The backstage buzz was electric, a mix of nervous energy and careful preparation. The crew worked like clockwork, finalizing the stage setup with precision while technicians double-checked cables, lights, and soundboards. The faint murmur of the gathering crowd outside seeped through the walls, growing louder with each passing minute.

In the center of it all, Miura stood quietly, her presence commanding yet detached. She adjusted her locket, the familiar weight of it grounding her as she prepared for what lay ahead. Her bandmates moved around her, each in their own element.

Kid was crouched beside Pops near the soundboard, pretending to help as Pops checked the connections for the instruments. “Oi, Pops, think the amps’ll blow this time?” Kid joked, his accent punctuated with a mischievous grin.

Pops simply grunted in response, his hands working deftly to tighten a loose cable.

Reyn chuckled as he walked by, carrying his drumsticks. “Kid, if Pops could talk, he’d probably tell you to stop distracting him.”

Urara sauntered over, bass slung across her back. “Or he’d tell you to stop pretending you know what you’re doing,” she teased, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.

Kid clutched his chest dramatically. “Aye, yer killin’ me, Urara. I’m just tryin’ to lend a hand, y’know?”

Urara grinned, watching Pops adjust the soundboard with practiced ease. “Man, you’re way too good at this. Ever thought about running the whole show yourself?”

Pops paused for a moment, glancing at her before letting out a soft grunt and giving a small nod.

Kid, perched on the edge of an amp, furrowed his brows. “For someone who barely says a word, yeh sure know how t’ make a bloody point.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “I tell ya, it’s a good thing he can’t tell yeh to shut up, Urara. Otherwise, I’d be outta work.”

Urara let’s out a teasing smile, swatting Kid on the shoulder. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first, Blondie.”

Reyn chuckled, glancing at Pops with a respectful nod. “He’s mute,” Reyn explained, his tone casual but direct.

Kid blinked, the realization dawning. “Ohhhh,” he drawled, his thick accent stretching the word. “Well, now it makes sense why he never tells me to shut up either. Guess I’ve got that goin’ for me.”

Urara rolled her eyes with a grin. “Lucky him.”

Pops merely grunted again, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile.

Meanwhile, Miura remained in her own world, observing the exchange with a faint smile. These moments—when the band’s camaraderie shone through—were what she cherished most, even if she didn’t always show it.

“Alright, folks, ten minutes!” their manager called out, clapping his hands for attention. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The band gathered in their green room, where a small cooler of drinks waited. Kid popped open a beer and raised it high. “To Miura!” he declared. “Another year older, another year colder.”

Urara rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

Reyn chuckled, clinking his bottle against Kid’s. “To Miura,” he echoed, his tone more sincere.

Urara joined in, and all eyes turned to Miura. She looked at each of them, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Merci,” she said quietly, raising her own bottle.

The moment passed, and the band moved toward the stage. The sound of the crowd was deafening now, a tidal wave of energy waiting to crash. Pops appeared one last time, giving them a thumbs-up before disappearing into the shadows.

The lights dimmed, and the band took their positions. Kid and Urara exchanged a quick glance before launching into the opening riff, the sound reverberating through the arena like a heartbeat. Reyn’s drums joined in, a steady, powerful rhythm that set the tone.

Then, Miura stepped into the spotlight.

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing like thunder. Miura’s black hair flowed around her like liquid night, her purple eyes catching the glow of the lights. She moved to the microphone with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly, her presence commanding every gaze in the room.

She took a deep breath, the weight of the day pressing on her shoulders yet fueling the fire in her voice. When she began to sing, it was as if time itself paused. Her voice was raw and haunting, filled with emotion that reached deep into the souls of everyone listening.

This was her gift, her power. On this stage, she was a force of nature, a star burning brightly against the darkness.

As the song built to its crescendo, Miura’s eyes closed, and for a fleeting moment, she felt her mother’s presence. Ilia’s voice, her laughter, her warmth—they were all here, carried in the music. The locket around her neck felt heavier, a connection to the woman who had given her everything.

The crowd swayed, their voices joining hers in the chorus. To Miura, the stage was her sanctuary, the one place where she could be both powerful and vulnerable. And as the final note rang out, she opened her eyes to see the sea of faces illuminated by the glow of their phones and lighters, each light a star in her night sky.

“Peux-tu m’entendre… mère ?” she said softly. And for the first time that night, her icy demeanor melted, replaced by a warmth that was unmistakable.

For the first time in years, she felt a sense of peace.