With his heavy guitar case slung over his shoulder, Hiroki stepped quietly out of the house. Dawn mist still clung to the alleyways, and the streetlamp's soft glow cast his long shadow across the damp pavement. Inside, Yuna and Hikari were still fast asleep. He looked back one last time through the misty windowpane—at the quiet, warm home—before walking away without a sound.
The familiar two-story house tucked deep in a narrow alley appeared just as he remembered. Its walls were faded, paint peeling in places, but unchanged. Hiroki stood still before the door, fingers trembling slightly mid-air as he reached out. Memories came rushing in like a cold wind—laughter, sulking, hours lost in harmony within a cramped studio... all of it still alive inside him.
Click.
The door opened. Raven was the first to greet him. She opened her arms wide but, unsure how to welcome him, settled on placing her hands on her hips.
That same bold Gothic makeup framed her maturing features—she must've graduated from the Conservatory by now. Her expression was calmer than before, more composed.
"Yo, Hiroki, huh?"
He gave a slight nod and stepped inside. The main room was empty. Same old furniture. Same old TV. Nothing much had changed.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
"In the studio. They've been waiting for you."
Hiroki walked steadily across the spacious living room, Raven trailing behind. They climbed the stairs. His heartbeat thudded—not from nervousness, but something heavier. The hallway was quiet. The studio door was shut tight, like a threshold between two worlds: the past and what could be.
"You ready?" she asked, smirking. "You look like you're about to faint."
"I'm not nervous," he said, frowning, hand tightening on the doorknob.
"Then open it. Or I'll hug you until you do."
She leaned in before he could reply, her hand overlapping his, and pushed the door open.
The studio greeted him with warm, familiar chaos—everyone was there.
Laughter erupted, as if no time had passed at all. They had all been waiting for him.
Jun, adjusting the mic in the center, looked up and gave him a soft smile. Starlin, half-obscured behind the drum set and his hair, had the faintest upward curve on his lips. Raven leaned against the wall, eyes steady, reflecting a calm satisfaction that caught him off guard—so different from her once reckless spark.
And then, Mallow swept in like a breeze, throwing an arm around Hiroki's shoulders with a wide grin.
"Finally decided to come back, you stubborn jerk."
Hiroki let out a quiet laugh.
For the first time in what felt like forever…
He felt like he was home.
They'd saved him a spot. Hiroki stepped into place, pulling his electric guitar from its case and slinging it over his shoulder. The familiar weight grounded him.
Over the past few days, he'd stayed up late practicing in secret—refamiliarizing himself with the strings, reawakening his feel for rhythm and tone. He made sure to soundproof the room so neither Yuna nor Hikari would be disturbed.
Some things had changed.
Starlin was still the same—gray, silent, distant. If no one talked to him, he could probably go an entire day without saying a word.
Mallow, ever energetic, had grown a little more grounded. He'd recently confided to Hiroki about a breakup, something that left an obvious scar on his soft heart. He also clung to Starlin less now—no longer the clingy teen he once was.
Raven... what could he say?
She had always been emotional, even back then. The first person to embrace him tightly when he stepped into the studio after two and a half years—was her.
"Welcome back..."
Those words were the first he heard from HIMrs6 upon his return. A mixture of relief, surprise, and something else—a quiet shift. In her eyes, he saw a gentleness he'd never noticed before. The old mischief and wildness had softened into something deeper.
Jun hadn't changed much—except maybe her hairstyle. Her chestnut hair was now cut short.
There wasn't much to say about her; they'd always kept in touch. And honestly, he didn't know what else there was to say. She had never really left his life.
In the beginning, after Hiroki rejoined, Jun was strict. She pushed the band to rehearse together every day. No gigs. No wandering. Just pure practice, locked in that studio.
And somehow, driven by a force he couldn't name, Hiroki's fingers—once stiff and clumsy—reacquainted themselves with the guitar. It didn't take long before he played in perfect sync with the rest of the group.
His will burned bright—unquenched. He knew exactly why he once shattered his guitar... and exactly why he picked it back up.
For her. For them.
For music that still lived in his blood.
