Chapter Text
You couldn’t remember the last time you heard a sound like that.
A sound that sent shivers down your arm in the form of tiny goosebumps. The sound compelled your foot to tap involuntarily, a beautiful and smooth melody that felt almost intoxicating. A beautiful, seamless sound; one that felt almost transcendent, as if it could be the soundtrack to a moment you'd gladly relive over and over. Upon hearing this group, an unspoken understanding seized you. It was a sign.
They needed you, and you needed them.
A few aspects caught your attention, things that could be tweaked. The lyrics to their song were decent, but for a group aiming for fame, they needed something more than mediocrity. You found yourself pondering who among them was responsible for crafting the songs, if anyone at all.
The lead singer, a striking woman, captured your gaze. Her tall stature, coupled with long, dark hair cascading down the middle of her back, added to her allure. When she sang, a passionate and driven expression adorned her face—a look you cherished in an artist, signaling untapped potential and the promise of reaching great heights. She brought back memories of an old friend, Kugisaki, and you couldn't help but gaze at her momentarily. Most songwriters, in your eyes, seemed to share a similar look. If this woman resembled your old friend this much, there was a good chance she was the songwriter.
This was where your slight obsession started.
You persistently inquired about the bar owner's performance details until you received some information. It wasn't like he was intentionally holding back; this group was genuinely unknown. They had scheduled performances on Wednesdays, bringing a wide grin to your lips. Returning the following Wednesday at the same time, you expected to see the group.
However, your disappointment was palpable when another group took the stage. Couldn't the universe see? You needed this group. You desired to manage, help, and guide them into a lavish lifestyle. Undeterred, you decided to return the next Wednesday. And then the one after that. And finally, last Wednesday, until the realization dawned that they were not returning.
You spent hours scouring social media for any trace of them, but to no avail. What kind of group doesn't promote itself? You felt annoyed and angry, even though the group remained blissfully unaware of your search. Adding to the frustration, it was your birthday, and you spent it in a fruitless pursuit of a group that seemed to have vanished.
If Kugisaki could see you now, she’d be laughing so hard her stomach would ache. Both of you knew you were nothing without the other, but you were worse off without her. At least she had other friends. At least she was talented. You, on the other hand, were just wealthy. It was the only thing you ever had going for you.
You found yourself in solitude, a fitting state for your 23rd birthday. Yet, there you were, intoxicated beyond comprehension. The words escaping your mouth were no longer coherent as you rambled nonsensically to a humble street vendor just trying to support his family. Your cheeks burned with the effects of the alcohol, and you hungrily consumed the ramen he had generously provided. The initial bowl came without charge, a gesture of kindness, but as you persistently ordered more, he rightfully began to charge. It seemed that alcohol had intensified not only your state of mind but also your appetite.
How fucking pathetic can you get?
Girls like you weren't supposed to feel like this. They were never supposed to harbor self-hatred or remorse. Until this moment, you'd never experienced such agonizing emotions. In your perception, you've always been right and flawless. You didn't always feel this way. You were often bullied for small things when you were younger, but your mother consistently set you straight to remind you of how perfect you were. You wonder what she would think if she were alive to see you now.
"So, anyway," you began, your words slightly slurred, a clear sign of your inebriated state.
"I told her I didn't need her anymore! Hah! And you know what she told me?" Pausing for a moment to slurp the broth from your noodles, tears welled in your eyes as you revisited the heated argument with your best friend — if you could still even call her that.
"She told me—," you started before the tired vendor suddenly called out an unfamiliar name. His smile widened as he looked behind you at someone. Tilting your head slightly, you twisted it to catch a glimpse of this mystery stranger.
A man with hair as white as snow was walking towards the shop. He looked rather distinctive, akin to a character from an anime. Apart from his striking hair, he wore sunglasses in the middle of the night. With his pale skin and bright hair, you deduced that he might be an albino—a remarkably attractive and tall one, at that.
In the blink of an eye, he claimed the stool next to you, a foolish, boyish grin lighting up his features. "You planning to talk the poor guy’s ear off all night, huh?"
Your brows knitted together. Who does he think he is? "Excuse me?"
He chuckled, raising his hands in defense. "Hey, I'm just saying. I've been wandering around for about 30 minutes, and you haven't even taken a break from using that mouth."
You spluttered, rendered momentarily speechless. Your eyes widened, and your cheeks started to warm with embarrassment. Oh, no. No, no, no. You never felt embarrassed about anything, and this idol wannabe wouldn't change that.
"Oh, fuck you! You don't even know me.” Your eyes darted between the albino stranger and the street vendor. “He's clearly not complaining. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he's secretly enjoying all this attention from a hot girl!" You retorted sharply, angrily slurping the remaining ramen.
The vendor's cheeks brightened almost instantly, and he seemed on the verge of interjecting before he simply looked down. Given your previous experiences, it did not surprise you if his attention was primarily due to your appearance.
The stranger appeared momentarily surprised by your response before emitting another laugh, the deep sound sending a subtle ripple of comfort through you, igniting an unexpected spark within. Annoying or not, this man was too attractive for you to ignore.
He raised his sunglasses and wiped away a few tears from his eyes. "Lighten up, will you? I'm just kidding," he said, playfully sticking his tongue out like a child.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood to be played with," you grumbled softly, neatly stacking your glass bowls before sliding them towards the shop owner.
He seemed to discern your serious tone, prompting a nonchalant shrug. "What brings you out here, anyway?" he asked — as if he knew you. "It's a Friday, it's late, and you're obviously very, very drunk. You got friends? Or did you scare them off with that mouth?"
