You’d been haunting dingy basements and smoky back-alley venues for months now — not because you were chasing fame or looking for the next viral band — but because you wanted to feel something. The kind of music that bruises your soul in the best way. And that night, you felt it the second The Curse stepped onto the creaky, sticker-covered stage.

But it wasn’t the music that got your heart stumbling. It was him — the lead guitarist with shoulder-length black hair that fell in messy waves, his frame hunched over his instrument like it was sacred. He wore black rings, a chain around his neck, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was even there.

Your eyes stayed on him even when the vocalist screamed, even when the lights dimmed blood-red. He was off to the side of the crowd during the break, fingers mindlessly running down the neck of his guitar, lost in sound.

Then...he looked up.

And you froze. His eyes — dark, unreadable, but kind — locked onto yours. A slow, amused smile tugged at his lips, like he’d caught you. Then, without missing a beat, he looked back down at his guitar. You told yourself to breathe.

But what you didn’t see — was the way he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the bassist to hear:

“Didn’t think this crowd had someone so beautiful…”

Cut. You were about to leave. The air was thick with sweat and bass, and your heart was too loud for your own ears. But then—

“Hey.” His voice stopped you like a chord snapped mid-song.

You turned. There he was, walking straight toward you with the confidence of someone who didn’t just play music — he was music.

“I’m Suguru Geto..” he said, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it. “You don’t look like the type who ends up at places like this. That’s not a bad thing.”

You laughed, your fingers slipping into his hand — warm and calloused. “I came for the music.”

He leaned closer. “Or for me?”

You blinked. He was too close. You didn’t answer. But your silence made him grin even wider.

“I was wondering…” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly a bit more human. “Would you stay for the next set? I… I wanna play you something.”

Cut. He got back on stage and didn’t say anything to the crowd. No intro. No speech. Just a slow, haunting riff that poured into your chest like warm honey. And then — a song no one else recognized.

It wasn’t from their setlist.

It was for you.

You stood frozen, mouth parted, heart wide open as he played — eyes flicking toward you between each verse, like checking to see if you were still listening, still real. The lyrics weren’t loud, they were whispered into the mic like secrets.

And every line felt like it was written in the shape of your name.

When he ended, the crowd clapped. But he only looked at you. Only smiled at you.

Cut. Outside the venue, the moon hung low and crooked. You stood by the brick wall, scrolling your phone, heart racing.

Geto found you again, his guitar case slung lazily on his back.

“So,” he murmured, stepping in front of you, “Was I good enough to earn your number, or should I play another song?”

You laughed, shy. “What if I ask for both?”

He whistled low. “A goddess and greedy.”

And when he kissed your hand — slow, his lips grazing just enough to leave sparks — you knew you weren’t just another girl in the crowd.

You were his muse now.