Ririka steps out of a high-end fashion boutique, pushing open the glass door with her shoulder. Through the gleaming window display, mannequins draped in elegant dresses stand poised beneath soft lighting.
Both her hands are full—luxury-brand shopping bags swing from her arms, packed with adorable clothes and accessories. Her heels click rhythmically against the stone pavement as she walks with confidence through the heart of Osaka.
She glances at her watch. 9:30 p.m.
The city still shimmers with life. Neon lights buzz, advertisements flash, and the familiar energy of urban nightlife hums all around her.
There's still time, she thinks. And so she strolls past still-lit storefronts lining the street.
Soon, she turns into a cozy little bookstore she visits often—a quiet refuge whenever she craves a pause from the city's chaos.
Inside, soft overhead lighting gives the place a hazy warmth. Wooden shelves stand neatly in rows, stacked with books of every size and color. Near the window sits a small table with a delicate vase of white daisies.
That's the one! Ririka smiles, flipping through a fashion magazine she plucks off the rack. Shopping bags dangle from her elbow as she flips the pages.
The metal shelf overflows with magazines on every topic—sports, news, celebrities, and, of course, fashion. They update the selection weekly, and Ririka never misses a new issue.
She stops on a page that makes her heart skip. A model in a stunning red dress stares back at her—elegant, striking, and unmistakably magnetic. Every line of her figure screams perfection.
Ririka swallows hard when she sees the name printed boldly beneath the photo: Jun.
The model she's admired—obsessed over—for years.
At the checkout, Ririka places the magazine on the counter and taps her fingers against the polished wood. She's a regular here, showing up every week like clockwork, always buying the same thing. The cashier doesn't even need to ask.
Her name is Mei—a girl around Ririka's age, with soft, milky-white curls and a gentle smile that's always ready for conversation.
"Same one as always?" Mei asks, brushing her fingers over the magazine's glossy cover, a dreamy glint in her eyes.
"That's right!" Ririka chirps, digging through her bags for some cash. "Here you go. I love this issue."
Unable to wait, she opens the magazine and starts reading right there at the counter.
Mei quietly counts the bills, sliding them into the register. Then she turns away to make herself a coffee—the soft whir of the machine filling the space with a rich aroma.
"You sure that's enough?" she teases over her shoulder.
"Of course! I've never short-changed you!" Ririka puffs her cheeks in mock annoyance but is already back to reading, lost in the pages.
Mei returns with a warm cup in hand, watching her for a moment.
"She's coming back to Osaka this week."
Ririka freezes. Her eyebrows twitch. "Who?"
Mei's lips curve into a knowing smile.
"Jun."
....
The electric guitar screams like a wild beast ready to rip through the night. The thunder of drums and the pulse of the bass collide into a storm of sound that shakes the venue to its core. Every beat of the drum feels like a hundred hearts pounding in sync—shouting, surging, surrendering to the moment. Chaotic. Passionate. Unrelenting.
The final note falls away, leaving the entire hall suspended in breathless silence. Every eye fixes on the stage, every soul waiting—longing—for the next eruption of sound, the next chance to lose themselves in a blaze of passion.
She scans the crowd—faces flushed, eyes still burning with fervor. They're waiting for her. For the band. Waiting with something more than anticipation. Maybe… belief.
Gripping the mic, she pulls it from its stand with electrifying confidence and steps to the edge of the stage, the spotlight flooding her vision, the roar in her ears fading into a beautiful blur.
The crowd explodes again—reaching for her, shouting her name. She leans forward to slap hands with a few of them before standing tall.
"Thank you all for coming tonight!" Her voice rings out through the mic, steady and sincere.
Another round of deafening applause follows.
"Tonight truly means the world to us. Your support gives this performance its fire. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you."
She pauses.
"And as you might already know," she continues, her tone softer now, "this show is coming to an end."
The energy dips for a moment.
"I'll be leaving Tokyo tomorrow—Wednesday," she says, letting the weight of it settle. Then, with a spark in her voice: "So why don't we use the time we have left… and burn together one last time?"
The crowd ignites, chanting the band's name over and over.
"This final song is our gift to you!"
She slings the electric guitar across her hip, slides the mic back into the stand, and turns toward the band. One by one, she checks the rig, meets every bandmate's eyes, grounding herself in this last act.
Drums beat in a pulsing rhythm behind her.
"Mallow, C-string."
"Starlin, 4/4 tempo."
"Raven, give me harmony."
"Count us in—"
"One…"
"Two…"
"Three!"
Her fingers strike the strings. The guitar howls once more, unleashing a raw, unfiltered energy that fills the room like a storm. This is no ordinary finale. It's a shared, electric communion—an untamed moment carved in sound, in memory, in eternity.
She raises her fist into the air, her voice soaring.
"This is our final song tonight. Remember us—we are HIMrs6!"
….
The last flight touches down at Kansai International Airport.
