Brief
At the C.Y.S practice space: From the worn leather sofa across the room, Shermie let her gossip magazine droop against her lap. She had been flipping through pages of celebrity scandals with half-lidded eyes, her legs draped over the armrest like a cat too comfortable to move.
"There have been a lot of performance requests lately. Look, another one just arrived."
Yashiro was already tuning his guitar, head bobbing slightly as he twisted the pegs. "Whoa, seriously? This is the first time we've had performances two days in a row. Who's the request from?"
Chris sat cross-legged in front of his mixing console, fingers still hovering over the keys. He glanced over his shoulder with a weary, almost pleading look: " "It seems there's no name written. But still, it's strange. A pause "Hmm, isn't tonight a bit too sudden?" he asked, his voice soft, almost airy. "I wonder if we could postpone it until tomorrow?"
"No, I'm fine with tonight!" Yashiro shot back, not missing a beat. "My stamina is perfect!"
Hey, let me rest a little~" Shermie drawled, the words stretching out in a lazy whine.
"No way!" Yashiro's voice cracked through the room like a snapped string. "We have to meet our fans' expectations! Since we accepted the request, we have to go!" He turned sharply, guitar still in hand, eyes locking onto Chris. "Right, Chris?"
Chris sighed, a small, resigned sound. He swiveled his chair around fully now, facing them both with that eternally neutral expression.
"I don't really mind either way," he said. A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Should we decide with rock-paper-scissors, you two?"
They did. Yashiro won.
The venue loomed ahead of them, a squat industrial building humming with distant bass from another act. The three of them approached the side entrance, Shermie still smoothing down her skirt with irritation, Chris walking with his hands buried in his pockets, Yashiro practically vibrating with anticipation.
The door was locked. Then, a figure emerged from the shadows near the loading dock.
"Hey, you guys!" The voice was sharp, almost mocking. Kyo Kusanagi stepped into the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, his red jacket catching the glow like a warning sign. "Your performance has been canceled. I just came to tell you that." He turned to leave, hands in his pockets, as casual as if he'd just delivered a pizza. "See ya."
Yashiro froze. Then exploded. "What!! Don't mess with us! Who are you! The organizer!?"
He lunged forward, guitar case swinging wildly at his hip, demanding answers into the empty air. But Kyo was already walking away, unconcerned, unbothered.
It was then that User paused at the alley's mouth. Stopped. Turned. Eyes narrowed as recognition flickered across his face. C.Y.S. User had heard things in the corridors, about a Kusanagi scheme to lure out certain fighters while Iori Yagami was coming.
User stood there, watching Yashiro's fury unfold like a slow-motion car crash.
"That doesn't matter," Kyo called back over his shoulder, not even turning around. "Anyway, go home quickly."
Shermie stepped forward now, her heels clicking against the pavement. She placed one hand on her hip, the other gesturing toward the darkened venue behind them.
"We came all this way," she said, her voice dripping with that particular blend of sweetness and venom she reserved for moments of genuine frustration. "That's so mean!"
Kyo finally stopped. Half-turned. His expression was flat, bored. "Hmph, I don't know anything about that. I wasn't the one who sent the request either."
"Then who was it!" Yashiro roared, his composure shredding by the second. "Tell us! Let us inside!!"
"Wait right there!" Kyo's stance shifted, something subtle but dangerous sliding into place. His hands came out of his pockets, loose but ready. "You guys aren't getting in! Stop!"
"Shut up!" Yashiro's fist slammed against the metal door, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. "We'll beat you down and get inside!"
He seized the handle and threw his weight against it. The door buckled, then violently swung open with a shriek of rusted hinges. Yashiro barreled through, guitar case raised like a weapon, eyes wild. "Who is it! Where's the organizer!"
User still stood at the alley's edge, motionless now, watching Yashiro's chaos with an unreadable expression.
Shermie's gaze drifted from her bandmate's rampage to the silent figure. She tilted her head, a single auburn strand falling across her hidden eyes. Her voice, when it came, was light. Almost curious. "Was it you?"
User did not move, caught in the weight of knowledge, could not share, watching as the night unraveled around there.
Shermie waited. Her patience was a thin veneer, cracking. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the rich auburn of her hair began to shift. Darkening. Deepening. Strands of violet crept through the red like ink bleeding into water, spreading, consuming, until her entire mane blazed with an unnatural purple hue. Small sparks of electricity crackled at her fingertips, dancing across her skin.
"My lightning never misses!"
