Reincarnated Soulmate: (I freaking love this song)

The air inside Madison Square Garden was electric, a roaring sea of twenty thousand fans whose neon lightsticks cast an amber glow over the arena. Up on stage, the deep hum of the sound system vibrated right through Klaus’s chest. He adjusted the leather strap of his guitar, his black tank top damp with sweat, the silver cross around his neck catching the fierce glare of the spotlights. Behind him, Henry was striking a crisp rhythm, while off-stage near the monitor boards, Redric paced like a anxious panther, watching his two rising stars with a hawkish gaze.

Klaus stepped up to his microphone stand, tapping it twice to check the feedback. A deafening roar surged through the crowd. With an easy, magnetic charm, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a folded index card where he had scribbled down the note they had received earlier that week.

Leaning into the mic, his dark grey-blue eyes swept across the ocean of people. "Before we get into this next one... we got a pretty strange email a couple of days back. A fan reached out with some lyrics, begging us to sing it live tonight just once. Said it was their ultimate dream to hear us perform it together."

Klaus unfolded the paper, dropping his gaze to read the exact email address aloud to the crowd. But as his eyes hit the surface, his breath hitched.

The ink had completely vanished.

Where black ink had been scratched out only hours ago in the green room, there was only smooth, blank paper. A cold prickle of electricity traced down Klaus’s spine. He blinked hard, shaking his head slightly, brushing it off as stage light glare. He set the card down by his floor monitor, refusing to derail the momentum of the show.

"Anyway," Klaus murmured softly into the mic, his low voice wrapping around the arena. "This one's for them. And for us."

He struck a tender, resonant chord on his guitar, the chord progression slipping from his fingertips as if his hands had played it a million times in another lifetime. Across the stage, your voice lifted to meet his in seamless harmony.

I heard the rumors on the news... The Yellowstone could blow and we're all doomed... They say that it won't happen soon, But it got me thinking 'bout what I would do...

The moment the second line passed his lips, an agonizing weight crushed down on Klaus's lungs. The sound of twenty thousand cheering voices abruptly blurred into a low, terrifying roar. A violent wave of grief hit him so hard his knees gave out, and he sank down onto the edge of the raised drum platform just to stay upright. His fingers kept picking the strings instinctively, but his breath cracked.

Suddenly, Madison Square Garden was gone.

In his mind, the blinding stage lights shattered into a sky choked with thick, swirling black ash. The smell of fog machines turned into the unbearable, suffocating heat of an earth burning to cinder. Memories he had never lived in this lifetime flooded his heart with violent clarity—he remembered the siren screams, the collapsing mountains, and the terror that had driven him to run through burning streets until he found you. He remembered pulling you into his arms as the horizon erupted into blinding white light, holding you tight and swaying you back and forth, crying helplessly into your hair, whispering that he loved you in every universe while the heat turned their bodies to dust.

Hot tears spilled over Klaus’s lashes, running down his face in steady tracks. His chest heaved with ragged, heavy sobs, yet he kept his vocal cord grounded, continuing to sing through the ache tearing his soul apart. He turned his head slowly, looking past the stage lights straight at you.

You were crying too. Your voice was trembling with the exact same heartbreaking realization, the shared ghost of your past life tearing down the walls of the present.

That I'll be running, running right to you... I'll be right where you are... Until the mountains break apart... Slow dancing while the sun goes dark...

Off-stage, absolute chaos broke out. Redric slammed his hands onto the soundboard, his face pale as he barked frantically into his headset. "Stop the backing track! Cut the audio!" Redric screamed, furiously tapping through his tablet. "Where did this song come from?! I checked the band's inbox five times today—there is no email! That address doesn't exist! Who wrote this?!"

Henry froze, his hands halting over his guitar strings as he looked back and forth between Redric's shouting figure and Klaus. But Klaus raised a shaking hand toward the band, his tear-filled eyes locked entirely on you, silently pleading with them to let the song live.

The crowd went utterly quiet, spellbound. They didn't know the terrifying, cosmic truth of what was unfolding; they thought it was a piece of raw, unscripted tragic theater. Tears flickered in the front rows as fans held up their phone lights, swaying in quiet awe.

Klaus ignored them all. The thousands of fans, the flashing cameras, the security team, Redric frantically gesturing in the wings—none of it existed anymore. It was just you and him in the middle of a burning world.

A small, broken, bittersweet smile touched Klaus’s lips—a miserable, weeping smile of someone who had searched for a ghost across centuries and finally found her standing right in front of him. His voice rasped against the microphone, rich with unbearable affection and lingering pain:

I'll still be holding you... I'll still be there when the sky erupts... Under the ash, it's only us... Laying there as we turn to dust...

Tears hit the wood of the stage floor beneath him as he pushed through the next lines, his heart pounding in his chest like a frantic drumbeat:

I'll rock you while you fall asleep... Yeah, we won't even feel the burning heat... It's over, that's alright with me... At least I'll go out with the perfect view...

The last lingering note faded out into the massive, echoing silent hall.

Klaus slowly unclipped his guitar and let it rest against the platform. He stood up on shaky legs, his black shirt soaked with tears and sweat, his silver cross gleaming under the spotlight. He didn't say a word into the main mic. He just walked across the vast distance of the stage, his eyes never leaving yours, until he was standing directly in front of you.

His hands were trembling visibly as he reached up, his long fingers tenderly cupping both sides of your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot tears running down your cheeks. He leaned down, pulling you close, and pressed his lips against yours—a soft, reverent, desperate kiss that tasted of salt and centuries of longing.

When he pulled back just an inch, his forehead rested against yours, his breath catching in his throat. His lavalier mic caught his hushed, shaky whisper, broadcasting it softly across the silent stadium for you—and everyone—to hear.

He sobbed softly, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek onto your skin as his eyes searched yours with raw vulnerability. "Tell me you remember... tell me it's you."