🌀Scene 1: The Warning – Hideki & the Gun

(2:01 AM, FamilyMart, Shinjuku)

The door chime rang.

Takao barely looked up from the register.

It was late, and the fluorescent lights made everything feel stale—cigarette shelves stacked high behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator units filling the quiet. Another drunk customer, probably. A salaryman stumbling in for beer or instant ramen.

He turned back toward the counter—

And immediately saw the gun.

His brain stuttered. His body locked up before he could even think.

Pistol. Silencer attached.

The man holding it stood just a few feet away, loose-limbed, calm. Too calm.

Takao’s breath hitched. He knew that face.

Yano Hideki.

Japan’s biggest rockstar. A living legend. And yet, there he was, standing in a fucking FamilyMart at two in the morning, pointing a gun at him.

Takao’s fingers twitched toward the register instinctively—years of habit. This is a robbery. That was the only thing that made sense.

But Hideki didn’t ask for money. Didn’t say a word.

He just stared.

Too long. Too unreadable.

Takao’s pulse hammered. Was this a joke? Was he hallucinating? Something about Hideki’s face—sharp, expressionless—made his skin crawl.

Then, finally—

“Don’t join WØF.”

Takao blinked. What?

His stomach churned, but his feet wouldn’t move. His brain scrambled to connect something—anything—that made sense.

This wasn’t a robbery.

It was something much worse.

Hideki’s fingers flexed on the grip, but his eyes stayed locked onto Takao’s. Focused. Sober. Too sober.

Takao couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Then, just as suddenly, Hideki lowered the gun.

Turned.

Walked out the door.

The chime rang again, the sound almost deafening in the silence he left behind.

Takao let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

His hands were shaking.

His heartbeat was too loud in his ears, drowning out the hum of the refrigerators.

He didn’t tell anyone.

Who the hell would believe him?

🌀 Scene 2: The Host Club – Meeting Mimmi & the Invitation

(Next Night, Roppongi – High-End Host Club)

Takao slipped the champagne glass out of his client’s hand before she could spill it.

“Careful,” he murmured smoothly, flashing a practiced smile. “You wouldn’t want to waste something this expensive.”

The woman giggled, already too drunk to care. Her friends—high-powered office workers pretending not to be miserable—laughed along with her. The booth was full of perfume, cigarette smoke, and the low buzz of conversation.

Takao leaned back against the leather seat, laughing at something someone said, letting himself become the person they were paying for.

He was getting better at this. Too good.

The mask fit perfectly, but tonight, it felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the hangover from last night. Maybe it was the memory of Yano Hideki and his f* gun.

Whatever it was, it made his skin itch.

A sharp whistle cut through the noise.

“Taka!”

Takao glanced up to see Shin and Jun, two of his coworkers, raising their glasses from another booth. Jun smirked. “Stop looking so serious. What, another rich housewife break your heart?”

Takao scoffed, shaking his head. “You wish.”

Shin grinned. “Nah, you’re the one they wish for.”

The table of women laughed again, delighted. Takao just kept smiling, kept playing the role.

He had been working here since he had left Osaka , worked himself up now that he had allmoust climbed to the top he could finally soon quit at the convenience store. Not that he were exactly exited to go back after what happened last night.

Then the atmosphere changed.

It was subtle—just a shift in energy, a dip in the noise—but Takao felt it instantly.

Someone important had walked in.

The hosts noticed first. Conversations slowed, glances flickering toward the entrance.

Takao turned, following their line of sight.

A woman stood just inside the club, peeling off her coat.

Mimmi Honda.

A name everyone in the industry knew.

Music manager. Ruthless negotiator. The kind of woman who could turn a nobody into a legend or a legend into a cautionary tale.

She wasn’t young, but she had the sharpness of someone who had spent decades never losing. Her dark hair was sleek, her heels were expensive, and she was already three drinks deep, if the casual way she moved was anything to go by.

She took one look at the room and made a beeline—straight for Takao.

He didn’t move. Didn’t change expression. But something in his gut twisted.

Mimmi slid into the booth across from him, leaned back, and studied him like a scientist about to dissect something interesting.

“You play an instrument?”

Takao blinked. “What?”

She swirled the whiskey in her glass. “Do you play an instrument?”

Takao hesitated. He hadn’t touched a guitar in years. “Yeah,” he said finally. “A little.”

One of the other hosts laughed. “A little, he says. .”

