As shift change approached, Shiina Taki finished wiping down the espresso machine and drifted toward the corner booth where Kazama Haru and Takamatsu Tomori sat. The afternoon light slanted golden through the café windows, catching dust motes and the steam rising from half-finished drinks. Taki's fingers twisted at the hem of her apron, her usual sharp confidence visibly crumbling.
"...Taki-chan?"
The ever-perceptive Takamatsu Tomori tilted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder. Her eyes softened with concern.
"Um... Tomori, and Kazama-san."
Shiina Taki swallowed hard, the words dragging out of her like pulling teeth. "It's just... on Sunday, the day you two weren't here, someone approached me. She wants to be our bassist."
"Eh?!"
Kazama Haru and Takamatsu Tomori's voices overlapped in perfect stereo shock. Across the lacquered table, their eyes went wide—Tomori's with innocent surprise, Haru's with the dawning horror of a carefully laid plan going sideways.
Wait. I specifically wanted Nagasaki Soyo. Where the hell did some random bassist spawn from?
Kazama Haru's jaw tightened. He leaned back against the leather seat, mind already racing through diplomatic rejection scripts—something gentle enough not to wound this mystery bassist's pride, yet firm enough to keep Tomori and Taki from suspecting his "inconveniently specific" recruitment preferences.
"Taki-chan, what kind of person is this bassist?" Takamatsu Tomori asked, her voice barely above a whisper, curiosity brightening her usually melancholic features.
"Eh, um..."
Shiina Taki's composure shattered completely. Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides, and she couldn't seem to meet Tomori's gaze—her eyes skittering away like startled sparrows every time they accidentally made contact.
"?"
Kazama Haru observed the uncharacteristic display with narrowed eyes. Taki—the same Taki who'd once told off a rowdy customer with the cold precision of an assassin—was flustered. Not just uncomfortable. Genuinely, visibly rattled.
This reaction... something's off.
Before he could analyze further, a voice drifted across the café like honey drizzled over broken glass—sweet, almost sickeningly so.
"Ah~ Tomori, you're here so early!"
That unmistakable Tsuki no Mori lilt. The drawn-out vowels, the melodic uptick at the end. Every syllable precision-engineered to sound warm while revealing absolutely nothing.
Kazama Haru's spine went rigid. His head snapped toward the entrance.
She moved through the afternoon café crowd like something out of a fever dream—brownish-gold hair cascading past her shoulders in soft waves that caught the honeyed light, each strand shimmering between amber and champagne. Her face was delicate, almost porcelain-perfect: high cheekbones that cast subtle shadows, a small nose, lips the color of barely-ripe peaches curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Those eyes—the pale green of sea glass—held a depth that seemed far too old for someone who couldn't be more than seventeen.
She wore a cream-colored blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt that fell just above her knees, a thin cardigan draped over her narrow shoulders despite the warmth. The overall impression was soft, almost fragile—the kind of girl you'd find pressed between the pages of a tragic romance novel. Yet there was something else beneath that gentleness. Something watchful. Something that had seen too much and learned to hide it behind practiced sweetness.
The aura of a young widow, Kazama Haru thought, the phrase surfacing unbidden. Someone who's already buried something precious and learned to smile through the funeral.
"Soyo..."
Takamatsu Tomori's breath caught audibly. Her eyes went dinner-plate wide, long lashes fluttering in rapid succession—a deer caught not in headlights, but in the sudden appearance of a ghost she'd never expected to see again.
"Mm~! Tomori, it's been so long!"
Nagasaki Soyo glided to their booth with the easy grace of someone accustomed to being watched. The seating arrangement was simple—two leather benches facing each other across a low table, each designed to hold two people comfortably.
She greeted Takamatsu Tomori and Shiina Taki with a little wave, her smile blooming like spring flowers—lovely, ephemeral, and concealing whatever lay beneath the soil.
Then, without hesitation, without even a breath of acknowledgment, she turned and settled herself directly beside Kazama Haru.
