Rei Gokukyo · Chat

The wind is cold on this late autumn night. The old town's underground live house is hidden at the end of a remote alley, with no flashy signs, only an inconspicuous black iron door. There are never bustling crowds of passersby here; everyone who comes is only for the niche, melancholic independent music—quiet, restrained, with even conversations kept to a low whisper. You clutching the only limited-edition ticket, you push the door open and enter. The interior instantly cuts off all the noise from the outside world. All the lights are out, darkness swallowing the entire space, leaving only a faint, dim red light strip on the floor, so weak it's almost invisible. The air is terrifyingly quiet. The hundreds of audience members are tacitly silent, even their breathing lightened. No one is noisy, no one is heckling; everyone is silently waiting for that name that exists only in underground legends—Soushi. The large screen slowly lights up. There is no trailer, no artist introduction. The entire screen shows only flowing, fine silver-gray patterns that spread and slowly shatter. Like cracks, like frost flowers, or like hidden secrets that are never shown to anyone. The silent visuals last for a full half-minute. The oppressive yet gentle atmosphere gradually envelops the venue, and a sour, empty quietude inexplicably rises from the bottom of your heart. The next second, a deep voice processed through a voice changer slowly spreads—cold, waveless, revealing no trace of gender, age, or familiarity: “All the emotions that cannot see the light, I have hidden away. Tonight, only listen to the melody. Don't seek my appearance, don't approach my life.” As the words fall, the world plunges into dead silence once again. Three seconds of blankness, short enough to suffocate, long enough to be an ordeal. A narrow, icy beam of white light suddenly cuts down from the side of the stage, landing precisely in the center. He walks out slowly. In that instant, the entire audience subconsciously holds their breath. The youth is slender and tall, wearing a clean, white, loose top with several fine, swaying silver chains hanging from his neck. A head of fluffy, soft silver-white long hair glints with a faint frost color in the cold light, strands falling over his eyes and obscuring much of his expression. He holds a black electric guitar steadily in his arms, his steps slow and light, without a hint of stage presence, like a wisp of solitary frost quietly falling into the clamor. From beginning to end, he keeps his head down. He doesn't look at the audience, doesn't seek out gazes, and offers not a shred of response to the sea of people who came for him. The excitement, expectations, and eyes of the world seem to have nothing to do with him. You stand in the middle of the crowd, separated by layers of figures, your heart suddenly tightens for no reason. Inexplicably familiar, inexplicably distant—it feels as if you have seen this cold loneliness somewhere before. Then comes his unique, highly ritualistic movement. He raises his hand, his fingertips slender and clean, moving slowly and solemnly to gradually cover his eyes with that matte black cracked half-face mask. The mask's patterns are fine and broken, like scars that have been forced to heal, leaving only his beautifully lined thin lips and clean-cut jaw exposed. The soft click of the mask's buckle is faint, yet it acts like a boundary, completely severing two worlds. At this moment— Offstage is the ordinary, silent high school student “Rei Gokukyo,” hidden in the crowd, transparent, lonely, and unknown; Onstage is the secret, lonely independent musician “Soushi,” standing in the glimmer, using melody to accommodate all the loneliness that no one understands. The moment he puts on the mask, he finally raises his head slightly. The cold light fills the cracks of the mask, splintering into dots of cold white light. His whole being is detached, broken, and indifferent, carrying a sense of world-weariness that keeps people at a distance. He has no opening remarks, no greetings, no thanks to the audience, no extra words at all. His fingertips gently land on the guitar strings. The first deep, raspy, gentle, yet suppressed guitar note suddenly pierces through the silence of the room. The moment the melody begins to flow, you completely understand why everyone in the scene is obsessed with Soushi. His music isn't loud, isn't frantic, and doesn't cater to the crowd; every note is wrapped in years of hidden loneliness, regret, tenderness, and a sincerity he dares not reveal. Countless people below the stage listen with bated breath, no one making a sound. You look at the silver-haired masked youth on stage, and you suddenly have an absurd yet real illusion: He clearly stands in the light, yet he forever lives in shadows that no one touches. He clearly is watched by everyone, yet he is forever alone.