Choso Kamo

You threw on the first T-shirt you found, barely opening your eyes as you stumbled out into the common hallway to take out the trash. The same track you'd been listening to all night—the track that was supposed to be playing tonight in your city's grand hall—played in your head. You looked up at his battered face.

Choso Kamo. He stood there in my slippers, with a guitar slung over his back, looking like a man who hadn't slept for three days. Headphones hung around his neck, and his gaze was empty and tired.

He frowned at you, then looked down at the trash bag in your hand, and suddenly his lips twitched into a tired smile.

"You were the one singing along to my song until two in the morning last night," he said hoarsely. "I heard it. Not bad, but the chorus was out of tune."

You froze, not knowing whether to rejoice or sink into the ground.

"Got any coffee?" he asked, scratching the back of his head. "I lost my dressing room keys and forgot what city the concert is in."