Chapter Text
A new opportunity, they’d said. An easy, contracted job that pays more than it’s worth, they’d said. Smooth, uneventful work, other than maybe an overzealous fan, they’d said.
They’d said a lot, sure, but nothing that described this nightmare. He’d take a million desperate super fans pushing against flimsy barricades over this; he’d take a boxing match with a stalker and whatever ilk they surrounded themselves with— anything over this.
Trapped in a stuffy, cramped room with the most frustratingly annoying, irritating, agitating, vexing bastard in the entire Japanese music scene, with no option or means of escape.
He’s been ranting about the importance of producing “real music” for the past ten minutes.
Moku wants to wring his neck.
Honestly, he does, and he would, that is if he wasn’t incredibly lucky and grateful to have the job he has (he also doesn’t feel up to the lecture he’d get off of Ro, despite being at least five years his senior; maybe also the whole assault sentence he’d get, but whatever). So instead, he leans against the wall, staring at the door, begging, praying to fifteen different gods unknown to him, willing it to open.
Shockingly, it doesn’t.
The three of them had shared a living space for longer than any of them can remember.
No, really: they’d always been a close group, their grandparents had been good friends and lived in a house together; had their parents (or one half of them, really) who all grew up as practically siblings, who then also lived in a house together, and had raised the three practically side by side. Eventually, it became just the three of them, and they’d decided the house was too empty, haunted by memories that should be locked away by nostalgia, to hold onto, and as a result they downsized to a smaller apartment.
It’s nice - lovely, even. None of them have any complaints. Though there’s a substantial cost to being able to live in lovely places, as there is anywhere.
Apparently, their families had once been tenured as an elite protective squad, a very, very, very long time ago, to the point of it being a bedtime story whispered to them by their grandparents, who themselves had been told it to comfort them into sweet dreams and peaceful nights of sleep. The idea of a formal unit may have dissipated over the generations, however the school of combat had been meticulously preserved throughout the years, lovingly passed on (drilled) into each new addition to the family as they came along, producing even more skilled combatants as the generations went on.
As it turned out, these skilled combatants lent themselves quite nicely to being security guards.
So, here the three of them were, scouring local newspaper after newspaper for requests for security work, day in, day out, hoping to one day to strike it lucky and get a job that lasted more than a night.
It was easy enough for one of them to get a gig, but the three of them as one body? Most possible employers brushed them off, unwilling to pay a good wage for one, let alone three of them; it was exhausting, a constant cycle of frustration and dashed hopes.
They weren’t broke, in fact they were quite comfortable, at least for now; eventually, the inheritance they received from each set of their parents would dry up, leaving them dependent on entirely themselves, and no one to fall back on. It was a thought that constantly loomed on the horizons of their minds, plaguing them when they discussed splitting electricity bills or who’d pay the water that month - what happens when that support falls away in a flurry of overpriced necessities and inflation? They didn’t tend to dwell on it, only truly discussing it in late night conversations in a barely lit kitchen over a meal of slightly undercooked instant noodles, and then never again, not until the next time.
Sumi had mentioned a promising job that she’d seen advertised at a club she’d been working the night before, and was now out hunting the flyer down (she had ended up… “dealing” with drunken riff-raff who had been attempting to start fights with other patrons who were innocently trying to drink and dance away their woes from the day, and was unable to rip the thing off of the notice board in the aftermath of the scuffle). Ro had been sleeping all day. He works nights a lot, so it’s expected. He’s also a lazy little shit, but that’s just Moku’s opinion - his entirely valid and correct opinion, that is.
Moku… well he hadn’t done a lot of anything. A lazy day, he’d said to himself, it was a lazy day, that he was now spending lying on the couch watching the local news and talk shows. For hours on end.
He would be having fun, listening to the moaning of a myriad of people complaining about anything they can justify and marketing it as television, if it wasn’t for this one interview he just couldn’t turn off.
What was it that kept him practically hate watching it? He couldn’t stand a single one of the people being questioned by a painfully two-dimensional host, smiling with artificially white teeth and asking blank, surface level questions like “how did you meet?” and “what’s your favourite song you’ve produced?” It’s boring, tactless. In a complete contrast to the talk show host, the band being interviewed were apparently so egotistical that they couldn’t even manage to talk about the band itself, constantly vying for the attention of the live audience with poorly timed jokes and outbursts; it was like watching a group of male birds trying to attract a female (he’s not sure how he got that image in his head, exactly… maybe it has something to do with all the birdwatching shows he’s watched within the past week alone).
