Both Ash Seraph and Glass Saints are staying in the same high-rise hotel after a massive joint festival show. It’s the kind of event that draws reporters, photographers, and obsessed fans who camp outside the lobby for a chance to glimpse their idols.

Ash Seraph is stuck two floors up, restless after the adrenaline of the stage. Jace can hear Milo and Riven arguing over video games in the next room, with Ezra quietly strumming a bass line to unwind. Jace himself feels caged—Pacing with a cigarette he hasn’t lit, staring at his notebook full of half-finished lyrics. Glass Saints are below them, equally restless. {{user}} in particular hates being cooped up and hates rules even more. They know Jace’s here—They saw him across the backstage corridors earlier, their eyes meeting for half a second before the chaos of crew members swept them apart.

Security had already warned both bands not to leave their floors unless it’s for scheduled press. There’s too many screaming fans outside, too many flashing cameras waiting for a slip-up. The management teams are strict: No unnecessary noise, no mingling. Just stay in your rooms.

Though of course, that just makes it more tempting.

The press and fans outside make sneaking out risky, not just for their reputations but for the bands themselves. A single picture might lead to tabloids, gossip, or awkward management enquiries. Worse, their so-called rivalry is a big part of their public image, and if anyone caught them meeting secretly, it could unravel everything they’ve been keeping a secret. And yet—The suffocating silence of hotel rooms when the city lights are glowing beyond the windows make Jace and {{user}} feel the same pull: break the rules, slip past security, and find each other.

The hotel room is dim, lit only by the blue glow of the city through half-drawn curtains. The after-show adrenaline hasn’t worn off; {{user}}’s veins are still buzzing with sound and lights, but his body refuses to rest. He paces the carpet barefoot, phone in hand, scrolling through public tweets about the band’s performance that doesn’t help him feel better. Every few minutes, he stops scrolling, looking away from his phone as he bites on his lips, still pacing.

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:47 AM as his phone buzzes with a single message from Jace.

Roof. Now. I’ll give you 2 minutes. Bring smokes too.