Time rewound to the day Star first met Firefly.
Seele was walking through the school gates with a few classmates, chatting and laughing, the mood light and easy—until a cool, crisp voice stopped them in their tracks.
"Seele."
Discipline Officer Bronya Rand stood ahead, silver-gray eyes fixed directly on her.
The hint of a smile on Seele's lips vanished at once. Her friends froze with her.
Bronya stepped forward. No explanation. No small talk.
She simply crouched down.
Her gaze—sharp as a blade—inspected the hem of Seele's uniform skirt with clinical seriousness.
Her voice was even and precise, devoid of emotion.
"Your skirt is too short."
"Tch."
Seele let out a short, dismissive click. She didn't argue.
The instant Bronya finished speaking, Seele's fingers were already at the seam near her waist—quick, practiced, almost elegant in its shamelessness.
Flip. Drop.
The portion she'd rolled up in secret slid back down neatly, covering past her knees like a model student.
Bronya rose and, still expressionless, ran a meticulous inspection from head to toe—buttons, ribbon, cuffs.
Only after confirming there was nothing else "out of regulation" did she step aside and let them pass.
They walked a bit, and one of Seele's friends finally cracked, snorting laughter as she elbowed her.
"She didn't notice!"
Seele's mouth curled into a sly arc, like a cat who'd successfully stolen food.
She lifted a hand, slipped her fingers into the dark blue hair that covered her ears, and casually flicked it upward.
A hidden inner layer—carefully dyed a pale violet—flashed for a heartbeat in the morning light, like stardust briefly catching flame.
"She can't exactly lift my hair to check it, can she?" she said, smug.
Unlike Bronya—whose mother was the head of the school—Seele had been on her own ever since leaving the orphanage, surviving in a city of concrete and steel. Every coin she earned was soaked in sweat from part-time jobs and dust from running the streets.
Now she'd found a new way to make money.
A new path.
A girl band.
Serval—owner of the Everwinter bar—had spotted the raw talent in Seele's guitar work with a predator's certainty.
"Give it a shot."
Serval leaned against the counter, looking at Seele like she was appraising an uncut gem.
"You're going to shine."
Half an hour of simple guidance was all it took. The notes that poured from Seele's fingers already carried the caliber of a professional lead guitarist.
The electric guitar became an extension of her body. Wild sound, precise attack—power with teeth.
Serval's fingers had practically itched watching. She'd even promised that if they couldn't find enough members, she'd jump in herself to fill any spot.
Because Serval wasn't just "capable."
She was a rare all-rounder: guitar, bass, drums, vocals—everything.
The hidden dye was Serval's idea too.
"Recognition."
Serval twirled her signature blue-purple streak and emphasized every word.
"If you want to stand out among a sea of bands, you need something people remember at a glance. How about the whole band gets a streak?"
Seele had caved—eventually.
But to survive the school's discipline officer, she'd chosen an inner-layer dye, easier to hide.
Finding members, though, turned out to be far harder than she'd imagined.
The so-called "music club" and "light music club" felt more like tea parties than serious groups.
In one activity room, a few girls hovered around a guitar, stumbling through basic pop chords.
Next door, keyboard practice drifted out in broken fragments—loose rhythm, soft commitment.
Seele observed a few times from a window or doorway.
Each time, her brow knit tighter.
Plenty of chatter. Not enough craft.
Technique. Timing. Dedication.
Everything fell short of the roaring stage she'd pictured—where sound hit like thunder.
And while she watched others…
Someone was watching her.
One afternoon, the hallway was dim.
A small figure—almost swallowed by the thick stack of textbooks in her arms—blocked Seele's path with uncanny accuracy.
Seele recognized her.
Pela Sergeyevna. Everyone just called her Pela.
First in the grade.
Every time.
"Your inner-layer dye is well hidden," Pela said flatly, pushing up her glasses. The sharpness behind the lenses made Seele's spine tighten.
Seele's first thought was she's going to report me.
But Pela's mouth curled.
"Brings back memories. I started out hiding mine the same way."
Seele blinked.
"Later I realized it still wasn't hidden enough," Pela continued at machine-gun speed. "So now I—"
She abruptly removed her glasses and snapped her head.
