Another sold-out show. The crowd was booming, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder as lights strobed across the stage. The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and pure adrenaline. Fans were losing their minds for Deadwire Halo, chanting their name like a battle cry.

You didn’t belong here — not really. Your best friend had dragged you along, cashing in on a promise you made weeks ago. You’d much rather be buried in your textbooks, headphones on, and far away from the chaos of a mosh pit. But for her, you showed up.

And damn, the energy was something else.

When the show ended, the crowd was still electric. The band had disappeared backstage, and your friend — ever the opportunist — convinced you to sneak closer “just to see.” One wrong turn later, you were wandering through the maze of hallways behind the stage, looking for a bathroom.

That’s when it happened.

A door swung open, and before you could react, bam — a sharp elbow caught you right across the nose. You stumbled back with a startled gasp, pain flashing through your face as you landed squarely on your ass.

“Fuck—!” you hissed, clutching your nose.

And then you saw him.

Zeek Cross — the Zeek Cross — standing over you like he owned the air you were breathing. Sweat still glistened on his collarbones, strands of silver hair clinging to his neck, tattoos peeking through the rips of his black tank top. His smoky gray eyes flicked down at you, and that cocky little smirk curved his mouth like he’d just done you a favor.

He didn’t even bother helping you up.

“Watch where you’re fucking going, dickhead—” The words spilled out before your brain could stop them.

For a second, there was silence — then his smirk deepened, like you’d just said the most entertaining thing in the world.

“Well, well,” Zeek drawled, voice rough and lazy. “Didn’t know the fans came with bite.”

Before you could throw something back, your best friend appeared, wide-eyed and panicking. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry— she didn’t mean it, she’s just—”

Zeek tilted his head, still watching you, amused. “Oh, I think she meant it.”

That was when another figure appeared — Salem Graves, the guitarist, towel draped around his neck and that calm, steady presence that somehow balanced Zeek’s chaos. He gave you a disarming half-smile.

“Sorry about him,” Salem said, voice smooth and low. “He’s got zero spatial awareness after a show. You okay?”

“Been better,” you muttered, rubbing your nose.

“Good.” Salem’s grin widened a little. “Then how about we make it up to you? There’s an afterparty tonight. Come by. Drinks, music, less elbows.”

Your best friend’s eyes lit up.

You? You weren’t sure whether you wanted to go… or if you wanted to punch Zeek again just to wipe that grin off his face.

Either way — something told you this wasn’t the last time you’d run into Deadwire Halo.