Stigma — Episode VI: “The Voice”

Rendered in the Prose Style of the 19th‑Century Victorian Era

Within the vast grounds of the festival, the refuse stations—well‑maintained and numerous—offered a small mercy to those already wearied by the day’s heat. Having cast away the remnants of our meal, I turned to make my way back to Louis in the stands. Yet before I had gone far, a boisterous band of young men, their laughter coarse and ill‑tempered, surged into the corridor.

I stepped aside to avoid them, but one—heedless of his surroundings—struck my shoulder as he passed. He muttered an apology, yet in that instant his gaze fastened upon my face.

“Ah—sorry! But haven’t I seen you somewhere? And… are you drunk?”

“Hey, Kazuhiro! You know this guy?”

I longed only to escape. But as I attempted to walk swiftly past, another seized my arm.

“Oi. Ignoring us, old man?”

Trouble. The grip upon me was firm—far too firm to shake off with ease.

“What is it?” I asked, though my voice betrayed unease. In a moment, the entire group had encircled me.

“What is it, he says! This bastard bumped into us and didn’t even apologise.”

I had been cast, without ceremony, as the offender.

“Hey, he looks familiar, doesn’t he?” The one called Kazuhiro pointed at me with a smirk.

“He’s the guitarist from Volcano. Come on, old man—sing something for us. If you can’t, then at least give us some air‑guitar. Do that, and we’ll let you go.”

Absurd. Why should I debase myself so?

Heat surged to my head; my heart turned cold. Their jeering—“Air guitar! Air guitar!”—echoed with handclaps, their eyes devoid of even the faintest respect.

(What are you grabbing at… you bastard…) The words remained unspoken. My face grew pale.

Driven by silent fury, I was on the verge of wrenching myself free— when a thunderous voice split the corridor.

Masa’s voice.

“THE SEA IS WIDE AND DAMNED ENORMOUS! WHEN THE WAVES RISE, ALL MEN SHALL SINK!”

His crude lyrics, shouted with reckless abandon, struck the young men like a blow. The sheer volume—unrestrained, unamplified— pierced their ears without mercy.

“What the hell—he’s loud!”

“Wait—no way. Is that really Volcano!? You came here!? Damn, I was at your live show last week!”

“Heh! Thanks, boys! Got any requests? I’ll sing whatever you want! It’s a festival, after all—special occasion! Here we go! THE SQUID BOAT RETURNS WITH A MIGHTY CATCH—JOIN IN!”

Good grief. The tension that had coiled so tightly around us dissolved as though it had never existed.

Before my astonished eyes, a strange warmth bloomed between Masa and the men.

“That was insane! We heard you up close! Look—I even got a signature!”

They departed in high spirits.

“Are you hurt, Eiji?”

Masa hurried toward me— and I saw blood seeping through the strap of his sandal.

“Your foot…”

He must have been in pain, yet he betrayed not a hint of it, singing with full force to shield me. Why? Why would he go so far? He should have left me to my fate.

“Man, singing made me even hungrier. Where’s the lunch? What— you ate without me!?”

He protested loudly, but we turned back toward the stands together.

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