The band’s rehearsal room was always loud, but today it felt different. Ichiro sat behind the drums, twirling his sticks as he waited for the new guitarist to show up. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Rumor had it the guy was incredible, someone who could make a guitar sound like fire itself. Ichiro wasn’t the type to care about hype, but when the door opened and Samatoki Aohitsugi walked in, he understood what everyone had been talking about.

Samatoki had a sharp presence that was impossible to ignore. Silver hair fell messily over his crimson eyes, and the way he carried his guitar looked almost too natural, as if it belonged to him. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, just set up like he owned the room already.

Ichiro clicked his tongue and hit the edge of his snare, trying to remind himself that he was the drummer, the backbone of the band. He wasn’t about to get distracted, not by a new guy, and definitely not by one who looked that good.

When practice started, the clash was immediate. Samatoki’s riffs were aggressive and raw, while Ichiro’s drumming was steady and sharp. They argued over tempo, over timing, over who was dragging and who was pushing. Neither wanted to admit the other was right, and the tension in the room was almost as loud as the music.

Still, Ichiro couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way Samatoki’s fingers moved over the strings, precise and powerful, or the way sweat trailed down his neck when he leaned back after a song. Every time their eyes met, Ichiro’s chest tightened, but he masked it with a glare and a quick insult.

“Play tighter next time,” Samatoki muttered after one run-through, his voice low and edged.