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The situation for VISTY could only be described as dire, and even that felt like an understatement. The mold that had first begun to eat away at their roof quickly spread to the walls, weakening the structural integrity of their space until the entire building collapsed under the force of a typhoon. Their savings, already stretched thin, barely covered the cost of a small camper—a desperate attempt to keep a roof over their heads, however cramped and uncomfortable it might be. The four of them now found themselves packed like sardines, with no personal space and little hope, but they had no better options.
Toma attempted to spin a positive narrative of their situation, pitching the camper as a versatile and ‘totally worthy’ investment. After all, it’s not so bad if you convince yourself that this is what you were gunning for in the first place.
“Think about it,” he had said, his tone a little too enthusiastic to be convincing. “We can drive wherever we need to go! We can perform at small venues, busk in public spaces—it’s flexible. It’s perfect for us! Right? You all think so too, right?”
No one else shared his forced optimism. He was only met with a three man audience of defeated groans. The arrangement was far from ideal, but it was better than living out there on the streets, a constant thought that haunted Shogo the most out of the four of them. As their leader and the second oldest among them, he couldn’t stop blaming himself for their predicament. This shouldn’t even be a concern for Aoi or Kantarou. They were too young, too full of potential to be dragged into such a mess, especially one that he couldn’t prevent. And yet, here they were.
‘Wow. What a great leader you turned out to be.’ His mind was on the brink of a collapse.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Shogo clutched a crumpled paper bag, his breaths coming in shallow, panicked gasps. He felt the sharp edge of hyperventilation teetering dangerously close to nausea. His chest tightened as waves of self-loathing washed over him. ‘How did I let it get this bad?’ he thought bitterly. His spiraling thoughts were interrupted only when his stomach lurched, and he vomited into the bag.
The atmosphere inside the camper was, well, suffocating. Not just from the cramped quarters, but from the tension between everyone. Each of them was unraveling in their own way. The strain of their circumstances seemed to magnify their insecurities, amplifying every frustration and doubt. At first, Toma had tried to keep spirits high, slapping stickers on the camper to give it a more personalized, VISTY vibe. But even the bright, cute decals couldn’t mask the fact that the camper was no home—it was a glorified metal box on wheels. No amount of yellow smiley faces, flowers, or glitter would make it any easier.
They eventually found themselves deep in the countryside, where the air clung to their skin like a damp blanket, thick with the oppressive heat and humidity of midsummer. The sweltering weather brought every unpleasant scent to life, the tang of rotting earth mingling with the faint metallic whiff of rust from their battered camper. The symphony of nature was no comfort either—the incessant buzzing of insects filled the air, their droning hum a relentless reminder that even here, in the middle of nowhere, peace was a luxury they couldn’t afford. In that particular moment, Kantarou wanted nothing more than to obliterate the entire population of cicadas, just to get some damn peace of mind.
The countryside was beautiful in theory, with its endless stretches of green fields and rolling hills, but in practice, it felt like another layer of purgatory. Even the motion of the camper, usually a small reprieve from the stillness of their cramped lives, couldn’t save them from the miserable sensations assaulting their senses. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through their already frayed nerves, and the stifling heat made the air inside the camper feel more like a sauna than a living space.
Toma rolled down a window in desperation, hoping for a breeze, but all it did was invite a new wave of insect intrusions. A particularly bold mosquito landed on Aoi's arm, and their sharp slap echoed in the confined space, followed by a grumbled curse. Kantarou swatted angrily at a fly buzzing near his face, muttering under his breath about how this was the worst day of his life—though it was starting to feel like every day was competing for that title. He can’t remember the last time he genuinely smiled.
“This is hell,” Aoi muttered, leaning their head against the sticky, sun-warmed window.
“This fucking blows!” Kantarou shouted from the back, gripping his phone so tightly it looked like it might shatter. “We don’t even have reception up here! What the hell is the point of this thing if I can’t use my damn phone?”
“What did we say about using our limited data on ego-searching?” Aoi murmured, their voice heavy with exhaustion. Despite their weariness, they were doing their best to maintain some semblance of normalcy inside their vehicular prison.
