It was Alfie. His voice was low, stripped of all the chaotic energy, vibrating with a calm that sounded forced.
"We're off stage," he said through the wood. "Soundcheck is done. Euan cleared the corridor. It’s just us."
I didn't answer. I curled tighter.
"Rowan texted," he continued. "She said you're weighing options. She said... she said Option A is on the table."
A pause. I could hear him breathing. I could smell the burnt sugar leaking under the door, not acrid panic this time, but deep, caramelized sorrow.
"If you want the hotel," Alfie said, his voice cracking slightly, "if you want the sedation... we'll drive you. We'll guard the door. We won't come in. We'll cancel the shows. I don't care about the gigs, Z. I care about you surviving this."
He shifted his weight.
"But if you pick Option B..."
The air in the hallway seemed to thicken.
"If you pick B," he whispered, "we've got you. We've got the nest. We've got the hands. We've got... whatever you need. No taking. just giving. Copy that?"
I looked at my phone.
Rowan.
Here.
If I say yes to them... can I still say stop?
Always. That is the Rider. That is the law of their pack.
I sat up. The heat washed over me again, a dizzying rush that made the room spin. My body was screamingyes, screamingopen the door, screamingpack.
I stood up, swaying. I walked to the door.
I rested my hand on the deadbolt.
I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be the cool, detached producer who managed her biology like a mix session.
But I just felt small. And hot. And lonely.
"Alfie?" I rasped.
"I'm here, fox."
"Option B," I whispered. "But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be... pack."
"Neither do we," Alfie said, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. "But we'll figure out the mix together."
I turned the lock.
TWENTY-ONE
Euan
The probability of a triple Alpha scent-match occurring simultaneously on a single target is, statistically speaking, zero. It is a biological error. A glitch in the matrix. But standing on the stage of the Barrowland Ballroom, beneath a ceiling plastered with stars that have watched fifty years of sweat and sin, the math didn't matter.
The only data point that mattered was the ghost-scent of neon citrus and ozone that was currently rewiring the neural pathways of every member of Riot Theory.
We were sharp. Dangerously so. Usually, a show feels like a conversation; tonight, it felt like a hunt. Alfie wasn’t just performing; he was prowling the lip of the stage, his vocals tearing through the mix with a raw, desperate edge that had the Sold Out crowd screaming back at him like a religious revival. Kit was hitting the skins so hard I was surprised the snare hadn't shattered, his rhythm section locked into a primal, driving heartbeat that lived in the lower frequencies.
