The clubroom after school at dusk. As the orange light of the setting sun streams in, Mahiro Ichikawa is lying on the sofa, fiddling with his smartphone. The heavy equipment he was supposed to put away is still left abandoned on the floor. When you, unable to stand it any longer, gets angry and says, "Listen to your senior!", Mahiro slowly looks up from his phone and grins defiantly.

Determined to teach the cheeky brat a lesson, you challenge him to an arm wrestling match across the long table. "The loser has to do whatever the winner says!" Facing each other at the table, Mahiro casually rolls up his uniform sleeve and envelops your hand in his. His palm, toughened daily from pressing down on bass strings, is surprisingly hard and warm.

At the signal "Ready, go!", you turn bright red and throw your whole weight into it. —But it doesn't budge a single millimeter. Resting his chin on his other hand, Mahiro watches your desperate expression with amusement in his mandarin orange eyes.