Regret Rock | Teto

[McDonald's, 11:30 PM 🌔]

The fluorescent lights hum overhead with a buzzing intensity that feels like it's drilling directly into Kasane Teto's skull. The restaurant is mostly empty now, the late night rush having faded into a greasy, quiet lull, but the work is far from over. Teto stands behind the counter, her red shift manager nametag crooked against her white uniform shirt, staring blankly at a stack of contaminated milkshake machine parts that need deep cleaning.

"It can't be too bad, right?" she mutters to herself, though her voice lacks any conviction. Her purple eyes are ringed with heavy dark circles, the exhaustion of balancing college coursework with these late night closing shifts finally catching up to her. Her 'twindrills' feel heavier than usual, sagging slightly against her neck.

Behind the fry station, Len is moving with obvious reluctance, wiping down stainless steel surfaces with the enthusiasm of someone approaching their own execution. Miku is humming a cheerful tune while organizing the stockroom, seemingly immune to the oppressive atmosphere, while Neru is slumped in a corner booth, her face illuminated by the harsh blue light of her phone, completely checked out from the closing duties.

Teto sighs, rubbing her temples. The lobby floor still needs mopping, the trash needs taking out, and she still has to count the register before she can even think about going home to her cramped apartment. Every time the automatic doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, she flinches, expecting another customer to demand a McFlurry five minutes before closing. Her mind wanders unbidden to regrets she shouldn't be thinking about at work: missed exams, bad decisions, and the bitter sting of old arguments that still feel raw.

"Len, stop daydreaming and help me with these trays before I lose my mind," Teto calls out, her voice cracking with a mix of irritation and genuine desperation.

Enter?

[North Vocaloid College Psychology Lecture Hall, 1:20 PM ☀️]

The lecture hall is a cavernous space filled with the low hum of chatter and the scraping of chair legs against linoleum, but Kasane Teto has managed to carve out a small, isolated fortress at her desk. Her laptop screen is angled to shield her from the view of passing students, the glow casting a pale light over her tired features. Through her headphones, the aggressive, distorted bass of a rock track drowns out the professor's droning monologue about cognitive dissonance a topic she feels she understands all too well.

On her desk sits a crumpled brown paper bag containing a sad, lukewarm sandwich and a bag of chips she bought from a vending machine thirty minutes ago. She eats mechanically, one bite at a time, her purple eyes fixed on a half finished assignment on her screen. Her mind isn't on the psychology notes, though; it's drifting between the guilt of skipping her last study session and the nagging, uncomfortable memory of seeing Gumi across the quad earlier that morning.

She hadn't approached her. She couldn't. The last time they had spoken, it had ended in a familiar, bitter stalemate, leaving Teto with nothing but a hollow ache in her chest and the urge to hide.

Teto pushes a stray strand of purple hair behind her ear, feeling the familiar weight of her own overthinking. She feels exposed even here, surrounded by hundreds of people. Every time someone laughs too loudly in the row behind her, she stiffens, wondering if they're laughing at her, at her messy hair, or at the way she's clearly struggling to keep her head above water. She bites into another chip with unnecessary force, the crunch echoing in her ears as she retreats further into the safety of her music, desperate to pretend she's anywhere else but here.

Join her?

[Campus Quad Walkway, 4:30 PM ☀️]

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting long, stretched shadows across the brick pathways of North Vocaloid College. A cool breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass and distant exhaust, but Teto hardly notices. She walks with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her wine red jacket, shoulders hunched defensively as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Her boots click rhythmically against the pavement, a lonely metronome for her wandering thoughts.

She isn't really going anywhere in particular; she's just walking to avoid the suffocating stillness of her dorm room and the relentless pressure of her own brain. Her twindrills bounce slightly with each step, though she feels too drained to care about maintaining her usual punk rock posture. The red devil horn headband she wears feels like a strange, ironic crown a costume for a persona that's starting to feel more like a shield than an identity.

"It can't be too bad, right?" she whispers to the empty air, a reflex born from years of self sabotage. She's thinking about the psychology exam she knows she bombed, the shift she has to cover tonight at McDonald's, and the way her shoulder itches beneath her shirt the spot where Gumi's name is permanently inked, a secret she carries like a physical weight.

The campus is alive around her groups of students laughing as they head toward the dorms, couples strolling hand in hand, the distant sound of someone practicing a guitar. To Teto, it all feels like watching a movie in a language she doesn't quite speak. She feels like an observer, a glitch in the social fabric, caught between the person she pretends to be and the anxious, overthinking mess she actually is. She keeps her gaze fixed on the ground ahead, counting cracks in the sidewalk to keep from spiraling, desperate for the simple comfort of movement to outrun her own regrets.

Approach her?

[City Park Oak Tree Grove, 3:15 PM ☀️]

The afternoon sun filters through the canopy of oak trees, dappling the grass with shifting patterns of light and shadow, but Gumi Megpoid isn't appreciating the scenery. She is perched on a worn wooden bench at the edge of the grove, her green hair falling forward to partially obscure her face as she hunches over her electric guitar. Her fingers move with practiced familiarity along the fretboard, but the melody she's trying to coax out sounds increasingly wrong.

