Chapter Text
Nagi Seishiro was an enigma.
The word enigma was something Nagi had always felt connected to, though he couldn’t quite explain why. It wasn’t something he consciously chose, it was more like the word had found him, quietly embedding itself in his mind over time, a persistent whisper at the back of his thoughts.
People saw him as one as well, he realized that much. The quiet boy who didn’t speak much, the one who seemed to float through life with barely a glance at anyone, the one who seemed to exist in the margins of things, never truly in the center.
But the truth was, Nagi wasn’t a mystery to himself. He knew exactly who he was—he was just… different. In a world that expected people to be bold, outgoing, loud, and present, Nagi had always been a little removed. He didn’t like attention. He didn’t know how to make small talk. He didn’t understand the way other people formed connections with ease, the way they seemed to get each other without even trying.
That’s what made him different. And it was exactly why the word enigma fit so perfectly.
While the world around him seemed to move at a pace he could never quite follow, Nagi found comfort in the quiet spaces. He liked to observe from the sidelines, to watch the interactions, the conversations, the laughter. But when it came time for him to step in, to be part of it—he always hesitated. It was like being an actor in a play where everyone else knew their lines, but he was still trying to figure out when his cue would come.
Nonetheless, there was someone to help him.
In middle school, Nagi had always been a quiet presence, content to remain on the edges of things, never quite fitting in. He kept to himself, drawing in the margins of his notebooks, finding solace in his own world of art and music, where he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t really mind being overlooked—it was comfortable, even.
Reo was loud, confident, and walked into a room like he owned it. Nagi didn’t get him at first—he didn’t get anyone, really. But something about Reo and his presence, his smile that seemed to brighten even the dullest corners of the school, drew Nagi in like a magnet. He wasn’t quite sure why, but Reo had a way of cutting through the noise, of seeing through the walls Nagi had built around himself.
Reo didn’t push him to be anything he wasn’t, didn’t question the silence that followed them. Instead, he simply accepted it, and in doing so, made Nagi feel like maybe he wasn’t so invisible after all.
Now, in high school, Nagi was still quiet, but the days of feeling completely alone were over. Reo, who had been by his side since middle school, still stood out in every room they entered, a polar opposite to Nagi’s calm, withdrawn demeanor. Despite Nagi’s tendency to blend into the background, Reo always managed to bring him along, pulling him out of his shell just enough to feel like he was part of something. Their bond, built on a shared understanding without words, had grown stronger over the years.
Nagi couldn’t reveal everything, though.
Nagi’s music was his escape, his sanctuary, a world where he didn’t have to worry about fitting in or saying the right things. It was in the quiet moments, when everyone else was asleep or preoccupied with their own lives, that Nagi found peace. His songs weren’t grand or attention-grabbing; they were delicate, intricate, woven together like threads in a tapestry of emotion. He didn’t show his face to the world when he created, and he didn’t need to. The music was enough—his way of communicating without the need for words. Behind his alias, “Choki,” Nagi had built a small but loyal following. The anonymity gave him the freedom to pour himself into his work without the pressure of expectations. It was his voice, raw and genuine, that connected with people. The vulnerability he never showed in person poured into every beat, every note, creating something that felt both deeply personal and strangely universal.
But even as Nagi thrived in his online world, he kept the music hidden from his daily life. To most, he was just the quiet boy in the back of the classroom, the one who avoided eye contact and stayed out of the spotlight. The truth was, Nagi didn’t want people to know about “Choki”—he was afraid of being judged, afraid that the fragile world he’d created through his music would crumble under the weight of others’ opinions. Music was the one place where he could be honest with himself, where he didn’t have to be the enigma others thought him to be. It was a secret he carried with him, a part of himself he wasn’t ready to share with anyone, not even Reo. The idea of someone hearing his music without truly understanding the person behind it made him anxious, but at the same time, it gave him a strange sense of fulfillment. In that space, he could be himself, completely and unapologetically.
Nonetheless, Nagi’s online life and real life existed in two completely separate worlds, and he preferred it that way. As “Choki,” he was free—his music, his drawings, his creative expression were all extensions of himself that he could share with the world without fear of being judged or misunderstood. Behind the screen, he could be anyone he wanted, no expectations, no pressure to perform or interact beyond what he was comfortable with. The comments, the messages from fans who resonated with his work, were a comfort, a quiet reassurance that there were people out there who saw him for who he was, even if they didn’t know his face. In contrast, real life felt more like a stage, where he was always performing a role. Nagi tried his best to keep his true self hidden behind the walls he’d built, choosing silence over small talk, avoiding the gaze of anyone who might try to get too close. No one at school knew about “Choki,” and he planned to keep it that way—for now, at least. But everything would change when he met someone who, unbeknownst to him, would see through all the barriers he’d carefully constructed.