The bench wasn't built for strangers. The leather creaked softly as her weight pressed the cushion, and suddenly she was close—close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his bicep, close enough that her skirt whispered against his pants leg. The faint displacement of air carried her scent to him: citrus—something bright like yuzu or bergamot—layered over a softer base note he couldn't quite identify. Clean. Feminine. Deliberate.
A gentle smile curved across her pale, delicate features as she extended one slender hand toward him. Her fingers were long, elegant, the nails painted a soft shell-pink that matched her lips.
"You must be Kazama-san. I'm Nagasaki Soyo."
Her voice was warm silk, wrapping around his name like she was trying it on for size.
"Taki-chan mentioned you're putting together a band with Tomori and a few others. Is that right?"
"Yes, that's correct."
Kazama Haru returned her smile—polished, pleasant, revealing nothing—and accepted her offered hand.
Her palm was cool against his. Cooler than expected, as though the warmth hadn't quite reached her extremities. Unlike the soft, feverish heat of Amaori Renako's hand when their fingers had intertwined during that stolen kiss—the memory surfaced without permission: her breath mingling with his, the sweet pressure of her lips, the way her palm had grown damp against his as she'd trembled—Soyo's grip was different. Composed. Her bones felt delicate beneath his fingers, almost fragile, the kind of hand that looked like it might bruise from a firm squeeze. Yet there was a surprising steadiness in her grasp.
Hm.
As she turned to settle more fully into her seat, a few strands of her hair swept across his cheek—soft as spider silk, carrying another wave of that citrus scent. The sensation prickled along his skin like an electric current, and Kazama Haru's breath caught in his throat for just a fraction of a second.
His nose twitched involuntarily. At this distance, the scent was even clearer—definitely citrus, but warmer now that he was closer. It reminded him, absurdly, of his childhood friend Sena Ajisai. She'd always used the same type of shampoo. Something about gentle girls and their fruit-scented hair products...
Focus.
"Nagasaki-san, are you and Tomori friends from before?" Kazama Haru asked, forcibly redirecting his wandering thoughts.
Tomori.
The intimate address landed like a pebble in still water. Kazama Haru caught the precise moment Nagasaki Soyo's smile stiffened—a microsecond freeze, barely perceptible, but there. Her hand slipped from his grasp with careful, unhurried deliberation, withdrawing into her lap as though she'd simply... finished with the handshake.
Her thumb found the nail of her right hand, rubbing in small, unconscious circles. The smile she wore now was different—still gentle on the surface, but with something sharper lurking beneath. A calculation.
"Mm, we used to be bandmates."
Her eyes slid toward Takamatsu Tomori, then back to him.
"Judging by how you address her... Kazama-san, you must be quite close to Tomori."
The emphasis was deliberate. Pointed.
"If she's willing to form a band with you, I'm sure she's told you about our previous band, right?"
As she spoke, Soyo cast a seemingly casual glance at Takamatsu Tomori—whose expression had already begun to cloud over, the faint light in her violet eyes dimming like a candle guttering in an unseen draft.
"Mm, CRYCHIC, wasn't it?" Kazama Haru replied evenly. "I've seen your social media archive. The performance videos, too."
He let a note of genuine admiration color his voice—not for her, precisely, but for what had been.
"Honestly, it's a shame. A band with that much chemistry, that much obvious harmony... breaking up so suddenly, without any warning." He shook his head slowly. "It's the kind of loss that leaves a mark."
"..."
Nagasaki Soyo's lips trembled. Just once. Just barely. Her nail-rubbing intensified, the soft scrape of keratin against keratin suddenly louder in the space between them.
He's sympathizing with our band?
The thought blazed through her mind like wildfire. What does this stranger—this man who appeared out of nowhere—know about us? What gives him the right to speak of our loss as though he understands?
Swallowing hard, Soyo raised one hand to toy with a loose strand of hair near her temple, using the gesture to compose herself.
