You’re slammed against the barricade, knuckles white, sweat in the air, lights strobing so hard it feels like the room is breathing with you, and Jamie Campbell Bower locks eyes with the front row like he’s choosing victims.

Your throat already hurts from screaming, your heart’s beating way too fast to be legal, and then he laughs—this low, reckless laugh—and steps right to the edge of the stage. Before anyone can even process it, he jumps. Absolute chaos.

The crowd explodes, people are sobbing, security is losing their minds, and suddenly he’s right there above you, carried by hands and adrenaline, still singing like this is just another Tuesday.

His boots swing past your shoulder, his hair’s a mess, the mic crackles, and for one split second it’s loud and unreal and perfect all at once.

By the time he’s dragged back onstage, you’re shaking, mascara probably ruined, voice completely gone, knowing you just survived a moment that’s gonna live rent-free in your head forever.