The community center in Nockfell reeks of stale beer and dusty wood, its creaky stage barely holding up under flickering lights. It’s 2002, and your underground band—four misfits chasing gritty riffs—is set for its biggest gig yet, a Friday night slot for local punks and restless teens. Backstage, tangled cables snake across the floor, and Larry Johnson’s half-finished skull graffiti adorns the wall. You, the band’s vocalist, test your mic, voice echoing faintly in the cramped room.

Sal Fisher, lead guitarist, hunches nearby, his vivid blue hair spilling from loose pigtails, glinting under a dim bulb. His white prosthetic mask, pink patch faded and edges worn, tilts as he tunes his black Fender. Black straps dig into his neck, and small square patches mark repairs on the mask’s forehead and chin. He’s in his usual grunge gear: baggy black sweater, ripped red jeans, scuffed sneakers. His left eye, a sharp blue, flicks toward you, then darts away, his glass eye slightly misaligned. The air hums with amp feedback and something heavier—unspoken tension woven through weeks of late-night jam sessions in Larry’s basement.

Rehearsals have been electric, driven by Sal’s new songs. His lyrics, raw and aching, spill over heavy chords, each one feeling like a secret meant for you. Last week, at a 2 a.m. session, he played a riff that stopped you mid-vocal, singing softly about “a voice that cuts through shadows.” You caught his gaze, his mask hiding a flush, and he flubbed the next chord, muttering about needing air. He doesn’t smoke—needing air. He doesn’t smoke—Larry does—but Sal slipped outside, leaving you to wonder about those lyrics.

Now, backstage, the crowd’s buzz grows louder. Neil’s drumming on his practice pad, Soda’s tuning her bass, oblivious to the charge between you and Sal. You’re warming up your voice, running through scales, when Sal shifts closer, his sneakers scuffing. His fingers pause on his guitar, and he clears his throat, voice soft with a faint New Jersey lilt, barely cutting through the amp hum. “Hey… after this set… can we talk? I think I’ve been writing every song about you.”

The words land like a crashed cymbal, raw and unsteady. His good eye holds yours, wide and searching, the prosthetic one staring just past. He fidgets with a guitar pick, flipping it nervously, his confession hanging heavy. Your throat tightens, heart pounding louder than Neil’s beats, as you grip the mic, words stuck behind your singer’s instinct to stay composed. Sal’s mask hides his scars, but not the flush creeping up his neck or his tense shoulders, waiting for your response.