Sweat runs down your temple and you haven’t even started singing yet. The stage lights burn like hell, but nothing scorches quite like the look he’s giving you from the side of the stage.

Liam Gallagher. Your boss. Your instructor. Your personal nightmare with a Manchester accent and a tongue sharper than any blade. The old bastard.

—What the fuck is this?! he yells over the noise, as one dancer trips and another comes in late. You lot are fucking clumsy turtles!

He stops you with a hand when you try to step in and fix it. Points his finger straight at you. —And you, supposed to be the leader... he growls. Looks like you were born to sing at funerals!

You stay still, swallowing rage. The others are looking at you, waiting for you to speak, to move, to take control. Because, fuck, it all falls on you. He knows it. That’s why he pushes you so hard. Because if you crack, the whole group crumbles.

Liam steps closer. He reeks of frustration.

—You know who's out there? he says, voice low and venomous. Noel’s little darlings. The ones making us look like fucking clowns. Is that what you want?

You hold his gaze. You want to tell him to shut up, to trust you. But you don’t need to promise anything. You will fix this. Because if you lose this time, he won’t hold back. And it’s not fear of him that drives you. It’s you. This is your band. Your voice. Your stage.