The stage had become a riot of light and shadow, silhouettes striking against color-drenched backdrops. Lorelei's eye for detail caught every angle, every motion, composing the scene as she would through a lens.
Each band member stood out in their own way, illuminated by the dancing lights and commanding a section of the stage, deep blues and blacks of their clothes and masks reflecting in unexpected ways.
But the vocalist, Echo, was something else entirely.
There was something about him that caught Lorelei off guard. His monarch mask, vibrant blue against white skin, exposed only his mouth and chin. She found herself drawn to that bare strip of his face, to the motion of lips that belted out lyrics she didn't know would hit so hard. She couldn't look away, pulled in by how his voice seemed to come from someplace deeper than just a throat and lungs.
She hadn't thought it possible for her to be drawn in. She could see the strength in their mystery, how they used it to amplify rather than diminish the power of their music. And before she realized it, her hand reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone.
She didn't know the lyrics, melody, or even the main beats of the song, but none of that mattered. She had to capture this moment, though she wasn't sure why.
The music intensified, leaving her struck by both the vulnerability of the words and the obscured identity of the one singing them. It felt like exposure and concealment in equal parts, and it overwhelmed her more than she wanted to admit. It was like Echo held complete control over the stage, the crowd, and the music itself, and Lorelei saw herself held there in ways she hadn't expected, by a band she hadn't expected to matter.
A steady buildup led to a climactic chorus, every masked persona lost in their own rhythms and yet one within the song. Lorelei's phone camera framed Echo's silhouette against the blinding backlight. He knelt at the edge of the stage, leaning into the crowd. He was within arm's length of where they were, an enigmatic presence that made her breath catch in her chest. And she'd captured it all.
Echo stood straight and moved quickly back to center stage. Lorelei felt Lacey's curious gaze, but only momentarily before the tempo accelerated, driven by the rapid thud of drums, the soaring edge of guitar. Each mask gleamed black and blue under the sweeping lights, reflecting the power of the music. New layers revealed themselves, and there was no denying that Willow was something different—a combination of elements that forced her to reassess what she thought she knew.
A softer section built into another explosive outro, and Lorelei felt the vibrations through the barrier, through her bones. It heightened her need to document, not to let it slip away unrecorded. Her initial instinct had been to dismiss this show, this band, only to come because she'd promised Lacey that she would. But it was proving to be so much more than she'd imagined. The depth of their work caught her off guard, just like the lyrics, and Lorelei couldn't help but feel the sting of her own previous judgments and the lingering words of those who'd seemed so critical. But watching Echo blend into his element, suddenly none of those harsh words seemed to matter anymore.
A gradual shift in key to start the next song matched Echo's movement as he shed his jacket, prompting shrieks and whoops from the crowd. Sweat glistened under the relentless, sweeping lights. It added another layer to the drama—vulnerability and strength coexisting in that moment, just like the lyrics. The juxtaposition caused a new ambition to take root in Lorelei's mind.
She'd never documented a performance on this scale, but the drive was now undeniable. A focus that blinded her to everything else. She was at Ansley Street, far from her usual night at Club Seven, yet she'd found something that wasn't in her plans. The feeling of urgency was familiar, but the direction was new. And even as guilt tugged at her, the spark began to burn hotter, drawing her a map of where she wanted to one day go.
Lights, colors, and music continued to surround her, an intense reminder that there were worlds she hadn't yet touched. But, for now, she stayed with the music, unprepared for how far the need would take her. But one thing was for certain—
She was ready to follow wherever it led.
***
Great show.
Awesome as always.
Killing it, brother.
They were words said to Hollis as soon as he'd left the spotlights, the thumping bass, the chaos—as soon as he'd returned to the couch backstage.
He stood there for a long while, staring, the words of encouragement repeating in his mind like a scratched record. But he knew better. He'd felt the fracture midway through "Mercy," the way his voice had faltered during "Eye of Indigo." The way the crowd's roar seemed like insults stuck on repeat. As it were, thoughts of the past still lived inside him, chasing themselves in circles, and he stared blankly at the dimly lit space. It was only a reflection of all the other dimly lit spaces from past venues—cracked walls, scuffed floors, smells of sweat and desperate dreams. Everything bled into everything else, shapes and shadows, as if the room itself could not remember what it was supposed to be. Or what it was supposed to mean. The same words echoed in his mind that never left:
Overemotional.
Fake. Coward.
Waste of talent.
Hollis plopped onto the couch and stared at the concrete floor under his shoes, tracing its scars and marks, feeling that his mind was a compass without a true north. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair—pulling—as if he might finally unravel something. His thoughts spiraled back through the night, through the last three years, through everything that should have been enough but never quite was. Dust danced in the light, back and forth, up and down, as if in a perpetual dance between where he was and where he'd thought he'd be.
He took in the walls, the low ceiling, and the suffocating lack of windows. Breathe, he told himself, but his lungs rebelled, sucking everything back in—half lies and half truths, resentments, criticisms, the fragile shell of this path he'd taken.
