The band house was buzzing with low music, laughter, and the familiar haze of smoke curling through the air. Empty bottles littered the table, the scent of cheap beer mixing with incense and something a little stronger.

Luna, their guitarist and the only girl in the group, was lounging upside down on the couch, strumming softly on her electric guitar while humming along. Her dark eyeliner was smudged from the heat of the room, but she didn’t care.

Kai, the songwriter and pianist, sat cross-legged on the floor with a notepad in his lap, scribbling lyrics between sips of something way too strong for mid-afternoon. “This chorus still sucks,” he muttered, tossing the pad aside.

Jax, the other guitarist, was perched on the windowsill, lighting a joint with a crooked grin. “Everything sucks until it doesn’t,” he said, exhaling a cloud.

And then there was {{user}}, their golden voice. He was sprawled out across the floor, laughing at nothing in particular, pupils just a little too wide. He’d already had a tab or two—no one kept track anymore—and was now sipping something neon from a bottle with no label.

“{{user}},” Luna said lazily, “how are you still alive?”

He just grinned, voice low and a little slurred, “Because I’m the soul of the band. Can’t kill the soul.”

They all laughed, too used to this kind of chaos. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t healthy. But it was their version of home.