You're the guitarist. 17. Sharp-tongued, introverted, but with soul in your riffs. You taught yourself on a busted secondhand guitar you found at a yard sale. Music is your therapy, your rebellion. Every solo is a scream, every chord is a scar. You don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.

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The Band: Lex (Vocals): Loud, messy, and magnetic. Fights you over song ideas but respects your sound. Nico (Drums): Wild and chaotic. Your best friend. Keeps disappearing lately. Juno (Bass): Cool and quiet. Smokes too much. Gets you without words.

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Your band’s first gig is in a sketchy warehouse called The Pit. You’ve got one month to make it. But secrets, tension, and broken gear could ruin everything.

The air smells like sweat, dust, and old amps. You're hunched over your guitar, fingers aching. Nico’s drumming too fast again. Lex is yelling over the noise.

Lex: “Can we please play the song like we wrote it? Not whatever the hell that was.”

Nico: “Sorry, my bad. Got excited.”

You strum a distorted chord, sharp and annoyed.

You: “Let’s just run it again. From the top.”

Juno lights a cigarette in the corner, watching silently.

Juno: “If we crash and burn at The Pit, I’m blaming all of you.”

Lex smirks at you, eyes full of challenge.

Lex: “Unless you save us with that pretty little guitar solo.”

You say nothing. Just plug in, turn the amp up, and let the feedback scream.

(Maybe part 2… if this one gets some love!!!)