“ he knows them all, from autistic guitar to piano, this guy is like the fallen angel lucifer a freaking musical genius “ Jun who where attending clients in the booth nekst by roared.

Before Takao could react, someone shoved a guitar into his hands.

Takao barely caught it. He scowled. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” Jun grinned. “Since when do you turn down a chance to show off?”

Takao sighed. Fine. Whatever.

He adjusted his grip, fingers finding the strings instinctively. He didn’t think—he just played.

And then—

The entire club went silent.

The usual background noise—the laughter, the drinking, the bullshit small talk—vanished.

Even the drunkest clients stopped to listen.

Mimmi’s eyes sharpened.

Takao barely noticed. He wasn’t even playing anything complicated—just a simple, slow riff, something buried in his muscle memory from a lifetime ago. But somehow, it held the entire room hostage.

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When he finally stopped, the quiet stretched for a few beats too long.

Then someone exhaled. A woman muttered, “Damn.”

Mimmi took a slow sip of her drink. “Ever thought about playing for real?”

Takao let out a short laugh. “No.”

Mimmi smiled like she already knew he was lying.

She didn’t push. Not then.

But hours later, he got invited by Mimmi and her group to the afterparty, when the drinks kept coming—

She insisted on taking him out for one last round.

Karaoke,bar hopping and even if Takao had grown accustomed to the nightlife he had a little to much liquor…

Scene 3: Waking Up in WØF’s World – The Helipad & the Contract

(Morning, Roppongi Hills Penthouse)

Takao woke up to too much light and the kind of headache that felt like punishment. The birds where chirping outside signaling another new beginning.

His mouth was dry. His limbs felt like lead. The air smelled expensive—leather, coffee, something faintly citrus.

He wasn’t in his apartment.

He wasn’t even in his usual afterparty crash spots.

The first thing he saw when he forced his eyes open—

Glass doors.

Beyond them, a balcony. Three black crows where hurdled together like some sort of morning meeting and then…

Beyond the balcony—

A helipad.

Takao sat up too fast. Regretted it instantly. His head throbbed, a sharp, pulsing ache behind his eyes. He winced, rubbing at his temple.

Where the hell—

“You’re up.”

Takao turned toward the voice.

Mimmi was already awake, already put-together, sitting in a sleek leather chair by the window. Crisp white shirt , leather blazer and a matching short leather skirt. She looked completely fine—no hangover, no exhaustion, just cool amusement as she sipped black coffee from an expensive-looking cup.

“Morning, host boy,” she said, crossing one leg over the other.

Takao stared at her, then at the ridiculous penthouse around him. The high ceilings, the massive sectional couch, the city skyline spilling through the glass.

Then, finally, back at the helipad.

“What the hell?” His voice was hoarse.

Mimmi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached over to the coffee table beside her, picked up a folder, and tossed it onto the couch next to him.

A contract.

Takao blinked at it, then at her.

Mimmi gave him a slight smile. “You’re in.”

His stomach plunged. Something about the way she said it—so final—made the last few hours come rushing back.

The host club. The guitar. Mimmi watching him too closely. The endless drinks, the blurry car ride, the dark promise of something just out of reach.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “I never said yes.”

Mimmi leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “You signed up the second you played.”

Takao exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You kidnapped me.”

She laughed. “Please. If I kidnapped you, you wouldn’t be on a couch. You’d be in a soundproof studio with no doors.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting.

Takao ran a hand through his hair, trying to force his brain to work. “You expect me to just—what? Drop everything and join a band I didn’t even audition for?”

Mimmi arched a brow. “What exactly are you dropping? A dead-end host job?”

Takao clenched his jaw.

“Listen,” Mimmi said, standing up, straightening her blazer. “I don’t waste time on people who can’t make me money. I heard you play. That was enough.”

She tapped the contract. “Read it. Sign it. Or don’t. But if you walk out that door, you’ll regret it.”

Takao wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was insane, that this was ridiculous.

Instead, he looked back at the contract.

His headache pulsed.

And somewhere, deep in his gut—

That dangerous part of him whispered:

Sene: Meeting the Band

Takao’s headache was a slow, pulsing thing behind his eyes. The kind of hangover that made time feel unreal. He stood in the middle of a sleek, glass-walled living room, still trying to process where the hell he was when Mimmi, sipping her coffee like she had all the time in the world, gestured lazily toward the couches.

“Host boy, meet the band.”

Three men sat sprawled across the room, all different brands of unreadable.

