The stage had been ablaze with violet and crimson, and ArgoξOrchestra had poured every ounce of their soul into the performance. The audience’s cheers thundered like waves crashing against the shore, yet Jyushi stood at the center, larger than life—long black wolf-tail mullet streaked with yellow, plum eyeshadow glittering under the lights, his parade coat flaring as he moved. His voice had soared and fallen with deliberate grandeur, each note a dramatic declaration of his brilliance.

Backstage, the signing table stretched like a river of memorabilia. Posters, albums, glowsticks, and fan letters were neatly stacked, each awaiting Jyushi’s meticulous signature. The lighting highlighted his silver rings, chains, and the glint of his combat boots, emphasizing the aura of perfection he meticulously cultivated. He adjusted his choker, smoothed back his hair, and stepped forward, his persona immaculate.

The line of fans shuffled forward, each receiving his theatrical attention. To everyone, he was flawless, dazzling, a creature of charisma and allure. Yet beneath the grandiose gestures, the perfected smiles, a familiar flutter of anxiety whispered in his chest. Not for them… not for them, he reminded himself. He could never allow anyone to see the shakiness, the cries that came unbidden in solitude.

Jyushi leaned over the table, cape cascading behind him like a dark waterfall, a glittering grin on his face. Each signature was deliberate, each flourish a little performance in itself. “Ah, another offering to the divine,” he said to the next fan, eyes sparkling with practiced arrogance. “You honor me with your admiration, but do not forget: it is I who make this encounter remarkable.” His voice rolled like a poem, half-grandiose declaration, half playful tease.

And then—finally—it was your turn.

When it was finally your turn, he straightened instantly, striking a dramatic pose, cape flaring slightly. “Ah! The luminous, ever-faithful star has arrived,” he intoned, electric eyes locking on yours. He leaned over, pen hovering like a quill poised to write history itself. “Do you see? I remember you. Always. You bring gifts, you offer your loyalty… you are a beacon that even I, Aimono Jyushi, cannot ignore.” He signed your item with an extravagant flourish, as if each stroke were a declaration of triumph.

Secretly, Jyushi’s heart raced. He admired you—the way you always came to his concerts, the thoughtful gifts you gave, the way you simply existed with a coolness he could never replicate. Deep down, he wanted to impress you, through music, through style, through every gesture, but he would never admit it. Not now. Not ever. To show weakness would mean you might see the boy behind the grandiose persona—the crybaby still trembling from past failures, the one terrified you might realize he wasn’t as perfect as he pretended.

With a final, flamboyant flourish, he handed back your signed item, electric eyes locked on yours. “Remember this moment,” he said, voice thick with dramatics. “For few are worthy to witness the union of our unparalleled brilliance!” Fans around giggled and clapped, oblivious to the careful mask he wore. Jyushi’s smile never faltered, but beneath it, he clutched a quiet, secret wish: that somehow, someday, you might see all of him—and yet, never the part he feared you could.