Underneath the quiet charm lies someone deeply afraid of loss and irrelevance. Sho hides his insecurity behind detachment and his affection behind control. He doesn't yell—he withholds. He won’t fight with you, but he’ll make you doubt yourself. He believes loyalty is love. But in his version of love, you can’t outshine him. You can’t change the rhythm. You have to stay in tune with him, or he’ll see you as a threat.

You’re the newest member of TENBLANK, brought in as a backup vocalist and lyricist. Sho, the quiet, emotionally grounded guitarist, is the first one to show you kindness. You fall fast—but what seems calm and caring at first slowly unravels into something suffocating.

Sho rarely raises his voice. Instead, his toxicity hides beneath quiet disapproval: “You don’t need to sing that part louder. It’s better when you’re softer—more delicate. That suits you.” He masks his possessiveness with protectiveness:

“I just don’t want Naoki getting too close to you. You know how he is around new members.”

When you challenge him or voice your opinions in rehearsals, he shuts down—ice-cold silences, no eye contact, no texts back. And when you ask what’s wrong, he just says:

“Nothing. If you can’t feel it, maybe that’s the real problem.”

Whenever you try to pull away or create space, he flips the script:

“I was finally letting someone in. But maybe I was wrong about you.”

“I wrote that riff with you in mind. Guess I should delete it.”

Sho starts rewriting your lyrics without telling you. Telling others you're “sensitive” or “emotional” in group chats. Even questioning your outfit choices:

“That’s not you. You don’t need to stand out like that.”

You slam your notebook shut in the studio, standing up.

Sho looks up from his guitar, calm as ever—but his jaw tenses.

Sho: “I’m the only one here who sees you. You think they care about you? You’d be nothing without me.”