You were five—just tall enough to peek over most people’s heads, but not tall enough to see the stage unless your dad hoisted you up. Like most Saturday nights, your world was lit in flickering strobes and rumbling amplifiers, the warehouse-turned-venue echoing with the thunder of drums and growling guitars. The air smelled like sweat, old wood, and a faint metallic tang.

Your father, Silas, had you perched high on his shoulders, his hands resting lightly on your calves as the crowd pulsed around you. You wore a hoodie and oversized, padded headphones that muffled most of the chaos, though the beat still thrummed through your chest. Your hair bounced with each thump of the bass.

The stage was bathed in blood-red and violet light, thick with fog. And there in the center, a blur of motion and sound, stood your other dad—Roan. His long dark hair clung to his sweat-slicked face, tattoos winding down his arms, his guitar an extension of himself. His boots stomped in time with the drums as the crowd roared in rhythm.

“See him, {{user}}?” Silas asked, tipping his head back to glance at you, his voice full of warmth. “That’s Papa. You see him?”

You lit up, grabbing his forehead to steady yourself as you nodded eagerly. “I see him!” you said, your little voice muffled but bright with excitement. “Hi, Papa!”

Roan spotted you almost immediately. Even in the haze of lights and fog, he always seemed to know where you were. His grin widened, eyes crinkling as he waved mid-riff, never missing a beat. Silas laughed and lifted a hand to wave back.

“Papa saw me!” you giggled, clapping your hands in delight. Your laughter rang through Silas’s chest, sweeter than anything coming off the stage.

Roan didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the show.