“I don’t care!” Kantarou snapped, his eyes glued to his phone with a manic intensity. “How else am I supposed to know if people even care about us anymore? If they think we’re worth something? Oh, come on! ‘GarbageSTY are a bunch of grifters’? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? We are not grifters!”
“Kantarou!” Aoi groaned, pinching the bridge of their nose. “Just stop. This isn’t helping anyone.”
Before the argument could escalate, Shogo retched again, the sound sharp and jarring. Toma cursed under his breath and quickly pulled over to the side of the road, helping Shogo stumble out of the camper for some fresh air.
“This is exactly why I told you not to do that!” Aoi said, their voice raised just enough to convey their frustration. “Your doom scrolling makes it worse for everyone!”
“But if we don’t know what people are saying about us, how will we know if all of this is even worth it?” Kantarou shot back, his voice shaking with desperation. “How will we know if we’re wasting our time or not?”
Toma returned, his hands gently gripping Shogo’s shoulders as he eased him back into the camper. “Enough, both of you,” he said firmly, his voice unusually sharp. “Fighting about this isn’t going to change anything. We’re in this together, and we’ll get through it together. Got it?”
They drove in silence for what felt like hours, maybe even forever since it was beginning to all blur together— the only sound was the rhythmic hum of the camper’s engine chugging along. No one had the energy to talk, not now, not when everyone was on the verge of tears.
Eventually, Toma pulled into the parking lot of a run-down laundromat, obscuring his face with a large flu mask and sunglasses. They dragged their laundry inside, dumping it into the machines with robotic motions before retreating to the camper to wait. After the cycle ended, they headed to a cheap bathhouse that was owned by an elderly couple, hoping to scrub away some of their stress along with the grime. Their dinner that night consisted of convenience store meals, eaten quietly in the cramped space. The dim light from a single overhead bulb cast long shadows, mirroring the gloom that hung thick in the air.
It was Kantarou who finally broke the silence in between bites of his strawberries and cream sandwich. “I bet Kei’s living it up right now,” he muttered bitterly. “Probably out there with his new team, a fancy house, and—oh, I dunno—air conditioning and functioning wifi.”
“Enough,” Aoi sighed, their voice weary.
“But it’s true, and you know it!” Kantarou shot back, his frustration bubbling over.
“Guys,” Toma interjected firmly, trying to keep the peace. “Kei’s the last thing we should be talking about right now. Yeah, this sucks. We’re all miserable—I get it. But we made this decision together, and we’ve gotta stick it out. We need to channel all of this—our frustration, our bad luck—into strength. We have to win that next tournament. The prize money could pull us out of this rut.”
Shogo, who had been silent until now, suddenly buried his face in his hands. His voice trembled as he choked out, “If I wasn’t such a useless leader, we wouldn’t even be in this situation. It’s my fault—all my fault that we’re here.”
His words dissolved into dry heaves as he desperately searched the camper for another paper bag.
“Sho~chin!” Toma exclaimed, hurrying over. He placed a steadying hand on Shogo’s shoulder. “Do you need some air? Let’s step outside.”
Shogo tried to wave him off, but when his body refused to cooperate, Toma gently guided him out of the camper for what felt like the millionth time that day. Left behind, Kantarou clenched his fists, his voice cracking as he finally broke down.
“This fucking sucks! This really fucking sucks!” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he cried openly, unable to hide his despair. Across from him, Aoi curled up in their seat, clutching their stomach as waves of guilt and sadness consumed them.
A few minutes later, the camper door creaked open. Toma poked his head in, forcing a smile despite his exhaustion. “Hey, can you guys come outside for a bit?”
Kantarou and Aoi exchanged glances, neither wanting to move, but Toma’s quiet insistence left them little choice. They shuffled out of the camper, their arms crossed defensively, heads hanging low. The sight that greeted them was unexpected: a small, makeshift fire crackled weakly, and Shogo sat nearby, his face pale but certainly much calmer. Toma sat beside him, an acoustic guitar resting on his lap. Without a word, he began to strum a familiar tune, the melody soft and soothing. ‘Endless Dream’ .
