Nickie’s POV

  The Abyss: underground punk and metal joint

  There was a gig happening not far from school, some grimy underground venue that usually smelled like sweat and rebellion.

  The floor would probably be sticky, the amps too loud, the walls vibrating with the weight of every breakdown.

  Perfect.

  I figured it’d be a good distraction.

  From thinking about Adam.

  From thinking about what happened after our last gig…

  How he was so close.

  So… intense.

  ‘I gotta snap out of it. Or it’ll start again… the repeat loop in my mind.’

  I asked if he wanted to come, but he said he wasn’t feeling great.

  Which, fair, he did run out into the freezing air without a jacket like some cursed poetic idiot.

  Or maybe he was avoiding me again.

  Hashmi and I ended up dragging Nishinoya along instead.

  It was time he got a proper introduction to the mosh pit… and to the raw, chaotic soul of a venue where you can smell the speaker cables burning.

  First time the three of us hung out outside school.

  No uniforms. No bells. Just us.

  And noise.

  The three cryptid metalheads | 3rd person POV

  "Is that you, Karklins? What’s up with the hair? Is that new?"

  Nishinoya blinked at her as she came up to the venue, narrowing his eyes like her mohawk was trying to pick a fight with him.

  “Had it for about a year now,” she said with a smirk.

  “Didn’t you see it in the live recording?”

  “Didn’t notice the hair. Only the blur of drumsticks.” He nodded, impressed.

  “How the hell are you hiding that at school?”

  “I just cover it up with the rest of my hair.”

  Then she clocked the rest of him.

  Metal ring armor strapped over a bright green Rick and Morty T-shirt.

  Nickie pointed at the shoulder spikes.

  “Where did you scrap THAT thing?”

  Nishinoya looked down, suddenly sheepish.

  “I thought… you know… metal concert, so I should wear… metal.”

  “Take it off,” she sighed, shaking her head.

  “You’ll impale someone. They won’t let you in like that. I’ll lend you a band tee.”

  She dropped her backpack to the ground and dug through it. Nishinoya glanced around, then peeled off the ring armor with a reluctant grunt.

  “Haa, shit, I knew it might be excessive.”

  He looked at her hopefully. “Got room in there to stash it? Where’s Hashmi anyway?”

  “They check bags. We’ll stash it in the power closet, no one’s gonna notice. Just grab it later. Now take your shirt off already!...”

  “GUYS!”

  Hashmi came sprinting up, out of breath, skidding to a stop in front of them.

  They both turned:

  Nishinoya was shirtless.

  Nickie was holding what looked like medieval torture gear.

  And Hashmi?

  Full black-and-white make-up.

  Eyes ringed in black.

  Cheekbones ghost-pale.

  Lips smeared in a dramatic death-smile.

  They stared.

  Hashmi’s gaze flicked between them, the corpse paint cracking at the corners of his grin.

  “Am I interrupting some kind of duel?”

  A single beat of silence.

  Then Nickie doubled over laughing.

  Nishinoya followed a second later, wheezing as he leaned on a wall.

  “What’s with the corpse paint, man?” Nishinoya choked out.

  “It looks great on you,” Nickie wheezed.

  “Bet you scared the shit out of some neighborhood kids!”

  “Adults too!”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “You do know this isn’t a black metal gig, right?”

  “Still,” Nickie said, trying to breathe,

  “Very nicely done.”

  “Good,” Hashmi said, smug now.

  “That’s how I know I did it right.”

  He adjusted his collar like a runway model.

  “Now can we go in before Nishinoya gets arrested for public indecency?”

  ***

  Friendly | 3rd person POV

  Alonzo’s band Fonfobia was in the night’s lineup.

  He’d just spotted Nickie in the crowd.

  Mid-soundcheck, he hopped off the stage like it was nothing and made a beeline toward her.

  He gave Hashmi and Nishinoya a neutral once-over.

  “Friends?”

  “Yeah. Hashmi and Nishinoya.”

  Alonzo nodded towards them as they each awkwardly returned the nod.

  “Where’s the big guy?”

  “He’s got a cold.”

  “Ah. Like, regular cold or Adam-level dramatic cold?”

  Nickie snorted. “Adam-level. He claims his soul is leaking out of his nose.”

  “Good. I don’t need him dripping soul-juice on the monitors.”