In an instant, a dreamlike pale-blue glow rippled through the inner layers of her dark hair, like aurora spilling across midnight.
Seele sucked in a breath and leaned closer—only to notice a tiny, delicate light device tucked at the back of Pela's neck.
So the top student wasn't just a bookworm.
Take the glasses off and she was… this.
Pela calmly put her glasses back on. The moment the frames settled, her expression flipped back into that rigid, composed honors-student mask.
"I noticed the calluses and micro-cuts on your fingers from guitar practice," she said, brisk as a report. "And I noticed you loitering outside club rooms, then leaving. You're trying to start a band."
Before Seele could even digest the whiplash, Pela added—still fast:
"Also, using streaks as a band signature? I like the concept."
Seele stared.
"…So you want in?"
Pela nodded without hesitation.
"Drummer. I can manage bass too, if needed. Judging from your face, those slots are still open."
They set it immediately: after school, Everwinter Bar. No excuses. Proof on the spot.
Everwinter Bar smelled of leather, rosin, and alcohol.
When Seele arrived with Pela, Serval gave her another surprise.
"Hah! You found a drummer? Perfect timing!"
Serval laughed and slapped the back of a blonde girl behind her.
"This is my little sister. Come on—say hi."
A girl with short blond hair and a stubborn cowlick stepped forward, timid as a whisper.
"H-hello… I'm Lynx."
Serval slung an arm around her sister's shoulders, proud as could be.
"I've been watching you scramble for members. So I dragged Lynx in. She's a keyboard monster."
Seele's eyes lit up. She and Serval exchanged a quick, wordless high-five.
"Boss, you saved my life."
Then she turned to Lynx and smiled, genuine.
"Welcome, Lynx. I'm Seele. Lead guitar."
Pela dipped her chin.
"Pela Sergeyevna. Drums. Just call me Pela."
She adjusted her glasses out of habit.
After the brief introductions, they decided to run a popular track.
No unnecessary talk.
Serval grabbed a bass. Pela took the drum throne and immediately adjusted the cymbals to her preference. Lynx sat at the keyboard, inhaled, and placed her fingers on the keys with careful focus.
Seele strapped on her guitar and struck the strings.
A hard, metallic riff tore through the room and set the intro on fire.
Serval didn't even need to prove herself. She wasn't "very girl," but she was absolutely "very band."
Even on bass—rather than her strongest guitar—she was steady and controlled. Every note landed with ease, quietly filling the spaces between rhythm and melody like a master builder laying bricks.
Seele's guitar sounded like a young beast—fast, fierce, hungry.
She hadn't had an electric guitar for long, but the life she'd earned on the street bled through every note.
Pela removed her glasses behind the kit.
Her entire aura changed.
Her sticks came down.
Every strike was like the result of brutal calculation—precise, relentless, flawless. The skeleton of the beat snapped into place, and the cymbals shimmered exactly where they needed to, no more and no less.
Lynx's slim fingers danced over the keyboard, giving the music depth and color.
Sometimes she laid down lush harmony; sometimes she threaded bright, crystalline melodic lines between Seele's lead phrases.
Her playing had technical complexity, yes—but more importantly, it had understanding and creativity far beyond her age.
The last note faded, trembling in the air.
A moment of silence.
Four of them looked up at once and met each other's eyes.
Sweat slid down Seele's temple. Pela's breathing was slightly fast. Lynx's cheeks were flushed. Serval was grinning like she'd found treasure.
No words needed.
That shared look said everything:
This fits.
"This is incredible!" Serval broke the silence first, clapping hard.
"This is the feeling!"
Seele lowered her guitar, walked up to Pela, and offered her hand.
"Good to work with you, Pela."
Pela set her sticks down and shook it once, firm and clean.
"Likewise."
Lynx stood from the keyboard and said softly, unable to hide her happiness.
"You're all… really amazing."
Serval swept an arm grandly.
"Now we're only missing the last puzzle piece: a vocalist who can hold the room—someone with a voice that carries a story. Then we debut."
The next afternoon.
The dismissal bell rang, and the hallways flooded.
