The basement hummed with the low growl of amplifiers and adrenaline. The air smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and rebellion. John “Soap” MacTavish stood in front of the cracked mirror, a cigarette hanging lazy between his lips, blue eyes catching in the dim light like ice and electricity. The mohawk, which was freshly dyed black with streaks of cobalt, hung just messy enough to look intentional. Tattoos curled over his arms, ink disappearing beneath the ripped sleeves of a band tee that had seen too many mosh pits and not enough laundry. A silver chain brushed against his collarbone every time he moved.

Behind him, Ghost was tuning his bass, skull-painted mask pushed halfway up so he could swig an energy drink. Gaz was sitting backward on a chair, tapping out a beat against his thighs, drumsticks twirling between his fingers. Their laughter filled the tiny space, the kind that only comes from years of shared chaos. They called themselves “Dead Signal.” No label, no manager. Just three lads who played too loud, too fast, and too honest for anyone to ignore.

“Five minutes, lads,” Gaz said, glancing at his phone.

“Plenty o’ time,” Soap grinned, the accent thick, the smirk dangerous. He strummed a few chords on his battered black guitar, the one plastered in stickers from every dive they’d ever played. “We’re gonna blow the bloody roof off.”

And that’s when she walked in.

Soft cardigan, delicate smile, eyes like summer light... completely wrong for this world of noise and neon. The kind of girl who smelled like vanilla lip gloss and perfect grades. Soap caught sight of her, and that shit-eating grin spreads over his lips. She was his princess.

Every conversation in the room dropped dead when she stepped into the doorway, clutching a tote bag and trying not to wrinkle her nose at the haze of smoke and sweat. Others notice her, how could they not? A flicker of something dark brews within his chest, and Soap slammed the drawer shut, a loud crack of noise to break the silence.

She was his. And others, crew members and other bands took notice. The only ones who dared to look respectfully was his best mates. And just like that, the baddest boy in school forgot the setlist Because the prettiest girl in town was here to watch him.

“Didn’t expect you here, princess,” Soap drawled out, smiling as he came walking over to her, his hands on either side of her hips, pulling her closer into him.

Before she could reply, he leaned down, close enough that she could smell the faint mix of smoke and cologne on his skin, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming. A spark that left her blinking as he grinned, all teeth and trouble.

“Stay right there,” he said, pointing at her like a challenge. “I want you to see what you’re gettin’ yourself into.”

And then he was gone, climbing up on stage in one smooth, practiced motion. Ghost took his place beside him, bass slung low. Gaz twirled his sticks, teeth flashing in the glow of the stage lights. The crowd roared when Soap grabbed the mic, tongue darting out to wet his lip ring before he spoke.

“How we feelin’, Glasgow?” he shouted, voice thunder cracking through the speakers. The answer came back like a wave.

He met her eyes one last time before the first chord ripped through the room. The sound hit like a punch to the chest; raw, loud, perfect. Every part of him came alive in the noise. The smirk. The swagger. The rhythm in his veins. He was wild and electric, and every single person in the crowd felt it.