In the least, they were interesting to look at; they seemed to range in age (they certainly did in appearance), looking to be similar to Moku’s age to much older, and then one who was absolutely a child, or freshly eighteen at best. His eyes catch on one of the ones who look around his age, with a penchant for piercings and hideously styled hair; what, exactly, is he trying to do there? It certainly doesn’t make up for his lacking, let’s say, personality.
He’s a bastard - through and through. No amount of label ordered media training can mask that truth, in fact Moku thinks it’d take waterboarding the man to sort him out. He looks like a moron: his makeup artist’s lack of skill is apparent even through editing and filters, and his hair is drenched in poor quality gel. It’s shocking, considering the collected and polished appearances of his bandmates. He wasn’t hideous, unlike his hair, but it was such a stomach churning viewing experience that Moku nearly turned it off. Nearly.
It’s amusing, alright?
Apparently, he plays piano; he must be one of those prodigies that parents brag about to each other in an eternal competition of one-upping one another, saying how they “knew from the moment he touched the piano” and how their son is “so incredibly talented”. Apparently, he’s been playing the instrument since the age of three (a noise of awe escapes from the audience; Moku rolls his eyes). Apparently, he also plays electric guitar. Apparently, he’s some heartthrob of the Japanese music scene.
‘To play is to converse, you see and—’
Apparently, Moku doesn’t hate him enough to turn the show off. What a stuck-up, self-centred bastard. If he ever saw him, he’d “accidentally” bump into him and “accidentally” knock him to the ground, and maybe spit on him too. Accidentally, of course.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ The front door shuts with a thud, and footsteps echo into the open plan of the kitchen and living room.
‘Shut up.’
Sumi walks around the kitchen behind his head, opening cupboards before shutting them again, circling around the small island.
‘Where did you put the glasses?’ She queries, exasperated, still searching each individual cupboard as she asks the question.
Moku groans in response, leaving her to find them herself, as she inevitably would.
There’s silence for a few moments: she either found the glasses or is attempting to stealth kill him. Anything to free him from the talk show that is still dragging on.
‘I got us the interview.’
It’s enough to snap him out of his boredom induced stupor, pivoting his entire body on the couch around to look at her: ‘What?’
Sumi hums an affirmative. ‘It’s tonight. Is Ro up?’
‘No, pretty sure he’s still asleep.’
She nods, filling her glass with water before leaning backwards against the kitchen counter; Moku turns back around to face the television, fumbling for the remote to turn it off. He doesn’t need that vain moron babbling onto the point of his words being buried inside his mind, an unwanted ear-worm.
‘Did you put the laundry in the washing machine?’ Sumi suddenly asks, eyes boring into the back of his head.
Shit.
‘I… I forgot.’
He barely manages to dodge the dishcloth thrown at his head.
It didn’t take long to walk to the location Sumi’d been given for their interview, but even their brisk pace hadn’t been able to take the edge off of the bitter cold of a winter’s night, leaving their extremities numb and reddened. At least the waiting room for… whatever office this is is warm, and the seats are cushioned so that they’re comfortable enough to sit on.
An imposing, well built, but old enough man emerges from behind a shut door, staring at the three of them as if they were trespassing behind… black eyes? His eyes are completely black, eyeball and all; what, exactly, had Sumi signed them up for?
‘Masumi?’
They stand almost simultaneously, Moku stumbling in his attempt to hide his shock, before following him into the office, the door slamming shut behind them, an early warning. Gold and platinum vinyls line the wall of the room, as well as various photographs of the interviewer and people he vaguely recognised in the depths of his memory; from where, he wasn’t sure. Apart from the framed photos and awards (he guesses), the office is practically barren other than its seats and desk. Miserable place.
Sumi and the interviewer exchange some words that Moku misses in his scanning of the room.
‘What are your positive qualities useful for taking on this job?’
He tries not to zone out, attempting to listen to the basic, standard interview questions; his back is perfectly straight in the leather chair, his eyes track the interviewer. A few more questions are asked to Ro and Sumi, until it’s finally his turn.
‘And you, Moku-san - what would you say is your most applicable skill to this work environment?’
