Miura blinked, snapping out of the daydream that had crept into her mind. The backstage noise rushed back—technicians barking orders, the hum of amplifiers, the distant roar of the crowd. The familiar chaos was all around her, but inside, she felt the familiar calm.

“Oi, Miura!” Kid’s voice cut through the noise, his Welsh accent sharp as ever. He clapped her on the back, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Stayin’ awake, are ya? We’ve got a bloody show t’ steal!”

Miura nodded, her expression unreadable as always, a small tilt of her head the only indication she’d heard him. A woman of few words; her presence spoke for itself.

“Better be ready, Miura,” Reyn chimed in, casually twirling his drumsticks as he grinned. “The crowd’s already losing their minds, and we ain’t even started yet.”

“I’m ready,” Miura said, her voice calm, almost too quiet for the noise around them.

Urara bounced over, grabbing Miura’s hand with her usual energy. “Come on, Ice Queen!” she teased, giving her a little tug. “Let’s go show ‘em what we’re made of!”

Miura’s lips quirked just barely—a shadow of a smile that Urara caught. Laughing, Urara dashed ahead, skipping onto the stage like it was a playground. She grabbed her bass and spun dramatically toward the crowd, her light purple hair swinging in the stage lights.

“Hey, y’all ready?” Urara shouted, waving to the screaming fans with a wink. Her bass let out a deep, resonant note as she plucked a string, making the crowd erupt into cheers.

Kid swaggered onto the stage next, adjusting his guitar with a dramatic flourish. “Oi, Urara, stop stealin’ the spotlight, yeh daft lass!” he teased, stepping up to his mic. His accent rang clear, and the crowd roared at the playful insult.

Urara stuck her tongue out at him, her fingers running across her bass strings, playing a quick riff. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Blondie?”

Kid grinned. “Oh, we doin’ this now?” He leaned into his guitar, answering her with a riff of his own. The crowd’s energy exploded as they went back and forth, trading short lines from their hits.

“Think yeh can keep up, eh?” Kid called out, strumming another fiery lick, his fingers dancing over the frets. “I’ll leave yeh in the dust!”

Urara shot him a mock glare and played an even faster bassline, her hands moving like a blur. “Nice try, old man! But you’ll have to do better than that!”

Kid chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeh cheeky—”

Suddenly, a powerful, steady beat cut through the playful chaos. Reyn had taken his seat at the drums, and with a few sharp strikes, he silenced them both. The crowd, already in a frenzy, cheered even louder.

“Time to quit messing around, you two,” Reyn called out with a grin. “Let’s give them the real show.”

Urara stuck her tongue out again but backed off, giving a playful bow as she grabbed her bass properly. “Fine, fine… fun’s over.”

Kid laughed but gave in, slinging his guitar over his shoulder and stepping back toward his spot. “She’s lucky I was goin’ easy on ‘er.”

Reyn’s beat echoed across the stage, the sound building anticipation. As if on cue, the lights dimmed, and the energy shifted. The stage fell into a hushed silence, the crowd waiting, breath held.

And then, she appeared.

Miura stepped into the spotlight with effortless grace, her cold, elegant presence commanding the stage without a single word. Her black hair shimmered in the stage lights, her purple eyes sharp and distant as they swept over the thousands of screaming fans.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, as if the entire world held its breath for her.

Kid leaned into his mic. “Ladies an’ gents… we’re Rock On!”

The crowd erupted into deafening applause, but Miura remained unfazed. Her eyes stayed cold, her expression untouched by the chaos around her. She moved to the microphone with the same quiet poise she always carried—graceful, almost untouchable.

The band was ready. Urara’s fingers hovered over her bass strings, Reyn’s drumsticks poised in mid-air, Kid’s hands gripping his guitar. All eyes were on Miura.

Miura closed her eyes for a second, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background. Her thoughts wandered, briefly, back to her mother all those years ago. “I promised you, Mom… and I’ll keep it.”

As she opened her eyes, her icy gaze fixed on the audience. She stepped closer to the mic, gripping it gently. And then, she sang.

Her voice pierced through the air—haunting, clear, and filled with a quiet intensity that silenced the roar of the crowd. Her cold elegance wrapped itself around every note, captivating the thousands before her. The band joined in, the music swelling around her like a wave, and the audience was swept away in the moment.

Miura’s presence on stage was undeniable, her voice carrying both the raw power and restraint that defined her. She didn’t need to move much, didn’t need theatrics or flash. The depth of her voice and the cold fire in her eyes were enough to leave the crowd spellbound.

“This is who I am now.” The thought echoed in her mind, but she showed no sign of it. “This is what I promised.”

The crowd cheered, their voices lost beneath the music, but Miura remained distant, graceful, and cold.