The first one—Nachi Yamaoka, drummer—grinned like none of this mattered. Like nothing ever mattered. He had messy, overgrown hair his black roots showing just enough to expose he had dyed his hair but not up kept it. The hair where middle length and long enough to sport it in a rat tail ,not ponytail .

shirtless his legs kicked up onto the coffee table, his bare toes moving in some sort of rhythmic gymnastics . His phone screen reflected in his sunglasses, though the sun outside was barely up.

He gave Takao a slow once-over and smirked. “Well, you’re definitely pretty enough. That’s a good start.”

Takao’s exhaustion flared into irritation. “Who the hell are you?”

Mimmi exhaled, long-suffering. “Try keeping up, host boy.”

The second man—Mamoru Yano, keyboardist—hadn’t looked up from his phone. Sharp features, sharp presence, sharp silence. Even sitting there, posture relaxed, he had the air of someone who already knew the ending to every conversation before it started.

Takao barely had time to register him before the third one—Hideki Yano, lead vocalist—spoke.

“You look confused,” Hideki said, watching him too closely.

Takao turned. And immediately understood why Hideki was Japan’s biggest rockstar.

He didn’t just look famous. He looked legendary—the kind of charisma that made everything around him feel dull by comparison. Messy black hair, red tips looking sleppy with his half-lidded eyes like he was always three steps ahead of the conversation, or bored by it. He was barefoot too like Nachi and slouched into the couch, fingers idly tapping out a rhythm against his thigh.

The same fingers that had held a gun last night.

Takao tensed before he could stop himself. Hideki noticed. Of course he noticed.

The smirk that crossed his face was lazy, arrogant, amused.

“So, this is the new bassist?” Hideki exhaled, unimpressed. “Another one?”

Mimmi clicked her tongue. “Try not to make this one to quit..”

Hideki stretched, arms over his head, before shooting Takao an unapologetic grin. “No promises.”

Takao crossed his arms. “I didn’t say I was joining.”

Nachi snorted. “Yeah, and I didn’t say I was sober last night, but here we are.”

Mamoru finally looked up from his phone. Just for a second. Just enough to take Takao in properly. Then, just as quickly, he went back to to whatever he where doing.

Takao exhaled sharply. His headache was getting worse.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

Mimmi stood, smoothing out her blazer. “This,” she said, taking a folder off the counter, “is your new career.”

She handed him a contract. A very thick contract.

Takao stared at it. Then at them. Then back at the contract.

Nachi grinned. Hideki smirked. Mamoru scrolled.

Takao slowly exhaled.

He was so, so screwed.

(Roppongi Hills Penthouse – Morning)

Takao stared at the contract.

The pages were thick, the kind of expensive paper that made it clear someone had put serious money behind this. Behind him.

He flipped through it, skimming paragraphs of legalese—exclusive rights, tour commitments, strict non-disclosure agreements. No salary was listed, just percentages. The kind that locked you in.

He exhaled through his nose. “Do I get a collar with this, or just the leash?”

Mimmi didn’t blink. “Just sign.”

Takao let out a sharp laugh, dropping the contract onto the table. “Are you insane? I work at a host club. I don’t even play bass.”

Nachi, still lounging with his feet up, let out a lazy chuckle. “That’s fine. Hideki makes every bassist quit anyway.”

Hideki, who hadn’t said a word yet, finally looked up from where he sat, legs folded on the couch.

He smirked. “They were all weak.”

Takao narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a bassist I can hardly play guitar but I’m not a bassist!.”

Mimmi picked up her coffee. “You are now.”

The room was too bright, too sharp. Takao’s headache pulsed at his temples, and his body still felt heavy from last night’s alcohol. Or maybe from something else.

He should walk away. He should walk away.

Instead, he glanced back at the contract.

Everything about this screamed trap. And yet—

Somewhere in his gut, a dangerous part of him whispered:

You want to see what happens next.

Takao let out a slow, measured breath. Then, without sitting down, without hesitating, he grabbed the pen.

He signed.

Nachi gave an approving whistle. Mamoru finally looked up from his phone. Hideki, watching him closely, let his smirk sharpen—just slightly.

Mimmi took the contract back, satisfied. “Welcome to Well of fortune.”

Takao exhaled.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

🌀 Scene 6: The Dandelion Necklace – A Promise Frozen in Time

(Roppongi Hills Penthouse – Afternoon)

Takao’s new room was too clean.