Seele was already plotting where she might "accidentally" encounter a singer with potential—
When she saw two familiar figures at the fork leading toward the old building.
Discipline Officer Bronya Rand, tall and rigid as ever, inspecting passing students.
And Natasha, the school nurse—once the director of the orphanage Seele had come from. A warmth that still felt like home.
Seele's heart jumped, and her steps slowed without her permission.
Ever since leaving the orphanage, she'd never once walked toward the nurse's office.
As if she were avoiding a warm but painful dream.
She knew Natasha was here. She knew behind that door was the same gentle attention.
And she missed it.
But she didn't want Natasha to see how hard she was living.
So Seele tried to drift into the patchy shadow of a hedge.
Too late.
Natasha's gaze—soft, steady—had already found her through the moving crowd.
Her eyes passed between Bronya and Seele, and for a split second something nostalgic flickered there… then eased into a warm smile.
She raised a hand and waved.
"Seele, over here! And Bronya—perfect. What a coincidence."
Natasha gestured at the ivy-choked side building nearby. Its dark red brick was webbed with age cracks.
"There are still some old orphanage items piled in the storage room. I can't manage it alone. Could you two help me for a moment?"
Bronya, knowing Natasha's special standing at the school—and driven by habit and duty—nodded immediately.
Seele looked into Natasha's sincere request, felt the invisible wall inside her loosen, and nodded too.
They followed Natasha to the storage door.
The key turned with a stubborn scrape. The hinges groaned like complaint.
Inside, the air was stale: dust, old paper, damp wood.
Light slanted from a high window, and dust motes danced wildly in the beam.
Stacks of forgotten things rose like small mountains.
A wooden rocking horse leaned crookedly, one leg broken.
A faded teddy bear lay abandoned in a corner, one button eye missing.
Bundles of old children's clothing sat tied tight—mildew blooming across fabric.
Outdated alphabet cards scattered nearby.
After some time, Bronya finished organizing a stack of children's books and moved to the next box—a plain cardboard one in the corner.
Its lid was thick with dust.
She lifted it carefully—
But the dust still puffed upward.
Bronya coughed violently, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the past from her lungs.
And then—
Her eyes landed on what was inside.
She froze.
A yellowed group photo.
The edges were slightly curled, the colors faded, but the children's wide grins were still unmistakable.
Bronya's gaze locked onto a small girl at the corner of the photo.
Silver curls.
A dead-fish stare with no spark.
It was—
It was identical to Bronya's own childhood photos.
Memory fragments, sharp as broken glass, tore through her mind.
She knew the academy used to be an orphanage.
She knew she'd been adopted by Cocolia.
But she'd never imagined—
She had been one of these children.
No.
It wasn't that she'd never imagined it.
It was worse.
She had forgotten everything.
Why?
How could she have forgotten?
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
Bronya let out a muffled sound and clutched her forehead, body swaying.
Seele was already there, catching her by reflex.
"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"
Seele followed Bronya's unfocused stare and saw the photograph.
A distant, warm sadness surfaced in her expression.
"…I can't believe this photo is still here," she murmured.
That sentence struck Bronya like lightning.
She snapped back, yanked the photo from the box with near-desperate urgency, and searched the little faces with trembling fingers.
Then her fingertip stopped.
Another corner.
A short-haired blue girl, eyes sharp, mouth curved in bored defiance, looking at the camera like it had inconvenienced her—
Young Seele.
Seele finally noticed the silver-haired girl Bronya had been staring at.
Her eyes widened as she looked from the photo… to Bronya's pale face, cold sweat beading at her temple.
They lifted their heads slowly and met each other's eyes.
Shock. Confusion. The impossible.
Seele parted her lips, but no words came.
Bronya closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath of dusty air.
When they left the storage room, Bronya brought Seele back to her luxury apartment—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glittering city skyline.
The moment Seele stepped inside, she didn't even bother hiding her amazement.
"Holy—this place is huge. You live here alone?"
"Mm." Bronya's voice remained even as she opened an expensive built-in fridge and grabbed drinks.
"This is temporary. My mother—my adoptive mother—is very busy. Usually it's just me at home. The staff makes me feel constrained, so I moved out and rented a place myself."
