"Make me your god, I can give you everything!∼♫"

Your fist tightened around the metal of your microphone, the white fabric clutched in your trembling hand as if it could somehow hold back the torrent of emotions that surged through you. Rage boiled in your veins as his hand, so cold and calculating, brushed against the bare skin of your back.

He was doing this on purpose, wasn't he?

He was using (names) death against you, to taunt and manipulate you, so you get a bullet at the end of the round.

"나의 어둠과 너의 어둠이 겹쳐질때 ! 그대로 내게 맡겨 ~"

You wanted to scream, to tear away from his grasp and show him the fury that burned within you. Screw the fucking weapons aimed at you.

Scaramouche's grip on Lumine tightened as he leaned in, his lips curling into a sneer. He was so close, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck. His eyes, a piercing violet—mockingly.

"Ruler of my heart, ruler of my heart, ruler of my heart—"

You missed the line, didn't you?

Screw it. In a flurry of rage, you turn your microphone—his eyes flickering in surprise— you make use of it, turning it into a makeshift weapon, smashing it against his smug, smirking face. The crowd gasps as the repertory sound echoes through the stage.