Thankfully, in the haze of uncertainty, Hiroki found more than just love—he found resolve. And part of that came from Starlin, the quiet eldest of the group, who had always fulfilled his role without fail—steady, constant, and present whenever his younger bandmates needed him most.
During a break between rehearsals, the two stood side by side on the second-floor balcony. The city lights shimmered faintly through bare branches, and the wind swept through with force, carrying with it the distant aroma of ramen from a noodle shop down the street. Hiroki and Starlin lit their cigarettes in silence.
Three years ago, they had stood in this very spot—except nothing could keep Hiroki tethered here back then.
After a long pause, Starlin finally spoke, his voice blending into the wind:
"When you left, the band went quiet for months. We didn't release a single album. Jun was unstable. Raven barely touched her keyboard. Mallow kept yelling about going to find you. And I just sat in the studio, playing your old takes… and turning them off before the guitar solos started."
Hiroki didn't respond. Only the wind rustled through his hair and brushed against his collar.
"Eventually, our leader picked up both the mic and the guitar. She even took over your solos. It wasn't easy, but… we pulled through. Even without you."
Hiroki took a long drag, eyes drifting toward the dark rooftops in the distance. A sharp pain stirred in his chest.
"…I'm sorry."
Starlin didn't reply right away. A taxi drove by below, its yellow headlights briefly sweeping across their faces.
"No need," he said, tossing his cigarette into a potted plant. "Everyone needs to step away sometimes. What matters is... you came back."
He gave a dry smirk. "Though honestly, I should've smacked you with a drumstick first."
Their laughter rang out into the night—warm, familiar, like two brothers reunited after years apart.
In moments like these, Starlin always seemed more alive, more human—his usual walls falling away to reveal a depth rarely seen.
They talked about the upcoming project, focused mainly on Hiroki's comeback. Many of the songs for the new album would be adapted from his secret SoundCloud works—hidden compositions from the time he'd been away. His "Yuki" account was gone now, deleted by his own hand. Fans who once followed him would have to find his music anew, through the band's next release.
He had never stopped writing. The themes remained the same: the woman he loved, the soul of Osaka, the dance between darkness and light—from past to present.
"Do you think... I've changed?" Hiroki asked quietly, a curiosity that had long lingered inside him. Maybe, deep down, he wanted to see if someone like Starlin could ever truly see through his armor.
Starlin didn't turn.
"Some changes... even we don't recognize in ourselves. But HIMrs6? They've changed a lot."
"..."
"You can hear it in the music. Just listen."
Starlin glanced through the studio window—inside, Mallow was tuning his bass, Raven sat cross-legged with her headphones on, eyes closed, immersed in the demo track.
He stepped back into the room and pulled down two albums from the wall-mounted display.
The first: HIm.
"This one took us to the top," he said, placing it in Hiroki's hands. "You were part of that."
The second album was titled Mrs6. Starlin flipped the cover to show him: a burning rose, the faint silhouette of a woman with closed eyes surrounded by fire. The background was an abyssal black, nearly devouring everything.
"And this… was without you. Back when we thought you'd never come back."
He stared at the cover for a long time, as if there were something in it he still couldn't put into words.
"Still dark, yeah. But Mallow learned to hold back his impulses. Raven's rebellion turned inward. The sound shifted—more restrained, deeper. Darkwave. Post-rock. More cohesive than we'd ever been."
Hiroki ran his fingers along the edge of the disc, eyes lingering on the faint silhouette.
"I want to... add a bit of hope."
"Hope, huh? The new album is largely inspired by you. Maybe that's the shift we need for what comes next."
A sudden gust of wind tugged at Starlin's coat pocket, and a small photo flew out, nearly falling over the railing—but Hiroki caught it just in time.
He glanced at it—and froze.
In the photo: Starlin—smiling, rare as it was—with his arm around a gentle-looking woman. Beside them, a toddler, grinning with dimples that mirrored his own.
Hiroki looked up, waiting for an explanation.
Starlin didn't reach for the picture. He simply exhaled a slow puff of smoke and said quietly,
"Surprised? You're the first to know. I used to think I didn't need anyone... but now"—he gestured slightly at the photo—"I don't want to wake up alone anymore."
