Blood pattered in the puddles like raindrops under his ambling steps, the brick wall cold on his palm that held him steady. His own breathing filled his ears, drowning out the hum of distant traffic. He held onto his mask inside his hoodie as if it were the only thing tethering him to the ground. The plastic dug into his palm. Faces and voices blurred together in his mind, taunting and familiar. Fragments of past failures mingled with the night's wounds. They swarmed him, a whirlwind of noise he couldn't escape.
He already knew what they would say when he returned: What is the point? Why do you keep doing this? What's it going to take, Hollis?
He gritted his teeth, tasting a mixture of salt and blood that had run down his cheek and onto his lips. The truth was—he didn't know. He had no answer for them, and as he clutched his mask—his persona, his safety—the dark alley to his right suddenly seemed like more of a quiet haven than what awaited him back at the venue.
He stumbled forward, hands brushing against the rough brick walls as he navigated the narrow alley. The pain in his jaw caused him to barely register the cold seeping through his clothes. The rain drummed as it mixed with the warmth of blood trickling from his lip. The anger that had propelled him into the fight was a dying ember now, replaced by a creeping numbness that spread through him like the rain-soaked chill.
"Frauds."
The word clung to him like oil, slick and suffocating, a dark mirror to everything he'd always feared. He didn't feel the cold anymore, only the crushing weight of exposure. No stage lights or loud music to mask his thoughts, just the raw, unfiltered mess of who he really was. Each step was slower than the last, the world tilting as exhaustion fought to pull him under. He dragged a hand through his hair, stumbling over uneven pavement, until the strength drained from him completely.
He paused, leaning against the brick. The world spun around him as he discarded the mask on the soaked ground. He sank down and his back scraped against the rough wall until he was sitting on damp pallets, legs stretched out and vision blurring at the edges.
He leaned back on the brick, staring at the cloudy city night. Memories swarmed like angry hornets, stinging in places the alcohol hadn't reached. The fight at the bar, the taunts and insults—it all folded into a larger picture he knew too well. Isolation, betrayal, the feeling of being a puppet in a play where everyone knew the lines but him.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him like a riptide. But even in darkness, there was no escape. Faces loomed behind his eyelids: Darian's, the bandmates he'd left behind, the people he'd hurt and been hurt by. They were all there, a gallery of ghosts that refused to let him be.
The rain intensified, cold needles on his skin, seeping through layers of fabric to find the man beneath the mask and armor. He felt it washing over him, each drop a pinprick of sensation that pulled him further from the numbness he'd been chasing. His mask lay forgotten at his side, half-drowned in a growing puddle. He knew, even as the darkness claimed him, that there was no running from the ghosts. They lived in him, were him, and no amount of distance or empty bottles would ever change that.
Finally, he surrendered to it, a white flag in the form of closed eyes and slack limbs. The rain was a lullaby now, its rhythm steady and indifferent, carrying him away from the fight and the fear, past the point of feeling anything at all.
***
Lorelei shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the slow creep of cold through her boots. Her jacket did little against the night's insistence. "I should have brought a blanket," she murmured, rubbing her arms.
The night wrapped around them, colder now, settling like a layer of frost on their determination. The glow from Lorelei's phone was a reminder of time and warmth elsewhere. Lacey talked on with the other fans, enthusiasm cutting through the chill like a bright thread against gray cloth.
Lorelei stamped her feet against the pavement, a futile attempt at warmth. The moments drew on without a sign of any band members, and Lacey's voice grew softer, then went quiet. Other fans gave up and trickled away, their silhouettes absorbed by the darkness.
Lacey was unfazed by the thinning crowd, leaning forward whenever a door opened. "Here we go," she hissed, only to slump back when it was a crew member, a techie, then a cleaner.
Lorelei sighed, her patience fraying like an old sweater coming undone in the cold. She watched Lacey, marveling at her persistence, a lighthouse in the fog of fading hope.
