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edenfenixblogs · 1 year ago

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Hi, I have a question and you seem like a really balanced person, so here goes: I want to join a drag king collective, and I’m so excited about it, but the king leading it has some Interesting views. It’s the kind of thing where it’s constant “fuck Zionists” and what feels like extremely performative activism (Palestinian flag in bio but no actual fundraising/peace efforts, posting misinformation/irresponsible rhetoric etc.) I’m scared that if I join it I’ll be treated different, and even more scared that my friends will think the antisemitism justified (they aren’t great at understanding what antisemitism looks like these days). Idk what to do about the fear of someone being antisemitic because I don’t want it to stop me from doing what I want, but I also know it’ll devastate me if it does happen. If you can offer any insight I’ll be very grateful.

Hi friend!

I'm really glad you reached out to me. Not because I pretend to know all the answers, but because I love that we can all rely on each other during this time.

Unfortunately, whether you sign up for this is ultimately a matter of your own personal priorities and how you are prone to handle confrontation.

Personally, if it was me, I would join. I'm not afraid of defending myself (but I very much used to be, so no shame if you're not there yet). If I wanted to explore my gender identity through performance (if indeed that is what you are doing. I've never been personally drawn to perform drag, so I cannot pretend to know exactly why one might start. But I don't think I'm out of line to assume that it involves some kind of exploration or critique of gender both personally and societally) I certainly wouldn't let antisemites be the reasons I didn't go for it.

If the Anti-Zionist jerk starts coming at you, you can simply say "OK, great. Real quick question: What's a Zionist?" And watch him squirm to say anything real or substantive other than "a Jew." He might say, "They're basically Nazis!" or "They're people who want Palestinians to suffer!" or some other confidently incorrect hyperbolic statement. If he does so, you can say, "Oh! Well, then that's definitely not what I am," and move on.

If he says something slightly more substantive, like, "They're people who think Jews should get to take land from Arabs/Palestinians in order to have a Jewish ethnostate!" You can use the same response as above. But you can also say, "Oh, weird. That's definitely not what I thought it was. Which Zionist Jews have said this, exactly? Cuz I heard it was something completely different." Remember, their goal isn't actually to educate you or help anyone or even to provide limited but factual information. The goal is to shame you into aligning with their self-righteous point of view. That is not an effective tactic when you respond with QUESTIONS instead of outright CORRECTIONS. Making people explain themselves is a great way to defang a bad faith accusation like that.

Finally, they might say, "It's someone who supports Israel." In this case, either of the above methods will work. Or you could question even further. Here's an example of a chat:

You: Supports Israel how?

Jerkface: They want Biden to use our tax dollars to fund a genocide!

You: Oh, well then I'm definitely not a Zionist.

Jerkface: No, you don't understand! It's people who think that Jews can only be safe in a settler colonial apartheid ethnostate that justified its existence by crying about the Holocaust.

You: Well then I'm still not a Zionist. I don't know why you're assuming these things about me. But people should generally cry about the Holocaust. It was really bad thing that people did to Jews. Do you not think the Holocaust is a big deal?

Jerkface: Of course I think it was a big deal. That's why we all have to condemn THIS genocide. The Jews are the Nazis now.

You: I don't know. I don't think that' show Nazism works. But I definitely don't like genocide. If liking genocide makes a Zionist, then I'm definitely not whatever you're accusing me of.

Jerkface: No! I'm just saying that Zionists don't want a ceasefire. They're trying to kill all the Palestinians.

You: I don't know what to tell you then. Because that's still not me. Of course I want Hamas and Israel to both stop bombing each other.

Jerkface: No, Palestine is JUSTIFIED in bombing Israelis because of the oppression.

You: I think its weird that you're conflating Palestinians with Hamas. Are you saying that Palestinian civilians are bombing Israel as as a protest tactic? I thought for sure that Hamas, a terrorist organization, was the group responsible for Anti-Israeli violence. Personally, I've always though that most Palestinians just want to live in peace and don't support terrorism and violence. I don't know why it would harm Palestinians to suggest that both Israel and Hamas should end this conflict diplomatically rather than with violence.

Jerkface: Right! That's why we need to tell Biden to call for a ceaseefire!

You: OK, but I still don't know if you're saying Israel should just stop firing or that Israel and Hamas should stop bombing. I definitely want everyone to stop bombing each other. But I'm not really sure why Hamas would care about what Biden says.

etc...

I call this the "Rabbi method," because when you go to a rabbi, they never really give you an answer to your question. They answer with other questions designed to get them to see their own answer.

Either Hamas is a terrorist group unfairly targeting Israeli civilians and launching bombs into civilian territories--something that is clearly bad and which makes average Palestinian civilians innocent victims (this is the truth btw) that require both Hamas and Israel too lay down their arms. OR Palestinians and Hamas are interchangeable terms and the ongoing oppression of Palestinians have driven them to violent, offensive, armed resistance--which you may or may not agree with as a revolutionary tactic (To be clear, this is NOT TRUE OF PALESTINIANS. PALESTINIANS ARE NOT TERRORISTS AND DO NOT DESERVE TO BE BOMBED). Palestine IS NOT HAMAS. Hamas is bombing Israeli civilians.

Israel is retaliating with extreme force and prejudice against a terrorist organization in a way that is devastating the lives and futures of Palestinian Civilians, who very much deserve for all sides to lay down their weapons and address their mutual grievances diplomatically and responsibly. What is occurring right now is a messy, ugly, brutal war that is killing and traumatizing all civilians in the Levant. And a one-sided ceasefire leaves the side that ceases firing dead. A ceasefire means that EVERYONE must cease firing.

Unless Jerkface has a plan for how to ensure the safety of Palestinian civilians from Hamas that also includes Israeli safety from Hamas, asking for Israelis to simply lay down all their weapons without any guarantee of safety is asking for a nation of mostly Jews to die without putting up a fight. And wanting Arab Israelis and also Jews not to die is not what Zionism means. It's not even what pro-Israel means. That's just called not being violently antisemitic, actually.

Israelis aren't mindless Zionist Nazi Monsters who get off on killing Palestinian babies. Palestinians aren't Noble Savages who have never done anything wrong as individual people and who are inherently morally superior to every single Israeli because they were born Palestinian. Both Israelis and Palestinians are complex, global micro-minorities who have both perpetrated tremendous harm to one another over the course of several decades, and neither group is going anywhere. Neither group deserves for its people to die. Neither group is only "worth helping" if western onlookers categorize them as "innocent" and "good." If someone's activism isn't geared toward respecting the inherent dignity of Palestinians and Israelis regardless of either group's history, then that person is not engaging in activism. If someone is asking you to support that cause because their chosen cause involves perfect cinnamon rolls being targeted by pure evil enemies, then they are not asking you to join them in activism. They are not even asking you to join them in a political reality. What they are asking is for you to join their toxic fandom.

And reducing this conflict down to simplistic fandom rhetoric is not going to help anyone and is frankly offensive to all Jews, Israelis, and Palestinians--all of whom deserve to be seen for the traumatized, suffering, imperfect people they are.

People don't earn support by being good. They inherently deserve support, because they are people.

All that said, maybe it's not emotionally useful for you to engage in this group. Maybe this type of conflict is too much for you. That's OK, too.