The band descends the long stairway, stepping out onto the vast tarmac where other planes rest. She pulls a leopard-print fur coat over her shoulders to brace against the cold wind churned up by nearby turbines—and the biting Osaka air.
Dusk is falling. They need to get to the hotel soon or risk freezing in the cold.
Their luggage and gear trail behind them as they cross the terminal. A sleek black Bugatti waits by the main entrance. A sharply dressed driver steps out, lifts their cases with practiced elegance, and loads them into the trunk.
Once settled, the Bugatti speeds off, its smooth tires gliding across the pavement like a shadow slipping into the folds of night.
A door opens with a gentle click. Warm yellow light spills into the room.
The band steps into their suite—thirtieth floor, overlooking the radiant sprawl of Osaka at night. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, the city's lights twinkling like distant stars. Artworks with futuristic flair—bold colors and sharp geometry—line the walls. Ceiling lights in broken, fragmented shapes cast an otherworldly glow across the open-plan space: a lavish living room, a compact kitchen, and in the back, a sealed room designed for storing instruments, rehearsals, and late-night jam sessions.
The journey from Kansai Airport to this penthouse takes nearly three hours. Combined with a packed tour schedule, it leaves the whole group utterly drained.
On the TV, a HIMrs6 playlist plays in the background—gritty metal riffs rolling through the living room.
Mallow drops onto a soft brown leather couch where Starlin is already curled up with a pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching the screen. Mallow, with his fluffy pink hair, snuggles closer, sharing a Choco Monaka ice cream sandwich between bites.
At the bar, Raven stands under moody light that bathes her pale skin in a ghostly hue. Her goth presence shimmers with mystery. She twirls a cocktail glass in practiced hands—layering dark liquors with a motion as smooth as her keyboard solos. Her creation? A Black Velvet cocktail—an elegant blend, dark and dangerous.
The glimmering drink slides across the bar, caught by another graceful hand.
"A Black Velvet for the lady Akibara Akari ~," Raven coos, voice featherlight, dabbing her fingers with a cloth like a true bartender.
The drink catches the reflection of a woman's smirk.
"You shouldn't call your customers that, bartender."
Raven leans forward, studying the woman who takes the sip, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. "Oh? Is that so?"
The first taste of the cocktail hits like a spell—rich, intoxicating, unforgettable.
"Strong… seductive," she murmurs. "But next time, just call me Jun."
Mallow turns to glance at the two women at the bar, still holding onto Starlin with one arm and his Choco Monaka in the other.
"Jun, this thing's way too sweet. Hard to believe you eat it every day."
Jun freezes mid-sip, momentarily flustered. She storms over to the couch, lunges forward, and takes a huge bite out of the ice cream, mock-annoyed.
"Idiots," she grumbles with puffed cheeks, "you don't know how to appreciate the good stuff."
That Choco Monaka… it's her after-school ritual. The blend of chocolate and ice cream strikes the perfect balance of sweetness—something that once fit her perfectly.
But that's a story from decades ago.
A memory long, long past...
Inside that hotel suite, sleep feels like a distant afterthought. Past midnight, all four members of the band lounge on the sofa, chatting freely about music, the upcoming tour, and memories they haven't talked about in a while.
Mallow is, unsurprisingly, the liveliest of them all—clinging to Starlin like a shadow and constantly tossing out new ideas for their music. He's the one who comes up with the name HIMrs6. Everyone calls him "Marshmallow" or simply "the baby of the group," not because he's the youngest, but because of his dreamy, playful nature.
Then there's Starlin, the oldest and most enigmatic member. His shaggy blond hair always falls over his left eye, and no one—aside from Mallow—has ever seen his full face. Mallow often brags that he's the first (and only) person to see what lies behind that curtain of hair. Quiet and reserved, Starlin often looks like he's spacing out, but the moment he picks up the drums, he becomes laser-focused. Everyone in the group holds deep respect for his playing.
Jun still remembers the first time she meets the two of them—two years ago, in the bustling Namba district. She stumbles upon them performing on a sidewalk: Mallow shredding on electric guitar, Starlin keeping rhythm beside him. They are young, raw, but magnetic. That spontaneous street performance ends up landing her a new bassist and drummer.
Since then, the two have been inseparable—more like brothers than bandmates.
The final member is Raven—the goth queen of the group, with her short black skirts, baggy cargo pants, or mesh crop tops adorned with tiny skulls and black rose motifs. A silver crow pendant always dangles from her neck. Her heavy makeup, wine-red lips, and smoky eyes give her a mysterious allure.
She's Jun's closest friend in the band. They go to the conservatory together, dream together, and now perform together. Despite her edgy aesthetic, Raven always has a playful glint in her eye and a smile hovering on her lips. Her chaotic energy matches perfectly with Mallow's, and the two often goof off like a pair of mischievous kids.
She's the youngest, but also the most free-spirited. Raven thrives in late-night parties, whether within or beyond their circle. Jun has seen firsthand just how "friendly" Raven can get at those parties—never hesitating to steal a kiss from some random guy she barely knows.
