Before I can even think of a response, a sharp knock echoes from the bus door. Dylan, who had been standing closer to it, moves quickly to answer it. He pulls the door open to reveal Harris, his face drawn and tense. His dark hair is slicked back as always, and his suit is immaculate, but the deeper lines around his mouth and the shadows under his eyes betray the weight of whatever news he’s brought.
Enzo, his hair still mussed from sleep, shuffles into the main area of the bus, his expression groggy but alert. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice rough from the early hour.
“Time is running out,” Harris snaps, his tone sharp and unyielding. “We’ve canceled the next show, but the label is furious. They’re claiming the fans are getting restless. If we cancel any more, we might be looking at a riot.”
“We have one more show before a three-week break,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. I’m grasping at straws, clinging to any hope. “Just give us until then. We’ll find him. I swear we will.”
Harris exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face. His frustration is evident, but so is his weariness. “My job’s on the line too, Lily,” he says, his voice softer but still firm. “This band is hanging by a thread. I can’t cancel the next show. You need to find him—today. Whatever it takes.”
I nod, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders. The pressure is crushing, but I can’t let it stop me. We will find Jax. Today. There’s no other option.
“We will find him today,” Marcus declares, voicing my thoughts out loud. “We won’t miss the next show.”
His determination sparks a mirrored resolve in Enzo and Dylan, their faces set with purpose. Harris scans each of us, his expression softening slightly before he nods. “Alright, pour me a cup of coffee and walk me through where you’ve already looked. I’ll see if there’s anything I haven’t tried yet that might help.”
Relief immediately me at his willingness to help. Harris is a hardass, but he’s had our back. At least I hope what he’s saying to the label matches how he’s been treating us, but only time will tell.
I trail behind the guys and we gather around thedining table. They dive into a detailed recount of our search efforts so far, their voices laced with frustration and hope. Harris listens intently, jotting down notes on his phone. After half an hour, he rises with a nod.
“I’ll check in soon,” he promises, his tone comforting despite the weight of the situation.
As the door closes behind him, the four of us spring into action. Breakfast is forgotten as we focus all our energy on the task ahead: finding Jax. Today.
The morning blurs into a haze of phone calls, retraced steps, and revisited dive bars and seedy apartment complexes. The strain takes its toll on all of us. Marcus and Enzo bicker more than usual, their patience worn thin. Dylan retreats into silence, his grim focus a stark contrast to his usual lighthearted demeanor. A direct contrast to our gentle morning together.
And me? I feel like I’m teetering on the edge, holding my breath, bracing for the moment everything falls apart.
By midday, we make the call to split up. I pair up with Enzo, determined to find and question anyone who might know something—anything—about where Jax could be.
CHAPTER 6
DOWNWARD SPIRAL
JAX
The worldaround me blurs into shadows and hazy lights, everything distorted and seemingly unreal. I barely register my surroundings—a filthy room with cracked walls, reeking of decay and despair. The faint glow of a flickering bulb throws eerie patterns onto the stained floor. Peeling wallpaper reveals patches of mold beneath. I don’t know where I am, and I don’t care. My veins scream for relief, and nothing else matters.
Guilt gnaws at me like an insidious beast, its claws sinking deeper with every second. Lily’s worried eyes flash in my mind, followed by the haunted looks on my bandmates’ faces. It’s all in my imagination, but there are a few things I know are certain.
They’re better off without me.
I’m a fuck-up.
A liability.
A ticking time bomb.
The weight of my failures presses down, relentless and suffocating.
Memories haunt me. Lily’s face flashes in my mind, followed by Marcus’s disappointed eyes, Enzo’s sharp frustration, and Dylan’s quiet worry. I’m dragging them down, and I don’t know how to stop.
My hands tremble as I fumble with a syringe. The needle catches the dim light, gleaming like a twisted promise of escape. A small pile of brown powder waits on a chipped glass table, its edges splintered and worn from years of neglect. My movements are mechanical, practiced. Scooping up the heroin, I work through the routine like a puppet on strings, chasing the oblivion that never lasts long enough.
The guilt, the anger, the sadness—all of it swirls into a toxic storm inside me. I can’t bear it. The band is a disaster, and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t screwed up last year, if I hadn’t let my demons win, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Pressing the needle into my arm, I feel the familiar sting, welcoming it like an old friend.
As the drugs surge through my veins, the world fades. A haze settles over me, numbing everything—the pain, the regret, the fear. It all dissolves into the background, leaving only a dull, blissful detachment. My head lolls against the wall, and I close my eyes, letting the numbness take over.
My thoughts drift to the beginning, back when Electric Wounds was just a dream we chased recklessly. Nights spent writing songs, the endless rehearsals, the electric thrill of our first gig—it all felt unstoppable. But somewhere along the way, I lost control. The drugs, the drinking, the spiral of self-destruction—it consumed me.
