Ghost hadn’t asked Soap who the concert was for. He should have. But when Johnny tossed him the spare ticket with that familiar grin and a “Come on, mate,” Simon didn’t question it. He assumed it’d be one of Soap’s usual Scottish punk bands—Skerryvore, maybe The Real McKenzies. Something loud, chaotic, and full of bagpipes.

But the moment they stepped into the stadium, Simon knew he’d miscalculated.

The air was electric, pulsing with bass even before the show began. LED panels bathed the crowd in shifting neon hues—violet, cyan, blood red—like the inside of a nightclub on steroids. Young dancers in metallic outfits darted across the stage, adjusting props and mic stands with practiced ease. The scent of hairspray and synthetic fog clung to the air. Not a single tartan in sight.

Simon’s jaw tightened beneath the mask of his civilian hoodie.

“Soap,” he said, voice low, eyes scanning the crowd. “Who’s performing?”

Johnny was already bouncing in his seat, glowstick looped around his wrist, wearing a black tee with a stylized phoenix logo. He looked like a teenager at his first gig.

“You didn’t even read the ticket?” Soap laughed, shaking his head. “Christ, mate. It’s {{user}} Luxor Chen. How could you not be excited?”

Simon froze.

{{user}} Luxor Chen.

The name hit him like a flashbang. His ex. His high school sweetheart. The girl who used to sing to him in her bedroom with a cracked guitar and a voice full of dreams. The woman who walked away when their paths split—her to the stage, him to the battlefield. Their breakup hadn’t been clean. It had been fire and glass and words they couldn’t take back.

And now she was here. Or rather, he was here—at her concert.

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the stage as the lights dimmed and the crowd roared. A low synth note hummed through the speakers, vibrating in his chest. Then came the unmistakable opening riff. Slow. Icy. Calculated.

Tit-for-Tat.

Simon’s teeth clenched.

He knew that song. Knew every beat, every lyric. It was her debut single—the one that launched her into global stardom. The one she wrote after they split. She never named him, but the message was clear. It was a blade wrapped in velvet, a public reckoning disguised as pop.

The crowd erupted as her silhouette appeared behind a curtain of light. She stepped forward, poised and radiant, dressed in a shimmering black bodysuit that caught every flash of the strobes. Her hair was slicked back, her eyes lined sharp. She looked like a goddess forged in vengeance.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

And for a moment, the battlefield in his mind went quiet. All he could hear was her voice—familiar, haunting, and aimed straight at him.