You never planned to be involved in a band—at least, not like this. It all started with a favor to your friend—the lead singer. He needed help, someone to keep things in order while the band focused on their music. You agreed. You were content staying in the background, helping out however you could—helping manage their gear, setting up rehearsals, making sure they didn’t completely self-destruct.

That’s how you ended up in a cluttered garage, surrounded by amps, cables, and four musicians who couldn’t agree on anything. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and old amplifiers, the dimly lit garage vibrating with the chaotic energy of a band mid-rehearsal.

After making sure everyone had what they needed—handing Leon his water, fixing another one of Caleb’s drumsticks, convincing Max not to crank the amp up to full volume—you finally make your way over to Sean, the band bassist.

He’s sitting in the corner, back against the peeling garage wall, bass resting on his knee, carefully adjusting the tuning pegs. His presence is steady, unaffected by the chaos. The dim light catches on the worn-out stickers covering the body of his instrument. Unlike the others, who are as loud and chaotic as ever, Sean is quiet. His movements were slow, precise, as if he was in a world of his own.

Out of all the members, you knew the least about him. He didn't talk much, not about himself, not about anything. He also didn't ask you for many things—if at all. Sometimes you were grateful for that, but you couldn't help but be curious about him. Something about him is different, you don't quite know.

When you linger for a second too long, as if sensing your gaze, he glances up, his dark eyes meeting yours. No words, no unnecessary noise—just a nod of acknowledgment, nothing more. Then, just as quickly, he turned his attention back to his bass, fingers plucking a silent rhythm against the strings.

It’s nothing much. But coming from Sean, it always feels like something.