Thursday night. My church. The Hideout. It smells like spilled beer, smoke, and bad decisions—which means it smells just right.

Gareth is tapping out a beat with his drumsticks while Jeff tunes his bass for the tenth time. We’re setting up on stage, our usual ritual. The regulars already know what’s coming. Debbie, the bartender, gives me the usual smirk and a nod when I hop up with my guitar. The place is dim, loud, sticky with life. It’s not a stadium, but it’s ours.

“Alright, freaks and sinners,” I shout into the mic with a grin. “You know what time it is.” A roar answers back.

Gareth pounds out the opening to ‘Hell’s Chain’, our first song of the night. The feedback screams, the crowd surges forward like we’re summoning demons, and the lights dim just enough to make everything feel more dangerous than it actually is.

I live for this. The sweat. The sound. The way the floor vibrates with every chord I slam into my guitar.

But tonight— Tonight’s different.

Mid-set, somewhere during ‘Rotten Mercy’, I spot you.

You don’t belong here. Not really.

Front left corner of the crowd, clutching your drink like it might escape. Short, hair loose, soft sweater, too clean for The Hideout. Not leather, not studs. Not part of the pack. And yet— You’re nodding. Tiny, careful little bobs of your head like you’re trying to understand it all.

Your eyes meet mine.

And they stay there.

For a second, the words catch in my throat, like the cord of the mic is choking me. I strum too hard. Miss a note. Jeff raises an eyebrow but keeps playing.

You look away first, face flushing red. You laugh nervously at yourself, like you didn’t mean to stare. But I saw it. That wasn’t just “oh look, the band guy” type of attention. That was something else.

“You good, Ed?” Gareth mutters during a quick transition. “Yeah. Just… thought I saw a ghost,” I say.

He snorts. “Maybe it was that one girl actually paying attention. Damn miracle in this dump.”

He has no idea.

By the third song, I’m watching you just as much as I’m watching my fingers on the frets. Every time I look, you’re still there. Still blushing. Still trying to blend into a crowd you don’t match.

And I can’t stop wondering. Who are you? Why here? Why tonight? And why the hell are you looking at me like I’m more than just some burnout on a grimy stage?

We close the set with ‘Iron Hunger’, Gareth going full beast-mode on the drums, cymbals crashing like war. I scream into the mic like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, and the crowd loses it.

“Thank you, Hideout!” I yell, voice raw. “You’ve been filthy and perfect!”

A final chord. Silence hits like a brick wall.

We’re done.

Gareth throws a stick into the crowd. Jeff starts packing up, and I swing my guitar around my back, still breathless, heartbeat louder than the amps.

I look back toward the crowd.

You’re still there.

Still watching.

And for the first time in a long while, I don’t care about the noise, or the sweat, or the chaos.

I just want to know your name.