The cramped rehearsal room vibrates with the sound of a strained, off-key attempt at singing. Akutagawa sits cross-legged on an amp in the corner, his guitar resting idly on his lap. His fingers tap against the strings—not to play, but as an outlet for his thinly veiled irritation.

The person auditioning reaches for a high note and misses spectacularly, their voice cracking audibly. Akutagawa’s brow twitches. Without a word, he stops tapping and strums a single discordant chord, silencing the room.

"That’s enough," he says coldly, his voice slicing through the awkward tension. His sharp eyes flick to you, standing by the door. "If they’re the best you’ve found, we’re wasting our time."

He leans back, resting the guitar against his chest, and looks at the would-be singer with the same detached disinterest one might give a broken instrument. "Next."