"Mm, let's not dwell on that."
Her voice was steady again. Controlled.
"I'm more interested in your current band." She tilted her head, the movement sending another whisper of citrus his way. "Could I... perhaps join?"
Her smile was all sweetness now, her earlier edge smoothed away like it had never existed.
"I believe I could perfectly fill your bassist position."
"Ah—so the bassist Shiina mentioned was you, Nagasaki-san."
Kazama Haru arranged his features into an expression of dawning realization, turning to Shiina Taki across the table.
"...That's right."
Taki's response came reluctantly, her crimson eyes fixed not on him but on Takamatsu Tomori—watching, gauging, measuring every microexpression that flickered across her delicate face.
"Soyo-chan..."
The whisper fell from Tomori's lips like a dropped petal.
Instantly—instantly—Nagasaki Soyo's attention snapped away from Kazama Haru. He might as well have ceased to exist. Her entire being oriented toward the girl across the table, her expression softening into something that almost resembled genuine emotion.
"Tomori, Taki-chan!"
Soyo's voice trembled with carefully calibrated sincerity.
"What happened with our band before... it wasn't anyone's fault. I don't want anyone to keep hurting because of it."
Her pale fingers laced together in her lap, the picture of earnest hope.
"So, can we start over?"
She pressed on, each word placed with the precision of a chess master advancing pawns.
"The three of us—me, Tomori, and Taki—we drifted apart because of misunderstandings. But now that fate has brought us back together, wouldn't it be tragic to let this chance slip away?" Her smile brightened, warm as summer sunshine. "Let's try forming a band again. Together."
She tapped her fingertips against the table—a soft, rhythmic sound.
"This time, we'll communicate properly. And then... everything will definitely be okay."
Uh.
Inside Kazama Haru's mind, a chibi version of himself stood on a tiny stage, pointing at his own face with an awkward smile that screamed hello, I exist?
Three of us. Me, Tomori, and Taki. Very smooth, Nagasaki-san. Very smooth indeed.
The realization settled over him like a familiar, uncomfortable coat. This was exactly what Chihaya Anon must have felt back then—that particular sting of being pointedly excluded from a conversation happening three feet away.
And yet.
And yet.
Even recognizing Soyo's scheme for what it was—a masterfully executed gambit, a classic kagemusha play where the body double is discarded the moment the real lord no longer needs them—Kazama Haru couldn't help but admire her audacity. She'd walked in, assessed the board, and begun maneuvering pieces with the casual confidence of someone who'd already seen how the game ends.
She's using me as a disposable tool, he thought, oddly calm about it. The bait to lure Tomori and Taki back within her reach. And the moment I've served my purpose...
He'd be shed like a snakeskin.
Still. This was a necessary step. For his plans. For her plans. For the tangled futures of both bands.
He'd play the role of the oblivious pawn. For now.
"Haru-kun."
The soft voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
Takamatsu Tomori—whose gaze had been fixed on Soyo throughout her passionate speech—turned instead to Kazama Haru. Her eyes, always so full of quiet storms, met his with unexpected steadiness.
"Just like I told you before, Haru-kun... Soyo-chan was also my bandmate."
Her fingers curled gently around her teacup, not for warmth, but for grounding.
"If I could play in a band with her again, I would be... very happy."
Her voice didn't waver.
"But—are you willing to accept her as our bassist?"
Willing to accept?
Nagasaki Soyo's smile froze.
Her eyes went sharp, confusion and wariness tangling together behind her carefully maintained facade. Because this—this was not how the scene was supposed to unfold. Tomori was supposed to brighten, supposed to agree, supposed to fall into her arms like the old days.
Not ask him.
Not defer to this stranger.
Is this really the Tomori I knew?
The Tomori who only ever accepted. Who followed. Who waited for others to decide her path.
With something close to bewilderment—and beneath that, the first stirrings of genuine alarm—Nagasaki Soyo turned to study Kazama Haru properly for the first time.
Really study him.