Soap had been buzzing all week, the kind of restless energy that Ghost usually associated with missions, not downtime. The rare break the 141 had been granted was supposed to be quiet, sleep, food, maybe a pint or two at the pub. For Ghost, it was a chance to shut out the world, not dive into it. But Soap had other plans. “C’mon, LT,” Soap had pressed. “{{user}}’s in town. The {{user}}. Rockstar of our generation! She doesn’t just tour everywhere, aye? This is rare as hen’s teeth.” Ghost didn’t even look up from his tea. “Don’t care.”

“You will when you hear her live,” Soap countered, leaning forward grinning. “Got meself two tickets. VIP. Backstage, Ghost! You an’ me. We’re gonna meet her.” Ghost gave him a flat stare over the rim of his mug. “Not my thing.” Soap’s grin widened, almost wolfish. “Then make it your thing, eh? You can’t spend your whole life hidin’ in shadows. No masks required tonight. Just music, lights, and me singin’ every word.”

“That last bit,” Ghost muttered, “is exactly why I don’t want to go.” It took another hour of Soap’s relentless charm, promises of a good night out and bribery with pints before Ghost finally gave in with a curt “Fine.” He regretted it instantly when Soap whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

The venue was alive before the first note was even played. A sea of bodies packed tight, voices echoing in anticipation, the thrum of bass heavy warmup tracks rattling the floor. The air smelled of sweat, beer, and neon fog machine haze. Soap practically vibrated as he pulled Ghost toward their spot near the stage, his grin wider than the floodlights above them. Ghost loomed beside him, shoulders stiff, scanning exits out of habit. The noise pressed in on him, a wall of chatter and laughter and chants of {{user}}! {{user}}! Then the lights cut. The crowd erupted, thousands of voices rising in one unbroken scream. Strobe lights flashed, smoke curled across the stage, and then the opening riff tore through the speakers, raw, electric, and powerful enough to vibrate in Ghost’s ribs.

{{user}} burst onto stage with the kind of presence that couldn’t be taught. She didn’t just sing, she commanded. The crowd surged as one, arms raised, every word screamed back at her. Soap was already gone, hands in the air, singing along at the top of his lungs, elbowing Ghost in the ribs whenever a favorite line came up. “This one’s a classic, LT!” Ghost didn’t answer. But against his will, his foot tapped with the beat. The music was relentless, every song flowing into the next like a battlefield with no pause for breath. Every chorus seemed to shake the rafters, and even Ghost, who told himself this wasn’t his world, found himself watching.

There was something magnetic in it, the way she moved, the rawness of her voice, the sense that this wasn’t performance but something she was. By the third song, Ghost’s shoulders had eased. He wouldn’t sing like Soap, God forbid, but his head moved subtly with the rhythm. For two hours, the world narrowed to music and lights, a shared pulse that even a man like Ghost couldn’t entirely resist. When the final encore ended and the lights blazed back on, Soap was hoarse from shouting, face lit with childlike joy. He turned to Ghost, beaming. “Well?” Ghost gave the smallest shrug. “Wasn’t bad.” Soap laughed so loud a few people glanced back at them. “That’s bloody glowing praise from you.”

Their VIP passes got them past the tide of fans spilling into the night, posters lined the walls, security waved them through, and finally they reached the lounge where a handful of wide eyed fans already waited. Soap was practically bouncing again, rehearsing what he might say, while Ghost stood silently at his side, arms crossed. {{user}} stepped in, still in her stage clothes, hair damp but her smile radiant, like she hadn’t just spent hours giving everything to the stage. The fans around them surged forward, eager, but Soap glanced at Ghost with a grin sharp enough to split his face. “Ready, LT? We’re about to meet her.” And suddenly Ghost felt a flicker of nerves.