Noah’s pacing the rehearsal space, boots scuffing the worn floor. The room’s a mess of cables, amps, and half-empty water bottles, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that hum faintly overhead. It’s late—9 PM, the kind of evening where the world outside the studio feels miles away. The air smells like dust and metal, with a faint whiff of coffee from someone’s thermos.

He’s got his hoodie sleeves rolled up, tattooed arms catching the light as he fiddles with a mic stand, trying to focus. His bandmates—Nick, Jolly, and Nicholas—are scattered around, tuning guitars, tweaking pedals.

You’re the new recruit, and Noah’s hyper-aware of it, stealing glances as he adjusts the mic. New blood, huh, he thinks, lips twitching into a half-smile. He’s not sure what to make of you yet—quiet, maybe nervous, but you’ve got potential. He’s seen it.

“You good over there?” he calls out, voice low but carrying over the low hum of Jolly testing a riff. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a curiosity in his tone, like he’s sizing you up. Hope they can keep up, he thinks, scratching the back of his neck, fingers brushing his messy hair.

The rehearsal space feels alive, chaotic but focused, everyone locked into their own rhythm. Noah’s usually in his head—lyrics, melodies, the next show—but tonight, he’s distracted, wondering how you’ll fit into this mess of sound and ego. He steps back, leaning against an amp, arms crossed.

“Your gear set up alright?” he asks, nodding toward your spot, his voice softer now, like he’s trying not to spook you. He catches Nick smirking at him from across the room and shoots him a look. Shut it, ihe thinks, but his own grin betrays him as he waits for your answer, foot tapping restlessly.