And while I would never let antisemitism take away an opportunity for me to fulfill a dream, I will say that my experience of Antisemitism during this time is 100000000% responsible for making me realize that the dreams I had before this experience need to evolve. I no longer wish to be in the town where I live. I wish to be home with my family closeby, because when the chips are down, that's who matters. The idea of moving back to my home state was unthinkable to me before October. Now? I cannot get out of here fast enough. There's nothing I want that is exclusive to my current location anymore. The community I thought I'd built for myself is gone. And while antisemitism didn't take them from me, it sure as fuck showed me that I never had it in thee first place.

If you're going to join this collective, be sure its worth the fight. And if it's not worth the fight, then look for a place that is. Exploring your gender identity freely should not come at the cost of living your ethnic and religious identities openly. Ever.

Don't trade one closet for another. You deserve more than that. We all do.

hope that helps @kit-chaos-doodle

#ask me stuff #kit-chaos-doodle #jumblr #advice #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism

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roseazura · 1 month ago

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𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄

Knights of the Zodiac: The Beginning – Seiya

Summary: In a gritty setting charged with tension and music, two opposites collide in a dance of sharp wit and undeniable chemistry. What starts as playful banter ignites into a connection neither expected, leaving them with a spark that lingers long after parting—hinting at the beginning of something extraordinary.

Genre/Tropes: Romance, Opposites Attract, Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Push-and-Pull, Fateful Encounter.

Pairing: Seiya x Fem!Reader.

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability. Ambiguous ending. No mentions of (Y/N). Non-native English speaker. Before the events of the film. Mention of: violence, homelessness, cursing words.

Words count: 9.7k

A/N: Hello there, sweeties! A promise is a promise, and here's another little story. I've had this idea for a long time, and I'm glad I finally got it to shape. There will probably be more parts. I hope you enjoy it!

The city pulsed with a mix of grit and life, its narrow alleys etched with invisible tracks and unspoken secrets. Neon lights, worn out from years of relentless flickering, blinked like a perpetual invitation to the dreamers and the lost. Above it all, the air hung heavy, laced with the unmistakable tang of burnt oil from nearby workshops, smoke, and that bitter aftertaste of spilled beer seeping into old concrete. This was the kind of place that didn’t ask for permission to be loud—or let chaos move right in.

The loft where the band crashed was an improvised haven amidst the outside bedlam. The walls were tattooed with years of gig posters and random doodles, every corner carrying echoes of unrestrained music nights. The light came from hanging bulbs and strings of fairy lights draped across the ceiling beams, casting a warm, raw glow.

In one corner, the drum kit sat next to an amp, guitars propped against the walls, and a microphone ready for action—evidence of last night’s jam session. Across the room, a central table, forever cluttered with sheet music, half-written lyrics in beat-up notebooks, and the occasional empty can, formed the heart of the practice-and-home combo. Around it sat mismatched garage-sale-rescued chairs where a bunch of improbable dreamers banded together under rock’s renegade flag.

You sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch—the biggest one—idly twirling a strand of hair around your finger while your gaze drifted from one bandmate to another. Tonight’s mood had been shaken, courtesy of the proposition laid down by Caleb, the drummer, whose boisterous personality filled the room like one of his powerful yet endearing drum solos.

“We need the cash, guys! This gig could cover two months of rent!” Caleb’s voice boomed as he paced back and forth, his deep brown eyes blazing with hope. His wild curls framed a face that practically radiated sincerity, his excitement practically spilling out into the room.

“Playing at an underground fight ring? I mean... that’s... odd,” Elise, the bassist, muttered, scrutinizing the plan with her usual sharp eye. With her wavy, fire-red bob and defined cheekbones, Elise was the group’s pragmatic anchor. Her piercing blue eyes analyzed every risk on the horizon. “How do we even fit a gig into that kind of scene?”

Perched beside her was Jonah, the lead guitarist, his calloused fingers lazily strumming his battered acoustic guitar while he listened. His laid-back demeanor was a stark contrast to Caleb’s firebrand energy; Jonah was calm, his messy blond hair and hazel eyes giving him an air of effortless cool. “Not saying I’m out… but fight-ring acoustics? That’ll butcher our sound.”

You leaned forward, thoughtful, your chin resting on your hand as you pursed your lips in a slight pout, locking eyes with Caleb. As the band’s frontwoman—the magnetic vocalist who could sweep an audience into the music with a single note—you’d become the glue holding the group together.

“It’s a tough sell, Caleb,” you admitted, skepticism threading through your voice. “But are you sure this promoter is legit?”

Caleb sighed but refused to let the spark in his eye fade. “Guys, I get it’s not exactly Madison Square Garden, but think about it—street fights pull in crowds, and those crowds spend money. What’s stopping us from turning those adrenaline junkies into fans? Plus, the promoter promised extra cash if we bring our usual fire.”

Your drummer’s relentlessness was unyielding, and even though doubt lingered in the room, you couldn’t help but admire his fighting spirit. Caleb was the band’s heart—on stage and off—and tonight was no exception.

Elise folded her arms, arching a skeptical brow. “Alright, but what about our gear? Those rings aren’t exactly... gear-friendly environments.”

“Got it all figured out!” Caleb shot back, pulling out his phone and frantically scrolling. “The ring’ll be sectioned off for us, and the promoter guaranteed a safe spot for our equipment. Come on, Elise, trust me for once!”

Jonah chuckled, leaning back with a smirk. “You say that like you’ve ever given us a reason to.” From his corner, he let his guitar rest across his lap and exhaled. “Not saying it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had...” he started, leaving the thought dangling before adding with a sly grin, “but it’s definitely in the top five.”

“You wound me,” Caleb declared dramatically, clutching his chest as if struck by a mortal blow. The band couldn’t help but laugh, despite themselves, the mood lifting ever so slightly.

Caleb’s pitch hung in the loft’s air like a suspended chord, thick with tension and potential. A fight ring where punches set the tempo each night—it was everything you’d never envisioned for your music. And yet, there it was: raw, unapologetic, hitting you with a mix of fascination and discomfort. You forced yourself to think straight while the rest of the band buzzed, their voices weaving together like different tones in the same song.

On one hand, you got Caleb’s point. The cash situation wasn’t exactly rosy, and any chance to crawl out of the pit was worth considering. But at the same time, your dreams of glowing stages and crowds drawn purely by the music—not the spectacle of punches flying—clung too deeply to rebel. Were you betraying the vision, or just adapting to survive?

Your thoughts drifted to Elise. She was the band’s anchor, steady and always on point when it came to sniffing out risks. Her stance while tuning her bass spoke louder than words—she was breaking down every angle, every potential disaster Caleb’s wild idea could bring. Sharp and cutting as her tone sometimes was, you got it. Elise wasn’t a pessimist—she was protective. What both frustrated and charmed you was her knack for stripping down decisions and tackling the parts everyone else preferred to leave untouched.

Jonah, by contrast, was a softer puzzle. His way of handling this was so quintessentially him: chill, detached yet quietly deep. His light laughs and casual remarks cracked smiles across your face, but you knew those jokes masked his perpetual evaluating. Jonah was one of those rare types who stayed right in the middle—not too quick to jump nor too rigid to close off. He was a silent but solid pillar.

And then there was you, smack-dab in the eye of the storm, trying to untangle which part of you was right. The dreamer who wanted bigger things, refusing to settle for anything less than what felt worthy of your music—or the realist who knew dreams didn’t pay the bills, and that maybe it wasn’t about where you played, but how. The answer was in all of you, in how you chose to face this moment. Whatever happened, your voices, your decisions—that would be the melody shaping your path forward.