She said it like she was discussing weather.
"Must be nice being rich," Seele muttered sincerely, carefully removing her shoes at the entry mat and stepping barefoot onto the cool, smooth floor.
She flopped into the sofa and looked around.
"So. Why'd you bring me here?"
She was direct.
She'd already guessed part of it.
Bronya sat opposite her and handed over a cold can of juice.
"I want to know what the orphanage was like."
She paused, voice lowering.
"I realized… I have no memory of anything before I was adopted. It's blank."
Her eyes held confusion—and something faintly vulnerable.
Seele stared at her for a few seconds, sorting through distant recollections.
Then she began to tell the story.
The old locust tree nobody could climb.
The steaming vegetable soup in winter with that pathetic shimmer of oil floating on top.
The plastic buckets catching rainwater under the eaves.
Natasha's gentle voice reading stories.
As Seele spoke—plainly, without drama—something stirred in Bronya.
Faint images. Broken sounds. Physical sensations.
Like pieces rising from the deep sea.
Bronya could feel rough bark under her fingers.
Taste salt in thin soup.
Hear rain knocking on plastic—thunk, thunk, thunk.
The déjà vu was unbearable.
But why?
Why had these memories been sealed away?
Watching Bronya's dazed profile, Seele asked something abrupt—almost on instinct.
"Do you play instruments?"
Bronya was pulled out of her spiral and answered automatically.
"Violin and piano. I'm decent."
Then she froze.
Because she hadn't meant to say it so easily.
Seele scratched at her hair.
Keyboard was already covered by Lynx.
But violin…
Could a girl band take a violin?
Seele whipped out her phone and searched at speed.
A few seconds later, her eyes lit up.
She looked up at Bronya.
"Hey. Want to try joining my band?"
"…Huh?"
Twenty minutes later, five people were jammed into a luxury KTV room.
Seele crashed onto the sofa with zero restraint, jostling Lynx beside her.
Lynx covered her ears and complained.
"The room next door was basically murdering my eardrums. That was pure banshee screaming."
Bronya had returned to her usual calm. She glanced toward the hallway and explained neutrally.
"It's a group of first-year exchange students from Akivili Academy. They just transferred recently. Don't say that in front of them."
"Oh. Them." Seele curled her lip, then dropped the topic.
Bronya turned her attention to Pela in the corner.
"You're in a band too, Pela?"
Pela pushed her glasses up, expression flat but with a hint of edge.
"Likewise. I didn't expect the famously strict discipline officer to be interested in this."
"All right, all right—focus, girls!" Serval clapped her hands, bracelets chiming.
She scanned Seele, Lynx, Pela, Bronya.
"Today we decide the vocalist."
Auditions began.
Lynx went first.
Her voice was clear and youthful, like fresh spring water. Her technique was a little raw, but the purity was charming.
But when the song hit a chorus that needed power, she ran out of breath, pitch wobbling.
A glance passed between them.
Too young. She'd grow into it.
Lynx wasn't crushed—she hadn't been hungry for the spotlight anyway.
Serval went next.
The moment she opened her mouth, the room's atmosphere shifted.
A slightly husky, story-worn voice—mature charm, effortless stage control.
She chose a classic rock piece. Breath control impeccable. High notes smooth. Rhythm locked in. Every movement carried the ease of someone who'd been on too many stages to count.
Pela followed.
She picked a technically demanding pop track full of turns and precision.
Her performance could only be described as accurate. Every pitch was measured. Every beat clicked into place. Breath steady like a machine.
She reproduced the original perfectly—almost too perfectly.
And because of that, her singing felt restrained, as if boxed in by invisible lines. Clean, but lacking surprise.
Then Seele.
Her voice hit with raw, feral force—like an unpolished stone.
Her low register was thick, grounded. Her high notes cracked like lightning—reckless, explosive, alive.
Her technique wasn't flawless, but the energy was contagious, the personality unmistakable.
Finally, all eyes fell on Bronya.
She didn't take the mic.
Instead, she asked Serval to play backing for a classical crossover piece—then lifted her hands as if holding a violin, as if a bow rested between her fingers.
As the intro began, her posture was poised, elegant.
Then she sang.
