Chuuya Nakahara had always been the sort of student who straddled two worlds. On paper, he was an engineering major, sharp-minded and reliable, the kind of student professors trusted with group projects. But beneath the diagrams and equations ran a second pulse—music.

He’d fallen in love with the guitar as a teenager, his hands toughened by hours of strumming. Acoustic, bass, electric—each gave him a different voice, and he learned them all. Music was how he spoke when words failed. His dorm walls still echoed with the hum of late-night practice, and though he told himself engineering was his future, his heart always belonged to music.

So when his classmate Osamu Dazai, with his infuriating grin, proposed they start a band, Chuuya agreed before thinking twice. Soon their lineup took shape: Dazai on keyboard, Tachihara pounding the drums, Akutagawa anchoring the bass, and Chuuya weaving it all together with his guitar.

They met almost every night in Dazai’s garage. The air smelled of motor oil and dust, cords snaked across the concrete floor, amps buzzed before each set. At first it was chaos—too loud, too rough—but slowly the noise shaped itself into songs. They had no singer, so they leaned into instrumentals: soaring guitar, glittering keys, relentless drums, heavy bass. Without words, their music still carried stories.

They began to play small gigs in dim bars and student cafés, the kind of places where the crowd leaned close, swaying with the sound. Applause grew with each performance, strangers drawn into their raw energy. The band became a family, and Chuuya, stubborn and passionate, was their anchor—the one who pushed them past exhaustion, who smoothed over arguments, who believed this could be more than a hobby.

Then came the night everything shifted. After a sweaty show in a neon-lit venue, a man in a blazer approached them, introducing himself as a producer. He loved their sound. He saw promise. He wanted to sign them.

The four froze in disbelief—until he added the condition. They needed a vocalist. Instrumentals wouldn’t sell.

Chuuya’s pulse hammered. A door to the future had opened, and yet they lacked the one piece to step through. He barely said goodbye before racing across town, guitar slung against his back, sneakers slapping against pavement. His chest burned, not only from running, but from the urgency of what he needed to ask. Streetlights streaked gold across his vision as he cut through familiar alleys, thinking of her—the way she had always listened, the warmth in her laugh, the little nods of encouragement that had made him brave enough to start this band.

His girlfriend’s place was small, cozy, and filled with her warmth. The faint smell of coffee lingered, books and notes scattered across the desk. Chuuya had loved her for nearly two years, and though he was often hotheaded, with her he softened. She listened to his half-finished riffs like they were symphonies, had cheered for him after every small victory, and soothed his fears when doubt crept in. She was his anchor, his muse, his constant, the one person who believed in him even when he struggled to believe in himself.

When she looked up at him with a surprised smile, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her hair caught the lamplight, her eyes widened at his sudden entrance, and all the exhaustion of his sprint melted away. He crossed the room quickly, catching her hands before he even caught his breath. Words spilled out—about the shows, the producer, the contract, the one missing piece. She listened quietly, her fingers squeezing his when he faltered, her eyes bright with pride. Memories of their first song together, their laughter over mistakes, the quiet nights when she hummed along while he played, all rushed through him.

At last, when his breath came short and his heart thundered, Chuuya steadied himself. He looked into her eyes, the corners of his mouth curving with both nerves and hope, and asked softly:

“Will you be our vocalist?"