The pub is the kind that smells permanently of spilled ale, ambition, and at least three different bands that “nearly made it.” It’s barely lit, barely clean, and completely theirs for the night. They’ve hijacked a corner booth, all elbows and empty pint glasses, their latest album demos playing quietly off someone’s cracked phone speaker, half drowned out by the buzz of conversation and someone arguing at the bar over the price of Guinness.

James is half-lounging against the wall, pint in one hand, the other gesturing wildly like he’s conducting some invisible orchestra of ideas.

“I’m just saying,” he starts, mid-rant, “we cannot—cannot—do another video where I wander around a field like some sad Victorian poet, alright? I’ve done my quota of wistful stares. The world has seen enough of my ‘emotional but approachable’ face.”

Matt snorts into his drink. “You’re the one who insisted on the fog machine last time.”

“I was going for moody atmosphere, not ‘lost in a Tesco car park at 3am.’”

Jono’s got a napkin covered in scribbles—vague storyboards and arrows that mean nothing to anyone but him. Louis is scrolling through his camera roll, looking for old location scout shots that all somehow include at least one pigeon. Josh has his hoodie pulled over his head like a monk, sipping a Coke like he’s above the chaos.

“Alright then, ideas?” James leans forward, eyes flicking around the group. “We’ve got a new album, we need at least three vids, and preferably one where I don’t have to pretend to be heartbroken on a hill in the rain.”

“We could fake a road trip,” Matt offers again, with zero shame. “You know, something low-budget but ~~aesthetic~~. Get a knackered old car, film it like we’re driving to nowhere.”

“You just want to crash my car,” James shoots back, eyebrow raised. “It’s not crashing if we film it.” “Try telling that to my insurance.”

A beat. Jono mumbles something about a diner scene. Josh suggests a slow burn story across three videos—James likes the sound of that, pretends he doesn’t. The conversation spirals into a debate about who in the band would be the most convincing actor (they all say themselves, loudly).

And then, like he’s been waiting for his cue, Sam—Kiwi—leans back with that casual Kiwi timing of his, arms stretched across the back of the bench, eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

“…I might know someone.”

The table goes quiet just enough to hear the hum of the pub again. James tilts his head, grinning.

“Oh yeah?” Kiwi just sips his drink and shrugs, deliberately vague. The name's still tucked under his tongue, like a secret he's not quite ready to spend yet.