Everyone froze.
It wasn't Serval's seasoned charisma.
Not Pela's precision.
Not Seele's wild blaze.
Bronya's voice was pure—almost unreal—like hymn-light through stained glass. It pierced straight through the chest.
And it carried weight.
She closed her eyes. Her body swayed slightly with the "invisible performance."
Her voice rose and fell—mourning, struggling, reaching.
Every note carried a story.
Seele forgot to breathe.
She saw images:
A small silver-haired figure pushed to extremes under the pressure of being "Cocolia's adopted daughter," starving for even a scrap of approval.
She climbed and climbed, only to be met with the cold sentence:
"As expected of Cocolia's daughter."
The confusion beneath perfection.
The suffocating loneliness.
The silent scream of wanting to be seen as herself.
In the face of that flood, technique became meaningless.
The final note trembled and died.
Silence.
Then—
Serval clapped hard, eyes blazing.
Pela and Lynx joined instantly, applause fierce enough to shake the room.
Bronya breathed lightly, sweat fine at her hairline, like she'd just fought a battle.
Seele jolted out of the emotional haze and realized she'd stood up without noticing.
She stared at Bronya—tired, exposed in a way she'd never expected—and felt something heavy strike her chest until it went numb.
That Saturday, The Builders—their band—debuted.
A spotlight hit the vocalist.
Bronya Rand—discipline officer, model of strictness—now looked like someone who'd make half the school faint on sight.
She stood center stage with a delicate violin tucked to her shoulder.
Under pounding drums and roaring guitars, her bow flew—drawing fierce, soaring melody.
And the truly absurd part:
She sang at the same time.
Her breath didn't falter. Her emotion didn't break. Voice and violin braided together—high like a blade, low like a confession.
The crowd went insane.
"Are you seeing this? She's playing violin and still singing like that?! What kind of monster stamina is this?!"
Someone screamed.
"And her hair streaks! Amber gold and violet! That's so sick!"
A girl shrieked.
"Wait, the bassist is Serval? Didn't she perform when I was still in high school? Isn't she a little—"
A salaryman with glasses started to mutter.
"Shut up. Mature women are supreme. Bass queen supremacy."
Backstage, Bronya leaned into a chair after the set, chest rising and falling, sweat on her forehead—but her eyes were lit in a way they'd never been before.
Ding.
A phone notification chimed.
Bronya fumbled out her phone.
A new message:
Mother: The concert was wonderful! (^▽^)
Bronya sat up so fast her fatigue evaporated in shock.
Bronya: Mother, you were there?!
A reply came almost instantly.
Mother: I was! Though I'm on a plane now. [photo.jpg]
The attached photo was a stage shot from the audience. In the edge of the frame, Cocolia's smiling face appeared—throwing a cheerful V-sign.
Bronya looked up sharply, gaze cutting through the backstage bustle to Serval, who was coiling cables.
Serval caught her stare and waved enthusiastically, grinning like a proud conspirator.
Bronya: How did you know I was in a band?
Mother: Don't underestimate my intelligence network! (scheming.jpg)
Haha—Serval told me. We were classmates once.
Bronya typed again, fingers tight.
Bronya: Then why didn't you tell me? If I knew you were watching, I would have… done better. More perfectly.
She sent it and stared at the screen like it was judgment.
The display went dark for a few seconds.
Then lit again.
Mother: Because I knew you'd think like that, I couldn't tell you.
You've always been like this—trying too hard.
Like you believe if you don't sprint until you're exhausted, you don't deserve to hold onto anything.
But you could lean on your mother a little more, you know.
Your song… had a lot hidden inside it, didn't it?
Mom heard it.
I didn't realize you've been carrying so much where I couldn't see you.
Maybe I've been too subtle all this time.
And then—
One final line that crashed straight into Bronya's chest:
Mother: Bronya, you are my pride.
Hot tears surged up without warning, blurring everything.
The words on the screen swelled and warped through the tears, each stroke burning into the untouched corner of her heart.
She ducked her head desperately, not wanting anyone to see.
Tears still fell onto the screen.
She sucked in a shaky breath, fingers trembling as she typed:
Bronya: Thank you.
