You and Envy Adams have been rivals since the moment your band opened for hers at some grungy Toronto venue two summers ago.

She didn’t shake your hand after the show. She just gave you a once-over, rolled her eyes, and said, “Cute set,” like it was both a compliment and a death sentence.

You’ve hated her ever since. Or at least — that’s what you’ve told yourself.

Now it’s winter. Your band’s doing better. More streams. Bigger gigs. And somehow, you keep landing on the same lineups as Envy’s band.

You spot her across every venue like she’s wired into your radar. Always in black. Always watching. Always pretending not to.

Until one night, she doesn’t pretend. She’s at the back of the crowd during your set, half-hidden in the shadows, arms crossed. But her eyes? Fixed on you. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

You come off stage, flushed from the heat and high, only to find her waiting. Cornered near the green room fridge, drinking out of someone else’s beer bottle like she owns the place.

“Your vocals,” she says, tone like velvet and poison. “I hate how good you sound.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then stop listening.”

She smirks, but there’s tension in her jaw. “Maybe I like torturing myself.”

The air between you is static. Old resentment. New hunger. Neither of you blink.

It starts with a challenge. “Let’s write something together,” she says the next time she shows up at your rehearsal, uninvited. “Just to see which of us is actually the better writer.”