“What the hell are you doing?” Kantarou muttered, gesturing dismissively. “No one’s even out here. You’re wasting your time.”
Toma didn’t stop playing. “Because it doesn’t matter if anyone’s here or not. No matter where we are, no matter how bad things get, we’re still VISTY . And we’re going to get through this. Together .”
Kantarou scoffed, his voice thick with sarcasm. “That’s so lame. We don’t even have an agency anymore. Our Stellas are dropping like flies because everyone thinks we’re GarbageSTY! Don’t you get it?”
“You don’t really believe that,” Toma said gently, his fingers never leaving the strings. “You’re just upset, and that’s okay.”
“Of course, I’m upset!” Kantarou yelled, his voice cracking as tears spilled down his face. “It’s not fair, Toma! We’ve been working our asses off, and Kei’s out there thriving while we’re stuck in this rust bucket! How is that fair?”
Toma paused, letting the guitar fall silent as he met Kantarou’s tear-filled gaze. “It’s not fair,” he admitted. “None of this is fair. But that doesn’t mean we give up. You’re angry, and you have every right to be, but don’t let it take away what we still have. We’re here, together. That means something, doesn’t it?”
Kantarou sniffled, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away, either. Aoi sat down beside him, offering a small, silent gesture of comfort. Toma resumed playing, his voice soft as he hummed along.
“We may not have our expensive equipment anymore,” Toma said softly, his fingers still strumming the guitar, “but we still have our phones, my guitar, and most importantly, our voices. That’s all we need to start over.”
His words hung in the air, earnest but fragile, like a tentative light breaking through storm clouds. Kantarou crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his guilt gnawing at him like a festering wound. He wasn’t the leader, but as their composer, the fate of VISTY—and by extension, their lives—rested squarely on his shoulders. If he couldn’t produce a decent song, something to pull them back into relevance, they were doomed.
It was a nearly impossible task, especially as the group continued to spiral downward, hitting new lows every day. Shogo, their leader, had become a shadow of himself. Anxiety gripped him so tightly that he was barely functioning; most days, he didn’t even get out of bed. His once-reliable presence had dwindled into a haunting absence, leaving the others to flounder without his steadying hand.
Toma, usually the heart of the group, wasn’t faring much better. His insecurities had begun to consume him, body dysmorphia turning every glance in a mirror into an unbearable ordeal. He refused to leave the camper, even under the cover of night, terrified that someone might catch a glimpse of him and confirm his worst fears. It was heartbreaking to watch, his vibrant energy now a dim flicker of what it used to be. Even Kantarou was starting to forget what Toma looked like, always hidden behind sunglasses and flu masks, terrified of exposing any imperfections without the funds for proper makeup.
Kantarou clenched his jaw, his frustration and self-loathing bubbling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t just about the music anymore—it was about survival. And yet, every time he tried to write, to compose something meaningful, his mind went blank. The pressure was paralyzing. Every note felt hollow, every lyric forced. Without the songs, there was no VISTY, and without VISTY, there was nothing left to keep them going.
He looked over at Toma, who was still playing his guitar despite everything. Even as his own struggles threatened to swallow him whole, Toma was trying to keep the group together, to remind them of who they were. The effort wasn’t lost on Kantarou, but it only made his guilt worse. How could he let Toma carry that burden alone? How could he expect Shogo to recover when he himself felt so lost?
Kantarou’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “You make it sound so simple,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “Just pick up a guitar and sing, right? But what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough? The biggest reason why we’re flops is me, right!? I’m the composer! If my music was good enough, we wouldn’t be in this shitty predicament! If I was so fucking great, then people would stop comparing me to Kei! They would just stop ! Stop! Stop!”
Toma stopped strumming and looked up at him, his expression gentle but firm. “You’re not alone in this, Kantarou. None of us are. We’re a mess right now—yeah, I’ll admit that. But we’re still here. We’re still fighting. That means something, doesn’t it? People are afraid of change. All of us are. We can’t blame our Stellas for that. They’re just not used to our new dynamic, our new sounds, but I know they’ll come around eventually. After all, your songs are our pride and joy! And you know why we love your songs so much? Because they’re not Kei’s sound. It’s our sound. VISTY isn’t a one man show with a bunch of misfits tagging along to prop him up, it’s a group now. It’s us .”
