3rd person POV

  The lights dimmed. The crowd buzzed like a swarm on the edge of eruption.

  David looked back from the front of the stage, meeting their eyes in the dark.

  A silent nod.

  Ready?

  Nickie raised her drumsticks.

  Adam adjusted his grip on the bass, eyes shadowed under his hair.

  For a split second, everything held still.

  Then…

  Nickie: DAM DAM DAMDAMDAMDAM

  Adam: SCREEEAAAAAMMMMM

  David: PAW WAW WAW WAW WAW WAW WAW WAW

  And the room detonated.

  A wall of sound slammed into the crowd like a shockwave.

  Drums pounded like artillery, relentless and primal.

  Adam’s voice tore through the air: savage, raw, half-growl, half-exorcism.

  David’s guitar spat riffs like fire and glass, bending time between speed and sludge, as if dragging the audience through a warzone and then dropping them into a swamp of distortion.

  The pit erupted immediately.

  Bodies collided, flailed, slammed: cheerful chaos disguised as violence.

  The faster riffs whipped the pit into a frenzy, fists and elbows flying.

  Then came the slow, crushing breakdowns.

  The ones that made the whole floor quake like it was cracking open.

  And Nickie…

  She was a machine behind the kit. A grinning, demon-possessed machine.

  She shifted tempo mid-roll, drove the blastbeats like she was gunning the whole engine of hell.

  People in the front row were staring, wide-eyed, some mouthing, holy fuck!

  Crowd surfers started going up during the third song.

  One kid rode the tide screaming the chorus word-for-word with Adam, another threw a shirt into the lights.

  Every time Adam stepped forward to the mic, it felt like the earth shifted under him.

  “REAPERAND,” he growled into the mic near the end of the set, sweat dripping down his neck.

  “Thanks for coming. Fonfobia’s next, so stay and fucking listen.”

  He dropped the mic with a thud that echoed through the hall.

  A moment of stunned silence.

  Then a ROAR.

  The crowd began to chant:

  “RE-PER-AND!

  RE-PER-AND!”

  Louder. Louder still.

  Until the entire room felt like it was vibrating under their boots.

  The three of them stood at the edge of the stage, catching their breath, staring out at the sea of movement.

  Sweat-slicked and half-buzzed from the adrenaline, Adam looked to Nickie and David.

  No words needed.

  They'd done it.

  They’d fucking killed.

  ***

  Wardrobe Malfunction, Emotional Damage

  Nickie walked into the empty green room, sweat-soaked and buzzing from the set.

  Adam followed behind, exhaling smoke from the cigarette he just put out.

  Nickie pulled at the front of her shirt with a grimace.

  “Ugh. Gross. Adam, watch the door for me?”

  Adam nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

  He turned to face the door like a loyal guard dog.

  Behind him, there was the rustle of fabric and the low scrape of a zipper.

  Then, unintentionally, his eyes flicked to the mirror next to the door.

  He froze.

  Just for a second, too fast to look away: he caught the reflection of Nickie pulling her shirt off, her back exposed, skin glistening with sweat.

  She moved quickly, tugging on a new shirt, then smoothly sliding her bra out through her sleeve and stuffing it into her bag like a seasoned pro.

  Adam was rooted to the spot, a pulse of heat blooming up his neck.

  ‘Skin. Smooth. Pale. What the hell am I thinking?!’

  Nickie’s voice broke the silence. “Okay, I’m good.”

  Adam didn’t turn right away. He swallowed, hard.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He turned, slowly, his face a shade too pale and too red all at once.

  “What’s with that face?” she asked, and then she noticed the mirror.

  Her eyes widened. “OH MY GOD.”

  Red flooded her cheeks. “Shit! Sorry!... Sorry!!!”

