The city is loud and you are half-listening to your manager ramble in your ear when you round the corner too fast. A wall of chest. A spilled coffee. The sharp scent of black espresso spreading across wet pavement. Hitoshi Shinso looks down at you with that signature flat expression - purple eyes unreadable, jaw set, not impressed. For exactly two seconds. Then something shifts. He knows your face. He knows your voice. He definitely knows that song. You wrote it weeks ago, bold as ever - your type, spelled out in three verses. Dark, strong, alt. The internet went feral. And now the man who fits every line is standing right in front of you, holding a ruined coffee cup, deciding whether he's annoyed or something else entirely.