Act 1, Chapter 16: Death Homesick

Saturday, 2:25 PM. Suede—Hiroki Yamada, Aoi Mizuno, and Junichi Enoshima—readied to counter Yakomori's 1 Week Go To Hell with their Death Homesick. A shoegaze alt-rock tribute that encapsulated themes of loss and defiance.

Hiroki plugged his late brother's black-gold custom Les Paul into a nearby amp, his Zoom G1X Four dialed to a clean phaser patch. He plucked each string, testing the tone, the lush spring reverb humming.

Aoi's fingers tightened around her weathered Ibanez GSRM20B bass, the strings vibrating under her touch, the beefy fuzz from her Zoom B1X Four adding a gritty edge to each pluck.

Junichi tested the studio’s drum kit, smacking snares, toms, kicks, and cymbals with precision, his sticks a blur. Both Hiroki and Aoi checked the mics, their voices crisp through the speakers. Everything was ready.

Hiroki leaned into the mic, his voice soft but confident. “We’re budget Deftones, but a trio from Japan. This one’s called Death Homesick.” Some chuckled at his dry humor, while the latter leaned forward, intrigued.

Hiroki, Aoi, and Junichi exchanged nods, their eyes locked in determination. Junichi's sharp drumsticks met in the air four times, each clap setting a driving tempo for the upcoming performance.

The song opened with Hiroki’s clean guitar, a phaser-drenched riff reminiscent of Nirvana’s Heart-Shaped Box but with a darker, heavier tone that evoked a sense of sinking into an abyss with a haunting intensity. The notes cascaded with lush spring reverb, pulling the audience into a melancholic trance.

They scream, my name.
They reap, my sow.
They laugh, my faith.
They watch, my death.

Hiroki’s voice, soft and cracked like Deftones’ Chino Moreno, wove despair into each word, the lyrics a raw reflection of Kaito’s loss.

Toriteba’s girls, caught off guard, pulled out their phones, recording eagerly as if it were their new favorite track. Yakomori’s boys nodded, their usual bravado replaced by quiet respect.

Aoi and Junichi swayed gently, awaiting their moment. Hiroki finished the intro verse, gently strumming an open string, letting the phaser and reverb linger like a ghost. The room fell silent, suspended in the void.

Then, a jump scare. Hiroki stomped his Zoom G1X Four, switching to a distorted JCM 800 patch. The amp roared, startling the audience like thunder after a calm rain.

He hammered an eight-in-a-row dissonant Em chord, then shifted to a D for another eight, evoking Deftones’ Be Quiet and Drive + Digital Bath.

Junichi unleashed a series of powerful strikes on the hi-hat four times, igniting Death Homesick into a raw, unfiltered explosion of energy that breathed life into every corner with its unbridled intensity.

Hiroki unleashed a brief fry scream, switched to a phased JCM 800 hybrid patch, strumming Em and D major chords relentlessly, and relentlessly headbanging like the rawness of Kurt Cobain.

Aoi’s Ibanez growled with a beefy fuzz bassline, swaying her body as she locked into a groovy rhythm.

Junichi’s drums thundered, blending hard-hitting beats with Latin-esque fills, buttery yet fierce. Three members sounded like a thousand, a hard-rock storm with shoegaze nostalgia.

The verse kicked in, Hiroki’s voice rising, blending Chino Moreno’s raw emotion with Matthew Bellamy’s theatrical wail:

I refuse, but you drag me down.
Months in hell, I fight evils.
I squander, with your barks.
Their bullets, splatter my skull.

Aoi's ethereal voice, reminiscent of Evanescence’s Amy Lee, intertwined with Hiroki's vocals. Harmonizing in a haunting melody that echoed the depths of emotion, her unwavering bass groove served as a steadfast anchor amidst the emotional storm.

The room erupted. Toriteba’s girls screamed like they’d met their idol, phones waving.

Yakomori’s boys banged their heads, starting a mini mosh pit like a chaotic rock concert.

