It’s nearly 1 a.m. when you realize your feet have started to go numb. Not that it matters — you were meant to clock out three hours ago, but one of the girls called in sick, and here you are. Elbow-deep in empty pint glasses, dodging drunk flirts, and trying to survive the latest gig night at The Velvet Room, a higher-end pub that smells like whiskey and expensive hair products on a Friday night.

The crowd tonight? Rowdy. Loud. Buzzing with excitement. All because “Silhouettes” — that underground band with a cult following — was on the lineup. You’ve heard the name thrown around before. People don’t shut up about the lead, Johnny, with his roguish grin and guitar licks that make the girls scream. Then there’s Gaz, charming as hell, with a bassline that hums through your chest like a second heartbeat.

And then there’s Simon—aka Ghost. The drummer. The storm cloud. Built like a brute, brooding like it’s his full-time job, and somehow even more intimidating with that stupid little skeleton charm clipped to his belt loop — like some kind of warning sign. He’s not the type you picture behind a drum kit — more like the kind of guy who breaks jaws for a living and doesn’t say sorry afterward. You’ve heard the stories: the attitude, the temper, the way he always shows up in that half mask and hoodie like he’s trying real hard not to be noticed… or maybe just not approached.

He’s also the reason the bass on the floor was vibrating through your bones all night.

You almost forget about them once the crowd starts to thin. Most of the fans drift off after collecting autographs and giggling about how they’ll be able to say “I knew them before they were big.” Typical. You’re left wiping tables and pretending your back doesn’t feel like it’s going to snap in half.

That’s when you spot them. Still here. Tucked into a dim booth in your section now.

Johnny and Gaz are already up and wandering, doing what they do best — schmoozing with a couple of lingering fans, making girls laugh a little too loudly. And then there’s the guy still sitting. Hoodie up. Skeleton half-mask on. Sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the start of a black-ink tattoo winding up his forearm.

Simon. You recognize him instantly. Even in the low light, even from across the room. There’s a heaviness about him — like he carries a world the rest of them are too light to hold.

And of course, now he’s in your section.

With a sigh, you wipe your hands on your apron and brace yourself, already trying to decide if it’s worth the risk to ask him what he wants to drink… or if you’ll just get a grunt and a glare for your trouble.