Slight problem. Massive, actually: Sumi hadn’t told him even a hint of what this was actually an interview for. It’s security work, yes, but for what, he has no idea. Security is always pretty similar and straightforward, so he opts for vague answers that won’t raise too many follow up questions.
‘I’m strong, and I can easily handle a crowd.’
The interviewer stares at him.
And stares.
Still staring.
Still staring.
Still. Staring.
Moku smiles hesitantly, not sure if he somehow just blew the entire interview for them with one sentence.
‘And, how would you say you are with handling rambunctious groups, containing wayward youths and overly confident young adults?’
Weird phrasing there, not to mention a weird question, but he manages to not show the confusion that was parading through his mind.
‘I’m confident I could deal with them appropriately.’
More staring. And staring. Staring, staring, staring.
Finally, finally, the man nods, and moves onto shuffling a stack of papers lying on his desk before him.
The rest of the interview passes uneventfully with no more excessive staring (or studying, as Sumi had later suggested to him), and only a few more questions directed at him.
‘I’ll be in contact within a few days. Thank you for your time.’ They’d been whisked out of the office back into the gelid air of wintertime with that, sent swiftly on their way with the gesture of a palm towards the door.
None of them felt like saying anything on the way back— there wasn’t anything to say, anyways; it had gone smoothly, a lot smoother than any others that the three of them had attended together, which had usually ended in a curt “good day” or “good evening”. All they had to do was wait for the phone call.
Moku glances at his watch: quarter to nine. It was already pitch black other than the street lamps, and only a few cars had sped past them, free to race the mostly abandoned streets; he longed for the subtle, comforting warmth of a motor vehicle, for the incessant drabble of radio hosts, for the gentle hum of the engine.
Yeah, he’s losing it.
‘It’s work for a year if we get it, Moku,’ Ro murmurs to him, hands in pockets as usual. He must have forgotten one of his “cigarettes”, otherwise he’d be chewing on one as they spoke.
‘Really? A contracted gig?’
‘Yep. Looks like good money, too.’
Good money was all they needed. Stable work was all they needed. Renewable contracts were all they needed. They hadn’t bombed the interview, it had gone better than the countless others before it; the interviewer seemed content with their answers and behaviour. Moku doesn’t even care what work it is anymore - he’ll just ask Sumi tomorrow morning, and moan about it then. But for now, he lets himself get his hopes up.
A new opportunity, Sumi had told him. It’s a new opportunity for him to dream pleasantly about, a fantasy that can seep into his waking thoughts, tinting his days with optimism. He’s almost excited at the thought of a job, of all things to look forward to.
This job better contain some life-altering luck, or he’ll resign. After a paycheque or two, of course.
It’s been three days and no word.
Not even a silenced call from an unknown number; just total radio silence.
Each of their nerves were beginning to fray, inching them closer to the edge of despair and disappointment with each passing hour of no contact. The interview had gone well, hadn’t it? Maybe he could’ve looked more attentive when the interviewer was asking questions, or perhaps he should’ve sat up straighter when addressed. Doubts crept into his mind from the shadows of his conscience, curling up like rotting animals and planting themselves on the edges of his common sense, polluting it with second-guessing and incertitude.
They’d each returned to their usual rhythm, working clubs as bouncers or one-time security for gigs every night and throughout the day; none of them dared mention the potential job (despite the chances of it being offered to them quickly dissipating before their eyes), perhaps out of fear of jinxing it.
Time passes. No word.
Four days.
Five days.
Six days.
Nothing.
‘You think we need security? Why?’ He asks, removing the cucumber from his eyes, careful not to nudge the clay mask that was rapidly solidifying on his face.
‘Are you partial to being assaulted by swarms of crazed fan girls, Kuguri?’ Yura murmurs, and he can hear the blank, stoic and almost sarcastic look he’s giving him. A shudder racks down his spine.
He’s stood to his left, observing him and his bandmates while they partake in their music label funded spa day (Yura had declined, much to a certain someone’s chagrin after he’d practically begged the older man).
‘…Not particularly.’
‘Then, we need them. It’s not a difficult concept.’
Kuguri clicks his tongue. Just plain rude.
‘Yura is thinking logically. You only think of the music,’ Toto murmurs from beside him, arms and legs splayed and hanging off of the edges of her seat.
Kuguri scoffs.
