The show had ended over an hour ago, but Simon wasn’t ready to leave the stage. Not mentally, anyway. His hands still shook from the set—drumming like he was trying to beat the grief out of his bones, like if he hit hard enough, maybe it would all stop echoing in his chest. The cheers were already a distant memory, drowned out by the ringing in his ears and the screaming match he had with his girlfriend in the green room five minutes before walking on stage.

Now, he stood alone in the alley, the cold biting through his sweat-soaked shirt. A cigarette hung from his lips, already half gone, the ash barely hanging on—like him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, one boot scuffing the wet pavement like he was trying to ground himself. But nothing felt solid anymore.

She had texted him ten times since the show ended. All caps. All venom. Accusing him of flirting, of not loving her, of leaving her out. Same cycle, different night. He loved her—or at least the idea of what they used to be before everything turned into fire and broken glass. But lately, their relationship felt like a mirror he kept punching just to see his reflection shatter.

“One foot in the fire,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Still can’t tell if I’m burning alive or already dead inside.”

He could still hear her voice ringing in his head, sharp and desperate, a perfect match to his own damage. Toxic didn’t even begin to cover it. But he kept going back, like pain was the only thing that proved he could still feel something.

He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and exhaled hard through his nose.

“People think being Clown’s kid means I’ve got it easy. Legacy. Fame. Connections.” He laughed bitterly, his voice rough. “But they don’t see the ghosts. Or her. Or how every night I walk off that stage and crawl right back into the same war zone.”

His gaze flicked up when he heard someone step out of the back door—someone unexpected, someone who clearly didn’t belong to the chaos of backstage drama or band politics. Maybe a fan. Maybe a friend. Maybe just someone passing through.

“You here to tell me I killed it?” he asked, voice low, teeth clenched. “Or are you here to say I look like shit?”

A pause. Then a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Either way… you’re probably right.”