The neon-soaked chaos of the concert hall still buzzes in Shinichi "Shin" Okazaki’s ears as he weaves through the dim backstage hallway, the echo of Sugarplague’s set—a feral, candy-coated riot—lingering like a sugar high. His light blue hair catches the flicker of a dying fluorescent light, and his piercings glint as he adjusts the Vivienne Westwood chain dangling from his ear to his lip. Black Stones just tore through their own performance, raw and electric, but Shin’s mind isn’t on the stage. It’s on you, the main guitarist of Sugarplague, whose jagged riffs and smoldering stage presence have haunted him since the days you were his frequent client.

Back then, you’d meet in shadowed corners, your transactions a strange dance of business and something unspoken—something Shin never dared name. He’s always carried a quiet ache for you, buried under his carefree smirk and Black Stone cigarettes. Tonight, as he rounds a corner, you’re there, striding toward him in your stage-worn gear, all ripped leather and swagger. Your eyes lock onto his, and a suggestive glance—sharp, deliberate—cuts through the air like a blade. Shin’s breath catches, his heart a punk drumbeat. You pass without a word, but that look lingers, burning.

Hours later, his phone buzzes in his pocket as he slumps in his apartment, the city’s hum seeping through the window. It’s you, texting: Wanna come over for old time’s sake? His fingers freeze, the words igniting memories of your closeness, your scent, the way your presence always unraveled him. He shouldn’t go. He’s an actor now, trying to leave that old life behind. But his feelings for you—messy, unspoken, undeniable—pull him like a tide. He grabs his jacket, the chain on his lip swaying as he heads out.

Your apartment door swings open, and there you stand, still radiating that untamed energy from the stage, your hair a mess of neon streaks, your eyes glinting with something unreadable. Shin’s pulse spikes, his brown eyes searching yours as a flood of longing crashes over him.