Page 28 of Vengeful Melodies

By the time we roll up to the venue, the line of fans is already spilling down the block, their voices carrying in the summer night. The bass from the opening band’s soundcheck thumps faintly through the brick walls. I kill the engine, the hum in my throat tapering off, though the tune still lingers in my head.

Security waves us through the back entrance. Inside, the air shifts — cooler, sharper, full of cables and equipment cases stacked like building blocks. The familiar scent of stale beer and stage smoke clings to everything.

We split without thinking. Grey heads toward the tech crew, muttering something about the lighting rig. Alix disappears toward the drum kit, drumstick still spinning, probably already plotting some complicated fill to screw with the rest of us mid-song.

I hang back for a moment, the hallway stretching in front of me. The hum threatens to rise again, unspooling in my chest.

Because the song isn’t just a song anymore.

It’s the echo of her voice, her laugh, the way she’s been sliding into the spaces between the beats of my life.

And I’ve got a set to play tonight, but my head’s already somewhere else entirely.

Chapter Eleven

Alix

The drums sit on the edge of the stage like a wild animal crouched and ready to pounce. Steel and stone. A throne for chaos.

They’re built to hold my weight. To hold my demons. To carry the blood, sweat, and filth of who I’ve become.

But now, as I stare down at the kit, all I can think is—

Don’t fuck this up.

Don’t slip on those steep-ass stairs.

Don’t faceplant in front of a sold-out crowd.

And please, don’t fall apart in front of her.

Grey said he dropped off the merch earlier—shirts Bash and I picked out for Dreya and Wren. Told me Sebastian couldn’t stop staring at her. Said the guy looked wrecked just being near her.

I wish I could say I’m surprised.

I wish I didn’t feel the same way.

I wish it had been me standing in her doorway instead of locked in this endless loop of rehearsals until my hands go numb.

Takoa demands perfection tonight.

And for me, perfection is the price of admission.

The overhead lights flicker in blinding white as I step onto the platform. My boots echo against the metal with every step—a countdown beating in my chest.

My fingers twitch. My stomach knots. Adrenaline floods my veins, but it doesn’t calm me—it sharpens everything, making the nerves electric and raw.

The stool slides back beneath me like muscle memory. I drop into it. Everything clicks into place—physically, anyway.

My heart is another story.

I pick up my sticks and start twirling them, testing their weight like old friends. But my hands feel tight, dry, wrong.

I exhale slowly. Tap my foot on the pedal. Let the rhythm creep back in like a ghost I thought I’d lost.

Close my eyes.

Breathe.