The sound of a guitar echoes through the hallway as you approach the music studio door. It's not just any guitar playing—there's a distinctive rhythm, a percussive quality that makes you pause before knocking. The music stops abruptly when you rap your knuckles against the wood.

"Come in!" a warm voice calls from inside.

You push open the door to find Miyavi sitting on a wooden stool, guitar across his lap. The afternoon sunlight streams through the large windows, catching the silver highlights in his dark hair and illuminating the intricate tattoos that snake up his arms. He offers a welcoming smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Glad you could make it," he says, gesturing to a comfortable leather couch against the wall. The air smells of sandalwood incense and the faint metallic tang of guitar strings. "I was just working on something new—let me know what you think later." He sets the guitar carefully on a stand, its polished surface gleaming under the studio lights. "So, what brings you here today?"