When you finally made the call, the loft’s rhythm shifted, like an invisible beat marking what was to come. You sat up straight on the couch, your posture a silent act of resolve, and let the words everyone had been waiting for spill from your lips: “Alright,” you said, cutting through the noise with the authority of a born frontwoman. “Let’s break it down. Caleb, you’ve laid out your case: money, exposure, and the chance to turn this street-fight crowd into fans. Elise, Jonah—what are the downsides?”

Elise leaned forward, ticking off points on her fingers. “Potential damage to our gear. Sketchy venue. Crappy acoustics. And it’s risky—our music might totally flop with that crowd.”

Jonah nodded, picking up where she left off. “We could alienate our current fans, and if it bombs, we’re stuck with the ‘fight-ring band’ stigma.”

You chewed your lip, letting the weight of their concerns sink in. Your gaze locked on Caleb, who stood steadfast in his belief. “Alright—what are the upsides?”

Caleb seized the chance. “Money to keep us afloat. A one-of-a-kind venue—imagine the buzz! Plus, I’ll personally make sure everything goes smoothly, even if I have to charm every street-fight fan in there to pull it off.”

Jonah smirked, leaning back with that signature grin of his. “You? Charm them? That’s a fight night in itself.”

Your laughter broke out, melodic and contagious. It spread through the room like sunshine after a storm, slicing through the tension in the air. You turned to your bandmates, your gaze serious but brimming with determination.

“Here’s the deal: Caleb’s got a point—we need the money. And if it works, this could be the kind of story we tell for years. Worst case? We shake it off and keep moving.”

Elise, who had been sitting on the floor, froze mid-motion. Her meticulous adjustments to her bass strings stopped cold, her hands resting on the instrument as if your words had knocked the wind out of her. She looked up, raising an eyebrow—the kind of look only Elise could pull off, a mix of doubt and warning.

“Just hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice sharp but measured, kicking the little tuner by her side with the toe of her boot. She pushed her hair behind her ear, a tell she’d never admit to—one that gave away her nerves every single time.

Jonah let out a light chuckle, the kind that dismantled any lingering tension with effortless ease. His gaze found yours, his eyes gleaming with playful defiance. “Knew you’d say yes,” he commented, his fingers idly teasing a loose guitar string, his laid-back rhythm borderline irritating. But the way he tilted his head, the spark in his eyes—it hinted at more than his words let on. Jonah had a knack for reading the vibe better than anyone, and maybe that’s why he hadn’t put up much of a fight. He was watching, waiting.

Caleb was all action. He shot up, throwing his hands in the air like he’d just won a title match. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted, so full of energy you half-worried he’d accidentally strike the drum behind him.

He strode toward his drum kit with big, deliberate steps, his grin stretching so wide it was almost ridiculous. But you caught the subtle tension in his movements—the way he tightened the cymbal screws just a little too hard, like he was trying to keep a lid on emotions he couldn’t fully show. Caleb was always the guy who acted like anything was possible, but this time, his body language told you he was betting more than he let on.

As for you, your body moved almost on autopilot. You rose slowly from the couch, crossing the loft toward the corner where your microphone rested on its stand. Each step was a bridge between doubt and decision, every movement a reminder that there was no turning back now. Your fingers brushed against the cold metal of the mic, and a shiver ran up your spine. You stood there for a moment, taking it all in—the loft that had been your home. The dim lights, the worn-out furniture, the posters from past gigs lining the walls… all of it seemed to be watching you, waiting to see what you’d make of this chance.

Elise let out an audible sigh, breaking the quiet spell in the room. Jonah tipped his head back, the chair creaking under his weight as he exhaled with unhurried calm. Caleb was already tweaking his drum set with fast, precise moves, each hit sounding like the heartbeat of something new beginning to unfold. And you… you tightened your grip around the mic, feeling the cool metal under your skin like a silent promise. The choice was made, and the fire igniting in your chest started to spread, turning into a resolve you couldn’t deny.

The flickering city lights never reached this forgotten corner, where voices roared louder than the music and the steel of the cage reflected the rawest emotions. There were no fancy stages or polished crowds here—just the frantic pulse of a crowd starving for spectacle, for adrenaline, for something to shake the monotony of the night.

This wasn’t the place where musicians dreamed of playing. This was the place where they were tested.

Shouts and the tang of rusted metal mingled with the murmur of hushed bets. The venue didn’t promise glory—just a shot. And sometimes, a shot was all you needed. For you and the band, tonight wasn’t about contracts or prestige; it was about survival, about forcing the world to listen—even if just for a few minutes. In this cage, among sweat and uncertain expectations, your music would be your weapon, your battle cry.

Everyone knew it: once the first note hit, there was no turning back. You’d either own this ring or drown in the noise.

The old, rickety van wheezed to a stop in front of the venue, its engine coughing out one last gasp before falling silent. Just a glance at the place made it clear—this wasn’t the kind of spot that hosted strictly legal business.

You climbed out first, the synthetic fur of your dark coat shielding you from the night’s chill. Beneath it, your outfit struck a perfect balance between chic and rebellious. The cold night air tugged at your hair as your eyes scanned the area, bracing for what was coming—what was already inevitable.

One by one, your bandmates clambered out, each hauling gear and instruments. Caleb moved with the energy of someone who didn’t know fear. His faded tee sported the design of a drum set engulfed in flames—a pretty accurate omen of his explosive style on stage.

“This is it,” he said with a dazzling grin, his eyes gleaming as he took in the building. “This is where legends are made.”

Elise, on the other hand, radiated skepticism. Adjusting her cardigan over her worn-out tee and ripped jeans, she wrinkled her nose at the scent of the place: a mix of sweat, metal, and old grease. “More like where questionable decisions get made,” she muttered, her sharp eyes sweeping the area with a critical glare. The strap of her bass rested securely over her shoulder—the only sign she was game to play, even if the vibe left her unimpressed.

Jonah strolled with an easy, unbothered pace, his battered guitar case slung across his back. His scruffy style fit him like a second skin: faded jeans, half-buttoned flannel shirt, and sneakers that had definitely seen better days. He eyed the structure of the ring with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Well, it’s got… character,” he offered, his signature lopsided grin firmly in place.

“Character? That’s what we’re calling get tetanus now? Because that’s exactly what it looks like… well, that,” Elise shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm and doubt as she pointed toward the ring with pursed lips, clearly regretting every step closer.

Inside, the venue was even more intimidating. At the center, the ring stood like a caged beast, its metal fences glinting under the dim lighting. The air was heavy with sweat, cheap beer, and the tang of rust. The noise was deafening—shouts, bets, and loud, animated conversations filled the space with a raw, unfiltered energy.

As you ventured further into the room, the crowd’s sounds grew louder—a chaotic hum of rising and falling voices, rough laughter, and the occasional sharp clang of someone adjusting the metal fencing. This wasn’t a place built for music, but there was something raw and real about it that started to settle deep in your bones.

There’s no turning back now, you thought. Time to face it.

You felt every gaze from the crowd piercing through you as you moved toward the ring. Some faces showed nothing but curiosity; others sparked with skepticism, maybe even a hint of mockery, like they were silently asking what the hell you were doing here. But wasn’t that the challenge? Earning a place in a space that was never meant for you. The idea was absurd, sure—but it was thrilling, too. And though your mind kept grappling with uncertainty, a flicker of pride began to surface. This place didn’t belong to you, but you were about to make it yours.

Caleb led the charge, heading up the little procession with the same boundless enthusiasm he'd had since pitching this whole plan. His stride was quick, deliberate, practically buzzing with energy. You could feel it even from behind him. Still, his movements were just a little too rushed, like he was trying to mask any nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You knew he was hyped, but you also knew this was his gamble—and he couldn’t afford to lose.

