I climbed into the elevator beside Riff and stared at our reflection in the mirrored doors as they slid shut.
“Where is he?” Riff asked.
“He’s sick,” I said quickly.
The lie came too easily.
Lying had been second nature when I was using, and apparently that muscle never really atrophied. This time, at least, it wasn’t for me. It was for Iggy. We all had a job to do, and I couldn’t blow off a show because he hadn’t answered his door. Thousands of people had paid to see us. The machine didn’t stop just because something was wrong backstage.
Iggy had a job too. He was supposed to be in the lobby with the rest of us. But he wasn’t answering, and I couldn’t tell themwhy. Not yet. Not without proof that there was something real to panic about.
I didn’t know how far he’d gone with Bella and Trix the night before. I’d smelled weed, a bit of alcohol. For all I knew, that was it. A relapse, sure, but not necessarily a crisis. Not necessarily him spiralling straight into something harder.
He could be asleep in his room right now, knocked out. Hungover, worn down by a late night and our stupid fight.
A small, anxious voice in my head whispered that it probably wasn’t that simple.
But my options were limited. And if I wanted the label to listen to what the band wanted after the tour, I had to play along for now. I had to keep things running smoothly.
“Right,” Riff said.
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face. But I knew him. He wouldn’t push, not about this. He knew when to back off, knew that prying would only make things worse.
I told Clara the same lie when we got back to the lobby. Said Iggy had eaten something weird and that he’d thrown up and gone back to bed. That he’d slept through her calls because he was exhausted.
That part, at least, wasn’t a lie.
Clara accepted it more easily than Riff, probably because she was juggling too many other fires to interrogate one more problem. She was pissed, sure, but sickness wasn’t something she could yell into submission.
“It’s fine,” she huffed as we piled into the van headed for Olympiahalle. “You’ll survive one night doing your own hair and makeup.”
“Not everyone will,” Ghost teased, ruffling Thump’s already chaotic curls.
Thump smacked his hand away. “Fuck off.”
I leaned back in my seat and stared out the window, the city blurring past, my jaw tight. I was almost grateful we were running late. When we reached the arena after hitting unexpected traffic, there was no room left to think. We were herded straight into a rushed soundcheck, the kind where everything blurred together, and then suddenly the doors were opening and it was time to get ready.
I did my own eyeshadow and liner, which looked nowhere near as good as when Iggy handled it. Ghost hovered nearby, making sure I didn’t end up with full-on panda eyes, and then Clara did a final inspection, arms crossed, gaze sharp, approving us one by one. Not long after, we were standing in the wings, watching the tail end of Half Life’s set.
By the time it was our turn, I just wanted it over. Wanted the lights to go out so I could get back to the hotel and break Iggy’s door down if I had to.
I was twitchy. Wired tight. But somehow, it worked.
Onstage, the crowd fed on it. Whatever anxiety was coiled in my chest got twisted into something louder and sharper. They screamed until their throats were raw, shoved each other around in the mosh pit, fists pumping in time with Thump’s drums. The chaos felt alive, electric, like it was chasing the same restless energy that was tearing through me.
From the outside, it probably looked like any other show.
Inside, there was only one thing on loop in my head.
Iggy. Iggy. Iggy.
I was almost surprised I didn’t sing his name instead of the lyrics.
When we finally cleared the stage, Thump slapped my back, breathless and grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Fuck, man,” he said. “You were on fire tonight. I thought you were gonna dive straight into the pit at one point.”
“Yeah, uh...” I scratched the back of my neck, forcing a smile. “Just felt extra hyped tonight.”