The words took Hiroki off guard. So… Starlin had settled down? And apparently, he was the only one who knew.
It was sudden, but in a strange way, it made Hiroki feel closer to him. As if, beneath the silence and mystery, their lives shared more similarities than he thought.
Finding the moment right, Hiroki opened up in return. He spoke of the past two and a half years—the chaos, the heartbreak, the near-collapse.
It was always about her. A loop of love and sorrow that seemed endless.
And in this quiet moment between two men, what remained was sincerity. Two weary shoulders, both too familiar with pain.
Hiroki smiled faintly, eyes returning to the photo before handing it back.
"You've changed more than you think."
Starlin turned to him. For the first time, the wind lifted his smoky bangs, revealing eyes deeper than ever—raw, unguarded, painfully real.
"Just like you... there's someone who's kept me grounded all this time. What about you?"
Hiroki took another drag, eyes falling.
"I... wouldn't know who I am without music."
Starlin nodded, as if that was the exact answer he was waiting for.
"Then this is where you belong. Let your passion live again."
They fell silent. Only the wind moved around them—Osaka reshaping in the distance, music echoing from old cracks and fresh chords alike. They smoked slowly, savoring the last peace of the night.
Inside the studio, music swelled again—drums, guitar, vocals blending in harmony like time had never moved forward.
After hours of immersion, the members packed up their instruments. No one knew when Jun had left. Starlin was the first to excuse himself, as always—precise and timely. Hiroki gathered his things in practiced silence.
Only Mallow and Raven lingered, pretending to fuss over cables but clearly watching each other more than their gear.
Hiroki slung his guitar bag over one shoulder. Mallow called out behind him with a teasing grin:
"Yo, off to have dinner with the missus, huh?"
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You and Raven should head home too."
He turned, walking down the stairs slowly. And there, resting against the lower railing, was Jun. Her short chestnut hair framed her face as she looked up at him.
She said nothing at first, simply reached up and gently smoothed his tousled dark-blond hair—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Still messy as ever," she murmured with a slight smile. "Guess I'm still the only one who finds it charming."
He didn't reply, only gave her a quiet, softened look. Jun withdrew her hand and gave a faint laugh.
"Well then, your shift's over. Go home to her."
Hiroki nodded and stepped past her. But halfway down, he paused—something tugged at his memory. He'd left his capo upstairs.
Turning back, he climbed a few steps. Just as he reached the studio door, his eyes caught a glimpse through the frosted glass—and stopped.
Inside, like a scene suspended in film, a boy with pink hair stood with his bass still slung over his shoulder, pressing a girl against the wall. A kiss—urgent, full of longing—framed beneath flickering yellow light. Their shadows stretched like phantoms, as if caught in another world.
Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe it wasn't.
But Hiroki didn't feel the need to find out. It wasn't his business. It wasn't a feeling he needed to carry.
He turned away and walked back down.
He'd retrieve the capo another day.
At least... not today.
….
"You guys know who's coming baaack!"
Jun screams into the mic, raising her arm high as if to ignite the stage.
The crowd erupts, chanting his name with electric intensity—as if they've waited their whole lives for this moment.
Under flickering white strobe lights and sweeping camera flashes, the familiar countdown echoes through the venue, each beat syncing with the audience's racing hearts.
"Three... two... one—"
"HIM AND MRS6 IS FINALLY HERE!!!"
BOOM!
The lights explode. The curtains are yanked open.
Starlin's drums crack through the air like thunder—double pedal pounding the ground as if launching a full-scale sonic assault.
Behind the kit, he becomes a beast unleashed, every beat pulsing with raw survival.
Then comes the bassline—Mallow's slap bass fires off like a rapid rap verse, sending the whole stage bouncing. He spins like a cyclone, pink hair flying with every riff, a euphoric grin on his face like he's never felt more alive.
Raven bursts out from backstage, dressed in a black corset, eyeliner sharp as blades, a mischievous grin curling on her lips.
She dances over her keys like a seductress casting spells, her synths shimmering and warping the room into an electric dreamscape. Every so often, she kicks a leg onto the mic stand and howls along to Jun's chorus like a true rock queen.