Sunday's show was even wilder.
When Bronya sang again, Seele's fingers paused on the fretboard for a fraction.
Something had changed.
The heavy, suffocating weight that had pressed inside yesterday's voice—like a stone on the chest—had melted, like snow under sunlight.
The chain had loosened.
Her voice was still powerful, but it was no longer desperate.
Now it was clear.
Light.
Confident.
There was joy in it—real joy—sprouting from each note like green shoots breaking soil.
Bronya's eyes no longer burned like a flame.
They glittered—warm, living starlight.
She was enjoying it.
Enjoying the music, the stage, herself.
Seele caught the shift and grinned, feral and delighted.
During an instrumental break, her fingers ripped across the strings in a short, violent scream of sound—provocative, challenging.
Then she pushed the tempo faster—turning a steady drive into an explosion.
Bronya understood instantly. Her singing and violin snapped into the new pace like a horse released from reins.
The whole band surged, injected with adrenaline, reaching a peak they'd never touched before.
The crowd boiled.
Seele whipped her blue hair, sweat flying, stage lights turning droplets into blue stars.
No words.
Just music—direct, wild, and intimate.
Monday morning.
Sunlight fell on Belobog's tidy streets.
Seele yawned with a piece of bread in her mouth, hair messy, dragging her feet beside Bronya, who still walked like she belonged in a magazine.
To save rent—and to make collaboration and songwriting easier—Seele had, without ceremony, begun staying in Bronya's apartment.
Seele glanced at the streak in Bronya's bangs.
Amber gold and deep violet, made from special material that shifted colors depending on angle—loud, shameless, undeniably present.
"Hey."
Seele bumped Bronya with her shoulder.
"You seriously not hiding that? You're walking into school like this?"
Bronya didn't slow. She glanced sideways, calm—and lighter than she used to be.
"Relax."
"Last week I submitted an application, ran for student council president, and won. First thing I did as president was revise the discipline code: 'Moderate streaking that isn't excessive, doesn't cover a large area, and doesn't disrupt grooming standards' is now compliant."
Seele stopped so hard her bread nearly fell out of her mouth.
"…Huh?! Student council president? That's it? That easy? So this is what power is?!"
"Don't stand there," Bronya said, stopping and turning back.
She pulled out a brand-new armband stamped with the school crest and the words DISCIPLINE OFFICER and shoved it into Seele's hands.
"You're a discipline officer now. Your duties include maintaining hallway order and enforcing grooming standards. Of course, under the newly revised code."
Seele stared at the armband, then at Bronya.
She turned to stone.
"Me? Discipline officer?"
She jabbed a finger at her own chest like she'd been accused of being a saint.
"How did I become a discipline officer?!"
Bronya looked at her disbelief and—just barely—something like a smile flickered in her eyes.
"Power needs correct users and correct overseers," she said evenly. "I think you're suitable."
Then she turned and walked again.
"Don't be late."
Seele stood there, clutching the armband, looking from it to Bronya's hair streak glittering in the sun.
"…So this is… damn… power?"
She clicked her tongue, slapped the armband onto her sleeve like she was putting on handcuffs, and jogged after Bronya.
When they pushed open the heavy door to the student council office, Pela was already there, sitting behind a desk with thick ledgers spread out, calculator rattling under her fingers.
Sunlight through blinds striped her concentrated profile.
She heard the door, looked up, adjusted her glasses—cold light flashing across the lenses.
"President. Seele. Here are the preliminary calculations for last week's club funding requests. Two need your final approval. Also, I've drafted next month's interschool exchange budget…"
Bronya nodded and walked to her seat, composed.
"Good work, Pela."
Seele tugged at her armband awkwardly, feeling entirely out of place in an office this clean.
Time rushed on in the rhythm of school life and rehearsals.
The Builders' influence grew like a rolling snowball.
CDs appeared at music stores.
Their melodies were hummed in streets.
Posters spread from livehouse bulletin boards to the city center's music hall walls—
Until they finally landed on a massive billboard at the Budokan.
Their manager announced, thrilled, that a Hawaiian beach music festival had sent an invitation.
In the bright, accelerating days, something else changed quietly too:
Seele and Bronya.
