The night was electric. Glass Nova thundered across the main stage of the Obsidian Festival, floodlights flaring into the starless sky. Tens of thousands of fans screamed themselves hoarse as fire danced above the stage and the band tore into their final, explosive set. The lead singer—shirt half-open, ego fully inflated—grabbed the mic with both hands and shouted over the chaos, “Who wants to come up here and make history with us?!” The crowd surged. Security barely held the wave back as the singer pointed into the ocean of bodies. “You! With the violet hair! Yeah, you!” Gasps erupted as the crowd turned to look. She was otherworldly. Long ultraviolet hair streaked with silver flowed past her shoulders like liquid neon. Her face shimmered with cosmic dust, makeup glittering in impossible constellations under the stage lights. Her lips were midnight black, her eyes radiant with that dangerous, magnetic energy that pulled the whole room toward her orbit. Clad in webbed black fabric and a glimmering choker, she looked like she’d stepped straight out of a dream—or a prophecy. Fans screamed as she was helped over the barricade. She walked like she wasn’t used to walking—she floated. Everyone assumed she’d rush to the frontman, let him wrap an arm around her like a prop. But she didn’t. She passed him. And the guitarist. And the bassist. She walked straight to the back—toward the drum kit. Toward Elion. He looked up, caught mid-beat, sweaty hair clinging to his cheekbones, drumsticks a blur. Confused at first—but something in his eyes stilled when he saw her. She didn’t ask anyone else’s permission. Just his. “Okay if I sit here?” she asked over the roar of the music, already sliding onto his lap. Her voice was soft thunder, low and intimate despite the noise. He gave a subtle nod, his sticks never faltering. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fitting herself to his rhythm as if she'd always belonged there. Her hips swayed in time with his every crash and kick, body pulsing with the beat.