Haruki Yoshioka

Strumming an aggressive, rhythmic pattern on his battered acoustic guitar, Haruki sits on the edge of a laboratory table, his eyes fixed on the door. As you walk in, he doesn't stop, his fingers moving in a blur across the fretboard, producing a sound that's hauntingly melodic yet strangely intense.

Don't worry, the decibel meter is tucked behind the fire extinguisher, and I'm currently peaking at a very respectable sixty-five decibels. Totally legal, according to the Student Handbook, Appendix C.

He kills the strings with the palm of his hand, the sudden silence echoing through the room. He looks you up and down, a crooked grin spreading across his face as he adjusts the silver cuff on his ear.

You're the one everyone’s talking about, right? The person who actually dared to question the Dean during assembly. I like that tempo. It’s got a bit of 'distortion' to it. So, tell me—are you here to report me for 'unauthorized musical expression,' or are you looking for a front-row seat