One was a famous family's adopted daughter, raised under relentless scrutiny and trained toward perfection.
The other was a street-hardened stray who protected herself with fists and cold distance, never giving trust easily.
They should have been parallel lines.
But music became an impossible bridge.
In rehearsal rooms, on loud stages, and under a single lamp in the apartment at night, writing songs—
Notes replaced clumsy language, tapping open doors they'd locked for years.
They began to recognize each other in the music.
Seele's wild riffs held the freedom Bronya longed for.
Bronya's restrained, graceful melodic lines mirrored Seele's hidden hunger for warmth.
Late at night in Bronya's apartment, sheets of music covered the floor.
Seele sat cross-legged, idly strumming chords.
Bronya leaned against the sofa, eyes closed, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air.
"Hey," Seele said, stopping. "Ever thought about not being Perfect Bronya Rand? Just… being normal?"
Bronya opened her eyes and stared up at the designer ceiling lamp.
Silence.
Then:
"I have. I even… wanted to be a normal girl who can act spoiled, who can rely on someone."
A pause.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"
Seele scoffed.
"Ridiculous my ass. Who decided you have to hold up the sky? If you're tired, say you're tired. If you want to lean on someone, find a shoulder."
She looked Bronya up and down deliberately, dragging the words out.
"Like… maybe someone reliable. Like me."
Bronya didn't snap back.
She just looked at Seele, and in those defiant eyes—beneath the swagger—she saw clumsy but honest concern.
Something warm spread through her chest.
Her lips curved faintly.
She didn't answer with words.
She picked up a pen and wrote a few bright, hopping notes onto the page.
Notes connecting two worlds.
In Bronya's melody, Seele saw the girl who wanted to drop the burden and be held.
In Seele's roaring guitar, Bronya felt the stubborn protectiveness hidden under rough edges.
And that's why—on the crowded, lantern-lit street of the New Year festival—Star's group ran into them and caught Bronya leaning into Seele.
"So you two are The Builders—the super famous band lately?!" March 7th blurted, shocked and thrilled.
Firefly and Star looked enlightened. Dan Heng nodded calmly like he already knew.
March and the others couldn't sing to save their lives, and they didn't care much about band culture—yet even they had heard The Builders' name everywhere.
Bronya forced down the remaining heat in her face, straightened her spine, and pulled her student-council aura back around her like armor.
She nodded slightly, voice calm.
"It's fine. We've had some results."
Seele rolled her eyes, then couldn't help snorting at Bronya's attempt to be dignified while her ears still burned red.
Since they'd met, they walked together.
Six of them climbed the shrine steps, surrounded by food scents, shouts, laughter—warm, human noise.
Bronya and Seele in the middle; March chattering nonstop about the band; Star throwing sharp jokes; Firefly's attention glued to Star; Dan Heng trailing like a silent guard.
Just as they reached the top and looked down at the lights below—
A firework screamed upward and burst.
Gold spilled across the sky like molten stars.
Then another.
And another.
The night became a storm of color.
March jumped and pointed wildly.
Firefly turned in a circle, sleeves floating like wings, eyes full of exploding light—like a butterfly trapped in a festival dream.
Star folded her arms, watching the fireworks—watching Firefly, too, reflected in the glow.
Dan Heng's gaze lingered more on the people than the sky, a faint smile on his lips.
Bronya and Seele stood shoulder to shoulder, firelight flickering across their faces.
In the Star Rail universe, Harmony's mark is music—so exchanging hearts through music was, in truth, the most reasonable thing in the world.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 178)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 139)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League ( 126 )
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter171)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter100)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter184)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 65
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 168
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 156
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass 105
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 185
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 160
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 150
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player 76
The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 97
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 66
Uma Musume: From Beginner 116
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 75
Uma Musume: I Want All 93
I Can Copy Unique Skills 79
Summoning an Evil God, but the 55
Supernatural Multiverse 75
My Harem Is Indescribable 68
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 70
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 66
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 69
Still playing traditional Honk 49
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 53
What Should I Do After Switchi 42
Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 50
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 38
Transmigrated as Sukuna 35
Checking In in Demon Slayer 40
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 55
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