The chorus suddenly hit like a tidal wave:

My war, they have done!
My home, they have dried!
My life, they have died!
My death, feels homesick!

Hiroki’s fry scream, raw and scarred, stunned the room—nobody expected Suede to go this hard.

He strummed barre chords—his screams may be simpler than Riku’s but visceral. Aoi’s angelic, choir-like vocals soared, a healing contrast to Hiroki’s demonic wail, her bassline anchoring the chaos. Junichi’s drumming grew aggressive yet smooth, his bluesy and Latin-esque fills adding flair.

Yakomori roared, their guttural screams and double devil horns saluting Suede’s intensity. Toriteba’s cheers grew louder, their earlier skepticism gone.

Death Homesick was bridging the gap—hard enough for Yakomori’s moshers, melodic enough for Toriteba’s casual fans.

After the chorus, the trio paused, letting their instruments ring. Junichi clapped the snare’s frame four times, signaling the solo.

The mood shifted to eerie calm. Junichi’s soft drum groove tapped snares, kicks, and rides with relaxed precision.

Aoi switched to a clean-compressed bass patch, maintaining her groovy bassline.

Hiroki’s clean guitar solo, phaser-drenched and inspired by Muse’s Uno, floated hauntingly, his gentle Floyd Rose shakes adding a ghostly vibrato.

It wasn’t Yakomori’s shred-fest, but its haunting melody and simplicity captivated.

Toriteba’s girls screamed louder, loving the softer contrast. Yakomori nodded, impressed by the mood shift.

The trio paused, enveloped in a moment of silence, the reverberating echoes of Hiroki's clean guitar filling the air with a haunting resonance that held the audience in suspense.

Then, the twist. Hiroki strummed his Les Paul’s headstock strings, unleashing a banshee-like screech.

The song roared back to its explosive verse, Hiroki kneeling on the floor, strumming Em and D major chords with raw aggression. Yakomori’s boys cheered wildly, their mini mosh pit reigniting with laughter.

After the final chorus, Hiroki strummed an open string, letting the JCM 800 distortion ring. Aoi plucked all four strings of her Ibanez, the fuzzy tone reverberating. Junichi closed with a bluesy, Latin-esque drum solo, his sticks dancing.

But Hiroki wasn’t done. He walked to the amp, knelt before its cabinet, and pressed his Les Paul against it, letting feedback wail like a ghost.

He shook the Floyd Rose, mimicking the chaotic showmanship of a literal Muse live concert. The audience laughed, some covering their ears at the brutal feedback, others cheering his audacity.

Then, the real twist: Hiroki launched into Nirvana’s School, its riff echoing Muse’s Stockholm Syndrome outro.

The room shifted to deafening cheers. Junichi jumped in with groovy, hard-hitting drums, and Aoi layered a beefy fuzz bassline.

Hiroki ended with a deafening harmonic open string, shaking the Floyd Rose for a divebomb wail, while Junichi’s drum solo and Aoi’s bass groove sealed the chaos.

The room exploded. Toriteba’s girls chanted “Suede! Suede!” their phones still recording, while Yakomori’s boys threw up devil horns, roaring approval.

Suede had done it—Death Homesick, with its unexpected medley outro, united the room, bridging Toriteba’s pop-rock fans and Yakomori’s metalheads.

Their raw, emotional performance, fueled by their losses, proved they could set the stage ablaze.

***

Saturday, 2:30 PM. Studio room B-6 was still reeling from Suede’s explosive performance of Death Homesick. The haunting shoegaze alt-rock anthem had ignited the twelve first-year Sakuragawa Light Music Club members.

Hiroki, Aoi, and Junichi stood on the small stage, catching their breath, their instruments still humming.

The five Toriteba girls chanted “Suede! Suede!” their phones still recording. Yakomori’s four boys roared with guttural screams and double devil horns, their mini mosh pit barely settled. Suede had united the room in a shared fire.