Jonah walked beside you, his pace relaxed, almost like he didn’t care about the chaos surrounding him. But you knew him too well to buy into that front. His eyes were taking in every detail—the dim lights dangling over the ring, the faces of the closest spectators, the vibe of the entire scene. There was something about the way Jonah observed things, always finding music in the most unexpected places, and it gave you a sliver of calm.

Trailing behind, Elise was pure focus. She didn’t say much, but her silence spoke volumes—she was calculating, assessing, ready for anything that could go wrong. You didn’t expect her to enjoy being here, but you knew that once she stepped into the ring, there’d be no room for doubt in her steady hands.

Before you reached the ring, Cassios—the host—emerged from the shadows, his presence impossible to ignore. He was a mountain of a man, with a piercing glare that could cut right through anyone who dared cross him.

“The ring’s clear, like I promised,” he said in a gravelly, controlled tone, his gaze scanning each band member. “You’ve got one hour. Make it count.” There was respect in his voice, sure, but also a clear demand: prove you deserve to be here.

No pressure, buddy.

When you reached the center of the ring, time seemed to slow down for a moment. The lights hanging above you were way too dim, colorful, and the glint of metal transformed the space into something even more chaotic. You dropped your gear, each of you moving with clear purpose.

Caleb dove straight into setting up his drums, his hands darting across cymbals and bolts while his feet tapped out a soft rhythm, almost like he was mentally gearing up for what lay ahead. Jonah adjusted his amp, his fingers gliding over his guitar strings with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing, even in uncharted territory. Elise, methodical as always, crouched to double-check every cable and connection, ensuring nothing would fail in the critical moment.

As for you, you approached the mic already waiting at the center. You ran your fingertips over the stand, letting the cold metal anchor you in the present. Taking a deep breath, you raised your gaze toward the metal cage separating you from the crowd. The faces were still there—expectant, some impatient, others just curious. Your heartbeat quickened, but you let it ride. This was your moment, and there wasn’t time for hesitation.

As the final adjustments came together, the noise of the crowd morphed into a sort of background rhythm—a restless energy feeding into everything you were about to unleash. Caleb’s drum taps echoed like heartbeats, steady and full of promise, signaling the start of something new. Jonah tested a chord, the crisp sound slicing through the air, while Elise ran her fingers over her bass strings, checking the depth of her tone. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sounds fuse together inside you, forming the bedrock of what was to come.

When you opened them again, everything was in place. It didn’t matter that you were standing in a fight ring, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and an air thick with skepticism. The only thing that mattered now was the music—and you were ready to let it do the talking.

Time stretched as you adjusted the mic in front of you. Beyond the metal cage separating you from the crowd, the energy buzzed—a mix of vibrant anticipation and overlapping shouts, filling every corner of the space. A rush of adrenaline shot through you, grounding you in the surreal intensity of the moment. This wasn’t the stage of your dreams—it was a fight ring, a place built for confrontation, not harmony. And yet, standing there, you felt every fiber of your being bracing itself to claim it as your own.

Your breath was slow, deliberate, as you scanned the audience. You could feel the weight of all the emotions riding on this: the uncertainty, the doubt, the pressure to make it work. But when you wrapped your fingers around the mic, something shifted. The firm grip drew in all the scattered energy around you, focusing it into one electric point. Your eyes burned with an internal fire as you stepped forward, the proximity to the crowd sending your pulse into overdrive. This wasn’t fear. This was challenge. This was hunger—the drive to prove what you were made of.

“A wild crowd, I see,” you began, your tone magnetic, alive. “Tonight, this ring isn’t just a battlefield—it’s a stage. A stage of fire and freedom. You came here for a fight, but what you’re about to witness is… a revolution.”

Your words stirred a ripple of intrigue through the audience, pulling them toward the show about to unfold. Even Elise, doubts and all, couldn’t help but admire the way you held the room captive with just a line.

Alright then. Showtime.

The first chord tore through the air like unexpected thunder. Jonah was the one to strike it, his fingers sliding over the strings with precision while the amps magnified the sound into something bigger than the space itself. For a moment, that ring—so used to screams and blows—stood suspended, caught in the echo of that opening note.

Caleb’s drumming kicked in instantly, each beat landing with the force of a heartbeat full of life. Elise’s bassline followed, deep and grounding, anchoring everything to solid ground even as the ring’s walls continued to hum with the voices of the crowd.

You, standing at the mic, felt it all start to click. The energy from your bandmates surged into the air, flowing toward you like an invitation, a call to rise to the moment. Your breathing steadied, your body alive with adrenaline and purpose. Then, as you opened your mouth and let the first note fly, everything changed.

Your voice pierced the air like lightning—clear, charged with raw emotion. It was strength, it was fire, but it was also a bridge. Each word you sang felt like a lifeline connecting the band to the audience, who began to stir, slowly at first, like they were waking from a deep haze as the music pulled them in.

The skeptical faces you’d noticed earlier were now tinged with surprise; some crossed arms loosened, and murmurs gave way to focused attention. You felt it—that connection. It coursed through you like electricity, from the soles of your boots to the tips of your fingers, surging out through your voice and wrapping around the crowd like an invisible current.

The sound was a chaotic symphony of control and expression. Jonah and Elise were loosening up, letting the music guide them back to their comfort zone. Caleb was utterly in his element, each crash of his drumsticks carrying a weight and intention that seemed to fill the entire ring.

And you… you were somewhere else entirely. As the lights flickered above you and the metal’s glint seemed to dance in sync with the rhythms, you let everything you felt pour into every note. Your stance grew stronger with every line, your voice not just singing but speaking directly to the crowd, as if tearing down the metal barricades separating you from them.

The audience began to shift, little by little—first in subtle movements, then in shouts echoing your choruses. Someone in the back threw their hands up, and it was enough to set off a chain reaction. Arms lifted, heads nodded, and individual voices fused into one collective roar, an energy that pulsed through the room and back into the band like some invisible fuel.

You let your emotions lead. You could feel the heat of the lights, the roar of the crowd, the vibration of every instrument. It was a moment that consumed and freed you all at once. The space was no longer a fight ring—it was yours. Every note, every drumbeat, every lyric was a declaration that you could turn any space into something unforgettable. And as the music soared toward its first climax, you felt something new: you weren’t just playing anymore. You were creating magic in a place no one expected it.

This was art—chaotic, unrestrained, and undeniably alive.

The streets had been his home for so long that Seiya could no longer tell the difference between a refuge and a prison. Every step felt like a fight against the concrete beneath his feet, against the invisible weight he carried since the day his life shattered. That night, his body still bore the ache of blows from the ring hours before, his skin marked by the memory of a battle fought not for glory but survival. His muscles throbbed, sure, but the real burden sat elsewhere—in that corner of his mind where desperation twisted into routine, creating a storm with no end in sight.

The fight, the ring, the shouts—they were all part of his world now. He didn’t enjoy it, but he accepted it, because there wasn’t anything else. Seiya didn’t fight to win; he fought because it was the only way to fill the silence, to scrape together enough cash to keep going. Life on the streets had taught him one thing: time didn’t wait for anyone, especially not for someone like him—someone who’d mastered the art of building invisible walls between himself and everyone else.

As he wandered the edges of the venue, his gaze swept across the faces in the crowd—a patchwork of expressions he’d trained himself to ignore. Thrilled faces, hyped for the next brawl with a mix of eagerness and cynicism. Lonely souls, like him, who didn’t belong but stayed because they had nowhere else to be.