‘You’re all philistines! It’s imperative that—!’
A groan sounds from the other two partaking in Kuguri’s spa day.
‘You’re too focused on trying to “respect our forefathers”, Kuguri,’ Hiruhiko mocks, barely disguised amusement titling his pitch upwards, ‘we can figure out the art of music making ourselves.’
His blood boils.
His head pounds, pressure building against his skull, thrashing an uneven rhythm that almost sends him over the edge for its sheer disrespect of a good beat.
In the end, his rage crescendos with a single sharp gasp-like noise, formed of pure exasperation and vexation, with a hint of misery entwined in it. He returns the cucumbers to his eyes, deep breaths prying from his lungs in hot bursts due to his agitated state.
Kuguri can’t believe he ended up in a band with such morons, no matter how long he’d known them, or how long they’d been climbing the boards as one body; how could they not see that understanding music took deep admiration for those who had conquered it before them? How could they not understand it took hours, days, even years of experience to truly perfect the musical arts?
‘You’re meant to be relaxing, not arguing, I thought,’ Yura says, voice shrinking as he presumably heads for the door, and sure enough, it shuts almost silently behind him.
A beat (an even one, thankfully).
‘You’re breathing too loud, Kuguri.’
He exhales deeply through his nose, ignoring the bait. Today was for inner peace, for well needed rest and relaxation. This was a necessity for producing excellent music. It could not be stained with petty arguments or thoughts of… security, of all things.
He wouldn’t have to worry about that: they’re just security, not bodyguards. They’d only be at shows, or events. As long as he can still make music, he doesn’t particularly care.
Sumi’s phone rings at the inconspicuous time of twenty-seven minutes past four in the evening, from an unsaved number.
Ro is chewing on one of his “cigarettes” beside Moku on the couch, who’s watching another interview with that prodigious, pretty boy freak. He’s grown to detest him even more with each new episode of egotistical ranting that’s churned out by the media, ranging from the standard talk show to being lusted after by fans… on live television. What has the country come to?
Neither of them pay it any mind as she steps out to take the call, nor when she re-enters the room, stalking towards them, phone limp in her wrist.
They got the job.
‘What?!’ Moku and Ro shout simultaneously, heads spinning at record speed to face her.
An entire week of waiting. An entire week of stressing and growing dejection.
A contracted gig for an entire year.
A year of work.
For a few frozen moments, the three of them look between one another, reeling from disbelief.
‘What… what is the job, Sumi?’ He asks gingerly, trying to not startle the thick layers of incredulity that were forming in the air of the room.
‘Security for a band,’ she responds quickly, blinking at him.
Moku could’ve cried from relief.
An entire year of easy work. Security for a band? Is that a joke? A year of protecting some wannabe pop stars? A year of steady cash flow?
He doesn’t know how he got so lucky, doesn’t know he did to deserve a blessing such as this. Oh, and imagine! Imagine if this band was playing the same night as pretty boy’s, and he actually had an opportunity to knock him to the ground! The idea boosts the already existing grin on his face, stretching it to the point his face ached and his teeth had dried out from overexposure to the air.
An easy, contracted job. A new opportunity.
According to Sumi, they’d been instructed to head to a new location, the supposed recording studio where the band spent a majority of their time, in order to become acquainted with each member as well as their staff. They’d not been assigned specific members to essentially bodyguard, seeing as there was only three of them, but apparently the interviewer (who, it turned out, was the band’s manager) had said they would most likely each spend more time with some of the members than others, depending on individual needs or request.
What a blessing.
The studio was too far to walk, so they ended up splurging on a taxi for the first time in at least a few months; taxis could be expensive, and they were all fit and fast walkers anyways. Walking wasn’t much of a problem, but it does become one when your destination is over an hour’s walk away. Not even Sumi (the most avid walker out of the three of them - she’d even done sponsored walks before) was willing to try it.
Unlike the walk, the taxi journey was relatively short at just over twenty minutes, not to mention pleasant, taking them the scenic route through the evergreen countryside, even in the bleak white-cast winter brought. After a few games of “I spy” they gave up on talking, instead choosing to observe the nature they saw so little of while living in the middle of the city.
Despite the detour through the countryside, however, the studio was still very much in the city, just on the complete other side of it, unreachable unless you went completely outside of the suburbs and then back into the city centre. Moku didn’t mind, optimism and enthusiasm for the job dulling his annoyance.
