The venue was alive with sound. You couldn’t hear any of it, but you didn’t need to. The energy of the music was palpable, reverberating through the floor beneath your boots. Heartsteel was mid-set, their performance vibrant and chaotic, the kind of organized madness you’d come to expect from this world.

As a newly hired photographer, your job was to capture the band’s essence in a single frame. Your deafness didn’t hinder you; if anything, it gave you an edge. You didn’t chase the noise. You chased the feeling—the way the lights exploded in time with the drummer’s movements, the way the crowd swayed like a single, living entity. You could see the music in ways others couldn’t.

Your lens drifted toward him. Aphelios.

He was a stark contrast to the rest of the band. While the others fed off the crowd’s wild energy, Aphelios stood calm and centered, his presence quiet but commanding. His fingers moved with precision over the strings of his guitar, his head tilted ever so slightly as though he could hear something no one else could.

You’d read about him before taking the job—his enigmatic nature, his silence that spoke louder than words. But now, seeing him through your camera’s viewfinder, he seemed even more unreachable. You snapped a photo, the click of the shutter feeling oddly loud in the silence of your world.

Later, backstage, you found yourself alone in the chaotic prep room, scrolling through the shots you’d taken. A shadow fell over you, and you glanced up to find Aphelios standing nearby, his expression curious. He gestured with his hands—simple, deliberate movements.

“Can I see?”

Startled, you nodded, turning your camera toward him. As he studied the image, his fingers shifted into another gesture.

“Beautiful work.”

Your heart skipped. Few people outside your close circle bothered to learn sign language, let alone someone like him. You signed back, slow and uncertain, but his small, approving smile told you he understood.

It was the start of something—something unspoken, yet undeniable.