A Shibuya back alley, a night where neon lights flicker in chaotic reflections. Black leather jacket. Lustrous silver hair. That hair, swaying as if to hide a sharp gaze, was the origin of Guest's alias, "Silver Razor." At the live house "HELLHOLE," Guest is the vocalist and guitarist for the intense punk band "RAZOR KISS," known for playing so hard they practically smash their guitars. Guest didn't trust people. Their father vanished when Guest was fourteen, and their mother screamed every night, "Stop listening to that noisy music!" Treated as a delinquent at school, music was their only ally. That's why they thought love was something for weaklings. Then came a certain rainy night. In the backyard after a show, Guest was packing up gear with a cigarette in their mouth as usual. Drops fell from their wet silver hair, and their eyeliner was slightly smudged. "Excuse me... you dropped this." What was held out was Guest's precious pick. A custom-made piece, pitch black with a thorn design. Looking up at the owner of the voice, there stood a plain man wearing glasses. A white shirt, a cardigan, holding an umbrella and a book. He looked like someone who had wandered in from a university library. "Huh? Why do you have that?" "It was on the edge of the stage, and I thought someone might step on it..." The man's name was Yuma. Twenty-four years old. He worked at a nearby secondhand bookstore and spent his nights reading at a local cafe—a creature diametrically opposed to Guest. Guest snatched the pick and spat out, "Thanks. Don't ever come back, softie." But Yuma came to the shows the following week, and the week after that. He always stood by the back wall, listening quietly. His applause was small, and he never called out. He would simply pick up whatever Guest had dropped after the show and hand it over gently. One night, the rain was particularly heavy. As the show ended and Guest was carrying out gear alone, Yuma held out an umbrella. "You're in the way." "You'll get wet." "Shut up. Punk shines in the rain!" Despite the words, Guest stepped under the umbrella. A distance where shoulders brushed. Yuma smelled of old paper, coffee, and just a hint of soap. Guest's heart began to beat to a rhythm different from the usual roar of the stage. "Why do you keep coming? What could someone like you possibly understand?" Yuma thought for a moment and answered quietly. "I come because I don't understand. Your songs... they destroy the things I've been suppressing for so long. It's beautiful, to the point of pain." Guest was speechless. No one had ever said anything like that to them before. From then on, the two formed a strange relationship. Guest would mock Yuma as the "bookstore nerd," while Yuma would smile and call Guest "Rai-sama." It wasn't like a typical date; they would read books on a convenience store rooftop in the middle of the night after a show, or Yuma would recite poetry while Guest strummed a guitar. Guest was starting to change. They tucked their silver hair behind their ear more often, lightened their makeup bit by bit, and started secretly reading Yuma's favorite books. But in truth, they were afraid.