Getting into the place was fairly uneventful: they received lanyards that would allow them into the studio on their own, as well as all the security doors throughout its building; the security guard introduced himself, shaking their hands and wishing them “good luck”; the reception staff also introduced themselves, smiling and wishing them well in their new jobs. Now being led down a corridor by one of the aforementioned reception staff, Moku couldn’t help but feel… exhilarated! What a wonderful day it was to have a solid job after years of living paycheque to paycheque, after years of begging employers to let the three of them work, only to be shut down.
‘Here you go!’ The staff member says, grinning widely at them while pushing open the door into the break room.
Each of them nodded in thanks as they passed her, cautiously entering the room.
‘Ah. They’re here,’ a level voice murmurs, not known to Moku, but belonging to a man with extremely weird eyes (what is the deal with these people?!) that seemed to spiral. Strange.
Someone groans, similar to something a frustrated toddler might burst out with in a half-sentient rage, and Moku… recognises it.
He recognises it from hours spent lounging on his living room couch, watching local talk shows and news. He recognises the lilt of it from interviews, from game shows, from hair gel commercials.
His eyes catch on his.
Bastard.
It turns out he’s called Kuguri.
Moku wants to kill Kuguri.
If he found him irritating while watching him through a television screen, then he doesn’t know what to call what he’s feeling now. Detestation? Hatred? Repugnance? Maybe that’s it, because the man is so beyond saving it genuinely disgusts Moku. You don’t know an irrelevant fact about the formation of the modern music industry? You get ranted at for twenty minutes straight on your “ignorance” and for being a “philistine”— what the fuck does that even mean? He’s a normal person, he doesn’t indulge in the dictionary every night for his bedtime story.
The other bandmates (who he recalled vaguely from seeing them alongside the bastard on TV) were actually… somewhat normal, at least when you compared them to Kuguri. In reality, they were a gaggle of freaks, but at least they had manners, unlike their agitating guitarist-pianist crank of a costar. Toto seems nice enough, though a little off-putting; Hiruhiko (who, as it turned out, is actually eighteen, like he’d guessed) is fun, if you can class erratically bouncing around the room like some sort of attention starved puppy as fun; Yura just sits there and watches chaos unfold before him, hands clasped together. It eerily reminds Moku of their manager and his habit of staring. Birds of a feather?
Moku remembers calling it a blessing only, what? a day ago? Well, if you class being exposed to an asshole who’s living in music dreamland and whose head is so far up his own ass he must be getting some sick sort of pleasure from it as a blessing, then maybe it still was.
He eyes the bastard, who’s reclined back on some kind of chair - that Moku suspects costs more than his rent - and has taken to arguing with Hiruhiko over a petty dispute relating to rhythm? Of all things to quarrel about? While his junior bandmate appeared to be enjoying the argument, eyes forcibly widened with glee, Kuguri looked close to lunging at him, vein bulging in his temple and Moku’s pretty sure he can hear his teeth grinding against each other from beside him.
Sumi had actually taken some initiative and had sat down next to Toto, seemingly asking her about any safety concerns she had during performances; Ro’s speaking to the manager (they still hadn’t been told his name) who had arrived at some point after the three of them had; Moku… well, Moku’s still standing to the side of the room where he’d been brutally ripped into by Kuguri before, unsure of what to do. There was no way in hell he was going to try to interrupt the conversation between the bastard or Hiruhiko (who were still arguing), and Yura looks wrapped up in his thoughts, spiralling eyes trained on a chafe mark on the floor; the idea of twisting his neck and suffocating to death was becoming more and more attractive as time crept on, the clock on the wall faintly ticking with each passing second.
‘Hey, Security-san!’
He turns his head, only to find Hiruhiko looking up expectantly at him from his seat a few metres away. His pink hair’s been tied back into a bun, with his bug-like eyes becoming even more pronounced at the lack of hair framing his face. Moku doesn’t really want to respond, being content with moping in the corner of the room, but he doesn’t have much of a say in the matter.
‘Yeah?’ His voice cracks slightly from his lack of speech.
Kuguri shakes his head, eyes closing shut delicately in disappointment. ‘This is why you vocal train, Hiruhiko,’ he murmurs, almost condescending.
‘Excuse me?’
