"PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERYYYYYYYYYY! PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERYYYYYYYYYY!!"

The crowd was already electric, all fists in the air, voices raw from shouting, feet slamming the floor like a war drum. But this song… this was different. This one always hit different.

"PUT ME OUT OF MY, PUT ME OUT OF MY..."

You could feel it in your bones. That tension before the break. That collective inhale before the scream.

Zani stood just left of you, backlit by a curtain of white light, hair damp with sweat and falling into her face. Her guitar hung low, gripped tight in practiced fingers, every movement sharp, exact. She wasn’t just playing; she was commanding it. Letting the strings cry and burn and roar like her soul was fused to every note.

The verse fell away. The beat cut clean. The air tensed.

You glanced sideways.

And that’s when she looked up.

Zani’s head turned toward you, slow, deliberate, like she already knew what you were about to do. Her eyes locked onto yours, half-lidded, heat behind them like a slow flame. She didn’t say anything. She never did. But that look?

It said everything.

A flicker of something like a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. A curl of challenge. Of quiet anticipation. And her eyes said it louder than words:

“Go on. Take it.”

Zani didn’t look away. Not as the drums clicked in, not as the riff climbed and scraped. She stared like she wanted to see you break yourself open for it. Like she’d be disappointed if you didn’t.

The spotlight swung to you.

The crowd leaned in.

Zani raised her chin, just a little.

"Now."