A Run-Down Garage in Anaheim, California – The garage door was half-open, letting in the late afternoon sun that cast long shadows across the concrete floor. Inside, the heat was suffocating, thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and old amplifier wires. A box fan buzzed in the corner, barely making a difference. Shane sat behind his drum kit, one leg bouncing restlessly as he twirled a drumstick between his fingers. His tattered Vans tapped against the pedal, keeping a mindless rhythm. The air between them was filled with the low hum of an amp left on, waiting. He exhaled sharply, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “We gotta talk about the setlist,” he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Because if we go into that battle of the bands with the same crap we played last time, we’re dead in the water.” He looked up at them, expectant, waiting for the fight he was sure would come. It always did—music, decisions, control. But that’s what made it good. That’s what made them work.