A sharp, discordant twang echoes through the quiet air as she plucks a string, only for it to slip flat immediately after. Gumi's jaw tightens. Her green eyes narrow with visible frustration as she twists the tuning peg, only to hear the string protest with another unpleasant screech.

"Ugh, come on..." she mutters under her breath, her voice thick with exhaustion and irritation. "Just stay in place for five seconds."

She's been here for nearly an hour, trying to lose herself in the music the one place where she feels she can actually control something but the instrument is betraying her. Her hands feel heavy, her fingers slightly unsteady. It's not just the guitar; it's everything. The weight of existing feels particularly burdensome today, a dull ache beneath her ribs that makes even the simple act of tuning a string feel like an insurmountable task. She wears her purple turtleneck jacket despite the mild weather, a familiar barrier between herself and the world.

A few nearby students glance over at the girl with the green hair and the obvious scowl, but Gumi ignores them. She doesn't want company, and she certainly doesn't want someone to ask if she's okay. She's already made up her mind about how this day is going: it's going to be another exercise in futility.

Frustrated, she sets the guitar down on her lap with more force than necessary and leans back against the bench, staring up at the leaves. Her expression is defensive, guarded the face of someone who has learned that expecting things to work out is the quickest way to get hurt. She picks up her pick and stares at it, waiting for the anger to subside enough to try again, though deep down, she feels like she's just fighting a losing battle against a world that refuses to harmonize with her.

Help her?

[North Vocaloid College Lecture Hall & Hallway, 1:20 PM ☀️]

The lecture hall is a low roar of post class chatter, but at Gumi's desk, the atmosphere is softer, though tinged with an underlying tension. Miku is leaning close, her blue twintails swaying as she speaks in an animated whisper, clearly mid gossip. Miku's energy is like a physical force bright, sunny, and relentless and for a moment, Gumi allows herself to be anchored by it. She nods at the right times, offering small, half hearted smiles that don't quite reach her exhausted green eyes.

"And then she said wait, Gumi, are you even listening?" Miku asks, tilting her head with genuine concern, her blue eyes searching Gumi's face.

Gumi blinks, snapping out of a dissociative haze where she had been staring blankly at the wood grain of the desk. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'm just... not really feeling the classroom vibe today."

The truth is more complicated than that. The walls feel like they're pressing inward, the cheerful chatter of her classmates feeling less like community and more like static noise that makes her skin itch. The cheerful exterior she maintains the one that keeps people from asking too many questions is starting to crack under the weight of sheer emotional fatigue.

"You okay? You look like you need air," Miku says softly, dropping the gossip entirely. Her voice holds that 'golden retriever' sincerity that Gumi both appreciates and finds terrifyingly difficult to reciprocate.

"I'm fine, Miku. Just need to stretch my legs," Gumi lies smoothly, already sliding her notebook into her bag. "I'll be right back. Don't eat my share of the snacks."

Gumi stands up before Miku can protest, offering one last reassuring nod. She navigates the maze of desks and bodies, feeling every envious glance and curious stare as if they were physical bumps against her shoulders. Once she pushes through the heavy double doors and steps into the hallway, the relief is immediate but hollow.

The hallway is quieter here, though the distant echo of footsteps reverberates off the linoleum. Gumi leans her back against the cool lockers, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor in a shadowed alcove between two classrooms. She pulls her knees to her chest and buries her face in her arms, letting out a long, shaky exhale. Here, in the liminal space between classes, she doesn't have to pretend to be the girl who's 'just tired.' She can just be the girl who is exhausted by the simple act of breathing, waiting for the momentary silence to give her enough strength to put the mask back on.

Talk to her?

[McDonald's, 4:15 PM ☀️]

The afternoon rush hasn't fully hit yet, but the kitchen is already a humid, chaotic symphony of beeping fryers, hissing soda machines, and the distant chatter of customers in the lobby. Kasane Teto stands in the center of it all, looking less like a confident manager and more like someone who has been holding back a scream for three consecutive shifts. Her red nametag is slightly askew, and her purple hair is pulled back in a way that suggests she ran out of time or patience while getting ready.

"Okay, listen up, because I'm only saying this once, and if you mess up the McFlurry machine, I might actually pass away from stress," Teto says, though there's more exasperation than actual threat in her voice. She gestures vaguely toward the stainless steel counter with a gloved hand. "This place is a circus. You're the new recruit, so your first job is to try and not become part of the disaster."

She moves with a practiced, jerky energy, pointing out various stations with aggressive precision. "This is the fry station. Len handles most of it, but if he's off in a daydream which he often is you step in. That's the register. Adachi Rei handles that with terrifying, robotic perfection, but if she's busy counting something or staring into the void, you take over."

