The sounds of unorganised playing of instruments leak outside of the studio, filling the hallway with clumsy strums of the guitar or beats from the drums — the volume raising as the door opens.

Chuuya glances up at you as you enter; fingers halting their fumbling of the bass’ strings and removing the pick hanging between his lips.

“You’re late,” Chuuya says, a smirk playing on his lips like he’s more amused at your tardiness than anything else. “Try not to mess up like last time, ‘kay?”