Page 57 of Vengeful Melodies

“Guys,” I deadpan, “I’m holding a clipboard.”

“That’s what makes it hotter,” Bash grins wickedly.

Kaiser leans against the RV, smirking. “You all flirt like it’s a sport.”

“It is,” Bash says proudly.

Backstage, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and soundboard grease. I dodge cords, clutching my tablet. The lights flicker, the crew moves like a storm, and my pulse syncs with the bass rumble.

“Jupey,” Grey grins, carrying a rig. “You’re in the lion’s den now.”

“I’ve been in worse,” I mutter, sidestepping a panicked assistant.

I find a semi-clear corner to set up, fingers flying across my tablet, adjusting mic and frame. I tug the cropped, knotted shirt into place, boots laced, ready for the chaos.

Bash yells, “Where’s my other pick? Alix, did you steal it?”

“I only steal hearts,” Alix replies, adjusting mics.

“Found it!” Kaiser chimes in, grin wide. “You dropped it in the hallway.”

Takoa stands center stage, unmoving. Focused. Burning beneath the surface.

Five minutes to lights down. I press record. The crowd’s roar hits.

And I’m filming. But not just as an observer anymore. I’m part of the madness. Part of them. And I never want it to stop.

Chapter Twenty Six

Kaiser

The stage isn’t just an altar tonight.

It’s the scene of a crime — and we’re the ones holding the knife.

Backstage is a humid tangle of cables, sweat, and muffled screams from the crowd. Bash paces with his guitar slung low, running his tongue over his lip ring like he’s already tasting the noise we’re about to make. Alix taps out a steady, violent rhythm on his thigh. Takoa leans on the wall, head bowed, mouthing his first lines like a curse.

I shoulder my bass. The strap digs into the groove worn into my skin, weight pulling me into focus.

Then I catch her.

Dreya.

She’s at the side ramp, camera lifted, eyes locked in through the viewfinder. That modified Heaven’s Guilt tee hangs off one shoulder, neckline wide enough to bare skin I shouldn’t belooking at right now. Black skinny jeans hug her legs, ending in boots scuffed from too many miles. Her hair falls in loose waves, catching the light. She’s here for promo — filming for the socials — but I swear she’s filmingme.

The house lights cut out.

The crowd goes feral.

We step onstage. Smoke coils up from the grates, thick and restless, crawling over my boots. Red light drenches us in heat, painting the stage like fresh blood.

Takoa gives the nod.

Bash’s opening riff slices through the air — jagged, dirty. The pit breaks forward. Alix follows with a beat that hits so deep it feels like my ribcage is trying to keep up. I drop in, the first pluck of the bass sending a shock through my hands.

I hit the mic, and my voice rips out like it’s been waiting years to burn:

"Pull me from the silence… before it eats me alive. I burned down my lungs just to prove I could breathe… but every breath is fire, and the ash is all I have left."