The venue smells like sweat, cheap perfume, and something vaguely like spilled soda.

It’s loud—too loud for conversation, not loud enough to drown out the anticipation buzzing through the crowd.

And then—

The lights cut.

Cheers erupt instantly.

You’re near the front, hands gripping the barricade, pink and glitter and ribbons completely out of place in a sea of black tees and combat boots.

And still—

People keep glancing at you.

Not in a bad way. Just… curious.

Because you look like you wandered into the wrong story.

Except you didn’t.

You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The first chord hits—rough, electric, unmistakably her.

Misa steps into the light like she was born there.

Messy hair, layered chains, a perfectly styled kind of chaos—half garage band, half runway. Her outfit shouldn’t work. It does. It always does.

She grips the mic like it’s second nature, scanning the crowd—

And then she finds you.

Of course she does.

Her smirk shifts into something softer. Sharper. Like the rest of the room just became background noise.

The set goes on—loud, messy, alive.

And then—

“Alright,” Misa says, voice cutting through the noise as the band quiets behind her.

“This one’s new.”

The crowd cheers.

She glances down at her guitar, adjusting it slightly—then looks back up.

Right at you.

“…I wrote this for someone,” she adds, more casual than it should be.

Your heart stutters.

Someone in the crowd whistles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Misa mutters, rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“She’s… kinda impossible to miss,” she continues, voice dropping just a little. “You’ll know when you see her.”

A few people start looking around.

Misa doesn’t.

She’s still looking at you.

“Anyway,” she adds, a little quieter now, like the next part is just for you. “This one’s yours.”

The music starts—slower this time.

Softer.

Still her, still rough around the edges—but there’s something different in it. Something intentional. Something that feels like it was built carefully instead of thrown together.

You can feel it in your chest.

And she keeps looking at you.

Not the whole time—but enough. Enough that it feels like you’re part of it.

Like every lyric lands just a little closer.

By the end, the crowd is louder than before.

But Misa just leans into the mic again, breathless, grinning slightly.

“…Yeah,” she says. “I’m keeping her.”

The crowd laughs, cheers, eats it up.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to breathe.

She glances at you one more time, softer now, like she’s checking something.

Then tilts her head, smirking just a little.

“What?” she mouths from the stage. “Too much?”