"Done," Rowan whispered. She stamped it with a heavy, satisfyingthud. "You're a legal entity. Try to doxx that, Miles."
"Pack," Alfie whispered, touching the paper.
"Pack," I agreed.
We had twenty minutes before stage time.
"Come here," Kit said, pulling me into the corner of the room where the ugly sofa sat. "Recharge. Ten minutes."
We piled onto the sofa. No sex. No strategy. Just weight. Kit held my back. Alfie put his head in my lap. Euan leaned against my shoulder.
I closed my eyes. The static in my head was gone. The signal was clean.
"Z?" Alfie mumbled.
"Yeah?"
"When we go out there... can I wear the paint?"
I smiled. "What paint?"
"Z on my hand," he said. "Instead of the slogans."
I opened my eyes. "You want to Sharpie my initial on your hand for a sold-out show?"
"I want them to know who I'm singing to," he said simply.
I reached for the marker Euan had left on the table. I took Alfie’s hand. I didn't write a Z.
I drew a fox tail. Small. Hidden on the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse.
"For the engineer who ran," I whispered.
Alfie kissed the ink.
"For the engineer who stayed."
THIRTY-ONE
Euan
The probability of a perfect show is mathematically negligible. In my experience, the calculation involves too many unstable variables, the venue’s humidity affecting the oscillating pitch of the synths, the wild fluctuations of local grid voltage, human error, and the sheer, chaotic entropy of three thousand bodies colliding in a confined space. In systems theory, perfection is an asymptote, a curve that approaches a line but never actually touches it. You chase it, you calibrate for it, but the universe usually keeps a millimeter of distance between the plan and the reality.
Manchester touched the line.
I stood behind my rig, the tower of analogue synth modules and loop stations blinking in synchronized green and amber time. Usually, I scan for failure points. My gaze constantly strafing the output monitors, watching the gain levels, checking the structural integrity of the mix, waiting for Alfie to go rogue on a chorus or for Kit to hit a snare so hard he cracks the bearing edge. I am the architect of the safety net; I don't usually get to enjoy the trapeze act.
Tonight, I wasn't bracing for impact. I was just... listening.
The sound wasn't just clean; it was crystalline. The bass frequencies were physically vibrating the floorboards through the soles of my boots, resonating in the marrow, yet the top end, Zia’s domain at FOH, was crisp enough to cut glass.
Alfie stood center stage, a silhouette framed by the blinding wash of the strobes. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, black strands plastering against pale skin, his chest heaving under the mesh shirt that was more suggestion than garment. He held his left hand up, the microphone gripped tight, knuckles white. He angled his wrist toward the spotlight, deliberately catching the lumen-blast.
The black Sharpie ink referenced a distinct vector. A fox tail. Crude, thick lines drawn right over his radial pulse.
It wasn’t a tattoo. It wasn’t a permanent claim mark. It was temporary pigment on epidermis, something that would wash off with soap and friction in twenty-four hours. but the signal it broadcast was louder than the PA system. It was a flag. A promise made visible.
I touched the breast pocket of my jacket. The paper crinkled, a tactile reassurance against my ribs.Limited Liability Company Operating Agreement.Ink and paper. Legal standing. Next of kin clauses. A document that explicitly stated that while the world saw a band, the law saw a single, indivisible entity.
