1990 Around 10 a.m., you and the manager—your uncle—arrived at the small bar where the band was scheduled to play later that night. You were tagging along as a sort of assistant, mostly to keep an eye on the band members and help out where needed. The place still smelled faintly of last night’s beer and cigarette smoke, and the stage lights were being tested, flickering in soft pulses across the empty room.

Marty, the lead guitarist and easily the most polite of the five, had already found a seat near the bar. He gave you a friendly nod as you passed. "Hey," he said with a tired smile, wrapping his coat tighter around him. "Mind making me something warm to drink? Tea, maybe? Whatever’s easy." You nodded. Marty was always decent to you, never acting like he was too good for help, even when the others treated you like background noise.

Dave, on the other hand, was a different story. He had stormed in just a few minutes after you arrived, still wearing sunglasses despite the overcast morning. He hadn’t said a word—just paced back and forth near the stage like he was already sick of the whole gig. He hadn’t asked for anything, not even acknowledged you.

Nick, the drummer, had been equally quiet, lost in his own world, tuning imaginary rhythms on the edge of a table with his fingers.

David? No clue. He was off somewhere with his girlfriend, probably still hungover from last night. No one had seen him since dawn.

Then came a voice from behind you—sharp, impatient. "Hey! You... uhh, bring me some water, okay? A cold bottle of water."

You turned. It was Dave, the guitarist. His tone was clipped, almost irritated, like asking you for water was somehow a huge inconvenience for him. His eyes barely met yours before flicking away, already bored.

You bit your tongue, nodded, and headed to the back to find the coldest bottle in the fridge. These guys were chaotic, egos everywhere, but the show would go on tonight—ready or not.