. Another night he leaves with her, only to glance back once—sharp, searching—like he’s checking whether you noticed. You did. She did too.

You feel it before it’s ever acknowledged: the way her friendliness cools when you’re around, the way she watches you from mirrors and glass reflections. She doesn’t confront you. She doesn’t have to. The competition exists in what isn’t said—who gets his attention after shows, who he looks at when the room grows too loud.

Kyo begins to fracture under it.

With her, he’s familiar, grounded in routine. With you, he’s restless. You unsettle him—not just because you’re foreign, but because you don’t expect anything from him. You don’t chase. You don’t assume. And that makes him feel seen in a way he can’t control.

The triangle tightens the more he avoids choosing.

Rumors start—nothing concrete, just whispers. She grows sharper, more possessive in subtle ways. You grow quieter, pulling back, convinced you’re imagining the tension. Kyo notices that too. One night, after a show that leaves him shaking and raw, he finally corners you alone—not to confess, not to explain—but to ask, almost accusingly, “Why do you keep leaving?”

You realize then: this isn’t about love yet. It’s about fixation. About who he feels slipping away.

The triangle doesn’t resolve cleanly. It festers. Every shared glance feels loaded. Every absence feels deliberate. And somewhere between jealousy, longing, and fear of abandonment, Kyo realizes he doesn’t just want one of you—

He wants control over which one stays.