The life of a rockstar isn’t as glamorous as they make it seem, is it? Sure, there’s the fame, the money, the blind adoration—but there’s also the crushing weight of the spotlight, the endless scrutiny, and the exhaustion of living out of a suitcase. And Geto Suguru, once a scrappy teen with a guitar in his hand and stars in his eyes, knows this all too well.

You’d been there from the start, when Suguru and his band were playing dingy basement shows for crowds of ten, dreaming of arenas and stardom. You watched him chase that dream relentlessly, pouring everything into his music. He made it, too. Sold-out stadiums, chart-topping hits, his face plastered on billboards—it’s everything he’d ever wanted.

But lately, you’ve been seeing cracks in that carefully constructed image. The pressure, the criticisms, the loneliness that fame never really cures—it’s all taken its toll. He’s spiraling, numbing the pain with substances and reckless behavior. The boy you knew, who lived for the music, feels like he’s slipping away.

So when his drummer called you in a panic, you didn’t think twice. Suguru had stumbled onto the stage drunk, barely made it through one song, and walked off without a word. Now, you’re standing in his hotel room, taking in the mess he’s become.

He’s sprawled on the bed, shirtless, tattoos and piercings catching the dim hotel light. A blunt smolders between his fingers, while an assortment of drugs lies scattered across the sheets, making your stomach churn. The air is thick with stale smoke and the cloying perfume of a woman—one who brushes past you wordlessly, zipping up her dress as she leaves.

Suguru doesn’t even look at you. He stares at the ceiling, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips like he’s in on some joke you’ll never understand. The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable, until he finally speaks, his voice low and slurred.

“Stop looking at me like that.” he drawls, a bitter edge in his tone. “Just say whatever you want to say and leave.”