Act 2, Chapter 7: Haze

The Yamada household simmered with tension over dinner, the clink of chopsticks against bowls a stark contrast to the storm in Hiroki’s head. His mother, Hanabi, had been informed by Hiroki’s homeroom teacher—Catherine Jocelyn Prowler—about his midterm disaster—the "four horsemen of the apocalypse" (math: 27, physics: 34, chemistry: 43, biology: 53).

With his father tied up in Yokohama on export-import business and about to come back home next week, facing Hanabi alone felt like signing a death warrant. Each bite tasted like ash, her stern gaze a reminder of past middle school battles over grades.

After Hiroki cleared his plate, Hanabi spoke, her voice cutting through the dishwasher’s hum. "Prowler-sensei informed me that your midterm scores are as follows: math: 27, physics: 34, chemistry: 43, biology: 53—all failures."

Hiroki slumped, staring at the table, frustration tightening his jaw. "Ugh… there’s nothing I can do. Those subjects are a pain."

Hanabi’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharp as she stacked plates. "If you continue to make excuses like you did in middle school, I will suspend your music activities. This means no playing guitar until you pass tomorrow's and Friday's remedial exams."

Her words deeply affected him, reminding him of past threats. The Light Music Club was not just a hobby; it was his connection to Kaito's memory. Losing it would shatter him. "Understood?"

"Fine…" Hiroki muttered, defeated, knowing defiance would only dig a deeper grave. He trudged to his room; Hanabi's final warning echoed behind him: "Your guitar stays with me until you pass."

***

His bedroom, once a shrine to his passion, felt hollow. The black-gold Les Paul’s gig bag and Zoom AMS-22 audio interface were gone, confiscated by his mother. Sinking into his desk chair, Hiroki opened his math textbook, flipping through midterm question sheets.

The problems—quadratic equations, chemical bonds, cellular mitosis—mocked him like the cackle of demons. Their complexity is as unfathomable and unnavigable as the labyrinth in the garden of forking paths.

It was like playing a losing game; failing meant losing the LMC, his guitar, and his purpose. Confusion and despair clouded Hiroki's mind. He clenched his face in desperation, wishing for a sliver of a miracle.

But a phone notification broke the silence. A DM from coltranegiantsteps1960—Junichi Enoshima.

coltranegiantsteps1960: Yo, Hiroki! Seems like you're in dire need of help.

Hiroki frowned, typing back.

saturdaynightwrist2006: What help?

coltranegiantsteps1960: By the way, tomorrow during the free time or after school, meet me at the library. We’re tackling your remedial lessons.

Hiroki’s eyes widened. Junichi, with his own struggles, emerged as a pillar of support, mirroring the dedication of his bandmates.

saturdaynightwrist2006: Ok, thanks. Too bad I can’t play my guitar—Mom’s orders.

coltranegiantsteps1960: Focus on the remedial first. If you pass tomorrow, Friday, strum all you want.

Hiroki nodded to himself, a flicker of hope sparking.

coltranegiantsteps1960: Oh, I’m skipping LMC tomorrow—the shrine's swamped Friday evening.

saturdaynightwrist2006: What happened?

coltranegiantsteps1960: It’s complicated. Anyway, I’ll give you cheat codes to ace Friday remedial.

Hiroki sneered. Junichi's "cheat codes" were not shortcuts but clever study techniques, reminiscent of his uncle's engineering tips.

saturdaynightwrist2006: Thanks.

Closing his phone, Hiroki’s dread softened into resolve. "Alright, let’s get to work." He scribbled notes, cross-referencing the textbook, YouTube tutorials, and online forums for answers.

Equations blurred in his vision, but Junichi’s offer anchored him. A bandmate like Junichi pulling him through the dark. Hours passed, his eyelids weighed down by fatigue, until he finally succumbed to sleep amidst the chaos of scattered papers.

***

In the dim, gothic-esque sanctuary of Aoi Mizuno’s bedroom, the air conditioner hummed softly, weaving a cool breeze through the darkened space. A faint night light cast a gentle glow, soothing the priestess as she lay cocooned in blankets, clutching a fluffy cat plushie.

The world outside her apartment was fading away, leaving only the quiet and her unhealed scars. Instead of sleeping, Aoi scrolled her phone, earbuds piping TK’s Haze into her ears—a melancholic wave of nostalgia and bittersweet sorrow.

Toru Kitajima’s voice washed over her, each lyric a caress to her wounded soul:

Even though I could never say 'Keep looking forward'
'I will leave a piece of miracle here,' I said.

The song was a time machine, pulling her back to age eight, curled in the backseat of her family’s car during long trips, her father playing Haze as the road stretched endlessly. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to dampen the pillow.

The fiery boat accident due to the oil leak that claimed him and the crew left her hollow, a void where her heart once beat. The lyrics resonated like a maternal affection, caressing directly to her grief.

Smile.
Right now, in the fog, you are suffering from the things you cannot obtain.
You can stab me, just for now.

The 'fog' symbolized her aimless existence without him, burdened by unachievable aspirations. Her father’s death didn’t just take him; it stole a piece of her, leaving her to wander in darkness.

I know I can’t change the world.
But I’ll cut through the darkness.

This line ignited her chuunibyou spark. Her Priestess persona, born from Heaven’s Fall’s heroine named 'Priestess' fighting darkness with light, was her defiance against that fog.

In middle school, she’d embraced it fully, staging dramatic roleplays with Hiroki Yamada’s Dark Lord of Tartarus in the courtyard. Their antics were a rebellion against the mundane normalcy. The Priestess persona gave her purpose, a way to feel alive despite the hollow ache.

Smile.
It would be nice to see light, wouldn’t it?
I will cut through the darkness.

Aoi’s breath caught, her father’s voice reverberating in the lyrics, urging her to find light.

"F-father…" she whispered, tears streaming as the song faded with a gentle strum. Her chest ached, heavy with memories of his laughter, his guitar gift, and his love for TK’s intricate riffs.

She pulled out her earbuds, turned off her phone, and sat up as she wiped her face.

Crossing to her desk, she picked up a worn CD: TK’s Flowering. A gift from her father, its complex guitar work, dreamy vocals, and emotional-inducing ballads shaped her own influence. She ever played it on repeat after his burial, relentlessly sobbing as the music slowly stitched her broken soul.

Clutching the CD like a lifeline, she whispered, "I’ll be fine…" Her voice cracking, tears threatening to spill once more.

As she lay back down, another thought stirred—Hiroki Yamada. His theatrical Dark Lord antics, his constant karate chops, and his intense passion in Shiguri’s Death Homesick.

But Takane’s teasing question from the previous school lunch echoed, "Be honest, do you have a feeling for Hiroki Yamada?" The memory flushed her cheeks and somewhat breached the priestess' holy barrier.

Romance clashed with her chuunibyou symphony, a dissonant note in her sacred composition. Yet, Hiroki’s presence in the LMC, his shared defiance, shone like a beacon in her fog. She closed her eyes, the music, memories, and bonds cradling her as sleep took over.

Good night…