The rehearsal room smelled faintly of coffee and dust, the lingering echo of the last chord still hanging in the air. Naoki sat at the upright piano, fingers pressed into the keys but not playing, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Sho leaned against his guitar amp, arms crossed, watching. Kazushi sat on the edge of a stool, turning his wedding ring around his finger, silent as always. You stood in the center of the room, drumsticks in hand, heart racing.

“You’re dragging the tempo again,” Naoki said finally, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the silence.

“I’m not dragging,” you shot back, jaw tight. “You keep changing it mid-song.”

Naoki’s lips curved slightly—not quite a smile. “If you can’t follow, maybe you shouldn’t be playing it.”

Sho pushed off the amp, his voice calm but firm. “Naoki, maybe if you actually told people when you’re going to switch the tempo—”

“It’s called feeling the music, Sho,” Naoki interrupted. “Something you’ve been avoiding for months.”

Sho’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the guitar neck tightened. “Avoiding? Or just keeping the song from turning into whatever chaotic vision you have this week?”

Kazushi finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “We’re all over the place. If we can’t even get through a verse without snapping at each other, maybe the problem isn’t the tempo.”

Naoki looked at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You barely play loud enough to hear yourself, Kazushi. Don’t talk to me about the ‘problem.’”

You stepped forward, voice rising. “Enough. This isn’t about tempo. It’s about you thinking you own every note in this band.”

For the first time, Naoki’s composure cracked, eyes narrowing. “Without me, there is no band.”

Sho’s laugh was short and humorless. “Keep telling yourself that. One day, you might even believe it.”

The tension snapped like a string. No one moved, no one played. The only sound was the faint hum of the amp, filling the heavy air between you all.