He was ready to leave, fed up with the endless cycle of this scene, a life that felt stuck on repeat. His mind worked on autopilot—head for the exit, find some corner to crash in for the night, rinse and repeat tomorrow. That was his routine, a relentless engine that never missed a beat.

And then something happened. The first strum of a guitar ripped through the air, freezing him mid-step before he reached the exit. His stride faltered, and almost against his will, his eyes drifted toward the center of the ring. A band? Here? The thought hit him like a punch. It was an unexpected intrusion into the chaos he knew so well, and something about that discord—the sheer audacity of bringing music into this place—kept him rooted in place. Seiya shifted to the back, blending into the shadows, watching cautiously as it unfolded.

For a moment, his focus wasn’t even on the band. His gaze roamed the space, trying to figure out how this anomaly fit into a world he thought he understood. The lights burned brighter than usual, throwing jagged shadows across the metal fences. The crowd was split—some watching with anticipation, others clinging to their doubt. The air crackled with tension, with some unspoken challenge hanging in the balance. And so, Seiya stayed where he was, waiting, not yet ready to commit.

And then he saw you. When the people ahead of him shifted, granting him a clear view of the ring, his breath hitched. You stood in the center, gripping the mic with a confidence that clashed sharply against the gritty backdrop. In that instant, the noise, the voices, even the exhaustion weighing him down—all of it faded into nothing. The curiosity that had been absent moments ago sparked to life, slow but undeniable, tugging Seiya away from his indifference.

There was something magnetic about you—something he couldn’t brush off. His mind, conditioned to survive and move on, came to a screeching halt. For the first time in forever, the noise, the fights, even his own fatigue fell away, eclipsed by something else.

And then you began to sing. Seiya felt a wave unlike anything he’d ever known. Your voice crashed through the invisible walls he’d built around himself, filling him with something he didn’t know how to name. Every word you sang, every note that left your lips, felt like it was directed straight at him, daring him to look past his daily grind. His emotions stirred—a chaotic mix of awe, curiosity, and something dangerously close to relief. For the first time in what felt like years, he was witnessing something worth stopping for.

As the first song rolled on, Seiya realized his reactions weren’t following the script he knew. At first, he stood stiff, observing from his pocket of shadows. But as the music poured into the space, swelling with the band’s raw energy, something began to shift inside him. His arms fell from their tightly crossed position, his stance loosened, and at some point, he even found himself wanting to get closer. He nudged a couple of people out of the way to clear his line of sight. Your energy—combined with the band’s unique blend of defiance and authenticity—seemed to catch on like wildfire. Even someone like him, who rarely let himself feel much of anything, began to sense a spark of something close to comfort in the middle of all this chaos.

You glanced at the crowd every now and then, and though your gaze never landed directly on him, Seiya felt as if each glance carried something meant for him. It was strange, almost surreal, but it was grounding in a way he hadn’t experienced before. In this unexpected, chaotic corner of his world, he’d found a fragment of something that felt… like hope.

The final chord rang out, fading into the air and leaving an awkward silence behind, quickly filled by the crowd’s applause. Seiya, still tucked into the shadows, felt the realization hit like a sucker punch: he’d enjoyed it. But the problem wasn’t the music, or the band, or even the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The problem was that he knew it. Damn it.

He berated himself internally—there was no room for this in his world. Music was a luxury, something that belonged to other people, to those who had the time and freedom to be moved by chords and voices filling the air. Seiya wasn’t part of that. His life was built on hits—those he took in the ring and those the city hurled at him every day without mercy. He didn’t have the luxury of holding onto anything because nothing stayed, nothing was his. And the one person who had managed to stay had been ripped away from him long ago, leaving scars deep enough to shape his very soul. So no, this couldn’t get to him. But it had. The fucking truth? He’d felt something.

The crowd was waking up now. The energy that had been hesitant at first was now flowing freely, like a dam bursting and unleashing its pent-up fury. Seiya watched as the people—those same people who’d ignored the first chords with casual indifference—now threw their hands up, shouted, gave themselves over to the scene unfolding in the ring. Some sang along to the chorus without hesitation, others simply nodded in rhythm, letting the music sweep them up without a fight. It was ridiculous. This transformation, this complete surrender to something no one expected ten minutes ago… but Seiya couldn’t deny it. It was happening. And the worst part? He was caught in it too.

He looked to the ring—at you—and found the real problem. You didn’t seem surprised by the crowd’s reaction. There was no trace of uncertainty, no hesitation about whether you belonged here. You just knew. You knew your voice would flip the script, that your music would carve out a new space in this chaotic, gritty atmosphere. Seiya watched as you gave a slight nod of thanks, paired with a smile—not triumphant, but certain. Against all logic, he found himself stuck in that moment.

Don’t get used to it, he told himself, like some kind of survival mantra. Don’t fall for the euphoria, the sound, the way these musicians seemed to command the air with every note. But his body had other ideas. His feet didn’t move toward the exit. His arms, still crossed, didn’t feel as tense anymore. Something had shifted, and even as he tried to convince himself this meant nothing, he knew he was lying.

You stepped forward, mic in hand. “Wow, the adrenaline in this room’s no joke. Or maybe it’s the beer talking?” you teased, your tone a perfect mix of challenge and charisma. “If you’re still here, we’ll take that as a sign we’re not too bad, right?”

The crowd answered with cheers and whistles, as if accepting the band’s presence instinctively rather than out of total conviction. From his corner, Seiya rolled his eyes, exasperation creeping into his thoughts. Great. Now they’re interacting. Guess they’re officially part of the ring ecosystem.

You laughed lightly, playing off their response. “See? Stepping out of the routine’s not so bad. No offense, but I think I’d rather hear this than the noise of fists flying, right? Same chaos, just… more in tune.” You arched a brow, your words dripping with playful daring.

Seiya snorted. Sure. Like this place needs motivational philosophy now. He glanced around, noticing how, against all odds, some people seemed genuinely responding to your words. What’s next? Self-help speeches between rounds?

But deep down, something about your words unsettled him—not because they were false, but because they rang true. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but tonight felt different. What had always been a predictable grind—a cycle of fights and losses—now had an unexpected layer. He refused to acknowledge it and settled back into his usual stance of indifference.

“We’re making tonight count,” you said, your voice steady but light. “If you came here to forget it all for a while, then let’s do it right.”

The night rolled forward, the next song on the brink of starting. Seiya let out a long sigh—the kind of sigh you give when you realize you’ve already lost the fight. Fine, he thought with reluctant acceptance. I’ll stay. But not because I want to. Just to see if this keeps being good.

Yeah, right. Like he didn’t already know the answer.

The last chord faded into the air, leaving behind a chaotic euphoria. The crowd—who’d initially eyed the band with the same suspicion reserved for a sketchy street vendor at dawn—was now roaring with applause, whistles, and shouts that mingled admiration with raw adrenaline. The ring, once a space ruled by fists and wagers, had transformed into another world—one where sweat and sound fused into something unforgettable.

Still holding the mic, you let the night’s energy course through you before speaking. You took a deep breath, your body still vibrating with the intensity of the final song, and when you spoke, your voice carried strong, steady. “That was amazing—thank you!”

The crowd answered with louder cheers, some even banging on the metal fences in a makeshift round of applause. The band exchanged glances—Caleb glowing with pure adrenaline, Jonah as chill as ever, and Elise somewhere between relief and satisfaction.

