Act 1, Chapter 28: Bring Me To Life

Saturday, 4:00 AM. Hiroki Yamada awoke with a gasp in his bedroom, heart pounding as if yanked from another world. The dim glow of dawn seeped through his window, but his mind was trapped in a vivid dream, a memory so sharp it felt real.

He found himself in his third year of middle school again, the air thick with the weight of a moment that shaped him. Thoughts swirled—“What’s going on?!”—as the scene unfolded.

A late-teen boy, strikingly like Hiroki, stood before him, lending him a guitar gig bag. Hiroki unzipped it, revealing a custom black-gold Les Paul with Floyd Rose and locking tuners—the same guitar his older brother, Kaito Yamada, wielded like a weapon on stage.

This was Kaito, alive and vibrant, his presence a beacon in Hiroki’s core memory. The dream pulled Hiroki back to a day that defined his path.

Hiroki’s voice trembled with doubt as he gazed at the Les Paul, Kaito’s prized possession. “Big Bro, why don’t you use this guitar anymore?”

Kaito, casually strumming a metallic brown Squier Jaguar with hot rails single coils, lightly shook its tremolo bar as he was practicing his original song.

The Les Paul was a showstopper, perfect for Kaito’s divebomb theatrics. But he’d fallen for the Jaguar’s versatility. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s yours now,” Kaito warmly smiled, his tone light but firm.

Hiroki hesitated, gripping the black-gold Les Paul. “Are you sure? But this was your cherished babe.”

Kaito paused, chuckling with a hint of cockiness. “You know, there’s no shame in trying something new.” He knew Hiroki’s obsession with the Les Paul, always sneaking strums when Kaito wasn’t looking. This was his way of passing the torch to a deserving warrior.

Suddenly, Kaito pointed, teasing Hiroki’s middle school chuunibyou persona. “Because you, Dark Lord of Tartarus, are too cowardly, clinging to petty tools to challenge me.” Kaito’s Celestial Overlord persona suddenly surged with a playful tone.

“Not funny! Didn’t laugh!” Hiroki pouted, turning away, but couldn't hold his laughter.

Kaito stashed his metallic brown Jaguar in its gig bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He patted Hiroki’s shoulder, his smile warm. “Don’t forget to record it, okay? We’re gonna tear the live house into ashes!” Then, leaning close, his voice softened. “And keep it until the end.”

Those words—keep it until the end—echoed in Hiroki’s mind, unshaken by years.

***

The dream shifted, plunging Hiroki into a roaring Shinagawa Livehouse, packed with a guttural crowd. “Izakaya No Mani is fucking goated!” “KAITO YAMADA-SAN, MARRY ME!” The chants hit like war cries.

Hiroki, clutching a VIP pass, stood backstage, the energy sending chills down his spine.

Izakaya No Mani, Kaito’s five-piece pop-punk band, wasn’t just a hobby—it was a squadron. Kaito commanded the stage like a general; his modded metallic brown Squier Jaguar was a blade. The crowd’s fervor was a celebration of the band’s fire.

This wasn’t their first Shinagawa gig—it was the fifth time they’d conquered it, their reputation spreading across social media. From small venues to packed bars, Kaito’s band ignited souls, their spirit outsizing the stages.

Hiroki gripped his phone, recording as Kaito fronted Izakaya No Mani, singing with a powerful yet smooth voice, often teased for its feminine depth, like a gothic siren.

The song, laced with the word "Shigure," blended pop-punk energy with haunting, Evanescence-like vibes. Kaito’s precision, strength, and showmanship shone as he traded solos with the second guitarist, their dueling riffs sparking guttural cheers.

The song ended with a supernova. The bald drummer unleashed a hard-hitting solo, snares and kicks thundering. The keyboardist’s synth orchestra arpeggio blared, the bassist’s groove pulsed, the second guitarist’s harmonic wail soared, and Kaito’s opera-like falsetto pierced the air, his metallic brown Jaguar’s strings ringing.

The band raised their instruments like battle trophies, victorious. In unison, they shouted into the mic, “Thank you very much, Shinagawa Livehouse! We are Izakaya No Mani! We’re running out of money!”

The crowd roared, chanting each member’s name. Hiroki chuckled at the band’s silly name, born from Kaito’s tale of going broke at a pub with his bandmates. It was absurd, yet perfect.

Backstage, the five Izakaya No Mani members descended, spotting Hiroki’s fiery grin. “Big bro was killing it better than the last time!” he exclaimed.

Kaito smirked, patting his shoulder. “Told ya.”

“Once you graduate middle school, hit the stage like us!” the bald drummer teased, his deep voice playful.

“I will!” Hiroki replied, his Dark Lord persona blazing.

