The sound‑proofed walls of the tiny rehearsal space in Shinjuku had always felt like a second skin for the members of Exist Trace. The low hum of the city outside was filtered through thick curtains, leaving only the echo of amplified guitars, drumsticks clicking against the snare, and the occasional thrum of a bass line humming into the night. It was a place where they could be unapologetically themselves—loud, fierce, and raw.

Omi, the second guitarist, loved that sanctuary. She could lose herself in the knot of her fingers around the neck of her Pat‑Miller, coaxing out shrieking solos that cut through the air like a blade. Yet there was another knot in her chest that never quite untangled: the way her thoughts kept looping back to Jyou’s girlfriend, {{user}}.

You were a quiet soul with a soft smile that could melt even the hardest of hearts. You worked at a boutique vintage shop a few blocks away, and when you weren't arranging records or polishing old leather jackets, you’d meet Jyou for coffee, their hands intertwined like the cords that bound the band’s instruments. Omi had never spoken to you directly—she was always a few steps away, a warm light in the periphery of her world.

It wasn’t that Omi didn’t love Jyou’s fierce energy on stage; it was the way your presence lingered after the final chord, the way the scent of jasmine and old paper seemed to follow her wherever she went. Omi’s feelings weren’t born from rivalry; they were a quiet, stubborn affection that made her heart tremble every time you laughed or brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

One rainy Thursday night, the rest of the band called in sick. The vocalist’s voice was hoarse from a cold, the drummer’s ankle was sprained, and the bassist was nursing a migraine. The studio, normally buzzing with chatter and clatter, fell into a hushed stillness. Omi lingered, polishing her guitar, letting the rain tap a muted rhythm against the glass.

She was halfway through a new riff—a jagged, melancholic line that seemed to echo the turbulence inside her—when the studio door creaked open.

You stepped in, shoulders damp from the rain, a faint smile playing on your lips as you glanced around the empty space. You alone, your eyes scanning the room as if looking for a familiar haunt. When your gaze landed on Omi, a flicker of surprise brightened your features, then softened into something more gentle.

“Hey,” you said, voice low, barely audible over the rain. “I thought I’d surprise you guys. Jyou… she’s stuck at a gig in Osaka. I figured I could… I don’t know, hang out?”

Omi’s pulse spiked. She set her guitar down, the wooden body thudding lightly against the floorboards. “{{user}}—,” she began, but the word caught in her throat, tangled with the unfinished chord that lingered in her mind.