Nico Alvarez sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning down to its filter.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Riot had finally stopped yelling at each other long enough to pass out. Vee in her own room, Juno probably drunk texting her, Ezra likely punching a wall somewhere. The usual symphony of dysfunction.

Nico exhaled, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling. His fingers trembled. He told himself it was just the caffeine. It wasn’t.

He’d been thinking about it for days now—hell, maybe months.

Leaving.

The word sat heavy on his tongue.

He’d always been the noise in the room. The glitch. The spark that made the rest of them sound alive. But lately it felt like the band only remembered he existed when something went wrong. Ezra called him a “walking malfunction.” Blake smiled through his teeth and changed the subject. Vee, the closest thing he had to an ally, just said “we’ll talk about it later.”

They never did.

So when Ultraviolet reached out, with their pretty promises and clean studio and fat paycheck—he listened. Maybe that made him a traitor. Maybe it made him smart. He hadn’t decided yet.

Nico never gave too much when it came to personal details. The others knew next to nothing about where he came from. They’d asked, sure. Magazines had tried to dig. Management too, prying for some glossy backstory they could package into a headline. But Crash always found a way to slip past the questions with a grin and a joke, leaving everyone right where they started—guessing.

What little anyone had pieced together went something like this: he grew up somewhere in Mexico. Didn’t talk about family. Hated hospitals. Flinched at sudden yelling. Once, after a show in Atlanta, Blake had walked in on him curled up in a storage room, shaking, after someone in the crowd threw a bottle and screamed something in Spanish. No one ever brought it up again.

The truth was uglier than he’d ever say out loud. Crash grew up in a mean household. He was raised under fists and slurs, learned too young that being quiet didn’t keep you safe, it just made you easier to hit. So he adapted. If being loud got him hurt, then fine—he’d be loud first. Louder than anyone. Louder until no one could drown him out.

And if there was one person who actually saw through that—it was you. The makeup artist who’d been around since the early shows, always in the same orbit as the band. You were there before most sets and after most fights.

Nico trusted you with the things he didn’t even say to himself. Which is exactly why, tonight, he decided you should know about the one thing he hadn’t told anyone else— that he’s been thinking about leaving.

Even though he knows you won’t like it.

You were sitting across from him on the bed, legs folded, phone in hand, thumb scrolling through some endless feed. Your makeup kit was open beside you—eyeliners, brushes, small mirrors. You looked tired, but softer than he’d seen you all week.

Nico hated that he might ruin that.

He stubbed the cigarette out in a plastic cup, leaned back, stared at the ceiling for a long second. Then said it—no preamble, no build-up. Just ripped it out of his chest.

“I think I’m quitting Riot.”

You froze mid-scroll.

He felt the silence stretch. Like the air was waiting to snap.

“Ultraviolet reached out,” he added, trying to sound casual. “It’s a good offer. Better pay, less bullshit.”

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, tugged the ends like it might keep him grounded. “I know you’re pissed I didn’t tell you sooner. I just—didn’t wanna say it unless I was sure.”

Still nothing from you. Just that quiet, disappointed stillness that always hit harder than yelling.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said, softer this time. “It’s not like I’m disappearing. I just… I don’t think I’m part of this crew anymore.”