“We came here to play, but you made it worth it,” you continued, your voice tinged with the thrill of the moment. “See you soon, and remember: art can be just as loud and fierce as the punches.”

Jonah chuckled at your words, Caleb lifted his arms in triumph like he’d just won a championship match, and Elise leaned into her bass, eyes closed for a second, a smile tugging at her lips—a clear, resigned ‘you were right’. Turning to them, you let the rush settle in your chest, your heart pounding like Caleb’s drumming, the energy still echoing on your skin.

Amid the uproar, while you and your bandmates started packing up, something shifted. A gaze, from the crowd—different from the rest, pulling at your attention. Instinctively, your head turned to find it, but the dim light and packed space worked against you. You shook it off, deciding it was probably just another fan drawn to the band’s presence.

Still, you knew. You felt. This wasn’t just anyone.

When most of the gear was packed, you gave your band a subtle signal—a motion they knew well. Their nods came quick, silently granting you a moment to yourself: you needed air. Space. That breath between chaos and calm where scattered fragments could knit themselves back together, grounding you anew.

You threaded your way to the building’s outer wall, stepping into shadows that wrapped around you like a familiar embrace. Leaning against the rough concrete, your spine unwound just enough, the solid contact anchoring you to reality. Your hands, still tense from gripping the mic, gradually unclenched, the phantom feel of metal lingering against your fingertips.

Closing your eyes, you let the night speak. The distant hum of the dispersing crowd, the muffled music still pulsing from inside, the soft crackle of leaves brushing against the breeze—it was your private concert of serenity, the exact rhythm you needed to balance the lingering fire in your chest.

Your thoughts spiraled like looping notes in a tricky melody. Memories of standing in the center of the ring, absorbing every vibration, every look, every emotion, filled you with a controlled kind of euphoria. You’d never been one for cliché expectations or the chaotic rebel archetype often stapled to rock musicians.

For you, every note had a purpose; every word sung stretched deeply rooted truths. It wasn’t just noise—it was art, impact, connection. But these moments of calm mattered just as much, the spaces where you questioned whether you’d reached every soul you aimed to touch, whether your music had truly delivered something real.

Your breath came slow, deliberate, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Beneath it, though, a faint tremor thrummed, a current refusing to fade completely. You’d done what you came to do—that much was clear—but you couldn’t deny the restless charge still coursing through you. Your legs shook just slightly—not out of weakness, but a surplus of energy seeking release. With a smooth, deliberate motion, you tilted your head, letting the night air kiss your neck, clearing your thoughts.

Faces from the crowd flickered in your mind—some brimming with doubt, others curious, at first. Now, those same faces had sent you off with cheers and applause, their echoes still thudding faintly in your chest. It wasn’t vanity driving your reflections, but a hunger to understand. Had they seen what you intended to show? Had they grasped that music wasn’t just chaotic noise, but something capable of turning even the harshest spaces into living, breathing transcendence? You weren’t looking for easy answers—you knew real connections didn’t happen in an instant. They lingered. Grew. Took root.

And then you felt it. Not a sound, not a sudden movement—but a presence. The kind of energy that pulls your senses to alert before your thoughts catch up. Instinctively, you turned toward the shift, scanning the dim air for what had unsettled it.

And there he was.

He emerged from the side door with a natural ease that felt almost too perfect—like it had been practiced. His steps were firm but unhurried, a casual confidence radiating from the way his zip hoodie hung loosely over his shoulders and how the messy strands of his dark hair caught the faint moonlight filtering through the shadows. There was something about him you recognized before you even understood why. Maybe it was the way his expression balanced exhaustion and self-assuredness in perfect harmony, like someone who’d mastered the art of survival.

He's handsome, though.

He didn’t seem to have noticed you yet, but every fiber of his being reacted to your presence, as if drawn to it without choice. You stayed still, keeping your gaze locked on him—no retreat, no hesitation. And when his eyes finally found yours, it happened: that spark, that small friction between two worlds that weren’t supposed to touch, but somehow did.

It was him, you thought, the realization hitting as you remembered the feeling from earlier in the ring. That sensation of being watched, of someone seeing you differently from all the others, lingering in your chest like an echo.

Seiya, on the other hand, had already decided it was time to go. He’d been there longer than planned, and staying any longer would mean admitting that something about all of this had gotten to him. And no thanks.

His feet carried him more by habit than conscious decision. There were too many reasons to leave and zero to stay. Routine was all he knew, and even though tonight had been different, it wasn’t going to break him out of it.

He was adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder when he saw you.

Just a glimpse at first, a figure half-lost in the shadows. His brain told him to keep walking, but something made him stop. His gaze, which usually avoided lingering on anyone, locked onto yours, and he couldn’t look away. There was something in your eyes—an intensity mixed with calm, a contradiction that somehow matched the chaos of the world around you. For a moment—and for the second time that night—everything else disappeared.

The moonlight brushed against you in soft streaks, just enough to outline your figure and amplify that aura around you, that thing that couldn’t be named but demanded attention. It wasn’t just the way your hair fell or the relaxed posture you held, marked with an almost defiant confidence. It was how you occupied space, like the night itself bent to fit around you.

Simply beautiful.

Seiya wasn’t the type to get caught up in someone else’s gaze. His life was built on walls no one got through, and he liked it that way. But this time, the walls didn’t go up. This time, it felt like there was no “before” or “after”—just the moment you both shared in that exact second.

“Escaping the noise too?” you asked, your voice slicing through the quiet with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

Seiya tilted his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on you like he was trying to figure you out. “Something like that. Though some people seem… fascinated by it.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning forward just enough to signal you were sizing him up too. “So, are you the type who watches from a distance, or do you like to be part of the show?”

“Depends,” Seiya replied, his tone dry but laced with humor. “Which one causes less trouble?”

You raised an eyebrow, a half-smile curving your lips. “Well, you stuck around till the end. Maybe you’re more part of the show than you like to admit.”

Seiya exhaled sharply through his nose, the slightest betrayal of amusement flickering across his face. “Seemed less pathetic to stay than to leave halfway through,” he shot back, his tone flat, though his stance betrayed the cracks in his indifference.

Your laugh came again, the kind that felt deeper than it sounded, carrying a weight of genuine amusement. “You’ve got a real talent for making a completely normal decision sound like a personal tragedy.”

Seiya turned his head slightly, eyeing you with a mix of disbelief and faint amusement. Is this really what we’re doing right now? “I just keep expectations low,” he countered, like it would somehow help him regain footing in the exchange.

You tilted your head, faking a thoughtful expression. “Smart move. Too bad you watched the show—that kind of ruins the whole ‘not interested’ vibe you’ve got going.”

He clicked his tongue but couldn’t stop the slight smirk tugging at his lips. Alright. She’s good at this. “I don’t like leaving without knowing how something ends. Call it professional curiosity.”

“Professional, huh?” you shot back, your smile playful, almost feline, your eyes gleaming with genuine yet calculated interest. “Alright then, Simon Cowell, what’s your verdict? Did we survive the ring, or did they let us stay because kicking us out would’ve been more effort?”

Seiya, amused by the nickname, stifled a laugh and tilted his head slightly, pretending to think, his face the picture of neutrality. “It was... a decent attempt. I was this close to telling them never to let you back, but I figured I’d be generous.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile stretching just a fraction. “Wow. Thanks for your mercy. A true act of generosity.”

Seiya shook his head, trying to mask the humor flickering in his eyes, but it was no use—she’d already seen through it. Alright, I can play along, he thought, rolling his shoulders slightly to loosen the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You stretched lazily, shaking off the remnants of adrenaline still humming in your muscles from the performance. Then, without warning, you turned slightly toward him, your energy calm yet charged with intent.

