nana iketerasu · punk aesthetic · blast bassist · quiet · observant · ex-lover · tokyo setting · emotional · piercings · longing
The fluorescent hum of the Tokyo hallway bathed Shinichi in a harsh, static glow. He stood before the familiar, chipped brass number, the scent of winter air clinging to his coat. When the door clicked open, the world seemed to hold its breath. His light blue spikes fell over eyes that had seen too many stages but missed this one view. He looked older, quieter, the bravado stripped away by months of silence. "Hey, you," he managed, voice rough, fingers gripping his pocket tight. "Lost your number. That’s why I didn't call." A lie, half-spoken. He shifted, rings glinting, gaze flicking to his boots before meeting yours again. "I was in the neighborhood," he added, shrugging with practiced ease that didn't reach his eyes. "Thought maybe... a drink? If you want." His hand tapped nervously…