  Adam panicked, holding up his hands. “No, no- don’t apologize! I wasn’t… I mean, I was just-”

  “I didn’t even say I was changing, I just assumed you’d-”

  “No, it’s my fault! I should’ve noticed, I mean-”

  Nickie clutched her face. “I don’t mind, I just didn’t realize you saw… Wait, do you mind? Shit, I’m making this weird, right?!”

  Adam blinked. “What? No! I just… uh… didn’t expect- wait, what do you mean you don’t-”

  At that exact moment, David walked into the room.

  “Fonfobia’s up. You guys wanna…”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He stopped.

  Stared.

  Nickie and Adam stood flushed and visibly scrambled. The air between them practically buzzed with Oh-no-we’re-so-busted energy.

  David squinted. ‘Did I walk in on something?’

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “NO!” they said in unison, way too quickly.

  David raised an eyebrow. “Right. Cool. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t walk in here.”

  He backed out of the room without another word.

  As the door clicked shut, Nickie and Adam slowly turned to each other again, both of them wide-eyed and mortified.

  “We look so guilty,” Nickie muttered.

  “We are guilty,” Adam whispered back. “Of being dumb.”

  Nickie groaned and buried her face in her hands.

  “Let’s never talk about this again.”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  Fonfobia’s Set | 3rd Person POV

  The crowd was still buzzing from the last set: sweaty, adrenalized, their voices raw from chanting “RE-PER-AND!” long after the band had left the stage.

  And now, the headliners were here.

  Fonfobia, the local grindcore legends, didn’t ease into anything.

  They detonated onto the stage.

  Alonzo grabbed the mic like it owed him money, shrieking into it as if he were exorcising something personal and violent.

  Behind him, Ives was already thrashing her guitar like it was trying to escape, Don’s blast beats thundered like machine-gun fire, and Jess, their bassist, barely moved… But the floor vibrated with every note she dropped.

  The crowd surged forward instantly.

  It was chaos. Glorious, body-slamming, ear-blistering chaos.

  Adam was eyeing the mosh pit longingly, but…

  David’s warning still echoed in his mind:

  ‘If you're not serious about keeping your body from harm in order to keep playing, then I guess you're not serious about making music either. I’ll break off the band.’

  So, no pit.

  “We better stay out of the fogo!” Adam yelled over the insane volume. “Or Dave will kill us!”

  Nickie nodded, following him toward a safer spot in the room.

  She stood close, scanning the crowd.

  For Nickie, everyone else was tall.

  Adam noticed her craning her neck, rising on tiptoe to see the stage.

  “Hey, short stuff!” he shouted, “Wanna get on my shoulders?”

  Nickie snorted at the nickname. “Hell yeah!” She shouted back.

  Adam crouched low.

  The room around them buzzed with beer breath, sweat, and the electric thrum of live distortion.

  “Alright, hop on!” he shouted.

  Nickie clambered onto his shoulders, gripping him for balance, her legs wrapping loosely around his neck.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah!” she called. “GO!”

  With a grin, Adam rose, lifting her into the air.

  Nickie’s eyes went wide as she got her first real view: about two hundred bodies moving like a living tide, the pit spinning in violent rhythm.

  “Oh my God!” she yelled. “This is awesome!”

  A few people nearby cheered, pointing up at the sudden girl-astronaut orbiting the pit. Nickie threw her arms in the air, letting the music crash through her ribcage.

  “Don’t get too comfortable up there, your highness!” Adam called.

  Nickie leaned down, still beaming. “Can’t hear ya!”

  She patted the top of his head affectionately.

  Adam froze for a beat.

  Not from the weight (she was light as hell), but from the contact.

  Normally, people touching his head would make his skin crawl.

  But this… didn’t.

  It was actually kind of… nice.

  He stepped carefully as the crowd swelled. Her laugh rang over the distortion like a second chorus.

  ‘Why is it different with her?’ he wondered.

  ‘Maybe it’s because she’s my friend… like a little sister, maybe. That’s why it’s fine. That’s why hugging her, holding her… it doesn’t bother me.’

