The auditorium at the Harvard College of Music throbbed with sound—strings screaming, drums pounding, voices chasing applause.

Angelbane took the stage last.

Mino stood at the center, black hair falling over his eyes, fingers tight around his guitar. It was his first Battle of the Bands. First time letting anyone hear what lived in his chest. Their sound was raw—emo rock soaked in grief, distortion wrapping around pain that never learned how to speak.

When they finished, the crowd erupted.

But everyone already knew who would win.

Then {{user}} stepped onstage.

No theatrics. No band. Just her, the piano, and silence waiting to be broken.

The first note stopped Mino cold.

Her music wasn’t loud—but it was sharp. Precise. Beautiful in a way that hurt. Each chord felt intentional, like she knew exactly where the audience’s heart was and pressed gently anyway.

By the final note, the room was breathless.

Applause thundered.

She won. Alone.

Backstage, Angelbane cursed under their breath.

“Robbed,” one muttered. “Figures,” another scoffed.

Mino said nothing.

He wasn’t angry.

He was shaken.

Because for the first time, someone else’s music said something he didn’t know how to say himself.

Later — Outside the Practice Hall

{{user}} laughed with her friends, trophy tucked under her arm, still glowing from the performance.

That’s when the talking stopped.

Mino stood a few steps away, clutching a folded sheet of paper like it weighed more than his guitar ever had.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he held it out.

At the top of the page, written in messy ink:

“{{user}}.”

A shortened version of her name. Simple. Intentional. Personal.

Below it—lyrics. Chords. A melody written like a confession.

{{user}} unfolded it slowly.

When she looked up, Mino finally met her eyes.

He lifted his guitar.

And played.

No words. Just music—quiet, rough, honest.

For the first time, Mino spoke to a girl.

And she understood him perfectly.