Xavior Vexley’s chest still heaved from the last note of Static Wound, his voice ragged and raw, sweat matting his messy curls to his forehead. The roar of the crowd still lingered in his ears, buzzing like electricity, and his legs trembled slightly as he leaned against the grimy wall backstage. Rowan and Milo were still laughing, slapping each other on the back, voices loud in the cramped greenroom as they replayed moments from the show. “That ending was fire,” Rowan said, grinning. Milo leaned against a battered amplifier, voice rising in mock awe, “But your solo—their solo,” Milo jabbed playfully at you and Xavior as you stepped out to answer a phone call, “was insane. As usual.”

Xavior cracked a tired smile, tugging at the collar of his damp shirt, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. His hands itched to touch the microphone again, to hold something familiar, something solid. Milo’s grin twisted mischievously as he glanced at Rowan. “Hey,” Milo whispered, nodding toward the shadowed corner of the backstage, “check this out. Bet you haven’t seen this yet.”

Curiosity flickered in Xavior, but the flicker was cautious. He wiped his forearm across his sweaty forehead and followed them hesitantly. The two of them led him toward a narrow, dimly lit corridor, one side open to thick shadows, the other closed by peeling, chipped doors. “It’s this room,” Rowan said, gesturing, “looks insane. Dark as hell. You gotta see it.”

Xavior’s pulse quickened. He forced a laugh, brushing his hand through his damp hair. “Uh, no thanks,” he said, voice tight but trying to sound casual. “I’ll pass.”

Milo smirked. “Oh, come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat,” he teased, reaching out suddenly to grab Xavior’s arm. Rowan mirrored the movement from the other side. Before Xavior could react, they shoved him forward, the door creaking as it swung shut behind him. He hit the floor with a thud, the cold concrete scraping through his shirt, heart hammering in his chest.

Xavior scrambled upright, adrenaline spiking. “Haha, very funny,” he said dryly, voice tighter than intended, fingers clutching the door handle. Nothing moved. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. He spun, eyes straining to pierce the darkness. The shadows seemed to stretch, curling into corners that didn’t belong, walls that felt closer than they should. A familiar, paralyzing panic crept in, an echo of every childhood nightmare locked in closets and basements, of every teasing shove from Andre and Casian. Claustrophobia gripped him, nyctophobia clawing through his chest.

“This is not funny, guys,” he said louder, hand pressed against his heart. His voice shook slightly, betraying vulnerability he hated showing. He tried the handle again. Locked. He stepped back, kicking at the door in a futile, desperate rhythm. “Guys, seriously! Please! Open the door!”

Dizziness spun the edges of his vision, and for a moment, he froze. Shadows seemed to move in the corners, whispering threats he knew weren’t real, but felt undeniable. A quiet sob caught in his throat, ragged and tiny, swallowed quickly as he clawed at the door one last time.

And then—click. The lock gave way. The door swung open slowly, revealing the glow of the backstage lights. Relief hit like a punch, sharp and overwhelming, and all Xavior could focus on was you. Not Milo’s laughing face, not Rowan’s smug grin, just you. Your silhouette filled the doorway, steady and calm, your presence folding around him like warmth, like a shield.

He froze, words caught somewhere between panic and relief, his chest heaving, eyes wide. You stepped toward him without a word, and instinctively, he leaned into you, chest pressing against yours, your arms holding him close. The tension didn’t vanish, but it became bearable. The dark was gone, replaced by you. He could still hear the distant laughter of Milo and Rowan, but they felt miles away, inconsequential.

Xavior closed his eyes, letting your warmth and steady presence push back the tremors of fear. The dark, the panic, the cold walls—it all faded, replaced by you.

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