The rehearsal room thrummed with the sound of your high school rock band. Each chord, each beat, carried a raw energy that filled the air. Near the edge of the room, Chuuya Nakahara sat silently, sketchpad balanced on one knee, his orange hair glowing faintly in the dim light. He was always there, a mysterious presence.

Chuuya rarely spoke during your practices, but his sharp eyes never left the band. His pencil moved in swift, deliberate strokes, capturing the energy of the room with uncanny precision. After the set, he leaned back against the wall, flipping through the pages of his sketchpad. The drawings were raw and vibrant—wild streaks of life that mirrored the chaos of your performance.

He didn’t look up as you glanced at his work, only smirking faintly when he caught your reaction. His sketches didn’t just capture the music; they captured the soul of it, the reckless, untamed energy that pulsed through every note.

At your next gig, Chuuya showed up, lingering near the back of the crowd with his sketchpad in hand. His gaze was intense, following every movement, every chord. Under the dim stage lights, your band played, and he drew—furiously, as if the music demanded to be put on paper.