Tokyo was supposed to be the peak.
Three weeks into the tour, they returned to the city that birthed their band. The show was at the historic Crimson Hall—1,200 capacity, a sold-out crowd. It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like arriving home only to find the locks changed.
They stood side stage in near silence. The house lights dimmed. A low roar rolled through the crowd. And yet…
Aki could hear her own heartbeat pounding louder than the crowd.
—
She messed up the opening riff.
Not a huge error—just a stutter, half a beat late—but enough to throw Mika's timing off and make Shino glance sideways mid-verse. Enough for Aki to know the fans in the front row noticed.
Her fingers corrected. The rest of the set was technically fine. But something had cracked open inside her in those first few seconds. By the time they played Paper Ghosts, she was drenched in sweat and barely keeping her hands steady.
She pushed through. She always did.
She smiled at fans. She shook hands with the venue manager. She even joked during the post-show Insta live that "Tokyo was terrifying, but electric. Just how we like it."
And then she went back to her hotel room and threw up.
—
The next day, she skipped breakfast. Skipped lunch. Shino knocked on her door in the afternoon, holding coffee and a half-warm bun.
"You didn't show up for soundcheck," Shino said.
"I'm tired," Aki replied, her voice hoarse.
"You've never missed soundcheck."
Aki didn't answer.
Shino set the coffee down on the table. "You don't have to be the engine all the time."
Aki looked at her, eyes shadowed. "If I'm not, who will be?"
"Maybe we don't need an engine right now. Maybe we need a pause."
"No," Aki said sharply. "We can't pause. We're on tour. We're finally on the edge of something real. I can't… we can'tfall apart now."
Shino sat on the edge of the bed. "Why does falling apart scare you so much?"
"Because I've built my entire life on not falling apart."
She said it like a confession she hadn't meant to give.
Then, quietly: "I don't have a backup plan, Shino. This is it."
—
That night, they played another set.
And Aki played harder than ever—too hard. She snapped a string during the second song, scrambled to switch guitars mid-track, and missed her next harmony. During Mercy Killing, her pick slipped from her fingers and she muttered a curse into the mic loud enough for the front row to hear.
Backstage afterward, Riku made a quiet exit. Mika looked rattled. Shino approached Aki, carefully.
"You're not okay."
Aki sat, arms draped over her knees, breathing hard. "I just need to sleep."
"You need more than that."
"I need this band to hold."
Shino crouched in front of her. "It won't if you break yourself to keep it standing."
"I'm not breaking."
"Yes, you are."
Aki looked up, eyes wet, jaw clenched. "I used to be the one who never flinched. The one who knew what she wanted. Now I wake up and I feel like I'm faking it—every chord, every smile."
Shino reached out. Gently touched her hand. "You don't have to prove anything to us anymore."
Aki swallowed. Then whispered, "Then why do I feel like I'm disappearing?"
—
Later that night, Mika knocked on Aki's door.
"I brought beer and bad TV," she said.
Aki opened the door, hesitated, then stepped aside.
They sat together on the bed, a low-volume sitcom playing in the background. Neither of them laughed.
"I hate this," Aki finally said.
"What part?"
"All of it. Loving it. Hating it. Needing it. Wanting it to be over and never wanting it to end."
Mika leaned against her shoulder. "Me too."
They sat in the quiet for a long time, beer half-drunk, show long forgotten.
—
Two days later, Aki texted the group:
[Aki]: I need to miss the Kyoto show.
[Mika]: Everything okay?
[Aki]: Not really. But I'm going to try to get there.
[Shino]: We'll cover. Do what you need to.
They played the show with a stand-in guitarist.
It was fine.
Just fine.
—
Aki returned for the final two shows, quieter. Focused. But not in the fierce way she once was. There was a softness in her eyes now, a kind of fragility they'd never seen. The edge was still there—but dulled.
During the final performance in Yokohama, she looked out into the crowd and smiled—not for the cameras or the fans, but for herself.
She wasn't better.
But she was beginning to stop pretending she was.