Not in the way hotel rooms were clean—temporary, impersonal. No, this felt different. Like it had been waiting for someone else.

The furniture was modern, expensive, but lacked any personal touch. No clothes in the closet, no stray belongings left behind. The bed was freshly made, as if no one had ever slept in it.

Takao had the distinct feeling that whoever was supposed to be here never came back.

His eyes drifted across the shelves, scanning for something, anything, that might tell him what kind of person had lived in this space before him. That’s when he saw it.

A framed dandelion necklace.

It was delicate—thin silver chain, holding a tiny glass pendant. Inside it, a single preserved dandelion seed. Frozen in time.

Takao frowned. It didn’t look like something that belonged in a place like this. Too sentimental. Too fragile.

He reached out without thinking, running a fingertip along the glass.

“That’s old.”

Takao turned.

Mamoru stood in the doorway, scrolling through his phone, expression unreadable.

Takao looked back at the necklace. “Whose is it?”

Mamoru didn’t answer right away. He pocketed his phone and stepped into the room, eyes flickering to the frame. His posture stayed relaxed, but something in his tone had the weight of history.

“Aiko Osawa’s.”

The name meant nothing to Takao. But the way Mamoru said it—flat, careful—made him hesitate.

“She was…” Takao prompted.

Mamoru studied him for a second. Then, instead of answering, he said, almost absently—

“Aki wanted one too.”

Takao didn’t know why, but the shift in the air was instant.

The temperature in the room didn’t change, but it felt colder.

Something heavy settled over the silence, like a held breath.

And then, from the hallway behind them—

A sharp inhale.

Takao turned just in time to see Hideki standing there, his entire body rigid.

For a second, Hideki didn’t move. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if something had just hit him in the chest. His breathing stuttered—too fast, too shallow.

Then, his knees buckled.

Takao’s stomach did a flip. “Hey—”

But before he could react, Mamoru was already there.

🌀 Scene 7: The First Health Scare – A Name That Shouldn’t Be Said

(Roppongi Hills Penthouse – Afternoon)

Hideki’s knees buckled.

For a second, Takao thought he might catch himself, but then—he didn’t. His breathing stuttered, erratic, his hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely.

Mamoru was already moving.

Fast. Too fast for this to be the first time.

He caught Hideki by the arm, steadying him, his movements precise—not panicked, not unsure. Like he had done this over and over again.

“Hideki,” Mamoru said, voice low but firm. “Breathe.”

Hideki’s chest rose and fell too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch up. His fingers curled into his own shirt, gripping at nothing. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted—he was conscious, but not here.

Takao froze. The hell is happening?

“I—” Hideki choked out, barely a sound. His whole body tensed, like he was bracing against something only he could feel.

Mamoru’s grip on his arm tightened, grounding.

“Count with me,” Mamoru said, sharp and certain. Not soothing, not pleading. Just an order. “In for four, out for four.”

Hideki’s fingers twitched, knuckles white. His whole body was trembling.

Takao just stood there, watching. Watching as Hideki fought to drag air into his lungs, watching as Mamoru kept him upright.

What the hell was this? A panic attack? A heart problem?

And why did Mamoru seem so used to it?

“Breathe,” Mamoru said again, softer this time. “In for four. Now.”

Hideki obeyed. Barely. His inhale was shaky, uneven. Mamoru counted under his breath—one, two, three, four—then exhaled with him, controlled, steady.

Another breath. Then another.

Slowly, too slowly, Hideki’s body began to loosen, the tremors in his hands fading. His breathing still wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t completely erratic anymore. His fingers unfurled from his shirt, like he’d finally convinced himself the air wasn’t running out.

Mamoru exhaled quietly. He let go of Hideki’s arm, but stayed close.

The room was too still.

Takao’s voice came out quieter than he expected. “What the hell was that?”

Mamoru didn’t answer right away. Hideki hadn’t lifted his head yet, his dark hair falling over his eyes, his breathing still just slightly too controlled.

Finally, without looking at Takao, Mamoru said, flatly—

“Don’t say that name around him.”

Takao didn’t move.

There was no anger in Mamoru’s voice. No warning. Just fact.

Like this was a rule. Like it had always been a rule.

Takao glanced back at Hideki, who still hadn’t said a word. His jaw was tight, his hands braced against his thighs like he was keeping himself from shaking again. His whole posture screamed fragile, but pretending not to be.

Something was seriously wrong with him.

And whatever it was, it had everything to do with that name.

Aki