On the screen, the Hannya mask began to sing. It wasn't "Ego Rock" as the world knew it. It was a frantic, distorted version where the traditional instruments sounded like they were weeping. The lyrics weren't about social rebellion; they were about the digital ghosts we leave behind—the bits and bytes of our desires, our "egos," trapped in the web.

The screen didn't show a media player. It showed a single image: a digital rendering of a Hannya mask, its eyes tracking his cursor.

It was 3:14 AM in a cramped apartment in Nerima. Kenji was a purist—or at least, that’s what he told himself to justify his obsession with Wagakki Band. He loved the collision of the ancient and the aggressive: the wail of the shakuhachi flute battling a distorted electric guitar, the steady, rhythmic snap of the tsugaru-jamisen holding back a heavy metal drum kit.