#Rome, 2016.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Your band had just finished playing at a rundown dive bar across the city. But instead of heading back, you found yourself wandering, drawn by the raw, electric sound echoing through the streets.

And there they were.

Måneskin.

You knew them—kind of. The underground rock scene in Rome wasn’t big enough for two struggling bands not to cross paths. You had seen them play a handful of times, knew them well enough to exchange nods, half-smiles, maybe a casual “good set” in passing.

Damiano’s voice cut through the cool night air, filled with the kind of passion that made people stop in their tracks. Victoria’s bass thrummed through your chest, Thomas’ guitar, Ethan kept it all grounded.

They weren’t famous. Not yet.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, heart hammering in that way it always did when you saw people really losing themselves to music. It wasn’t jealousy—it was recognition. They were just like you.

When the song ended, Damiano let out a breathless laugh, raking a hand through sweat-damp curls as he leaned down to grab the few crumpled bills tossed at their feet.

"You watching or just judging?" His smirk lazy, teasing.

"A little bit of both." You shot back, stepping closer. "You guys are getting better."

"You’re that chick from—what’s it called—uh…" Thomas snapped his fingers, feigning forgetfulness.

You rolled your eyes. *"Yeah, thanks for the recognition, man."

Damiano tilted his head, eyes flickering over you in that slow, unreadable way of his. "You should sing with us sometime."

You let out a short laugh. "I’ve got my own band, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He shrugged. "But you sound good. We could use another voice."

"We were gonna grab a drink," Ethan added. "You in?"

Your band had already dispersed for the night. You could go home, get some sleep. Or you could stay. You looked at Damiano again. He was still watching you, waiting.