Hiroki leaned into the mic, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a hint of shyness. “Sometimes my creation frightens me.”

The room erupted, the sudden cheer and laughter startling him, causing him to jump back in surprise.

Junichi and Aoi flanked Hiroki, each grabbing a shoulder, their smiles and nods saying, "We did it." Performing for friends felt harder than facing a sea of strangers, but the response was undeniable—they’d moved the crowd.

Riku, still buzzing, bounded forward, phone in hand. “Bro! You still got that same spirit!” He held up a video, and Hiroki’s heart sank.

It was a clip from his middle school festival, him screaming Deftones’ Elite in a solo vocal performance, his chuunibyou “Dark Lord of Tartarus” persona in full cringe-inducing glory.

“Noooo!” Hiroki lunged, snatching Riku’s phone, his face burning with embarrassment.

The video, titled “A Japanese middle schooler performing Deftones - Elite” by touhoumaycry345 (Riku’s account), had been uploaded to YouTube two years ago.

It had 30,000 views, 1,000 likes, and a 32 dislike ratio. The virality mortified him—he imagined viewers mocking his awkward past.

“H-how… Where did you get this?!” Hiroki stammered, glaring at Riku.

Riku laughed, pointing at the screen. “I was there, recording at your festival.”

Hiroki’s jaw dropped. Riku had been at his middle school event? The idea of his “Dark Lord” phase being immortalized online made his stomach churn. “Oh shit, people are gonna call me cringe forever!”

Curiosity got the better of him, and he scrolled the comments. To his shock, they weren’t mocking:

“YO DUDE!!! THAT KID’S FIRE!!!”
“Chino Moreno would be proud!”
“This is what kids should do instead of mindlessly scrolling on TikTok! Keep up your talent!”
“When a random Japanese middle schooler with chuunibyou screams Deftones better than Chino Moreno himself.”
“I heard he cringed after this performance.”

A reply caught his eye: “What do you mean, 'cringed'?! I’d mosh the hell out of that place!” Another added, “The crowd sucked, ngl. They should’ve cheered louder for that kid!”

Hiroki blinked, stunned. The praise clashed with the deep-rooted sense of embarrassment within him.

Riku patted his shoulder, grinning. “It’s alright, dude! Everyone loves it! They keep asking, ‘Where’s this kid now?’”

Aoi stepped forward, her chuunibyou persona gleaming in awe. “The world hath recognized the true might of the Dark Lord of Tartarus.”

“Exactly!” Gojou chimed in, his drumsticks twirling. “They want you to rip the stage again!”

Daichi nodded, still hyped from Suede’s Death Homesick. “That was nuts, man! Clean start, then hardcore chorus, back to clean, then that riff? Insane!”

Aoi’s words from their morning jog echoed in Hiroki’s mind: “I know you tried to bury your Dark Lord persona. But there’ll come a time when you’ll crave it again.” The memory froze him, a chill running down his spine.

Maybe she was right. His middle school performance, cringe or not, had been raw and real—much like Death Homesick. Hiding that fire to submit to the mundane dystopia was a mistake.

Takane’s bubbly voice broke his thoughts. “Hiroki! Hiroki!” She sauntered over, her tone teasingly seductive. “Your voice… it’s making me wet~."

The room groaned, then burst into wheezing laughter at her audacity. Takane clasped Hiroki’s hands, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she playfully teased him. "Please marry me~”

Hiroki karate-chopped her head lightly, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “Alright, enough! Toriteba, you’re up!”

Yuna groaned and shook her head. “But we’re not ready!”

“Just do it, dumbass!” Daichi yelled, pointing at her.

Toriteba’s girls shuffled toward the stage, their nerves palpable, their song still unfinished.

Suede stepped back, their performance still ringing in the room. Death Homesick had set a high bar, and Hiroki’s past as the “Dark Lord” was no longer a secret. And the studio battle was nearing its climax.