Morning hit like punishment.
Elliot woke up on the couch, half-dressed, dry-mouthed, and dizzy. His skull throbbed with every heartbeat. The living room smelled like beer and sweat and shame.
The TV was off. The blinds half-closed. A folded note sat on the coffee table in his mum's neat handwriting.
"Clean yourself up. Fix what you broke."
He groaned. Sat up. The world tilted. His jacket was gone — probably still in Shou's van or some alley he didn't remember. His throat tasted like metal and bad decisions.
His phone blinked weakly on the floor.
No messages from Ami.
One from Mizuki:
"You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Another from Shou:
"Hope the hangover's worth it, Graves. Come by the warehouse later if you wanna jam or just sulk."
He stared at that for a while, thumb hovering.
Then he shut the phone off completely.
⸻
By the time he made it to the studio, it was past noon. The fluorescent lights burned white across the polished floors. The air conditioner hummed like it was mocking him.
He saw Ami through the glass wall — hair tied back, sleeves rolled, rehearsing with a small crew. Her voice was steady, mechanical. She moved like a dancer wound too tight.
There was someone else at the control board.
A new technician.
Elliot froze for a second before pushing the door open.
Ami looked up — saw him — and her expression didn't even flicker.
Just that same blank professionalism she wore for strangers.
"Hey," he said softly.
She didn't stop the music.
Didn't reply.
Kept running the verse until the end, then pressed pause on the remote.
"What do you want?" she asked flatly.
"To talk."
"You've said enough."
"Ami, please. Just—listen."
She sighed. Crossed her arms.
"You disappeared, Elliot. Again. You left me in front of the agency rep like an idiot while you were out drinking with your new friends."
"I know. I know, I screwed up—"
"You didn't just screw up. You made me look like I can't trust my own manager."
He flinched at that word.
"I was trying to breathe. One night. That's all."
"You think I get to breathe? You think I don't want to disappear sometimes? But I don't, because I have people counting on me. Because I can't afford to fail."
"You think I can?"
That stopped her — for half a second.
But then she just shook her head.
"You're not the one on stage."
"No. I'm the one under it, holding everything up while you pretend it's effortless."
⸻
Something in him snapped.
All the guilt, all the exhaustion, all the nights he'd spent fixing cables, defending her, lying to his mum, losing Mizuki — it all came rushing up like bile.
"You think I wanted this?!" he said, voice rising.
Ami stiffened.
"I didn't ask to be your goddamn babysitter, Ami. I didn't ask to chase you through breakdowns and photo ops and fake smiles while you burned yourself out in front of everyone!"
She stepped back, shocked.
But he didn't stop.
"I've carried you! From the moment you dragged me into this, I've been cleaning up your messes, rewriting your lines, fixing your voice, talking your way out of every screw‑up, and you stand there acting like I'm just another name on your contact list!"
"Elliot, stop—"
"No, I'm done stopping. I'm done pretending this is all fine. You treat me like I'm a tool, like I exist to keep your perfect little world from collapsing. Do you even realize how much I've given you?!"
He slammed a hand against the wall. The sound cracked through the studio.
The new tech stared. Nobody moved.
"Every night I stayed up fixing soundtracks for your sets. Every apology I made for you. Every time I swallowed my own anger just to make you feel like you were still worth believing in— and you don't even look at me, Ami! You don't even say thank you. You just take, and take, and take until there's nothing left!"
His voice broke on the last word.
Ami's eyes were wide, shimmering — not crying, just hurt.
"You think I don't see it?" she whispered. "How tired you are? How much you hate me sometimes? I stayed because I thought you believed in me, Elliot."
"I did!" he shouted. "I still do! But belief doesn't mean letting someone walk all over you until you forget who you are!"
He laughed, hollow and shaking.
"God, I've been so stupid. Thinking I mattered to you. Thinking maybe all the late nights and the work and the pain meant something. But to you, I'm just another prop. Just a guy in the background who makes sure the star doesn't fall off her throne."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?!" he barked out a bitter laugh. "Nothing about this has been fair! You get to shine, and I get to burn for it!"
⸻
He was breathing hard now, chest heaving, hands trembling.
Nobody in the room said a word. The air felt heavy, humid with anger.
Ami's voice came small, cracking at the edges.
"You should leave."
Elliot stared at her.
He wanted her to shout back. To cry. To hit him. Anything.
But she just turned away, gripping the mic stand until her knuckles went white.
He grabbed his bag, shouldered it roughly, and stormed out — past the new tech, past the stunned staff, down the hallway that suddenly felt too long.
His footsteps echoed behind him, sharp and uneven.
⸻
He didn't know how long he walked.
Maybe an hour. Maybe more.
He ended up sitting by a vending machine near the train station, the heat pressing against his skin like punishment. His head buzzed with the leftovers of anger and beer.
A shadow fell across him.
Mizuki.
She sat down beside him without a word. Two cans clinked in her hands — coffee, still cold.
She slid one toward him.
"You look like you got eaten and spat out."
"Feels about right."
They sat in silence for a minute.
Then she said softly:
"You yelled, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"At her?"
"Yeah."
"Did it help?"
He stared at the can, condensation beading against his fingers.
"No. But it felt good to finally say it."
"She'll forgive you."
"I don't think she will."
"Then forgive yourself first."
He almost laughed. "That easy, huh?"
"Never is. But it's a start."
⸻
When he got home that night, the house was dark. His mum's door was closed.
His phone buzzed once — Shou.
"Warehouse's open. Bring that anger. We'll turn it into noise."
Elliot stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed back:
"Yeah. I'll be there."
He didn't know if he was running toward something or away from everything.
All he knew was that the silence in his head finally had room for sound.