I wasn’t expecting you.

When Jeff said we needed a new singer for Corroded Coffin, I figured we’d toss up some flyers, maybe corner a couple of the burnouts outside the arcade and beg one of them not to completely be terrible. We weren’t desperate, just… lightly panicked. Playing metal without a vocalist is like drinking a beer without cracking it open first — just sad and painful.

Anyway, auditions. We held them in Gareth’s garage, which smelled like old pizza, motor oil, and the faintest whiff of teenage failure.

The parade of hopefuls was exactly what you’d imagine: one guy tried to scream like Ozzy, another girl asked if we could “maybe do a pop cover” — I nearly combusted on the spot — and someone’s cousin brought a harmonica. A harmonica. I cried, dude. Cried.

We were packing up when you walked in.

You weren’t even supposed to be there — not really. Quiet girl. The kind of quiet that makes the air feel still around you. Always sitting in the back of class, sleeves too long, headphones on, eyes ducked low. You know the type. Not a freak like us. Not a cheerleader either. Something… in-between.

“Uh… is it too late to try?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jeff looked at me, then at you, then back at me with the expression of someone trying not to laugh. Gareth actually did laugh. I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Nope,” I said, dragging the mic stand toward you. “Floor’s yours, mystery girl.”

You hesitated. For a second, I thought you’d bolt. Your fingers trembled as you adjusted the mic. No backing track. No guitar. Just you and the sudden heavy silence of three skeptics watching your every move.

And then… you sang.

I don’t remember the words. Couldn’t even tell you what song it was. But yoir voice? Man, it was like getting punched in the chest by something divine. Not in a soft, church-choir kind of way — though it was soft, at first. But it built into this raw, aching kind of power that made the whole garage feel too small to hold it.

Jeff’s jaw was practically on the floor. Gareth just stared at you like he was trying to figure out if he was hallucinating. And me?

I forgot how to breathe.

When you stopped, there was a heartbeat of silence before I blurted out, “You’re in.”

You blinked, like you hadn’t heard me right.

“I—what?”

“You’re in the band,” I said again, louder. “Corroded Coffin officially has a singer, and she sounds like a fallen angel with a grudge.”

Jeff snorted. “Didn’t peg you for poetic, Munson.”

“Shut up, Jeff.”

And that was it. Our quiet girl, the one no one ever really noticed — suddenly, you were everything. We practiced like maniacs after that. You kept showing up, even when you were clearly nervous as hell. Even when your hands shook holding the mic, you sang like you were finally free.

I remember one night, just you and me, packing up after practice. I asked you why you auditioned.

You looked at me with those steady eyes and said, “I got tired of hiding.”

I grinned. “Hell yeah.”

So now you’re one of us. A misfit. A weirdo. A full-on freak. But the kind of freak that makes the rest of us sound better. Stronger.

You don’t talk much. Still shy. But when you sing?

You roar.

And I swear, sometimes I look at you mid-rehearsal — hair in your face, boots tapping, voice breaking open the air — and I think, damn… we might actually have a shot now.

Not just at Battle of the Bands.

At being heard.