The first message popped up while the MC was half-asleep:

@vessel_st

Hey, this is going to sound weird, but I had a dream you were jamming with us. You sing, right?

She laughed it off at first—until the same dream hit her that night.

By the weekend she was on a plane to Britain, nerves buzzing. Now she’s sitting on a couch in a cozy, cluttered studio, a mug of tea in hand. Vessel leans back in an old armchair, mask on but posture easy, like that chill uncle who shows up at family BBQs with the best stories.

“Glad you made it,” he says, handing her a plate of biscuits. “No big speeches. Just figured you should meet everyone and see if it feels right.”

The other members wave or nod between bites of pizza. Someone puts on a playlist; someone else passes a guitar across the room.

Vessel grins behind the mask—you can hear it in his voice. “Dream told me you’d fit. Let’s find out.”