The TV switches tracks, now playing one of the band's earliest songs—a debut piece called Shirayuki.
It tells the story of a twenty-something girl who always wears a bright, cheerful smile. But beneath that shine is a soul stained with pain and loss. The lyrics follow her journey into adulthood, struggling to balance her emotions and quietly mend the wounds no one else can see, all while trying to maintain the face everyone expects.
At the time, HIMrs6 is still a fledgling four-piece group, none of them over twenty-five. Shirayuki becomes their cornerstone—the compass that points them toward their musical identity: a fusion of Rock, Experimental, and R&B. Despite its raw production and their novice skills, the track carries weight. It doesn't sell much, but it's enough to earn them shared bowls of ramen and a memory they always hold dear.
Jun leans back on the sofa, softly humming the lyrics. Emotion stirs in her chest.
"So rough," Mallow remarks, half-teasing, but not wrong.
Shirayuki is clumsy and uneven, their first real attempt at professional songwriting. Their ideas are innovative, bold even, but their inexperience shows. The arrangement is ambitious, but their skills haven't quite caught up yet.
"Man, those early days…" Jun smiles.
"I still remember how I got my name," Mallow says, sliding closer to Starlin. "It was my ex who called me Mallow. Said my hair looked like pink cotton candy clouds. The name just stuck."
Raven raises a brow, smirking. "Wait, your ex named you? I thought that weird nickname came from your own brain."
"Weird?! Rude!" Mallow huffs, but then softens. "Anyway, no need to remind me."
He stretches, lets out a loud yawn, rubs his eyes, then casually loops an arm around the ever-stoic Starlin. He whispers something, but gets nothing in return except a cool shrug.
Starlin stands up and walks off to his room.
Predictably, Mallow follows.
Jun watches them go, still lounging on the couch. Mallow's clingy antics never fail to amuse her and Raven, who exchange knowing glances.
Raven gently twirls her fingers in Jun's short hair.
"So… why don't you just tell them you're leaving tonight?"
"I was going to. They just left too soon."
"Liar." Raven pulls her hand back, leaning into the sofa with one elbow. "But seriously… have you really made up your mind?"
Jun looks down at her hands, now curled into fists, then meets Raven's gaze.
"Yeah. I have."
"Tonight?"
Jun nods.
Raven grins, her voice unwavering. "Then you better bring him back."
"No matter what it takes."
….
Later that night, Jun steps into a small bookstore tucked into a quiet corner of the city.
The scent of fresh paper and ink hangs in the air. She flips through a few fashion magazines, then walks straight to the coffee counter—where Mei is already brewing.
"I knew you'd show up tonight," Mei says, back turned.
"Have you been waiting long?" Jun asks, her eyes flicking toward the old lavender jar sitting in the corner of the counter.
It's still there—soft lavender, leaning slightly to one side like a fading memory.
"It's still here? You've taken such good care of it," she smiles.
Circling around the counter, Jun reveals a small flower stem she's been hiding behind her back—a gentle little game.
"Guess what it is this time."
Mei turns, leaning in with a soft tilt of her head. Her nose brushes the delicate petals, and she inhales quietly—eyes closed, as if she's listening to the scent with her whole soul. Jun takes the chance to plant a stolen kiss on the girl's soft hair, catching a faint scent of wood and rain.
"Jun…" Mei murmurs, half a scold, but her lips still curl into a smile.
"Come on, take a guess."
"I don't know."
"Forget-me-not," Jun whispers, like a breath. She gently places the flower in Mei's hand, letting their fingers touch for just a moment—just enough.
"I'll dry it," Mei says, her voice as soft as the breeze, but her grip on the flower is firm and sure.
….
Hiroki sneezes once.
He lifts his gaze from his phone to the night sky. A chilly breeze sweeps across the balcony, carrying with it the curl of cigarette smoke in his hand.
The corridor is empty—just one man outside smoking. His phone shows it's past one a.m. He has work tomorrow, yet he can't bring himself to go to bed.
A shadow flits across the courtyard below. Hiroki stubs out his cigarette, drops it over the railing, and slips his phone into his pocket.
Run away—
That's the only thought racing through his mind.
An instinct tells him to look back. The news on TV has been right.
They're back—HIMrs6.
He re-enters the apartment and locks every door: front, window, attic. He draws the curtains, switches off the lights—erases every sign of life in the house. He dives straight under the covers, cocoons himself tightly, and begins counting his breaths.
Okay… one… two… three…
Please, let them all have left…
The faint shadow he glimpsed lingers like a ghost in his thoughts—familiar yet inaccessible. It tugs him out of the world he's plunged into sleep in, a world even Yuna can't reach. But now, that shadow flickers like a small light reaching out to him.
Hiroki closes his eyes again and lets the dark swallow him, hoping for just a few hours of respite.
Tomorrow is uncertain—but tonight, rest is his only priority.