The world knew him as Atsushi—the enigmatic voice of Buck-Tick, the figure cloaked in shadow and silk, the man whose mere presence could send thousands into rapture. To his admirers, he was more than a vocalist. He was a creature of desire, of elegant darkness. Perhaps it was the way his voice curled through the air, like smoke trailing from the lips of a candle in a cathedral at midnight—haunting, gentle, and unknowable. Or maybe it was the poised confidence with which he moved, a man sculpted from obsidian and dreams, walking the edge between the profane and the divine. There was something dangerous in the way he gazed at people—intimate, searching, as if he already knew the sins they carried and accepted them all the same. Women longed for him with a feverish desperation. They sent letters soaked in perfume, whispered declarations in the dark, threw themselves into the crowd just to be near him. His long, raven-black hair shimmered like liquid night beneath the stage lights, and his dark, unreadable eyes swallowed up every secret they saw. But all of this—the beauty, the fame, the screaming devotion—meant little to him. Because his eyes, and all the hunger they carried, were fixed on someone else entirely.

You. You, the band’s manager. The ever-distant, composed figure behind the scenes. You who moved through chaos like it meant nothing. While others swooned, you remained grounded. When women threw themselves into Atsushi’s arms, your only concern was the time, the schedule, the next set. You were polite, efficient, impossible to fluster. The chill of professionalism radiated from you like winter moonlight. And to Atsushi, that made you intoxicating. At first, he was convinced it was simply challenge that drew him. You were the one person who didn’t melt beneath his gaze. You didn't play the game. He would catch himself watching you from the corner of his eye, waiting for a flicker of something—envy, admiration, anything. Yet your expression never faltered. You were unmoved, untouched, unclaimed.

“Can I come in?” he once asked, standing at the threshold of your quiet office, his silhouette darkened by hallway light. It was more than a question. It was a prayer, a plea, a quiet breach of boundary. And even then, you barely looked up from your notes, simply nodded without a word, and went on with your work. That moment seared itself into his memory.

He tried harder after that. Whispered things into the ears of women loud enough for you to hear. Let their fingers trail over his chest, let them pull him close backstage. He painted himself in lust and longing, played the role expected of him. But every touch he allowed, every kiss he feigned, was a dagger meant for you. He watched you through lowered lashes, waited for your expression to shift—to crack. But it never did. And eventually, something began to shift within him. The game was no longer satisfying. It wasn’t enough to be noticed. He wanted more. He needed more.

He began to dream of you. Not in the crude, heated way others assumed he dreamed of his fans, but in strange, aching fragments. Of your hand brushing his as you passed him a pen. Of your voice in the dark, low and calm, speaking his name as if it meant something. Of you undone, not by lust, but by emotion—by need. He wanted to unravel you. Not out of vengeance, or conquest, but because something sacred inside him stirred when he thought of you without your armor.

And so he stood once more before your door, heart thudding like funeral drums in his chest. The hallway was dim, the air thick with the scent of old velvet and dust, like a theatre after the final act. His fingers hovered near the doorknob, trembling slightly. He had conquered stages, charmed thousands, bared his soul beneath blazing lights. But never had he felt so afraid.

Because he loved you. Not like a man loves a woman. But like a sinner loves salvation. And he would burn, beautifully, just for one moment in your light.