  “Yeah, it stains.”

  They both chuckled.

  Then Alonzo asked,

  “You guys coming to Buckweed?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Cool. I’d offer a ride, but we’re full.”

  Nickie grinned.

  “Oh don’t worry. We’ll summon the demon train.”

  Alonzo shot back without missing a beat:

  “As long as it doesn’t smell like last time.”

  “That wasn’t us! That was your drummer. He smelled like boiled battery acid.”

  “That’s because he drinks battery acid.”

  They laughed.

  “Alright,” Alonzo said, backing away, walking backwards toward the stage. “If you’re late, I’ll assume Adam exploded.”

  “If the train’s late,” Nickie called back, “We’ll assume your drummer spontaneously combusted.”

  “Again.”

  Alonzo gave her a friendly hug, tossed Hashmi and Nishinoya a casual bye gesture, then jogged back toward the stage like a rockstar on a coffee run.

  Nishinoya and Hashmi stared at Nickie.

  “What?”

  “You’re friends with the Alonzo?” Hashmi said, scandalized.

  “We’ve performed with Fonfobia before,” Nickie shrugged. “We talked a bit. Besides, he's Adam's friend.”

  Nishinoya tilted his head.

  “So he’s like… local famous?”

  Hashmi froze.

  “Local?...”

  He laughed once. Loud. Disbelieving.

  “Bro said local famous.”

  Nickie crossed her arms. “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

  Hashmi leaned in slowly.

  “You are standing in the shadow of the pit-general and you don’t even know it.”

  Silence.

  “The what?” Nishinoya said.

  Hashmi’s smile became dangerous.

  “Ohhh this just got educational.”

  Hashmi’s expression morphed to reverent.

  He flung his arms wide.

  “Aight, y’all ain’t ready for this… but I’m about to bless you with the gospel of Alonzo.”

  Nickie snorted. “Oh, this oughta be good.”

  “Yeah, man, let’s hear some gossip,” Nishinoya smirked.

  Hashmi leaned in, corpse-painted and glowing with purpose.

  “Okay, picture this: Fifth Street venue. Rough crowd. Fonfobia’s mid-set, right? Two groups in the pit start beefing. Shoving turns into yelling. It’s about to go full brawl.”

  Nishinoya raised a brow. “And Alonzo’s the hero who saves the day?”

  “Exactly, bro!” Hashmi snapped his fingers.

  “Jumps off the stage. Guitar still in hand, hair flying like a goddamn wind machine. Walks right into the mess. Doesn’t even blink. Just talks to them. I don’t know what he said… some magic street therapist-meets-punk-preacher combo: but boom. They stop. Shake hands. Show saved.”

  Nickie smirked, half-impressed. “Really? Just… talked them down?”

  “Hell yeah. He’s got that vibe, y’know? Probably said something like, ‘Don’t fight, feel the riff.’ Dude’s a pro.”

  Nishinoya chuckled. “Or they were too confused to keep fighting.”

  “Nah, man, persuasive as hell.” Hashmi waved him off like a preacher swatting flies. “Everybody walked out high on adrenaline and good vibes.”

  “Okay, that’s kinda dope,” Nickie admitted.

  “Oh, but wait.” Hashmi raised a finger, eyes gleaming. “There’s more.”

  He leaned forward like a conspirator about to whisper state secrets.

  “You know how Fonfobia always scores the best slots at The Cage?”

  Nickie’s stomach twisted for a split second. The bouncer. That night.

  Still… It was a good gig.

  And then there was that mirror in the green room…

  ‘Snap out of it!’ Nickie told herself silently.

  “Magic how?” she asked, tilting her head. “What’d he do, bribe them?”

  “Who knows?” Hashmi threw up his hands.

  “Maybe he fixed their sound system. Maybe he just talked them up till they gave in. Doesn’t matter… point is, now they’re regulars. That’s how you play the long game.”

  Nishinoya smirked. “So, smooth talker. Got it.”

  “Bro! ‘smooth’ is what you call a marble countertop. Alonzo is silk dipped in fire.” Hashmi pointed dramatically, face dead serious under the paint.

  He took a step back and grinned like he was about to drop the secret ending of a cult movie.

  “Yo. Fam. Buckle up.

  I’m about to lay down the wildest scoop of the year.”