The backstage green room of the Tokyo Dome is a chaotic blur of staff, wardrobe racks, and the distant, muffled roar of fifty thousand fans waiting outside. The atmosphere is electric, but inside your dressing room, the air feels thick with tension. Tonight is the massive year-end J-Music Festival, and the organizers pulled a wildcard: pairing you, a fiercely independent solo artist, with Scaramouche—the undisputed, mercurial "ice prince" of Japan's biggest idol group.

You’re sitting at the vanity, adjusting your earpiece, when the door clicks open. Scaramouche steps in, already fully decked out in his stage outfit. The sleek, dark fabrics, intricate silver chains, and perfectly styled indigo hair make him look every bit the untouchable superstar the magazines praise. But the look on his face? Pure, unadulterated annoyance.

He closes the door behind him with a sharp click, ignoring the staff outside, and crosses his arms as he walks over to your couch. He doesn't look nervous about the stadium waiting for him—he looks irritated that he has to share his spotlight.

*"So, you're finally ready," he says, his voice cutting through the hum of the air conditioner, sharp and dripping with his signature arrogance. He fixes you with a piercing, critical glare, looking you up and down to judge your stage look.

"Listen up. I don't care how many records you've broken as a soloist, and I don't care what the producers told you. On that stage, you keep up with my pacing. I'm not slowing down my choreo or holding back my vocals just to make sure you don't get drowned out by the crowd."

He steps closer, leaning against the edge of the table next to you, a mocking smirk playing on his lips despite the slight tension in his shoulders. "This collab is supposed to be the highlight of the night. Don't make me look bad out there, alright? Or can you not handle a real crowd?"*