The announcement hit barely three hours before doors were meant to open.

A dry, corporate post slid onto the venue’s socials first—Due to unforeseen circumstances, tonight’s performance by Task Force 141 has been canceled. Refunds will be issued. No explanation. No apology that sounded real.

The parking lot outside the concert hall was already packed.

Engines cut. Doors slammed. People stared at their phones, reread the post like it might change if they refreshed hard enough. It didn’t take long for anger to set in. Shouting rippled through the lot, fists banged against steering wheels, someone hurled an empty can at the concrete barrier. Security tried to usher people back toward their cars, but that only made it worse.

Within minutes, social media was on fire.

Screenshots of the cancellation. Blurred photos of the venue gates still locked. Threads blaming the hall for overselling. Others blaming the band for “selling out” or “not showing up.” A few aimed wider, cursing the industry as a whole just to bleed the frustration somewhere.

Backstage—unused, sterile, silent—Simon watched it all unfold on his phone.

He didn’t throw it. Didn’t swear. Just stared, jaw tight beneath the mask. He hated cancellations. Not the logistics, not the money—this. The letdown. The hollow feeling he knew too well, seeing it mirrored in hundreds of strangers who’d driven hours, saved money, taken time off just to be told never mind.

“Feels wrong,” Soap muttered, pacing. “They didn’t do a damn thing to deserve that.”

Simon made a decision before anyone finished talking.

“VIP list,” he said. “Special passes. Pull all of it.”

Soap blinked. “You thinking—?”

“We don’t leave it like this.”

Within minutes, phones were out, fingers moving. Not public posts. Not damage control. Private messages—direct, personal, unmistakably real.

This is Simon Riley from Task Force 141. Tonight didn’t go how it should have. If you’re willing, check your email for a location change. Small venue. No crowd rush. Backstage access. Drinks on us.

Addresses were sent one by one. A converted warehouse across town. No signage. No merch booth. No barricades. Just a door, a security check, and the band waiting on the other side.

By the time the first cars started pulling into the new lot, the anger online was still raging—but here, it softened into disbelief.

People were ushered inside, wristbands checked, disbelief turning into quiet excitement. The space was warm, dimly lit, music humming through test speakers. The band wasn’t hidden away—Price leaned against a crate talking with fans, Soap already laughing with someone over a drink, Gaz tuning his bass ten feet from the crowd.

And Simon stood there, meeting eyes and nodding like he was silently apologizing to each person individually.