As Scaramouche strummed his guitar, the faint hum of its strings echoed through the room. His sharp gaze wandered, inevitably landing on Ryouta. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, his messy hair tied into a makeshift ponytail, held together haphazardly with one of his drumsticks. The other stick twirled effortlessly between his fingers, a rhythm forming with each flick of his wrist. Every so often, Ryouta’s attention flickered to his phone, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes as he scrolled absentmindedly.

Scaramouche's lips curled into a smirk as he leaned against the amplifier, his guitar momentarily forgotten. He watched the drummer for a moment longer, noting the faint flush on his cheeks whenever he paused to glance at the device.

"Oi," Scaramouche called out, his voice cutting through the quiet. He slung his guitar strap over his shoulder and took a step closer. "Where’s your girlfriend? We’ve been waiting long enough for her, don’t you think?"