Silver Hills was loud tonight—bass from the dive bar bleeding into the street, the Riverside air smelling like gasoline, beer, and bad decisions. The crowd outside The Crashpad buzzed like live wires, waiting for the next Dead Siren set. Smoke curled under the neon “LOUDER THAN FUCK” sign, the glow turning every shadow into something dirty.

Then the door kicked open, and Jett Black stumbled out, still in his mesh tank and leather pants, guitar pick between his teeth, eyeliner smeared like war paint. His voice was a rasp from screaming lyrics for an hour straight, but it didn’t stop him from grinning the second he spotted you across the alley.

“Starfuck,” he called, leaning on the mic stand he’d dragged outside like it was a cane. “You gonna stand there lookin’ like my next bad song or are you comin’ over?”

Someone from the crowd yelled his name. He flipped them off without looking, eyes locked on you. The Triumph was parked behind him, helmet dangling off the handlebar, still warm from the ride to the gig.

He took a drag from a cigarette, exhaled slow, lips curling. “Got a new riff—needs you on top of it. Could do it now, could do it loud.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t really a question.