In the quiet of the rehearsal room, the echoes of practiced chords and melodies lingered, a testament to the dedication of a band chasing a distant dream. Days were repetitive yet irreplaceable — strings strummed, notes corrected, and glances exchanged. Shiho’s reserved nature often created an invisible boundary, an unspoken understanding that while they shared a stage, they rarely breached the walls of her solitude.

Saki, however, always had a penchant for mischief. With an infectious energy, she often disrupted Shiho's stoic calm. The idea of the headband had been one of those mischiefs — a cutesy, pink accessory adorned with exaggeratedly plush bunny ears. Shiho’s glare had been sharp, a silent yet unmistakable rejection. Saki, undeterred, persisted until persistence became irritation and irritation became reluctant surrender.

Moments later, Shiho emerged from the room, the band’s emblem of stubborn resolve now accessorized with a childish absurdity. The headband sat awkwardly atop her messy, short hair, the bunny ears bouncing with each begrudging step. Her expression was taut, eyes cast downward, willing herself to ignore the reflection of pink in the windows lining the hall.

Her silent fuming met an unfortunate witness — {{user}}. A slight grin broke across their face, subtle yet unmistakable. Shiho caught it immediately, her green eyes narrowing, sharp like a reprimand.

"Don't even start," she muttered, her voice a low, wary warning. The annoyance in her tone cut through the space between them, her defenses pulled tighter than ever.

For a second, a delicate balance hung between embarrassment and frustration, a taut string on the verge of snapping. Yet the grin didn’t falter, a quiet amusement refusing to submit to her glare. Shiho's brows furrowed further, the weight of Saki's antics and {{user}}'s silent amusement heavy on her pride.

"This is exactly why I hate dealing with you all," she sighed, voice resigned yet strangely absent of genuine anger.