As if your night hadn't been difficult enough, here comes this guy with audacity the size of a UFO. You slammed your hands on the table, leaning in close until your faces were mere inches apart. Only now did you notice his eyes—bright, uncanny crystals that shone like the sun casting down on the ocean and glittered like azurite. How beautifully terrifying. After a lingering moment, you snapped out of your momentary trance.
"Okay, what is your problem? I'm already having a shitty night. Actually, it’s been a shitty year," you corrected, poking his broad chest with the tip of your manicured nail. "You would never be able to understand a thing about me or how difficult my life is!"
Something about him felt oddly familiar now. You were beginning to entertain the notion that you might know him, perhaps. Could he be a forgotten acquaintance, maybe an ex? You quickly dismissed the idea; if he were indeed an ex, he would be forever etched in your memory. As he raised his brows, seemingly prepared to respond, you swiftly placed your hand over his mouth.
"Wait, don't speak. I'm trying to see something," you said softly, maintaining an awkward gaze into his eyes. Remarkably, he did not appear uncomfortable. If anything, his lips subtly transformed into a sly smirk as he adeptly removed your hand from his mouth.
"Listen," he spoke, adopting a playful tone. "If you wanted a kiss, you didn't have to play the mean, drunk girl card to get it.”
Oh, that’s right.
In an instant, your eyes widened, and your lips curled into a little grin. "I know you!" you exclaimed rather loudly, drawing a few curious looks from passersby. "You! You're the... the guy in that band!"
When excitement hit you, turning it off became a challenge. You were teetering on the edge of literally screaming before the man in front of you looked at you with an almost surprised expression, then flashed a lazy, disgustingly handsome grin.
“Oh? You know my band, huh?” He tilted his head to the side just a little, his brows raised.
Opting to overlook the odd suggestiveness in his tone, you continued and nodded. "Sort of. I've been looking for you guys for weeks now," you began, rolling your eyes upon hearing him mutter something under his breath that sounded like "stalker."
"I caught one of your performances a while back, and I guess I wanted to, you know, get in touch?" Your entire face felt warm, a sensation attributed either to the alcohol or the crippling embarrassment this buffoon was subjecting you to.
He appeared contemplative for a moment as if genuinely considering your words. "Oh, yeah. Our lead singer caught the flu, and her voice has been fucked since then. Without her, we can't do much," he explained, then shrugged. "You want an autograph or something?"
"Oh, please," you scoffed, scrunching your nose. "You guys are alright. Mediocre at best, but definitely not good enough to be handing out autographs."
His expression shifted to one of bewilderment. "So, were you just looking to insult us to our faces then?"
With a small sigh, you reached for your bag, rifling through it for a few seconds before extracting a stack of thin, pink cards. Peeling one off the stack, you handed it to the man in front of you.
"No, loser. I wanna, uh... I wanna help you guys," you said quietly, nibbling the side of your lip as he scanned the details on the card.
His gaze shifted to you after reading the details on the card, and then the asshole smiled. "How cute," he remarked, his voice dripping with patronization. "But we already have a real manager."
Your cheeks felt as if they were practically melting off your face. "I am a real manager," you asserted angrily, getting closer to him. "And you need me. Your sound is okay, but your potential is amazing! You can achieve so much more if you let me manage you.”
He hummed softly before perching his glasses atop his head. "What are your certifications?"
Was he serious? His band had virtually no social media presence, and you were convinced the only person caring about them was you. Even if you were an accomplished manager, it's not like they could afford your services.
"Can you guys even afford a manager like that?" you asked, staring at him with an annoyed expression.
He laughed in your face, placing the card down on the stand in front of him. "Hah! So, you aren't a real manager. Is that what you're saying?"
You wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. Swiftly grabbing your phone, a few unintelligible sounds escaped your very frustrated mouth. "Do you know who this is?"
He stared at you, a mix of confusion and annoyance on his face. He didn't respond, only glancing over your shoulder at whatever you were typing or searching for. After a while, you pulled up a photo of someone he knew very well: Nobara Kugisaki.
Nobara wasn't an A-list celebrity by any means, but she held significant fame in her generation. Her sound was authentic—beautiful and pure, yet simultaneously raw and emotional. With few musicians embodying that style in Japan, people clung to her image, even gatekeeping her. As a manager and her best friend, you understood the appeal. Despite being on the path to fame, Satoru knew her well. In the early stages of his band, much of their inspiration came from Nobara. Part of him wondered if he could entice her to join if anything happened to Shoko.
His expression turned serious as he nodded. "Of course I do."
You continued, now navigating through her album. "Well, she's my best friend. Also, my latest project."
His lips twitched into a smirk. "What? I'll believe it when I—," he started, but you cut him off by shoving your phone in his face.
"Album credits right there,” you said uncharacteristically quietly. “Unless you can't read?"
Sure enough, the name on your business card was among the small list of songwriters—two names he recognized, and one he did not. While not conclusive proof, it did carry credibility. As you pulled up other pages listing you as her manager, long-time friend, and songwriter, it became clear you had made your case. After a moment of scanning through the information, he finally looked at you.
The man sighed before extending his hand for a shake. If you could manage and write songs for someone gaining notoriety this fast, you couldn't be that bad. "Satoru Gojo," he introduced himself almost quietly as if you had somehow wounded his pride.
With a broad grin, you shook his hand and repeated your own name for him. He wanted to inquire why Nobara wasn't working with you anymore, but he decided to save that question for a different day.
"So, you wanna meet the rest of the band?"