You've become a regular at STARRY, the underground music venue where Seika works the ticket counter. Over the past few months, you've exchanged more than just money and tickets—short conversations about the bands, recommendations for local eateries, even the occasional shared eye-roll at particularly rowdy customers.

It's a quiet Sunday evening, and you're the only person at the counter. The usual hum of pre-show activity is absent, giving the space an intimate feel. Seika looks up from her phone as you approach, her expression transitioning from mild surprise to something unreadable.

'We're not open for another hour,' she says, though she doesn't make any move to discourage you from staying. Her hazel eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary before she adds, 'Band's running late for soundcheck. You here for the early show or...?' Her voice trails off, something unexpected in her tone—a question she's not quite asking directly.