The bastard tuts, eyes reopening to glare at him, before sighing dramatically. Moku has to fight the urge to throttle him.
‘In the world of music, perfection is demanded, requiring hours of time being dedicated to learning the intricacies—’
‘Tell that to your friend there, I’m here for your security - not lectures,’ he snaps back, growing increasingly bored of his nonsense.
The words… don’t go down well.
‘I’m sorry? I knew from the moment you walked in you were another phi—’
‘Nobody knows what that means.’
Kuguri looks away in frustration, biting his lip and throwing his hands up before him. Moku watches as his slender fingers grasp the air, knuckles undulating over nothing; he looks away quickly, catching himself staring.
‘He’s right,’ Hiruhiko admits, surprisingly joining their conversation, if you could call it that. He leans on his hands, practically leering at his bandmate.
Betrayal pumps through the atria of Kuguri’s heart, and he grunts in exasperation, loud enough to make Moku take a step back out of fear of his hearing being affected.
‘I cannot believe this, this idiocracy I am livi—!’
‘Again,’ Moku and Hiruhiko say simultaneously, coaxing a small grin out of the former. ‘We don’t know what that means,’ Hiruhiko completes the sentence for them.
The bastard looks ready to combust, and the mental image is enough to egg Moku on.
‘You read the dictionary every night before you go to bed?’ He asks, mouth upturning as he remembers thinking the statement before. This is too much fun for it to be professional, but he shuts the thought down before it can spoil his enjoyment of bullying Kuguri. Unfortunately for both himself and his pink-haired partner-in-ridicule, the manager decided that the perfect moment to speak up and inform the room of their schedule for the next few weeks was just before Kuguri could react, the expression frozen on his face.
They had a show tomorrow night at a relatively large venue, though from briefly observing the plan of the place, it seemed secure enough. The three of them would go in an hour early to check for any possible concerns for security, and then spend the rest of the night keeping an eye on the band. Easy, especially now that Moku knew he could rely on Hiruhiko to irritate Kuguri for him.
Easy.
It was not easy. In fact, Moku was rapidly approaching the end of his tether, and clawing his own eyeballs out was starting to sound appealing.
He doesn’t even know how he ended up trapped in a dressing room with him. The last thing he knew, he was checking over the venue; the last thing he knew, he was giving the manager the okay; the last thing he knew, he was going to check on Kuguri in his dressing room— so why is he still here?!
The door had locked behind him, is the answer. He’d popped his head into the room for a second, only to see Kuguri sat at a lightbulb-framed mirror, carefully applying eyeliner, the angle of his lean wrist against his face imitating some mathematical theory, and it… it had distracted him. It was an easy opportunity to mock the bastard, alright? However, in his desperation to ridicule Kuguri, he didn’t pay attention to the door clicking shut behind him as he ventured into the room, remarks already forming on his tongue.
‘What do you want?’ Kuguri squints at him through the mirror’s reflection, continuing on with his eyeliner.
‘Came to say hello,’ Moku responds, stopping in the centre of the dressing room; it was extortionately large for just one person, he observed. ‘Are the others too tired of your shit to share a dressing room with you?’
Kuguri sets his eyeliner pencil down on the vanity table. He ignores the jab, instead answering the concealed question, ‘Toto usually joins me, but her makeup artist insisted on her having her own space for today.’
Moku senses the animosity in the words, in addition to the sour expression Kuguri was wearing. ‘And yours?’
He clicks his tongue. ‘Got rid of him.’
‘For that contour?’ He jibes, before the light smile he was wearing fades from his face.
Why, exactly, would he tell Kuguri that he’d noticed how awful his contour was?
He slowly turns in his seat to face Moku, contemplating him. ‘Was it that noticeable?’ He all but whispers, hands clenching the back of his chair, knuckles white and voice strained.
‘At least on TV.’
Kuguri slams his hands down on the vanity table, that unique squawk escaping him once again in agitation.
Moku smirks, turning to leave. His hand pushes down on the door handle, and—
It doesn’t open.
He tries again. It won’t open. It’s locked. The door locked behind him. He has to fight the urge to slam his head into the wooden door; he also fights the urge to try and body slam the door until it opens, which he was more than capable of doing, however he didn’t feel up to paying the fee to fix it. He’s trapped.
Moku is trapped in a room with Kuguri.