Kota plopped a bag of conbini sandwiches onto the coffee table like someone making an offering to the gods of chaos. “Eat. You two look like you shared a hangover.”

Tomogi and Aoto exchanged a single micro-expression—panic, denial, amusement—before Shinji shoved between them to tune his bass.

“Alright, demons,” Shinji said, plucking a low note that rattled the couch springs, “we’re running the Shibuya set top to bottom. And if anyone screws up during the breakdown this time, I’m walking home.”

Nobunaga, their drummer, was last inside. He set down a pair of cracked drumsticks with the seriousness of someone delivering a court summons. “The club owner is picky. The kind of picky that gets you fired from a job you didn’t even apply for. We need to sound lethal.”

Tomogi cracked his neck like a prizefighter. “Then let’s be lethal.”

Aoto felt that old familiar warmth—Tomogi in frontman mode, all fire and focus. It tugged at him more than the hangover did.

The amps powered on with a low growl. Cables hummed. Shinji’s bass throbbed like a heartbeat. Aoto cradled his guitar, fingers already itching through the opening shapes of the first verse. Tomogi closed his eyes, center of gravity low, ready.

(For fans at home, here are the full lyrics of Di$iPliN’s song 触れて、魂を喰らって,

[Verse 1]

気づかせてよ、ほら望むまま

ひとりきりで歩く影の道

闇を抜けて光を灯す

君といると、世界が眩しい

愛させてよ、必要なように

土を運び、種を蒔く

痛みの中じゃ何も変わらない

触れて、魂を喰らって

[Chorus]

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に

[Verse 2]

神よ、君が選んだ道を歩く

自由なんて幻想だと知ってる

子供たちに嘘をついてもいい

僕は聞く、たぶん

今日、僕に続いて

僕が去るなら、君は留まればいい

忘れられた方がまだいい人生

こうしてる方が、まだいい人生

[Guitar Solo]

[Chorus]

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に

[Breakdown / Pre-Chorus]

角に座る君を見つけた

もう、君を置いてはいけない

君も僕と同じ気持ちだろう

この瞬間まで怖かった

[Chorus]

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に)

Aoto counted them in.

Three.

Two.

One.

The room detonated into sound.

Tomogi’s voice rose raw and intimate, threading through the cramped apartment. The first verse of their song—those yearning lines about walking through darkness, lighting it only because someone else was there—hit with a tenderness he rarely showed sober. He let the Japanese syllables stretch, bleed, even break a little, the way he always did when he meant it more than he wanted to admit.

Aoto knew every rhythmic twitch of that voice, every little fracture where emotion outran technique. His guitar answered in kind: sharper, brighter, practically shimmering during the refrain.

触れて、魂を喰らって

僕に、僕に、僕に—

Tomogi leaned forward as he yelled the chorus, sweat already glistening along his jaw. The words weren’t subtle. They weren’t meant to be. He delivered them like a confession disguised as a threat.

“Again,” Aoto said once the chorus ended. “The hit on measure eight is slipping.”

Tomogi grinned, hair sticking to his cheek. “Bossy.”

“Accurate.”

They ran it again. And again. And again.

By the time they hit Verse Two, the apartment had transformed into a pressure cooker. Nobunaga’s drums rattled the floor so fiercely the neighbors probably assumed a ritual was occurring. Kota layered synth accents over the verses like neon graffiti scrawled across steel.

Aoto slipped into the guitar solo with the ease of falling backward into a warm pool. His fingers moved faster than his thoughts—bends sharp, slides smooth, little flurries of notes that weren’t quite classical, not quite punk, something in between. Tomogi watched him with a half-smile that said far too much.

When they reached the breakdown—the quiet part where the whole song tightened like a held breath—the room went still. Just Tomogi’s voice describing the corner where “you” sat, the vow never to leave again.

For one dangerous second, he wasn’t singing to the abstract.

He was singing at Aoto.

Aoto felt it. Everyone felt it.

Kota muttered, “Damn, that's… new.”

Tomogi didn’t correct him.

They crashed into the final chorus like they had something to survive. The last “僕に” echoed off the walls, fading into the hum of amps and the smell of sweat and warm electronics.

Silence settled, thick and satisfied.

Nobunaga broke it. “Alright. If we play like that tonight, we won’t just get the residency. We’ll own the place.”

Tomogi threw an arm over Aoto’s shoulder, pulling him close without thinking. “Told you the couch-nap was strategic.”

Aoto pretended to roll his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. “Strategic hangovers. Revolutionary.”

Nobunaga clapped once. “Speaking of revolution, I need help loading the gear.”

Everyone suddenly found excuses.

Kota inspected his nails.

Shinji adjusted a tuning peg that didn’t need adjusting.

Tomogi whistled.

Nobunaga pointed at Aoto. “Smart one. Help me before Tomogi pretends he hurt his back.”

Tomogi gasped indignantly. “My artistry is fragile.”

“Your honor is,” Nobunaga corrected.

Aoto chuckled and followed him outside. The Kei van waited in the narrow lot, a dented white box on wheels that had served more as a tour bus, moving storage unit, and makeshift hotel than a vehicle.

Loading it took the patience of a saint and the geometry skills of an architect. Amps wedged sideways, drum cases stacked like unstable Jenga, cables coiled into loops that would inevitably unravel the moment the van hit a pothole.

By the time everything was packed, sweat glued Aoto’s shirt to his back.

Tomogi brought Aoto a clean shirt while the band filed into the Van, he still felt something lingering from that morning–

“Alright,” Nobunaga said, slamming the last door shut, “let’s get to Shibuya before the crowds clog the whole district.”

---

The host club’s alleyway smelled of perfume, cigarettes, and money. Neon signs flickered above them in candy-colored kanji. Inside, the stage was smaller than expected but loaded with high-end audio gear—sleek monitors, polished lights, a soundboard that belonged in a stadium, not a club.

Kota let out a low whistle. “This place is… expensive.”

Tomogi stepped onto the stage like he was stepping into destiny. “This is it. One show. One chance.”

Aoto set his guitar case down and looked around at the velvet walls, the crystal light fixtures, the polished floor that reflected the whole band like a promise slowly forming.

Di$iPliN started unpacking.

In twenty minutes, they’d be wired in, tuned, and ready.

In three hours, they’d play the most important set of their lives.