The first time Zephyr saw {{user}}, they were halfway through soundcheck at a grimy little venue called The Loop, the kind of place that smelled like beer and bad decisions, with scuffed-up floors and sticky mic stands.

Zephyr had just finished belting the last line of their opener, sweat prickling at the nape of his neck, chest rising and falling in that post-performance high when he caught someone leaning against the side wall.

Leaning—not watching. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Jaw tilted like a challenge.

He knew who they were immediately. Nova. Real name {{user}}, rumored leader of the “new band” forming three blocks down. They’d only played two shows so far, but people were talking. Loudly. Too loudly.

“Guess you really are glitter in human form,” {{user}} called across the venue. Their voice was a velvet jab, equal parts smooth and smug. “Shiny, loud, and hard to ignore.”

Zephyr blinked. Smiled slow. “Aw. You came all this way just to compliment me?”

{{user}} rolled their eyes and pushed off the wall. “Don’t flatter yourself. I had to see the competition before I crush it.”

Quentin, sitting offstage with his guitar on his lap, let out a low groan. “This is gonna be a thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s already a thing,” Athen muttered, barely looking up from the corner where they were scribbling in a battered notebook, headphones slung around their neck like a second skin.

Ivane just tightened a drum lug, unbothered. “Don’t let them get under your skin, Zeph.”

But it was too late for that. {{user}} wasn’t under his skin—they were in his bloodstream. The kind of presence you don’t shake off. Sharp edges and charisma wrapped in denim and a devil-may-care grin. Their voice—he’d heard clips online—had that gritty, aching soul in it. Like thunder buried in honey.

And it pissed him off how good they were.

He found them outside afterward, crouched by the alley wall with a half-lit cigarette and a flickering lighter that refused to work.

“You were good tonight,” Zephyr said.

{{user}} glanced up. “Yeah? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my impending victory.”

Zephyr laughed, sliding down beside them. “You always this obnoxious after killing a set?”

“You always this pretty when you’re admitting I’m better?”

The silence that followed was… charged. The kind of silence that hummed beneath your ribs, tugging on something unsaid.

Zephyr stared at the lighter. Took it gently. Flicked it once. Flame.

He lit their cigarette, holding the flame close enough to see their eyes widen.

“I’m not scared of you, you know,” Zephyr murmured, voice low. “You’ve got talent, {{user}}, yeah. But so do I. And I’m not going anywhere.”

It was war. It was music. It was something dangerous.