You didn’t push him. Didn’t stare like you were expecting some dramatic confession. You just looked at him, studied him, like you could see past the walls he’d spent years perfecting. The sensation sent a quiet electric shock down his spine. Shit. I liked that.

Finally, he let out a short sigh—the kind that marked a partial surrender. “It wasn’t bad.”

Satisfied, you laughed softly, the sound short but triumphant. “That’s probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given all night.”

Seiya shook his head, planting his hands on his hips as his lips curled into a laugh he couldn’t quite contain. “A compliment? Wow, sweetheart, if that’s your standard, someone needs to get you into a crash course.”

You didn’t hold back your own laughter, the entire exchange skirting the edge of ridiculous yet undeniably charming. “A crash course? Oh, please. Tell me you’re not volunteering to teach it, because with that level of compliments, I can already guess the syllabus: Lesson one—How to Be Barely Acceptable.”

He dropped his gaze to the ground, shaking his head and biting his tongue lightly to keep from grinning too widely. When his eyes lifted to meet yours again, the glint in them was mischievous.

“What do you want? More elaborate compliments?” he said, his voice dry but laced with a quiet challenge. “Hate to break it to you, but those aren’t part of the basic package. If you want the deluxe, you’re gonna have to work a little harder.”

One eyebrow shot up, incredulous but amused. This was shaping up to be more entertaining than you’d expected. Crossing your arms over your chest, you tilted your chin up, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, really? So that’s your way of asking me to come around here more often? Kind of an odd approach, I’ll admit, but hey, it's fair.”

Seiya let out a short laugh, more a sharp exhale through his nose than a real sound, as he raised his chin slightly, meeting your gaze with a mix of steady defiance and a flicker of arrogance. His posture stayed loose—relaxed, shoulders barely leaning back, as if the entire conversation was a game he already knew how to win.

You noticed that careful confidence radiating off him, and something inside you stirred—a spark of intrigue laced with amusement. You tilted your head slightly, matching his calm intensity, studying him like you were deciding whether to give him the edge in this verbal duel. His smile, which had started as just a hint, grew wider, slower, more dangerous—like a playful threat.

Seiya broke eye contact for a moment, letting the silence stretch like it belonged to him, before looking back at you, his eyes glowing with something balanced between quiet certainty and effortless magnetism.

“Who said I was asking?” he repeated, his tone light enough to seem casual, but sharp enough to leave no room for doubt.

You feigned a gasp, your eyes never leaving his. “Oh, my bad. I thought I caught a trace of vulnerability there for a second. But of course, I should’ve known—definitely not your style.”

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring his presence closer without crossing the line into invasive.

“I’m just stating the obvious,” he added, letting the pause between his words hang in the air like a taunt. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he raised an eyebrow and let a faint, almost imperceptible smirk play on his lips. “You’ll be back.”

Both your eyebrows lifted this time, as if you were genuinely surprised, but your smile sharpened—an edge to it now, like someone who’d silently accepted the challenge without needing to declare it. Your arms stayed crossed, your back pressing into the wall like you’d decided to settle in and enjoy the show.

“I’ll be back, huh?” you repeated, letting his words hang provocatively in the space between you. “I’d love to hear your argument if you weren’t so… desperate to convince me.” Your tone danced between disbelief and playful mockery, your gaze locked onto his like you’d just uncovered something fascinating. “For someone who claims they stayed till the end out of courtesy, you seem awfully invested in whether or not I return.”

As you spoke, a slow smile curved your lips—the kind that said you were enjoying calling him out but leaving him just enough room to fire back. Come on, impress me. Show me you can keep up, you thought, studying every subtle shift in his expression.

Seiya’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if weighing each word before throwing it back. His smile unfolded with deliberate ease, a brief flicker that didn’t bother hiding how amused he was by your comment.

“Awfully invested?” he repeated with mock surprise, his voice dripping with irony but tinged with something warmer—almost flirtatious. He stepped closer, the movement slow and impossibly smooth, closing the gap between you with the kind of ease that felt calculated. “Well, if something doesn’t add up, maybe you’re looking in the wrong place. Maybe the problem isn’t my interest—maybe it’s how much you’re thinking about it.”

The spark in your eyes brightened, a silent challenge reflected in your expression. Your smile turned mischievous, and you leaned in just enough to shrink the space he’d bridged, meeting him head-on.

“Oh, sure,” you said softly, your tone bordering on conspiratorial. “Blame the observer. Interesting tactic. But if you’re so good at pointing out other people’s flaws, why not start with your own? Because, so far, it looks like you’re enjoying this way more than you’d ever admit.”

Seiya let out a quiet laugh, though this time it carried something different. It wasn’t any less playful, but it felt more restrained, like part of him had decided to pump the brakes without drawing too much attention to it.

“You know, Star,” he said, his voice infused with that signature light irony of his, “for someone who keeps insisting they’re not interested, you seem pretty dedicated to challenging me.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, your smile sharpening with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Star?” you repeated, letting the word hang between you like you were deciding whether to accept or reject the nickname outright.

Seiya tilted his head, unhurried, clearly savoring the moment.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, as though no further explanation was needed. Then he let loose a lazy smile, one loaded with intention. “You shine. You draw attention. And admit it—you love being the center of the stage.”

You let out a low chuckle, dropping your arms and resting them behind you.

“Well, aren’t you poetic,” you said with mock innocence. “But tell me—is that an observation or a veiled compliment?”

Seiya held your gaze, his smirk sharpening just enough to reveal the glint of a challenge. “I’ll let you figure that one out.”

And there it was again—that flicker of intrigue that lit up his dark gaze. It was the spark that had kept you engaged, responding to every word he threw your way, keeping you entertained in his presence longer than you’d intended. It was curious, striking, unique. Though, of course, you’d never admit that out loud—least of all to him.

His confidence was fascinating, sure, but you weren’t about to fan the flames of his ego. Not yet.

“You know,” you began, your tone playful but sharp, “I appreciate that you at least care about putting on a show. It’s the least I’d expect from someone with an ego the size of yours.”

Seiya let out a theatrical sigh. “There you go again with the ego. It’s fascinating how that’s always the first thing you go for—like you’re trying to convince me of something. Do you want me humble, or do you just enjoy the effort?”

You grinned, unapologetic. “Convince? Not really. That’s your job—you seem pretty good at it. I’m just saying you’ll keep thinking you’re irresistible no matter what, so I might as well make use of it.”

“That sounds like a confession. Careful, Star, you might end up admitting you find me charming,” he teased, arching his brows, his smirk lazy but razor-sharp.

You laughed, placing a hand over your chest. “Let’s not exaggerate. Pleasant? Maybe. Entertaining? Sure. Stubborn and in denial? Absolutely. Charming…? Let’s stick with ‘interesting.’”

Seiya pretended to mull it over, then snapped his fingers. “I’ll take it. ‘Interesting’ has potential—kinda mysterious, kinda promising. I’m keeping it.”

The air between you still vibrated with that magnetic tension neither of you seemed willing to break. You looked at him with a mix of amusement and scrutiny, enjoying how, even in his apparent ease, he kept that edge in every word.

He was... interesting. The way he played without losing too much ground, balancing sass with caution, like someone who wanted to dive in but kept one foot on the shore. Curious, you thought. Is he always like this, or is it just with me?

A mystery worth unraveling, wasn’t it?