Kantarou knew there was no other option—he had to write the best song of his life. Not just a good song or a passable one, but something transcendent, something that would shake the world and silence every doubt, every sneer, every whisper calling them GarbageSTY . If they couldn’t rise up and join their rivals at the top, then they would damn well beat them, proving once and for all that VISTY wasn’t done yet.
It wasn’t hope that fueled him—it was pure spite. A fiery determination ignited within him, born from the bitterness of watching Kei move on to greener pastures while they were left to scrape by in a cramped camper. If Kei thought he’d seen the last of them, he was dead wrong. Kantarou would create a song so powerful, so undeniable, that no one could ignore them anymore.
He buried himself in his work, opening his phone’s music app and stringing together melodies with feverish intensity. His fingers moved across the screen as if possessed, experimenting with chord progressions, layering beats, and tweaking harmonies. The hours bled into each other, but he barely noticed. Time didn’t matter. Hunger didn’t matter. Fatigue didn’t matter. All that mattered was the song.
His back ached from hunching over for so long, and his eyes stung, bloodshot from the relentless strain of staring at the screen. But he couldn’t stop, not yet. Every new idea, every discarded note, every accidental spark of brilliance pushed him closer to the sound he could hear so clearly in his head—a sound that would capture everything they were feeling: the desperation, the anger, the longing, and, above all, the unyielding will to survive.
Kantarou leaned back for a moment, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. The camper was quiet, save for the faint hum of Toma’s soft guitar strumming in the background and the occasional rustle as Aoi shifted in their makeshift bed. Shogo’s snoring was uneven, a clear indication of another restless night, but even that didn’t break Kantarou’s focus. If anything, it made him more determined.
‘They’re all counting on me,’ he thought, clenching his fists. ‘I can’t screw this up.’
Spite may have been the fire that got him started, but now, something else began to creep in—an aching love for the people he now called his family. They’d been through hell together, and they were still standing, still trying, still fighting for a dream that felt impossibly far away. If this song could bring even a sliver of hope back into their lives, then it was worth every ounce of pain. Afterall, their Endless Dream to Be A Star , should Never End . He’ll weave them a Magic Carpet to fly them up and out of this hell. For the sake of VISTY. For the sake of the Stellas who have yet to abandon them or lose hope.
When Kantarou finally completed his song, he wasted no time gathering the others to share it. He played it nervously, his fingers trembling slightly as he tapped the playback, his heart hammering in his chest as he awaited their verdict. The room—or rather, the cramped confines of their camper—fell into a thoughtful silence as the music flowed. When it ended, they offered their honest opinions and suggestions, tweaking sections together, shifting verses, and adjusting harmonies. Kantarou took everything to heart, spending sleepless nights fine-tuning every detail, ensuring that each voice fit perfectly and every verse flowed like water. It wasn’t just a song anymore—it was their collective lifeline, their hope, their determination wrapped in sound.
Once the song felt perfect, they practiced. And practiced. With nowhere else to go, they rehearsed in empty fields under the glaring sun and practiced again at night, lit only by the moon and stars. Their voices carried across the open air, the cicadas and crickets their only audience. They sang until their throats ached, until their legs buckled from exhaustion, until their skin was littered with mosquito bites, until the music felt like an extension of their very souls.
When they finally felt ready, they took a leap of faith, organizing their own guerrilla live performance. It wasn’t glamorous or well-promoted—just them, their meager equipment, and the raw energy of their music. They found a small plaza where people occasionally gathered and played like their lives depended on it. And in a way, they did. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about making their voices heard, about pouring every ounce of their struggle and passion into the world.
That was how Cozmez had fought and clawed their way through the abyss to survive, and now it was VISTY’s turn. They took every lesson Cozmez had taught them through example—every battle, every risk, every moment of defiance—and channeled it into their journey. Cozmez had shown them what it meant to persevere, to claw their way up from the depths of despair, and VISTY was determined to one day stand on equal footing with them. No, not just equal footing—they would surpass them. That was their goal, their driving force.