  Someone bumped into them. Adam steadied himself, then casually kicked away a drunk guy trying to shove past.

  Nickie whooped, still high on sound and view.

  ‘She’s like a feather,’ Adam thought. ‘Maybe I could throw her in the air just for the fun of… no. Not here. Too dangerous. Stupid idea.’

  Still, the urge made him grin.

  ‘Yeah… She’s like… Family…’ he told himself again.

  ‘That’s why I feel like I’ve got to keep her safe.’

  He didn’t realize he was still smiling.

  As the set tore through its fourth song, a sharp twang rang out: Jess’s bass string had snapped mid-breakdown.

  She stepped back, calm and focused, reaching for a spare string and crouching beside the amp like it was just another Tuesday.

  Alonzo glanced back, caught it instantly, and grinned at the crowd like a wolf about to improvise.

  He stepped forward, sweat dripping from his jaw, and grabbed the mic again, eyes scanning the audience until they landed on a familiar shape near the edge of the pit: Nickie, perched proudly on Adam’s shoulders like a war banner.

  “Hey!” Alonzo shouted, pointing.

  “You see that drummer girl up there? That’s Nickie from REAPERAND.”

  A few people cheered. Someone yelled, “REAPERAND FUCKING RULES!” from the back.

  Alonzo smirked.

  “Yeah they do. They opened for us tonight, and… listen! She hits harder than half the dudes I’ve toured with. I’m serious, last gig we played, I thought someone was throwing furniture. Just her playing a warm-up roll.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Nickie, beet red, flipped him off from atop Adam’s shoulders. Adam laughed under her, steadying her with his hands on her shins.

  Alonzo leaned into the mic, grinning. “I respect the hell out of that. And I gotta say… Adam, if she breaks your spine right now, it was an honorable death, bro.”

  Adam lifted one fist in the air in mock salute. The crowd cheered again.

  Jess gave a low note, signaling her bass is restrung and ready.

  Alonzo turned, nodded once, and with a roar, Fonfobia launched into the next track like nothing had happened.

  ***

  Cracks in the Mirror | 3rd person POV

  The restroom was cramped, dingy.

  There was a sour smell of cheap perfume mixing with mildew and then… Mila, the infamous boundless goth girl was there, fixing her makeup.

  Mila’s grating voice echoed through the cracked tiles.

  “Hey, drummer girl,” Mila had said, her smirk as sharp as the eyeliner she was applying.

  “How can you be in the same band as that hottie and not fuck him blind? Hahaha!”

  She punctuated her laugh with a mocking tilt of her head, her eyes glinting with amusement at her own crassness.

  Nickie had stared at her reflection in the mirror, refusing to give Mila the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Her face remained neutral, her eyes unblinking, even as her stomach churned.

  The sound of Mila’s laughter felt like nails scraping against glass, the kind of sound that stayed in your bones long after it stopped.

  But it wasn’t just Mila.

  Other faces blurred together in her mind: girls who didn’t see her as a person, only as a question mark in Adam’s orbit.

  Venom disguised as curiosity, judgment passed in whispers.

  She could feel their eyes in the corridors, the weight of their assumptions bearing down on her.

  She wasn’t on any social media, but she knew that if she was… there would probably be shit talk.

  It made her feel small. And angry. And tired.

  She was determined not to let it ruin the night, but it clawed its way to the surface, stealing the lightness from her chest.

  Nickie shook her head, trying to dismiss it again, but the bitterness lingered. It wasn’t about Mila’s jealousy, or the whispers, or the venom.

  It was the seed of doubt they planted, the voice that sometimes whispered, Are you enough?

  Nickie inhaled deeply, forcing herself to focus.

  She wasn’t going to let those voices win.

  Not tonight. Not ever.

  She had a band, a purpose, and a connection with Adam that went deeper than words.

  But deep down, she couldn’t shake the unease.

  The world outside their music was messy, cruel, and relentless.

  And sometimes, it was harder to silence than a screaming crowd.