I canfeelDominik trying not to stare at me and failing. I ignore it,mostly.He looks like he might say something else, but Piotr cranks the radio and the car fills with music. He drums on the wheel, blowing smoke out of the window like Mama won’t know instantly. He’ll get the blunt end of her broom as a wake up call tomorrow.
When we pull up, I blink. This isnotwhat I pictured. Not even close. It’s a little brick building with cracked windows, walls layered inposters. The newest one shows four skinny boys, half-hidden behind scarves. They look like they took whatever darkness they had and stitched it into armor.Hoodies, paint, attitude.It should look silly, but to me, it doesn’t. It pulls me in, like they already know something I don’t.
“Thisis the place?” I ask.
Piotr grins. “If you’re scared, I can take you home.”
I cross my arms and lift my chin. “No. I just expected somethingbigger.”
Dominik bumps my shoulder. “Don’t take anything from strangers. You’ll survive.”
The scent of his cologne and the heat of his arm assaults my senses, unwelcome. Suddenly, I have the overwhelming urge topunch him,so I raise my fist on instinct. Both of them lose it laughing at me and I roll my eyes, throwing the door open in a huff. “I’m going inside.Palanty.”Idiots.
Inside, the air is thick with beer and sweat, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The ceiling feels like it might press down on us, dripping with condensation. Christmas lights are strung along the pipes overhead, blinking like they’re one second away from dying.
Two girls wave from near the front, one blonde with perfect red lipstick and the other shorter with glitter that shimmer-catches every flash of light. Piotr nudges me.
“There they are,” he says, grinning like this is all unfolding exactly how he planned.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’sthe friends?”
“Tak. What’s the issue?”
“I knew it. You’reditchingme.”
He shrugs, already half turned away. “You’ll be fine. Just stay out of the pit.”
Dominik shifts next to me, hands shoved in his pockets, “I’ll hang here,” he mumbles. “Better view.”
Piotr immediately drapes an arm across his shoulders. “Come on. I need my wingman.”
Dominik glances back once as Piotr drags him off, the crowd swallowing them both in seconds.
I don’t care, let the jerk abandon me to chase girls. My focus is on the stage right in front of me and the adrenaline is already crawling up my spine. My first live show, my first chance to be part of this world, the one Piotr kept promising to let me join once I turned sixteen. I told him I didn’t care what band it was, as long as he took me as soon as humanly possible. Now, I’m finally here. The lights dim. The room alters, breath held by everyone at once. A murmur rolls through the bodies packed shoulder to shoulder.
Then they appear. Four figures in black hoodies, faces hidden behind scarves. No “hello Seattle.” Just a hiss of feedback before the first note tears through the room like atoms splitting open.
It’s rough, jagged, and alive. The sound hits me right in the chest. The tall one, half in shadow, grips the mic like it’s the only thing holding him up. His voice isn’t polished. It’s raw, uneven, and sounds like it’s scraping the inside of his throat.
It’s not something you listen to, it’s something you survive.
The crowd moves all at once, pulled forward like every person is threaded to him. The guitarist, a jagged grin painted across his scarf, throws his head back and plays like the strings are on fire. The bass thrums deep enough to feel in my bones. Behind them, the drummer hammers the beat like he’s trying to raise the dead. Sweat flies off him as he drives the whole room forward, the heavy kick folding into the pulse under my feet.
But it’s the singer I can’t look away from. He barely moves, barely looks up. But the way he sings, it’s like the song is burning him alive and he’s letting it. It feels like it’s burningthrough me too.My throat gets tight and my eyes sting with unwelcome tears.I don’t even know why.
When the final chord fades, the whole room explodes with noise. People are cheering, crying, screaming the fading lyrics louder to get an encore. I clap until my palms sting. I don’t even realize I’m smiling so hard until my cheeks start to hurt.
Afterward, the crowd thins toward a folding table at the back where the band are selling hand-burned CDs for five bucks, offering a signature if you want one. They still have their hoodies on, scarves loose now, laughing at something, tired but alive in a different way.
I feel my heartbeat everywhere as I inch closer, face getting hotter with every step I take. The singer is quieter than the rest, signing CDs without looking up, eyebrow piercing catching the dim light. When it’s my turn, I slide a CD forward and hope he doesn’t notice my hands shaking.
He looks up, right into my eyes. His are dark and tired butkind.Beautiful in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“Thanks for coming out tonight.”
I sort of smile. Or squeak. Or both. I honestly can’t tell. Our fingers brush when he hands the CD back and something electric bolts up my arm, spreading through my chest.
“Hope you liked it,” he says. Soft, almost shy.