Jun steps out last—like a rose blooming quietly in the night. Purple lights wash over her face, lending it a dreamy, almost otherworldly glow.
Her voice rises—haunting, fragile—then soars into a falsetto that sends shivers through the room. At one point, she stops singing, grips the mic, closes her eyes, and draws her guitar up into a wail that cries out like a sob caught in a storm.
And then…
Hiroki steps out.
An emerald blue ESP E-II guitar slung across his shoulder. The flashes flicker with every step he takes. He says nothing. Just sweeps his pick across the strings—and lightning cracks.
His guitar is fire—emotion drawn straight from his gut.
He stands still for a beat, eyes closed, breathing deep.
Then the main riff hits.
Heavy delay. Reverb. Distortion. Blended cleanly, it hurls the crowd into a whirlwind of sound. He sweep-picks like a dancer, dive-bombs with tremolo, threads in a pinch harmonic that rings out so sharp it pierces the air.
By the third verse, Jun hands him the mic.
And then—
"When the night blocks our path—
We claw it, rip it, devour it.
And bring starlight to the barren ground!"
His fry scream rips from his throat like blood from a wound—guttural and raw, stabbing into the audience's chest. His solo that follows bleeds desperation—rapid-fire arpeggios tapped with urgency, ending in a bending note that stretches across three semitones like a sob that won't stop.
Everyone forgets to breathe.
The crowd dissolves into the moment—into a sound both suffocating and liberating—as if they, too, are screaming through him.
A short breakdown.
Then—all sound cuts.
Only heartbeats echo in the dark.
Thousands of arms shoot into the air.
Jun steps toward the edge of the stage, chestnut hair glistening under color-shifting spotlights. Her gaze reaches across the crowd—pulling every soul toward her.
The audience roars her name—"Jun! Jun! Jun!"—before parting down the middle.
Someone is coming through.
Mei, guided by Ririka, steps into view—her soft lilac eyes glowing beneath the lights.
Jun freezes. Her heartbeat skips a beat. Then, she kneels before her, surrounded by screams and haze, face to face with the girl who once held her heart.
Jun smiles, eyes glistening. They whisper something only the two of them can hear. She reaches up with trembling fingers, brushes Mei's cheek, and presses a kiss to her lips—gentle, fleeting, yet heavy with all the feelings she's never said out loud.
As they pull apart, their smiles light up the whole stage.
Ririka jumps with joy, hands covering her mouth in shock, grabbing her boyfriend's hand beside her.
But there's no time to catch a breath.
The stage explodes again.
Mallow, drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to his body, flings his bass over his shoulder and strides over to Raven.
With no warning, he kisses her—hard.
Caught off balance, Raven falls back—but he catches her as if he'll never let her fall. As if losing her isn't an option.
The crowd erupts. Thousands of flashes strobe, cameras pan like mad, and screams reach an almost supernatural pitch—as if the venue has become the eye of a storm called love and music.
No one sees this coming.
Not even the band.
No one imagines this comeback show will be more than a return—it's a resurrection, a blaze of music and human connection combusting into meteors across the night sky.
From stage right, Hiroki watches it all, eyes wide, lips curling into a faint smile. Then his gaze shifts—
There she is. Yuna. Still there, as always, clapping along with glowing pride.
And beside her—Hikari, the smallest piece of his home, the softest beam of light that ever touches his darkness.
They are both here.
They've always been here.
Exhaling, Hiroki lets his guitar rest against his hip and bows low. A bow that closes a chapter, but opens another.
Because, for the first time in years, HIMrs6 is alive again—alive in the very music that births them.
The lights flash like thunder. Smoke curls into the sky.
Then comes Jun's voice—cracked but beautiful, a cry torn straight from the heart:
"Thank you… for waiting for us."
The night closes its curtain, mission nearly complete.
But in the fevered air, someone weeps.
Not from joy. But realization.
A woman, beautiful and composed, quietly wipes her tears before turning away.
The man she has loved so wildly, so obsessively, never needs her.
He lives—truly lives—through it all.
No matter how much these hands have hurt him.
And she, forever, will only be a shadow, watching from afar.