"Maybe we should—" Lorelei started, but Lacey cut her off, finger pressed to lips.
"Any minute," Lacey insisted, refusing to let go of the dream. But her breath was frostier now, her resolve struggling against reality.
Lorelei wrapped her arms around herself, fighting a chill that seemed to know its way inside her skin. She waited, then waited some more, but her resolve was like the night: cold, endless, and ready to break.
She sighed, a cloud of breath rising into the night. The thought of home filled her mind, vivid and inviting. Each imagined step away from here felt like letting go, like falling into something soft and forgiving.
"Lacey," she began. Her hand touched Lacey's shoulder, gentle but resolute.
Lacey turned, her eyes a mix of surprise and stubborn optimism. "They'll be out soon," Lacey insisted, though the chill had settled even into her voice.
Lorelei shook her head, a small, weary smile. "I can't wait any longer." There was no anger, just the quiet assurance of a decision made. She felt lighter for it.
"You'll miss it," Lacey protested, a final attempt to pull Lorelei back to the promise of the wait. But Lorelei's mind was firm, a resolve that mirrored Lacey's own, only in a different direction.
"I'll be fine walking home. It's not far," Lorelei assured, already stepping away, feeling the freedom in each movement. "Good luck."
Lorelei's breath was steady and visible in the air. The venue had faded into the distance, the chatter of lingering fans a dim echo that quickly vanished. Lorelei's world shrank to herself and the quiet city, a solitude that didn't feel lonely but rather like a rediscovery of space and self.
The streets were mostly empty, her path lit by the yellow eyes of streetlamps, casting long shadows that moved with her. It was the city she knew, yet it felt different now, the night and the walk stretching it into something unfamiliar and haunting.
Her mind wandered, filling the quiet with thoughts of the concert. The images were bright, the music a memory that vibrated through her like a second heartbeat. The performance played back in her mind like a film reel, scenes spliced together with her own internal soundtrack. The enigma of the singer pulled at her and she thought of Lacey's theories, of the stories spun to pass the time.
"They don't know what it's like to make something that close to the bone, to put your heart into creating something only to have strangers tear it apart."
Lacey's words stuck with her. It was something she could understand all too well—all the job rejections she'd received for film and photography. She loved Club Seven, and, like Lucas, she refused to let their parents' dreams die with them. But, unlike Lucas, Lorelei hadn't let her own dreams die just yet.
She hadn't gone to college. All she had under her belt were several years of apprentice work under a local filmmaker who went bankrupt after his first short film. It was a hard, over-saturated industry, no different than any creative industry. No different than music. But every night, she filmed and photographed hopefuls and wannabes who gave their all at Club Seven to crowds of less than twenty. And, like them, hardly anyone watched her films, either.
She pulled out her phone, flipping through clips of the concert as she walked. She could already visualize how she was going to edit them, combine them into a short video, and add one of the songs that Willow had played—Reprieve. The lyrics had stuck out to her the most of all the songs, and played in her mind even now:
I know that whatever drives you, defines you, feels like nothing but a curse that haunts you. But that spark in your heart—don't let it die.
Something about Echo's words made her steps grow more confident. She drew strength from her dreams until the air was less biting, the shadows less daunting. The city's calm was stark against the chaos of the earlier night, a visual shift from anticipation to contentment. She looked down, watching her feet as she walked, smiling to herself for reasons she didn't understand. But drops of blood on the pavement made her stop.
She furrowed her brow at the crimson dots scattered across the sidewalk. They led into the alley, disappearing into the darkness. The alley's entrance was marked by a broken streetlight that flickered and died.
"Hello?" she called, but there was only silence as a response.
The surroundings suddenly closed in, the brick walls rising like forgotten sentinels. Posters hung in tattered shreds like a street art installation gone awry. Overflowing dumpsters released an acrid smell that mingled with the metallic tang of wet concrete. The recent rain left glistening trails that caught the dim light. She opened her mouth to call out again, but that's when she heard the sobs.