The neon lights of the host club bounced off the polished stage, scattering into the crowd like tiny fragments of a shattered rainbow. Di$iPliN stepped up, the hum of their equipment filling the air, the scent of sweat and alcohol heavy in the room. Tomogi gripped the mic, swaying slightly from nerves and a lingering buzz, while Aoto crouched by his guitar, eyes scanning the strings like a hawk.

From the first note of the opening song—the one they had practiced endlessly in their cramped apartment—the room shifted. Tomogi’s voice cut through the haze, raw and ragged, carrying both desperation and reckless honesty. Aoto’s guitar followed, intricate yet melodic, threading through the chaos of the drums and bass like a lifeline.

For a moment, Tomogi forgot everything else—the host club, the audience, even the lingering ache in his chest. He just sang, and Aoto played, and the world narrowed to the sound between them.

When the final chord rang out, the applause was polite, scattered, not yet overwhelming. But the club owner leaned forward, eyes gleaming, a small smirk playing on his lips. He clapped slowly, deliberately, like someone savoring a fine wine.

“You’re… different,” he said, voice smooth and measured. “Better than everyone else in this city, if you’re willing to push. We don’t do things like everyone else…” He paused, letting the words hang. “Like the competition.”

Tomogi blinked, trying to parse the meaning behind the vague praise.

“The Tokyo Telecom Titan Competition,” the owner continued, “I’m giving you an emergency fill spot. You’ll play against bands already prepared. Real stakes, real scrutiny. Are you ready to see if you’re as good as you think?”

Aoto tightened his grip on the guitar, tension rippling through his shoulders. Tomogi leaned closer to whisper, “An emergency spot? That’s… insane.”

“I don’t do. . . insane,” Aoto said softly, voice calm but carrying the weight of calculation. “We adapt.”

Before Tomogi could answer, the noise from the back of the club drew their attention. A rival band was warming up, their presence impossible to ignore. The Black Circles: three figures cloaked in shadow and stage smoke. Jade, the vocalist, swirled a lock of hair around her finger, eyes sharp as a blade. Jasper’s fingers danced across his guitar strings with uncanny precision. Shaun’s drumming echoed like a heartbeat, steady and relentless. The audience already whispered their names with reverence.

Tomogi’s chest tightened. A mix of adrenaline, nerves, and the persistent ache for Aoto made him light-headed. The lyrics of the song he was supposed to perform next were only partially memorized; the final version hadn’t even been rehearsed.

“Tomogi?” Aoto’s voice pulled him back. The guitarist’s green eyes were steady, unyielding. “Focus. We’ll improvise if we have to. Just… trust me.”

Tomogi swallowed hard, a small laugh escaping him, shaky but genuine. “I always do,” he admitted, voice barely above the hum of the amps. 

The Owner broke in before Tomogi could continue, “Bands need trust, that's what keeps them together. Look, the competition is televised, and filmed live from that stage, in about 45 minutes. I’ll put you in the back half of the setlist that should give you an hour and a half before you gotta play again. You do that, and we will go places. . . Unlike. . . . Unlike the competition. . . . Anyway, greenrooms behind stage right on your left, Next up The Black Circles”

As The Black Circles took to the stage, Di$iPliN retreated to the green room, instruments and notepads in hand to try and craft their way out of this. “So do you want something like this?” Aoto asks while strumming at his guitar. “Umm, yeah that works.” Tomogi mutters and begins writing in his notepad. Shinji sits across from Aoto and begins playing along and developing the rhythm guitar part for the song, Kota does the same for the bass guitar, and Nobunaga sits in the middle clapping out a beat. While writing Tomogi sees they have a bar refrigerator with chuhai stocked inside, and Tomogi took and downed one and brought multiple back over for the rest of the band. “Thirsty?” Tomogi asks as he passes them around. The nerves calmed down as they finished the song, and the drinks. “So are yall. . .” Shinji started to ask but Nobunaga cuts in CLAP “So look im not really feeling great here, yall get to practice, look at this, no drums, no pads. Im dying here, the bar fridge is empty, 1 pack of Chuhai, what is this Azerbaijan?” The door behind them flies open and the stagehand is telling them its time for them to sign the release form and take the stage,

