The bass hit like a fist in the chest.
The venue was more concrete than club — paint peeled from the walls, lights flickered like they were trying to die, and the stage was barely a platform with tangled wires snaking around the feet of half-drunken performers.
Elliot stood in the back at first, pressed against the wall near the bar, drink in hand. The music was loud. Rough. Imperfect.
But it had teeth.
The crowd didn't care about pitch or polish. They shouted every chorus like it was a lifeline, thrashed their bodies like the world was ending tomorrow, and cheered between sets like every song was a rebellion.
Shou spotted Elliot in the crowd halfway through their second song.
He pointed a drumstick at him mid-riff and grinned so wide it looked like trouble.
"Yo, Graves! Told you this place would baptize you!"
The guitarist launched into a solo — offbeat, too fast, but somehow perfect in its chaos.
Elliot laughed, the kind that comes up from your ribs and has nowhere to go.
He wasn't being watched. No eyes tracking him. No role to play.
Just one of the bodies in the room, swaying with the music, feeling something shake loose in his chest.
⸻
After the set, Shou dragged him backstage — which was really just the alley behind the bar — where half the band had collapsed onto milk crates and overturned paint buckets.
"Boys, this is Graves," Shou announced, dramatically tossing an arm around his shoulders. "He's corporate. But he's recovering."
The drummer — a girl with a chain necklace and purple-dyed buzzcut — gave him a two-finger salute.
The bassist handed him a half-warm can of beer.
"Your first time slumming it with the degenerates?" she asked.
"If this is slumming," Elliot said, "then I've been living in a cage."
They liked that. They liked him. Which was weird.
But nice.
"So what's your story, Graves?" asked one of them, lighting a cigarette. "You've got that haunted-by-expectations look."
"Long story," Elliot muttered.
"Good. We've got time."
⸻
So he told them. Not everything. But enough.
How he ended up managing an idol almost by accident.
How every day since then felt like being pulled in opposite directions — between a girl who made the world too loud, and another who used to be his peace but now felt like she was slipping away.
He didn't name names.
But he didn't have to.
"Man," Shou said, leaning back against the wall, "you sound like a dude caught between two gravity wells."
"I just wanted to help," Elliot said. "Now I don't even know who I'm supposed to be helping."
"That's 'cause you forgot how to help yourself."
They passed beers and stories like currency.
Stupid gig tales. Wild exes. Songs that made them cry when no one was looking.
One of the guitarists talked about how he used to work in a flower shop. Another confessed he didn't actually know any chords and just followed muscle memory and vibes.
Shou leaned toward Elliot at one point, elbowing him.
"You're good at faking it. But tonight? You're real. That version of you? That's the one I'd get on stage with."
"I don't sing."
"Didn't say you had to. Just be the guy who laughs like he's not apologizing for it."
Elliot looked down at his half-empty beer. The rim of the can was dented.
He realized he couldn't remember the last time he laughed without checking who was watching.
⸻
It was past midnight when he finally peeled himself off the crate and said he had to go.
"Boo," someone muttered.
"Party killer."
"Tell your idol friends we're the real talent."
Shou walked him out to the street.
"Text me when you're not pretending," he said. "You're better when you're not edited."
"I think I needed this."
"Nah. You earned this."
They slapped hands.
Grinned.
And Elliot walked off into the warm night, shirt sticking to his back, face flushed, Shou's jacket draped over one arm.
⸻
He didn't notice the living room light was still on until he was halfway up the stairs.
He opened the door—
"Elliot Graves."
His mother's voice was a knife through his euphoria.
He froze.
She was standing by the kitchen island, arms crossed, phone in hand, eyes sharp.
On the couch —
Ami.
Hair tied back, wearing one of her oversized hoodies, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked like she'd been sitting there a while.
"Where the hell were you?" his mum snapped.
"Out."
"You didn't answer your phone. You didn't tell me you'd be gone all night. You come back smelling like a distillery—"
"I'm fine, okay?"
"You are not fine."
Ami stood quietly. Watched him. Not speaking.
"Do you even realize how selfish this is?" his mum asked, her voice rising. "I let you take on all this responsibility and you repay me by disappearing? I was worried sick."
Elliot wiped a hand down his face, the buzz wearing off fast.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he muttered. "Not the pressure. Not the managing. Not being the glue between everyone's mess—"
"So you run?" she said. "And drink?"
Ami spoke then. Soft. Almost too soft.
"We had rehearsal tomorrow."
He turned to her.
"I forgot."
"I figured."
"I just needed—" He cut himself off. "I needed one night."
She nodded. Once. Slowly.
Then picked up her bag.
"I don't care that you drank," she said, walking past him. "I care that I didn't even cross your mind."
She left without slamming the door.
Which made it worse.
⸻
He stood there in the hallway, shoes still on, smelling like beer and sweat and regret, his mum still silent behind him.
His hands curled at his sides.
And for the first time since he arrived in Japan—
He hated himself.