Though they weren’t on good terms with Kanata and Nayuta, the brothers were an undeniable source of inspiration. VISTY owed a great deal to them, even if they couldn’t say it outright. It was Cozmez’s audacity, their refusal to give up, that lit a fire within VISTY, pushing them to go independent, to start over from rock bottom rather than giving in to the temptation to quit and walk away. It was their unyielding determination that gave VISTY the courage to carve their own path, no matter how painful or uncertain. And for that, they would always be grateful.
“Kantarou! Kantarou!” Aoi’s excited voice pierced through the hazy remnants of Kantarou’s dream, jolting him awake. They were shaking him by the shoulders, nearly vibrating with excitement. “We’re trending! Do you hear me? We’re trending online! We did it!”
“What? No way,” Kantarou groaned groggily, rubbing his face as he sat up. His mind was still foggy from exhaustion, but the urgency in Aoi’s tone snapped him to attention. He fumbled for his phone, fingers trembling as he unlocked it and scrambled to check online. His heart was pounding as he searched for any sign of what Aoi was talking about. And there it was.
“VISTY Makes a Comeback With the Hit Song of the Summer Season!”
“It’s Not Over for VISTY! A Guerrilla Live Leaves Fans, New and Old, Scrambling to Find a Download of the Song Performed!”
Kantarou’s jaw dropped, his eyes scanning the headlines over and over to make sure they were real. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the phone. “No way,” he muttered again.
“You did it!” Aoi practically squealed, throwing their arms around him in a tight hug. “You really did it! The song is blowing up, Kantarou! Toma and Shogo are being flooded with messages! There are offers coming in for us to perform at events, at venues—actual venues!”
Kantarou could barely process the words. He scrolled through the flood of tweets, fan posts, and articles buzzing with excitement about their performance. People were calling it raw, heartfelt, and unforgettable. Some were begging for an official release of the song, while others shared clips from their guerrilla live, the quality grainy but filled with emotion.
He swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat as the reality began to sink in. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some fleeting moment of luck. This was the result of all their blood, sweat, and tears—the sleepless nights, the endless rehearsals, the raw determination to keep going when everything seemed hopeless.
“We’re. . . back,” Kantarou whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile as tears blurred his vision. “We’re really back.”
Aoi pulled back, their own eyes glistening as they grinned. “We’re more than back, Kantarou. We’re just getting started. For real this time!”
For the first time in what felt like forever, hope filled the cramped, battered camper, breaking through the dense fog of despair that had loomed over them. They weren’t just surviving anymore. They were fighting. And they were winning.
With the first wave of earnings from donations trickling in, Shogo made the executive decision to let everyone splurge a little as a reward for their hard work. It wasn’t much—they still had to be careful—but it was enough to lift their spirits, even if just for a moment.
Kantarou didn’t waste any time choosing his indulgence. He treated himself to a luxurious cup of pudding, the kind that came in a glass jar with a golden foil lid, creamy and rich—nothing like the cheap, rubbery kind he usually grabbed in bulk at the convenience store. He savored every spoonful, muttering to himself about how he deserved this moment of decadence.
Toma, on the other hand, headed straight for the beauty aisle. He picked up a few pieces of makeup—foundation, and concealer. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to bring some life back to his face. For the first time in what felt like forever, he worked up the courage to show himself without the oversized sunglasses and mask that had become his armor. Seeing him smile, even shyly, was a relief to everyone. It felt like a small piece of the old Toma had returned.
Shogo opted for something simple yet utterly ridiculous: a bag of gummy candies that promised “mystery flavors.” Each gummy could be anything from sweet and fruity to bizarrely awful. Normally, they would’ve avoided indulging him and tasting any of that horrid junk, but this time, Shogo turned it into a game. They all gathered around in the camper, chewing cautiously, grimacing at the worst flavors, and laughing until their sides hurt.
“Okay, okay,” Toma wheezed, holding up his hands in surrender after spitting out a particularly vile green gummy. “Whoever gets the least amount of nasty flavors gets to spend a little more on themselves next time!”
