I couldn't tell if it was the residual heat from the concert I'd just finished or the eruption of long-festering, stale negativity, but I slung my guitar over my shoulder and headed toward the man who called himself my father.
I thought the bond had already been severed. They were the ones who had cut me off first, and my so-called parents were the kind of people who looked the other way even while I was being abused at the hands of my uncle.
When you become famous, the number of people who recognize you inevitably increases.
Even so, I believed they wouldn't come looking for me under the guise of parenthood. The reason was simple: I had already secured a legal property manager and had my power of attorney transferred via the family court. The parental rights they held by mere virtue of blood relation had zero influence over my life now.
Relationships not bound by affection are ruled solely by interest. With even the core elements of their parental authority stripped away by the court, there was no 'profit' left for them to gain from me. Yet, they had come anyway, unable to abandon the greed of 'what if.'
"Shit hole."
My plan was simple. I'd use the guitar in my hands to crack the man's skull open, toss a few dollars at him, and leave.
—Flash! Flash!
As I headed toward the main gate of MetLife Stadium, the reporters who had been lying in wait began detonating their camera flashes all at once.
"Son! How have you been?"
"Doing just fine."
The man, partially obscured by the camera glare, began speaking to me as if we were having a happy reunion. The emotion I felt toward him wasn't the affection I'd had as a child; it was a visceral, deep-seated hatred—the kind of revulsion one feels when looking at a repulsive beast.
"I wanted to go to the show, but I couldn't get a ticket."
"It's better that you didn't. If you'd caught my eye inside that venue, I would have broken your legs."
As my words—heavy with sincerity—hit the air, the reporters' eyes lit up at the scent of a scoop. They began thrusting their recorders toward me.
"The rest of you, get lost too. Right now."
.
.
.
.
.
Tanaka Shuji, the bald bassist of Enfants Terribles, was thinking of his leader—who had just marched toward the stadium entrance with a face full of rage.
Could it be... those family issues... the ones he told us about in detail after 'Ametalk!'...?
His cognitive functions had been dulled by the post-concert adrenaline, so he hadn't put it together immediately. Parents who abandoned their child crawling back once that child became famous—it was a scenario that reeked of ugly plausibility.
He didn't know the leader's family well. He could only speculate based on the things Hide occasionally mentioned when they were drinking together.
The world often called the leader 'The Chief' of the rascals, but contrary to that nickname, the leader's nature was kind. While he could be blunt or surly at times, he was arguably the most soft-hearted among them all.
Even when looking at Yokishi and Shuji—who were prone to causing trouble at any moment—the leader never complained. He rarely spoke an unkind word and always bore his own worries in silence. For a man like that to start spitting curses, it meant his internal state was beyond the breaking point.
Despite knowing that, Shuji had just let him go. He should have grabbed the leader the moment he bolted.
"Musclemon... should we intervene?"
"Baldie, we need to get to the entrance right now."
It seemed Yokishi was thinking the same thing. With a look of grim determination, Yokishi was already sprinting toward the entrance of MetLife Stadium.
We have to stop the leader from ending up in prison.
There was no telling what kind of accident would occur. With that desperate thought, Shuji dashed toward the main gate. There, he saw the leader, surrounded by a swarm of reporters.
"You son of a bitch! What? Daughter-in-law? What did you say about my girl?!"
It was too late. By the time Yokishi and Shuji arrived, the leader's face was flushed a violent red, his temper flaring at full heat.
And in front of the fuming leader, a haggard man with the exact same hair color had fallen on his backside, clutching his rear in pain.
"Hide! What's going on here?!"
Sakamoto Ryuichi, who had followed them out without knowing the full story, rushed to their side. But the damage was done.
As if trying to play the pity card, the middle-aged man was wearing a tattered jacket and faded jeans. Meanwhile, the leader was lifting his guitar over his head, looking ready to pounce on him.
Just as Shuji tried to stop him, Yokishi—whose muscles wouldn't lose out to professional bodybuilders—grabbed both of the leader's arms, struggling to keep him contained.
"You bastard! Why the hell are you showing up now? Why? Your kid's doing well, so you want to crawl back for some scraps?"
"Baldie, help me! Fast!"
The leader had completely snapped; he'd lost all reason. It took both Shuji and Yokishi's combined strength to finally pry him away from the man.
Sakamoto Ryuichi, being the only one with free hands, helped the man to his feet.
"Who... who exactly are you?"
"I... I'm that boy's father."
The man, trembling with feigned or real terror, finally managed to speak.
"Father?! Someone like you is a father?! Get the hell out of here, you piece of shit!"
The leader's eyes were bloodshot as he poured his rage into the middle-aged man. The man's bold, shameless attitude was enough to make even Shuji's skin crawl—so the leader, the one actually involved in this mess, must have felt a thousand times worse.
"This won't do. You need a beating. I'm a stranger to you now, so this isn't unfilial conduct, right?"
An incident on the very first day of the tour—the day they should have been celebrating. This wasn't the kind of fire that was going to burn out easily.