Straightening up slightly, you kept that fierce yet effortless energy wrapped around you. “Maybe I should keep coming back. Who knows—maybe you’ll outdo my ‘interesting’ expectations and prove you actually know how to give a decent compliment.”

“And maybe you’ll prove you really don’t need them, Star,” he shot back, his tone lighter, more amused now. Touché.

The two of you stayed there, caught in that small bubble the rest of the city seemed to have forgotten. Neither of you moved right away; neither filled the air with needless chatter. It was simple—but not empty. There was something about sharing this space, this moment, that left a mark, like the universe had decided this wasn’t just a random encounter.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it felt like a third participant in your interaction, filling the gaps with everything left unsaid. The words you traded were charged with double meanings, but it wasn’t just the words that carried the moment. It was the details: the way Seiya tilted slightly forward when he spoke, the gleam in your eyes when you responded, the calculated pauses both of you seemed to have mastered.

The closeness between you wasn’t overwhelming—it was just enough to make every movement, every gesture, carry weight. A challenge in itself, a game where neither of you was willing to back down, but neither was rushing forward too quickly. The air felt charged, brimming with unspoken possibilities and unacknowledged expectations.

This balance—between heat and control, between hidden intensity and playful banter—was what made the moment so unique. Neither of you had crossed any lines, but you both knew you were toeing the edge, and that edge was enough to keep you hooked in the game.

“Maybe,” he finally said, his grin small but almost conspiratorial. “And just maybe, if you skip the Glam Metal in your next set, you might actually score higher with me.”

The comment hung in the air, trailing his laid-back but deliberate tone. You raised a hand, cutting off any incoming replies, before leaning slightly to one side, adopting a theatrically relaxed posture.

“Glam Metal, huh? What’s the deal, Cowell? Not a fan of the genre?” you shot back, raising a single eyebrow with exaggerated surprise.

Seiya paused for a moment, feigning serious consideration, then shook his head. “Too much flash. Too much hairspray,” he admitted flatly.

You puckered your lips in faux disappointment before they curved into a conspiratorial smirk. “Shame. Guess I’ll have to work on changing that.”

One of his brows arched, curious and slightly amused. “Oh? That desperate to get a better compliment out of me? Ambitious, Star.”

You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes, but the playful smile stayed firmly in place. “I just like a good challenge, that’s all. Maybe the mistake was making you feel important,” you retorted, narrowing your eyes with a teasing edge. “You just focus on staying interesting, and it might work out better for you.”

Seiya let out a disbelieving but thoroughly satisfied laugh—this was all turning out so much better than he’d expected. It outshined any expectations that might’ve crossed his mind from the second your gazes had locked.

The night felt like it was slowly wrapping itself around you both, but neither of you seemed quite ready to call it quits. The conversation hadn’t been mere banter—it was a challenge, a duel camouflaged in playful sparring.

But now the challenge was unmistakably on the table. The promise of a next encounter lingered in the air, and though neither of you said it aloud, you both knew this wouldn’t be the last time you shared the same stage.

“You definitely have a flair for the dramatic,” he said at last, his crooked smile settling firmly as he stepped back, deliberately creating distance. “Just don’t let it go to your head when you find out I’m easier to impress than I look.”

“Easy? Ow, and here I thought I’d found a challenge,” you complained, dropping your shoulders in mock disappointment. “Guess I’ll take comfort in the fact you just admitted you’re easy to impress. Takes the pressure off.”

Seiya took another step back, raising both hands in faux surrender, though the spark in his eyes said he wasn’t done yet. “Ah, don’t mistake honesty for weakness, Star. I’m just setting the stage for what comes next.”

You watched as he stepped further away, the reality sinking in that your paths would soon split again. Somewhere deep inside, a part of you wished you could stretch this moment just a little longer, that fate might conspire in your favor and keep him there. But another part of you buzzed with excitement for what was ahead—the anticipation of everything you’d both silently promised would happen next time.

You might’ve been about to part ways, but you carried the unspoken certainty of meeting again.

“How thoughtful,” you called out before he could leave, crossing your arms. “I just hope your memory’s as good as you claim. Wouldn’t want you forgetting your own words.”

Seiya paused to give you one last glance, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he walked further away. “What’s this? Doubting how unforgettable you are? Where’d all that confidence go, sweetheart?” he teased, finishing with a wink that lit a slow fire in your chest. “Relax, though—it wouldn’t be so easy to forget something like this, Star.”

Finally, he turned his back and continued on his way. His words left a strange flutter in your stomach, one you couldn’t quite pin down. Surprise, butterflies, or the leftover cold pizza you’d scarfed down before hitting the stage—any of those could’ve been the culprit.

What you did know was that this guy, with his disheveled charm and effortless aloofness, carried something—a something—that pulled at you, like opposite poles of a magnet. He was interesting, you hadn’t been lying about that. There was something about him that kept you on edge, intrigued, drawn in. It was too soon to jump to conclusions, though—you’d need more than a teasing smile and a challenging gaze to figure out what was really going on.

And of course, you were willing to find out.

The space itself seemed to hold on to a piece of you both, a spark that hadn’t quite fizzled out. Neither of you had fully realized it yet—not entirely. The connection was there, subtle, just an idea flickering at the edges of your thoughts, shapeless but persistent. And yet, you both felt it: there was something in the air tonight, something that made the moment resonate longer and louder than expected.

At first, you’d been full of doubts. Something about this place hadn’t quite clicked with what you wanted to project. Was the crowd the right fit? Would this gig be worth it? You’d considered keeping it simple, not overcomplicating things in a venue that didn’t entirely feel like yours.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t about the place or even the music anymore. It was the challenge, the meeting of minds, the chemistry that seemed to weave itself into the air in so little time. Now, the idea of avoiding this place didn’t even cross your mind. Instead, you found yourself searching for a reason to come back. The venue hadn’t changed, but the reason had.

For Seiya, nights like this always seemed fleeting. They started with a clear purpose: keep moving, don’t put down roots, don’t linger longer than necessary. Sticking around hadn’t been his plan; in fact, he hadn’t even seen the point in staying.

But something shifted when he heard you, when he saw you in that ring. Your sharp comebacks, your mischievous smile, your gaze, your energy. It hadn’t just kept him alert—it made him wonder, What if I stayed a little longer? Every word exchanged with you etched itself into his mind, not as a casual conversation, but as a spark that kept quietly fueling a fire within him. It wasn’t the place, the music, or the moment. It was you.

Both of you, from your own angles, had landed on the same realization: the other had turned an otherwise forgettable night into something that refused to fade. The early doubts—about staying, or even coming back—had been erased by the constant charge of your interaction.

Seiya, someone who avoided looking back as much as possible, had found a reason to hold onto the memory. And you, someone who never let a place dictate your presence, now had a reason to return—and it wasn’t the lights or the stage.

The contrast between where you’d both started and where you’d ended was unmistakable. That invisible connection, like an unseen bridge built with each word, each glance, kept you tethered. And though neither of you would admit it out loud, you both knew this wasn’t a connection that would easily fade.

You’d always believed true connections didn’t happen instantly—that they lingered, spread, took root. But maybe, just maybe, this was the exception. Maybe it still needed time to grow, to catch fire, but the spark was there.

And sometimes, all it takes is a spark to start a wildfire.

#Seiya x reader #saint seiya #knights of the zodiac #Knights of the Zodiac: The Beginning #mackenyu #Mackenyu Seiya #pegasus seiya #live action #fem reader #x reader #romance #strangers to friends #friends to lovers #reader insert

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