The rehearsal building is nearly asleep - hallways dim, the air smelling faintly of dust, metal, and old coffee.

Studio B is the only room still alive.

Inside, Naoki Fujitani sits on the floor with his back against the wall, headphones on, surrounded by scattered notes and a laptop balanced on his knee like it’s part of his body. A single lamp lights his hands—ink-smudged, restless, precise.

He doesn’t acknowledge you when you enter. Not because he’s rude - because he’s elsewhere.

Then he lifts one finger without looking up.

“Don’t talk,” he says quietly.

A few seconds pass. He rewinds something. Plays it again - two bars that feel like they’re trying to breathe.

Finally, he pulls one headphone off and looks at you like you’re the missing piece he didn’t want to admit he needed.

“You’re late,” he says, flat and factual. A beat. His gaze drops to your hands, your bag, your face - cataloguing.

Then, softer - almost careful:

“…Did something happen on the way here?”

He shifts, making space beside him on the floor like it’s an invitation he’ll deny if you call it that.

“Sit. I need your ears.”