“That’s cheating! Shogo likes the weird shit too!” Kantarou protested, popping a red gummy into his mouth and instantly gagging. “Why is this one salty?! Who makes salty gummies?! And it's spicy!? Eww! Is that a curry flavored gummy!?”
Aoi couldn’t stop laughing, their cheeks pink as they tried to compose themselves. “You’re just mad because you’re losing,” they teased, holding up their cup of perfectly fine gummies as proof. “The one I just had tasted like muscat.”
“What!? That’s not fair at all! All mine have been foul!” Kantarou continued to whine. “Curry, broccoli, cheese, and BBQ of all things!”
Even Shogo, usually the most reserved of the group, couldn’t stop grinning as he sampled another gummy, his face twisting in mock horror. “This one tastes like toothpaste and despair,” he declared, earning a round of laughter that echoed through the camper like music.
“That’s rich coming from the guy who ate an entire pack of shrimp-flavored gummies,” Toma teased, his laughter barely masking the memory of the foul taste. “Honestly, how did you even manage that?”
“Manage what? It tasted good to me,” Shogo replied with a shrug, his confusion only adding to the humor of the situation.
Aoi leaned back, chuckling. “And let’s not forget—you swore off those gummies forever, Toma. But then you totally forgot Shogo ate them, and when you kissed him, you had to relive the horror all over again. Second-hand shrimp trauma.”
Toma groaned, though he couldn’t stop laughing. “Don’t remind me. That was the worst! Sho-chin just has. . . Well, let’s call it a ‘unique palate.’” He shook his head, still grinning.
“What? Is that a bad thing?” Shogo asked, tilting his head in genuine confusion, which only made the group laugh harder.
“And the best part,” Kantarou chimed in, barely able to keep his composure, “is how he acts like it’s totally normal. Like, ‘Oh, shrimp gummies? That’s a delicacy!’ ” He mimicked Shogo’s voice, sending everyone into another fit of laughter.
“I can’t help it if I have refined tastes,” Shogo said with a smirk, finally catching on to the joke and playing along.
“Refined tastes?” Aoi snorted. “You’re the guy who once called expired convenience store ramen ‘an underrated treasure.’”
“That was one time!” Shogo protested, his cheeks flushing slightly, which only fueled the group’s laughter. “And I said that because it was all we could afford at the time!”
“Well, hopefully, after this, we can actually afford to eat real ramen again,” Aoi said with a small, hopeful smile.
“Speaking of ramen!” Kantarou’s eyes lit up as he turned to Shogo, a mock accusatory tone in his voice. “I heard someone gets the totally unfair leader perk of trying new dishes at Raimentai before they even go on the menu—and for free ! Care to explain why the rest of us don’t get to share in this luxury?”
Shogo scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s not like I can bring ramen home easily, you know? And splitting one bowl among the four of us. . . well . . .” He trailed off with a sigh.
Kantarou folded his arms, pretending to sulk. “Excuses! Next thing you’ll tell me is they have some secret shrimp-flavored ramen you’re keeping all to yourself.”
“W-well, about that.” Shogo nervously laughed, remembering the chili shrimp ramen he had been made to try out.
“Gummies and ramen? What’s next?” Toma laughed, shaking his head. “But Shogo’s right. Ramen doesn’t travel well, so there’s only one solution.”
“And that is?” Kantarou raised an eyebrow.
“We all go to Raimentai next time,” Toma declared confidently. “As a team. Together.”
“Now that’s a plan I can get behind!” Aoi agreed, clapping their hands. “Real ramen, no more convenience store cups. It’s the least we deserve after everything we’ve been through.”
“Right,” Shogo said with a small, relieved smile, his heart warming at the thought. “A proper team dinner. It’s been too long since we had one of those.”
This time, losing isn’t an option. They’ll throw everything they have into this new competition. Not only do they desperately need the money, but if they take Cozmez down with them, it’s all over. It’s ‘go big or go home,’ and losing is one thing—but being the reason someone else’s success story ends in failure? They can’t bear the thought. Not again. The Battle of Unity win will be for Team Revengers, no matter how heavily the odds are stacked against them. . . And they’ve got Kantarou’s music to back them up.