The six strolled out, laughing warmly. As Kaito’s younger brother, Hiroki was welcomed into their world, a glimpse into music’s raw power. They parted ways; the memory brought Hiroki to life.

***

Saturday, 6:30 AM. Hiroki Yamada jolted awake, the bittersweet sting of his dream about Kaito Yamada lingering like a ghost. The dawn’s light pierced his bedroom curtains, casting long shadows across the floor.

His heart still raced from the vivid memory of Kaito’s performance, the black-gold Les Paul, and the word "Shigure" echoing as a potential new name for Suede. But as he shifted, he felt an uncomfortable stickiness in his pants.

Lifting the blanket, Hiroki’s face flushed with shock. A second wet dream. “I… had a wet dream again?! But… I didn’t even dream anything sexual!” he muttered, rushing to the bathroom to wash away the mess, his cheeks burning with confusion.

The first wet dream, weeks ago, had a chaotic mix of chuunibyou and intimacy with Aoi, naked together. But this time, it was Kaito’s memory, the Shinagawa Livehouse, and Izakaya No Mani’s triumph.

He scrubbed frantically, wondering if these wet dreams weren’t always about lust but something deeper—moments and people he cherished, etched into his soul.

“No, no, no! Sex with Aoi?! Like I’d ever!” he grumbled, slapping his forehead, the cringe of that first wet dream haunting him.

But as he stood under the running water, a darker memory crashed over him, unbidden and merciless—the night Kaito died.

It was a year ago, after Izakaya No Mani’s electrifying Shinagawa Livehouse gig. The crowd had swarmed Kaito and his bandmates—drummer, bassist, second guitarist, and keyboardist—demanding autographs, their cheers a roaring tide.

Kaito, ever the showman, told Hiroki to slip away to the station. “I’ll handle the fans, kid. Go!” he’d said with a cocky grin, his modded metallic brown Squier Jaguar gig bag slung over his shoulder.

Hiroki, clutching his phone with the recorded performance, had barely reached the street when a horrific sound shattered the night—screeching tires, a bone-rattling crash, and metal grinding against asphalt.

He froze, turning to see a nightmare unfold. A car, speeding recklessly, had collided with a motorcycle, slicing it into fragments.

Flames licked the wreckage, bodies scattered across the pavement, some motionless, others writhing. Motorcycle parts had smashed into the live house wall, debris littering the ground. The air reeked of burning rubber and fuel.

Hiroki’s heart stopped. He hadn’t realized he was witnessing a catastrophe beyond his comprehension—a living hell. Survivors screamed for help; bystanders frantically tried to douse the spreading flames.

Hiroki sprinted to the scene, dread clawing at him. Please, not Kaito. He found his brother among the chaos, unconscious, bloodied, his body crumpled like a discarded puppet. The crowd’s earlier cheers morphed into wails, souls begging for mercy.

Hiroki dragged Kaito to safety, calling his parents in a panic, his voice breaking. At the hospital, the truth crushed him—Kaito’s injuries were too severe, his body unsalvageable. He’d taken his last breath hours after commanding the stage with Izakaya No Mani. A heaven turned to hell.

After Kaito’s burial, Hiroki felt hollow, his Dark Lord of Tartarus persona a flickering ember without Kaito’s playful taunts to fuel it.

Scrolling his phone later, he read an article about the accident—a road rage incident between a car driver and a motorcyclist near the Shinagawa live house. There was a road rage. He thought, guilt gnawing at him.

Leaving Kaito to face the fans alone felt like abandoning him to a death trap. “I’m sorry…” His chest tightened, eyes stinging with unshed tears, the weight of loss suffocating. Where the death of Kaito means the death of his fire that sparked his soul.

But a notification snapped him back. A DM from Aoi Mizuno.

darkpriestess145: Hast thou awoken from thy deepening slumber, oh ye malicious Dark Lord of Tartarus?

Aoi’s chuunibyou priestess flair, during his mourning, sparked a confusing mix of grief and amusement. He felt torn between a surge of tears and an urge to burst into laughter, a conflicting mix of emotions stirring within him. Aoi, with her fierce heart and unexpected care for Hasumi, was someone he cherished, much like Kaito.

Hiroki typed back, forcing a chuunibyou retort to mask his pain. saturdaynightwrist2006: The cold autumn rain hath washed over my blackened worry. Now, come forth, child of Laconia, and die! Muahahahaha!

He smiled faintly, cringing at his own theatrics, but the guilt remained. Staring at the bathroom floor, he whispered, “Big brother… I need your wings…”

The word "Shigure," resonating with Kaito's melody and Aoi's communication, served as a beacon to honor Kaito's memory and reshape the essence of Suede. Hiroki's heart carried enduring wounds, aching with a permanence that demanded to bring him back to life.