Footsteps grew louder outside the door, crisp clicks against the concrete. The sound sharpened Hollis, returning him to a harder reality—one where everything should have been simple and shiny but never was.
Otto opened the door, casting his eyes around the room before settling them on Hollis. Otto stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He seemed too put together for the space—a dark blazer over a band t-shirt, hair still carefully in place despite the chaos of the evening. A note of tension played around the edge of his smile.
"You killed it out there tonight," he said, his tone a careful balance of business and personal. "The crowd was eating out of your hand."
Hollis didn't answer, staring at a spot just beyond Otto's shoulder, looking for a way out that didn't exist. The dust still swirled, the shadows still closed in. Everything was too close, and his pulse refused to slow.
"Hollis," Otto said, pulling Hollis's focus back with an expert's touch. His voice was steady, laced with something like reassurance. "Margaret would be proud."
Hollis looked at him then, a shadow passing across his face. "Maybe," he said, but it was barely more than a whisper. The room seemed to reject the word, bouncing it around the space.
Maybe.
Otto checked his watch, as if calculating the exact number of seconds Hollis's doubt would cost him. "I need to go handle an issue with Lillitz back in Ohio," he said, efficient as ever. His eyes softened a fraction, but enough. "But I'm only a phone call away, if you need anything at all."
"Sure," Hollis said, but it hung in the air, fragile and dissonant.
Otto lingered for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but Ash slid by him with a nod and entered the room. So Otto departed with the same crisp clicks that had announced his presence.
The door closed behind Ash with a light click, leaving him and Hollis alone. Hollis knew Ash's eyes were observing the familiar slump of Hollis's shoulders and the too-long stare at the floor. It was something Hollis had always been able to feel—the suffocating concern of his best friend, Ashland Adams.
"Hey," Ash said, easy and warm, as if the word might smooth all the rough edges. He hovered, watching Hollis with eyes full of concern or determination.
Perhaps both.
"Everyone's heading to the after-party," he said.
The tension in Hollis's shoulders knotted, pulling him back into himself. The room seemed smaller than before. Or maybe Hollis felt bigger, more cumbersome in his own skin. Like the space around him had been tuned to the wrong frequency.
Hollis looked up, meeting Ash's eyes. His hands gripped the edge of the couch like they might keep him anchored. As if he might float away if he didn't hold on tight enough. The room was too bright and suffocating, closing in from every angle. Ash still stood there, the definition of calm, shoulder-length hair hanging loose and easy around his face. As if nothing in the world couldn't be fixed by a few encouraging words. Or maybe a few hits from his vape.
The silence between them became a third person in the room, breathing heavily and anxiously watching. Ash broke it with a nod, as if to say it was all okay. As if to say he understood.
But he likely never would.
"I was waiting for you," he said. "They're playing one of our playlists, or so someone said."
The sound of celebration inched down the hallway, creeping under the door. Hollis felt it crawl up his skin.
"I don't—" Hollis started, but the words faltered, trapped in a confusion of doubts and expectations.
Ash stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He lowered himself onto a guitar case, making himself comfortable. It was an invitation, not a demand, making it so much harder for Hollis to resist.
"I wish you could see it the way I do," Ash said, as if reading Hollis's thoughts. "Everyone's talking about the show, about you."
Hollis's eyes wandered to the small scar above Ash's left brow, the one he'd gotten during the show in Austin two years earlier. He'd fallen off the stage, bled, and needed stitches, but they'd all laughed nonetheless because, as it's always been said, the show must go on.
Hollis let go of the couch—the heaviest thing he'd done all night—and let out a low hum. Ash watched him as if waiting for the pieces to snap together. Or fall apart.
"Let's just go for a bit." Ash reached out, his hand on Hollis's shoulder, a simple and complete gesture that broke something loose inside.
Hollis shifted. His internal struggle was raw and unfinished in the clench of his fists and the downward turn of his eyes. But Ash was patient. He'd always been patient—through every midnight breakdown, through every fit of anger and every plunge into silence.
Ever since the day it'd all fallen apart.
"Yeah," Hollis said, the word a slow-motion release, and this time he meant it. As if the small room couldn't contain it—the walls straining and ready to burst.
Ash's movements were easy and unhurried as he stood, a calm at the center of Hollis's chaos. His optimism radiated outward and dissolved everything in his path.
"Great," he said, flashing his signature smile that could power all the amps in the world. "Let's go." He extended his hand, and Hollis grasped it, rising from the couch. But it was in the slow way Hollis got to his feet, in the deliberate way he looked back at the couch, the dust, and the shadows, that truly showed his exhaustion. The thought of joining the celebration only added to it. But Ash's presence was like gravity, a force too strong to resist.
Ash led the way, and Hollis followed with steps that became more certain as they approached the brightness. The sounds of the party greeted them like an old friend—familiar voices, loud and unrelenting, ready to hold Hollis captive or set him free.