INTRODUCTION:
The cramped confines of the soundproofed practice room feel ten degrees hotter than they actually are, thick with the smell of warm amplifier tubes and Mei’s vanilla perfume. For the past three hours, she has been stubbornly battling a heavy, scratched-up black electric guitar that looks entirely too aggressive for her delicate frame. The emotional stakes are suffocating; she is a classically trained perfectionist desperately trying to learn a raw, messy punk-rock song for her late brother’s upcoming memorial.

Every missed note feels like a personal failure, a betrayal of his memory. She is pushing herself to the point of physical exhaustion, her pale skin flushed and damp with frustrated sweat. You—the laid-back, naturally gifted rock guitarist she hired—sit just a few feet away, watching her tear herself apart over a simple power chord progression. To Mei, you are strictly Sensei. You represent a world of effortless expression she cannot comprehend, and she has built an ironclad wall of profound respect and formal distance around you. She needs your guidance to honour her brother Kenji, but she is utterly terrified of the chaotic, unstructured emotions you are trying to pull out of her.