(Drunk Couch Song written by Tomogi Sanogawa, 

[Chorus]

なに言ってるの…？

なに言ってるの…？

きれいに嘘つかないで

信じさせて…信じさせてよ

なに言ってるの…？

なに言ってるの…？

きれいに嘘つかないで

信じさせて…信じさせてよ

[Verse 1]

息子は自分の道を探すしかない

父は畑で働く

税を取られ、嘘を教えられ

他人が盗む、殺すと言われる

娘は笑う、王子様を夢見て

でも、あいつは俺のもの

…別に分けないさ

俺の…おもちゃだからさ

[Chorus]

なに言ってるの…？

なに言ってるの…？

きれいに嘘つかないで

信じさせて…信じさせてよ

[Verse 2]

ベイビー、君が寝てる上に俺が乗っかってた…

あは…そうなっただけさ

またやってもいい…君が嫌じゃなきゃ

そして…また酔っぱらってバカやるかも…

あは…まあ、いいか

[Bridge / Guitar Solo]

(もごもごしたハミング、途切れ途切れの呼吸、ギターリフ)

[Verse 3]

プライド…肺に水が満ちて、つまずく

平和…忍耐より痛みみたいだ

俺たち…不安で、疲れて

何も残らない…シンプルな真実

俺たちは商品じゃない…物でもない

消費する…人間だからさ

団結が必要、力が必要

利益より…名誉だ、そう

[Chorus / Outro]

なに言ってるの…？

なに言ってるの…？

きれいに嘘つかないで

信じさせて…信じさせてよ)

When they hit the stage again, the first notes of their new song slashed through the competition’s tension. Tomogi’s voice carried more than sound—it carried everything he hadn’t said to Aoto that morning, everything he felt but had shoved down in the haze of alcohol and nerves. Every glance toward the guitarist, every lyric that wavered between trembling vulnerability and sheer intensity, was a silent confession.

Aoto’s fingers moved like lightning, weaving through the chords, reading Tomogi’s mind without needing words. The two of them became something the crowd couldn’t name—raw, chaotic, magnetic. And for a moment, the world contracted to that narrow beam of stage light and two figures against it.

When the final note rang out, silence hung for a heartbeat before the crowd erupted. Cheers, whistles, and claps surged over the band like a tidal wave. Tomogi’s knees threatened to buckle under the high, but Aoto caught him, a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

The club owner clapped from the side, smile wide but unreadable. “Like I said… different. But good, and marketable. . .Like the competition.” His words echoed, heavy with promise and threat. He didn’t offer guarantees, but the stakes were clear: the Tokyo Telecom Titan Competition wasn’t just a contest. It was a proving ground, a crucible that would test Di$iPliN’s music, their creativity, and the fragile thread of trust between Tomogi and Aoto.

As they left the stage, still buzzing from adrenaline, Tomogi muttered, almost to himself, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Aoto didn’t respond immediately, just squeezed his hand as the walked off stage before letting go. That small gesture said everything words couldn’t.

Outside, the neon city waited—bright, chaotic, and full of unspoken challenges. And for Di$iPliN, new fame previously thought unobtainable. Live broadcasts of the Competition turned them into an overnight sensation but are contractually tied to Sunflower Management and its Owner Tsumoto Sazuki, the owner of the host club and the competition itself.

Kota noticed first as they exited the club and began returning equipment to the van. “Yo. . . Yo guys, Look” Kota says pointing to a Video Billboard graphic that has “Tokyo Telecom Titans Champions: Di$iPliN” and the band on the Host Club stage, “We’re already larger than life!”