The last chord crashed through the venue like a thrown bottle, feedback screaming as the lights strobed red and white. Sweat clung to him, hair stuck to his forehead, chest heaving as he paced the edge of the stage. The crowd was feral—hands up, bodies pressed together, chanting his name like a threat.

He laughed, low and wicked, dragging the mic close to his mouth. “Yeah,” he drawled, voice rough, soaked in adrenaline. “I know what you came for.”

The audience roared louder.

He pointed into the mass of people, eyes sharp, predatory, enjoying every second of control. “You’re loud tonight. Filthy, too. I can hear it.” A pause—perfectly timed. “Don’t pretend you’re innocent. Not after that.”

The band behind him was already peeling off, Jax throwing a drumstick into the crowd, Milo grinning like this was routine. It was. This was always how he ended it—pushing buttons, crossing lines, feeding on the chaos.

He smirked, tongue briefly against his teeth. “Go home with that noise still in your head. Dream about it. About me.”

The crowd exploded.

He dropped the mic, let it clatter.