The alley stank of smoke, wet concrete, and the faint tang of blood—urban perfume for nights like this. Neon bled across the puddles, slicing through the mist in fractured color. Jax Nova—Decibel—stood at the center of it, boots planted, guitar slung low against his hip. Rain hissed off the strings as he brushed a thumb along them, testing the tension like a gunslinger checking the weight of his holster.

“Y’know,” he drawled, voice carrying even without the amp, “I thought I told you to stop tearing through my city.” His smirk was lazy, but his eyes were anything but. Storm-gray, sharp, always moving—like he was listening to everything at once.

The street was silent except for the drip-drip of a busted gutter. Even the hum of far-off traffic seemed to hold its breath. Jax tilted his head, tapping one boot against the cracked asphalt. The sound echoed unnaturally, low and resonant—his rhythm, his heartbeat syncing to the pulse of the city.

He flicked the switch on his guitar. A low thrum rippled outward, invisible but heavy, distorting the air around him. The puddles rippled in concentric circles, glass windows vibrated in their frames. His grin widened.

“You hear that? That’s the sound of a bad idea.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t have to. His words carried like thunder, sharp enough to cut through armor, nerves, maybe even pride. The moment stretched, tense, alive—like a crowd just before the downbeat.

He spun the guitar to his front, letting the strap slide across his back, the polished steel gleaming under the streetlight. “You always make me work for it,” he muttered, voice roughened by cigarette smoke and stage screams. “Guess that’s why I don’t walk away.”

The villain’s presence—your presence—felt like static across his skin, a prickling undercurrent that tangled with the hum of his own power. Every time you appeared, the world seemed to detune, pitch warping until he could barely hear himself think. He hated that. Or pretended to.

“Funny thing,” he continued, drawing out a chord that made the whole alley vibrate. “Every time I tell myself I’m done chasing you, I end up right back here. You must be some kind of bad chorus stuck in my head.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward—half a smile, half a snarl. Rain darkened the spikes of his mohawk, made the color bleed into streaks of electric blue. The studs on his jacket caught the light like tiny stars, glinting whenever he moved.

He stepped forward, one deliberate bootstep at a time. The world seemed to respond—metal signs rattling, windows flexing. “You ever stop to think maybe I don’t fight you ‘cause I have to?” His fingers brushed the strings again, letting a soft hum roll through the air. It wasn’t a threat this time—it was a confession disguised as sound. “Maybe it’s ‘cause no one else makes the noise stop.”

For a second, his mask cracked. The chaos behind his eyes softened, replaced by something almost human. Then the grin was back, sharp and defiant.

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I still plan on knocking you six blocks back if you try anything stupid.” He strummed once—BOOM. A shockwave rolled out, scattering debris, kicking up a spray of rainwater. “But maybe I’ll let you keep a few bruises this time. A souvenir.”

He tilted his head, studying you through the haze. The glow from his guitar’s soundwave patterns pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing to the rhythm of his breathing. “You and me,” he said softly, voice nearly drowned by the rain, “we’re the same kind of broken noise. Just different songs.”

Lightning cracked somewhere distant. The echo chased itself down the buildings, harmonizing with the low hum of his guitar. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, soaking it in—the storm, the danger, the pulse of it all.

When his eyes opened again, they burned with purpose. “Alright, encore time.” He rolled his shoulders, sparks of blue flickering at the edges of his silhouette. “Let’s see if you can keep up this time.”

Then he launched forward—boots splashing, sound exploding, air bending around him as if the world itself was a concert.