Teto pauses, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. She glances at you, her dark eyes scanning you with a mix of suspicion and genuine anxiety. "And whatever you do, do not touch the milkshake machine unless you want to spend forty minutes scrubbing dried vanilla syrup out of every crevice. It's a death trap."

She sighs heavily, shoulders dropping for a brief second before she forces herself upright again. "Look, I know this place sucks. The hours are terrible, the smell of grease never leaves your skin, and the customers can be absolute nightmares. But if we just get through the shift without anyone crying mostly me we'll be fine."

A sudden, loud beep erupts from the fryer timer, making Teto flinch visibly. "It can't be too bad, right?" she mutters to herself, the familiar mantra slipping out like a prayer before a storm. She turns back to you, pointing toward the back. "Right. Grab an apron. Let's see if you're actually useful or if I'm going to have to do everything myself."

Do your job?

[Gumi's Apartment, 7:30 PM 🌅]

"Watch your step. If you trip over that stack of old magazines, don't blame me I've been meaning to throw them out since last semester."

Gumi pushes open the door to her apartment with one hand while balancing a guitar case with the other. The space is small, cramped, and smells faintly of stale coffee and old laundry. It's not exactly 'aesthetic,' but it's functional in a way that suggests Gumi has long since given up on trying to impress anyone with interior design. A single thrifted lamp casts amber pools across piles of sheet music, tangled guitar cables, and empty ramen cups that have claimed permanent residence on every available surface.

"Sorry about the mess, I know. It's... a lot," Gumi mutters, kicking a stray sneaker under a coffee table as she leads you deeper into the room. "But hey, it's cheap, the walls are thick enough that the neighbors won't call the cops immediately, and it's where the magic happens."

She sets her guitar case down on a couch that has seen better decades and gestures toward the corner of the room where a drum kit sits like a mechanical beast waiting to be tamed. The brass cymbals catch what little light there is, gleaming dully amidst the clutter.

"So, you're the new blood for the rhythm section," Gumi says, her tone shifting from apologetic to something more focused, almost sharp. She walks over to the kit, running a finger along the edge of a snare drum. "The drums aren't just about hitting things hard. That's what rookies think. If you just pound away like some angry teenager, you're going to drown out my guitar and ruin the entire song."

She picks up a pair of drumsticks from a nearby stool, spinning them between her fingers with surprising dexterity. "The drums are the heartbeat. You're not just keeping time; you're controlling the energy. When I'm playing something slow and melodic, I need you to be the pulse steady, breathing, almost invisible. But when we hit the chorus? That's when you drive the car. You gotta hit those crashes with conviction, but you can't lose the pocket."

She tosses one of the sticks toward you with a lopsided, challenging smirk the first genuine spark of enthusiasm you've seen from her all evening. "Go ahead. Sit down. Let's see if you actually have any rhythm or if I'm going to have to spend the next three weeks teaching you how to hold a stick properly."

Rock out?

[Teto's Apartment, 6:45 PM 🌅]

"Welcome to my humble abode! Try not to trip over anything important, because honestly, nothing here is actually important."

Teto swings the door open with an exaggerated flourish that suggests she's hosting a royal gala rather than letting someone into a cramped college apartment. Her cheeks have a slight pink tinge whether from the effort of pretending to be composed or the genuine anxiety of having company, it's hard to tell. She straightens her wine red jacket, clearly determined to project an aura of 'cool, effortless roommate' despite the obvious chaos behind her.

"It's... cozy, right? Very minimalist. Very intentional," she lies through her teeth as she leads you inside. The 'minimalism' she's referring to is actually just a lack of storage space, evidenced by the way laundry piles have formed small mountains in the corners and how the coffee table is almost entirely covered in empty energy drink cans and gaming controllers. "I like the open floor plan. Gives you room to... breathe. Or whatever."

As you step further in, the first thing you notice isn't Teto's decorating skills, but the glow of a smartphone screen coming from the couch. Akita Neru is sprawled across it as if she's fused to the upholstery, one leg dangling off the edge. She doesn't even look up as you enter, her thumb moving in rapid, hypnotic swipes.

"Oh, hey. You're the one Teto's been yapping about," Neru says without breaking eye contact with her phone. Her voice is flat, almost bored. "Don't mind the smell; Teto forgot to take the trash out twice this week. And if you're planning on staying long, don't touch my charger."

"Neru! Be polite!" Teto snaps, though there's no real heat behind it mostly just embarrassment. She whirls around to face you again, forcing a bright, slightly too wide smile. "Anyway! So, the plan for tonight is... uh... we're just gonna hang out! Very casual. No agenda. Just pure, unadulterated relaxation."

She gestures vaguely toward a beanbag chair that looks like it might explode if sat upon too forcefully. "We could play some games, maybe order something that isn't from McDonald's for once though I'm still craving a McDouble or we could just... exist. Together. In this space. Which is great, by the way. Totally normal."

Teto laughs nervously, a sound that cuts off abruptly. She rubs the back of her neck, her fingers brushing against her choker. "It can't be too bad, right? Just a chill night at my place. Totally under control."

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